the Broker clan had comprised one fifth of the population of Cook County, Minnesota.
“And do what? Collect Social Security? Watch them build some tourist whorehouse next door? You’ll heal, you know. Maybe not like before but well enough to handle this place. We still have thirty days.”
“Hell, Phil, we’ve run down every option short of robbing a bank…”
Broker stared out over the water. As a boy, Irene had trained his imagination by coaxing him to read shapes in the endless play of light and shadow in the clouds, to decipher faces in the wind moving through the leaves on trees, to understand motion in the wrestle of the waves.
Forty-three years old and hard as a rake handle left out all winter, he could just make out a galleon, packaged in cumulus, on the horizon.
Which was probably why Nina had come for him.
“Let’s make a fire tonight. Down where we used to,” he said.
15
H E REJOINED IRENE AND NINA BY HIS CABIN AND called Nina aside. They walked off into the trees out of earshot and Broker told her simply: “Put it in one sentence and no bullshit.”
She stood very erect and looked him in the eye. “Tuna strongly suggested that a case can be made against LaPorte about what happened to my dad.”
“I need proof.”
She glanced around. “Maybe we’ll get some tonight.”
As they walked back to his cabin their hands grazed accidentally on purpose and Broker decided to take a calculated risk with the green Saturn. The local coppers were there as backup. He’d just lay back and let it unfold.
He got out his keys, went up the redwood porch, which was cluttered with flowerpots, and opened the door. Nina carried their bags in from the Jeep and squinted as she passed through the narrow doorway.
Inside, light came mainly from skylights. The windows, like the doors, were built excessively narrow. The interior consisted of a long main room with a small kitchen at one end, a large wood stove, comfortable couches and chairs, and a big kitchen table. A doorway, again too narrow, opened on the left to a bedroom and off the bedroom another door opened on a sauna with its own woodstove. Another doorway beside the kitchen led to a deck that overlooked the shore.
Irene gave the short tour. “Notice how the furniture and appliances don’t fit through the doors or windows. He built the entry and windows after he moved everything in, too small for the stuff to fit through.” She smiled. “My son the cop.”
A wood box and chopping block sat next to the Fisher woodstove. Broker picked up a short splitting ax in his good hand and stared at the woodbox. Nina quickly stepped in, took the ax, and efficiently knocked several pieces of oak into kindling.
“For the sauna, and the stove. It’ll be cold out tonight,” said Broker.
“Gotcha. You take a break, I’ll get it going.” She went into the sauna with her kindling and some newspaper. A few minutes later the smell of smoke and a rusty groan of heating steel permeated the cabin.
“The damper, you gotta—” he yelled.
“I can do it ,” she yelled back. She reappeared and inspected the kitchen cabinets, turned on the faucet, heard the well kick in, tested the gas burners on the stove, and then went outside.
Broker sat in a chair and stared at his throbbing, bandaged left hand. Nina and Irene returned with a handful of…weeds.
“What?” he asked.
Irene held three big dandelions, roots and all, under the sink faucet, washing them. She laid them aside and then lifted a large stained kettle. She respected her son’s privacy and now, in among his belongings, she had the curiosity of a woman in the men’s lavatory. “When’s the last time this was clean?” she asked.
Broker shook his head as she filled the kettle with water and threw in the dandelions and set the burner under it. Nina checked the fire in the sauna and then said she was going to look over the beach.
“Keep the dog with you,” admonished Broker.
The next thing he knew the
“And do what? Collect Social Security? Watch them build some tourist whorehouse next door? You’ll heal, you know. Maybe not like before but well enough to handle this place. We still have thirty days.”
“Hell, Phil, we’ve run down every option short of robbing a bank…”
Broker stared out over the water. As a boy, Irene had trained his imagination by coaxing him to read shapes in the endless play of light and shadow in the clouds, to decipher faces in the wind moving through the leaves on trees, to understand motion in the wrestle of the waves.
Forty-three years old and hard as a rake handle left out all winter, he could just make out a galleon, packaged in cumulus, on the horizon.
Which was probably why Nina had come for him.
“Let’s make a fire tonight. Down where we used to,” he said.
15
H E REJOINED IRENE AND NINA BY HIS CABIN AND called Nina aside. They walked off into the trees out of earshot and Broker told her simply: “Put it in one sentence and no bullshit.”
She stood very erect and looked him in the eye. “Tuna strongly suggested that a case can be made against LaPorte about what happened to my dad.”
“I need proof.”
She glanced around. “Maybe we’ll get some tonight.”
As they walked back to his cabin their hands grazed accidentally on purpose and Broker decided to take a calculated risk with the green Saturn. The local coppers were there as backup. He’d just lay back and let it unfold.
He got out his keys, went up the redwood porch, which was cluttered with flowerpots, and opened the door. Nina carried their bags in from the Jeep and squinted as she passed through the narrow doorway.
Inside, light came mainly from skylights. The windows, like the doors, were built excessively narrow. The interior consisted of a long main room with a small kitchen at one end, a large wood stove, comfortable couches and chairs, and a big kitchen table. A doorway, again too narrow, opened on the left to a bedroom and off the bedroom another door opened on a sauna with its own woodstove. Another doorway beside the kitchen led to a deck that overlooked the shore.
Irene gave the short tour. “Notice how the furniture and appliances don’t fit through the doors or windows. He built the entry and windows after he moved everything in, too small for the stuff to fit through.” She smiled. “My son the cop.”
A wood box and chopping block sat next to the Fisher woodstove. Broker picked up a short splitting ax in his good hand and stared at the woodbox. Nina quickly stepped in, took the ax, and efficiently knocked several pieces of oak into kindling.
“For the sauna, and the stove. It’ll be cold out tonight,” said Broker.
“Gotcha. You take a break, I’ll get it going.” She went into the sauna with her kindling and some newspaper. A few minutes later the smell of smoke and a rusty groan of heating steel permeated the cabin.
“The damper, you gotta—” he yelled.
“I can do it ,” she yelled back. She reappeared and inspected the kitchen cabinets, turned on the faucet, heard the well kick in, tested the gas burners on the stove, and then went outside.
Broker sat in a chair and stared at his throbbing, bandaged left hand. Nina and Irene returned with a handful of…weeds.
“What?” he asked.
Irene held three big dandelions, roots and all, under the sink faucet, washing them. She laid them aside and then lifted a large stained kettle. She respected her son’s privacy and now, in among his belongings, she had the curiosity of a woman in the men’s lavatory. “When’s the last time this was clean?” she asked.
Broker shook his head as she filled the kettle with water and threw in the dandelions and set the burner under it. Nina checked the fire in the sauna and then said she was going to look over the beach.
“Keep the dog with you,” admonished Broker.
The next thing he knew the
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