She shrugged. “Fuck ’em. We’re doing real work here. Besides, it’s always better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”
He could picture her behind the stick in a flight suit and helmet, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, cutting the hard contours of the Afghan mountains. He thought she must have been very good at her job.
“What about the neighbors? Nobody wondered who you guys were?”
“That resale shop across the street called the cops on us about four months ago. We hadn’t gotten all that organized yet. The city sent some guy who came in and looked around. He was pretty nice, actually. He said not to worry about permits and permissions. Said if I was serious about helping veterans, just put up a sign outside, start doing the job. Fix the place up like we were the real thing. If the building’s owner came forward, deal with that when it happened. He even came back a week later with business cards for us.”
“He bought you business cards?”
She shrugged. “Someone left them by the door, I figured it was him. He seemed to want to help. Like I said, he was a nice guy.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I only met him once. Dan? Dan something, from the city.”
Or maybe Sam, thought Peter.
“Tall and skinny?” he asked. “Wearing a really nice suit?”
“I guess,” she said. “Clothes aren’t really what I look for in a guy.”
Either she wasn’t part of this, thought Peter, or she was a really good actress.
She said, “Hey, after the march tomorrow? Some of us are going to the Landmark. Shoot some pool, have some beers, tell some stories. You want to come?”
“I’d love to. Really. But I have kind of a busy day tomorrow. Can I let you know?”
31
Crossing the street from the veterans’ center, he saw the tan Yukon parked at the curb, Lewis in the shadows, leaning against Peter’s truck. Leaning without leaning, ready to move at any time, but looking as still and patient as if he’d spent a week waiting, and was ready to spend a month more.
“Time to make the doughnuts.” Lewis wore his black suede jacket, but no hat. If he felt the cold of the wind, it didn’t show. “Found your black Ford. An Excursion, all chewed up on the driver’s side. Put a GPS beacon under the back bumper. Find it again whenever you want.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “GPS beacon?”
“Had it lying around,” said Lewis. “Syncs to my phone.”
“Tell me.”
“Called in a favor and had a guy look up the plate. Registered to a black Ford Excursion owned by some guy in West Bend. Bernard Sands, retired dentist, never even had a parking ticket. Living in Florida, planning to put the house on the market in the spring.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yep. Told ol’ Bernie I was an insurance broker, trying to save him a few bucks. He won’t do business with a brother, though. Anyway, I drove to West Bend. House closed up tighter than a frog’s ass, that Ford locked in the garage. But there’s a different plate on Bernie’s bumper. That plate registered to James R. Bond, in Milwaukee.”
“James R. Bond?”
Lewis nodded. “Not his real name. Doesn’t exist anywhere else. Got no credit cards, owns no property, no Social Security number. No criminal record. No James R. Bond with that date of birth found in any open state or federal database.”
Peter looked at him. “I thought you were some kind of armed robber or something.”
Lewis smiled his tilted smile and put a little extra street in his voice. “Maybe I is, maybe I ain’t. But a man can’t make no kind of living these days without a computer.”
“So how’d you find that Ford?”
“Drove around. Kept my eyes open. Finally got lucky and found it parked. Stuck my GPS on it. Haven’t laid eyes on Mr. James R. Bond. But that Ford ain’t moved since I found it.”
“So where is it?”
Lewis’s eyes gleamed. He was clearly enjoying himself. “You want to know where it is?”
“Yes, Lewis, I do. Where’s the fucking Ford?”
“Parked around the corner.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“So you gonna sit on it, or am I?”
Peter looked at his watch. He had something else he wanted to do, and the timing was important. “How good is that GPS?”
“Good enough. My phone’ll let me know if that Ford starts moving. And where it goes.”
“Okay.” Peter nodded at Lewis’s Yukon with its elaborate tubular steel bumper. “Are you legally connected to that truck?”
Lewis eyed Peter suspiciously. “It’s my damn truck,” he said. “Why you asking?”
“I’m asking if the plate and registration have your name on them. If it could be traced back to you if something happened.”
“Nothing gonna happen to that truck,” said Lewis. “That’s a police special, bought at auction. Cop engine, cop suspension, cop tires. I love that damn truck.”
“You’ve seen my truck,” said Peter. “It’s a classic, but not exactly tactical.”
“No shit, jarhead. But you ain’t driving my truck.”
“Hey, that’s fine,” said Peter. “You can drive if you want. All you had to do was ask.”
Lewis gave him a look.