Free Vapor Trail by Chuck Logan

something like a smile. “Okay, so he’s a hazard to navigation. Maybe he should be off the streets. Just so happens I found him.”
    “Goddammit, Mouse, why didn’t you—” Broker said.
    Mouse raised a finger to his lips, then pointed to the door toInvestigations, which appeared to be open a crack. He shook his head. “Cops. Snoopy bastards,” he whispered. “Worse gossips than junior high girls.”
    They walked down the hall, left the sheriff’s office, and stood in the lobby. Mouse yanked his thumb back toward the unit. “I run the north team; Harry runs the south team, right? Harry’s lead detective used to be Benish, who got transferred to Fraud. But they stay in touch.
    “So Benish comes up to me an hour ago and says, ‘Tell Broker that Harry is playing cards at Ole’s Boat Repair.’ He also says Harry don’t see the need to rush going to treatment. It ain’t like they’re going to move St. Joseph’s in the next two weeks.”
    Broker allowed a faint smile. “Sounds like Harry. He figures to use every minute of his suspension to party. So he knows I’m on the job and about Moros and . . .”
    “Sure; if Benish didn’t tell him, there’s half a dozen other people who could,” Mouse said.
    “So where’s this Ole’s?”
    “Take Highway Ninety-five south toward Lakeland. About two miles this side of the slab, on the east side of the road there’s this sailboat repair shop that went out of business.”
    Broker squinted, placing the location. “The slab” was cop talk for Interstate 94. “Yeah, okay. Tell me about the game,” Broker said.
    Mouse shrugged. “No sweat. It’s a regular game in the back room. No actual bread on the table. It’s all chips and markers. They settle up someplace else. Some hustlers cruise by and give it some flavor; but nothing heavy, they all know who Harry is. Mostly it’s local guys with leisure time who like to rub shoulders with mildly criminal types. Harry is a regular; he uses it as a listening post.”
    Broker and Mouse stared at each other for several beats. Finally, Broker said, “It’s too easy.”
    “Yeah,” Mouse said.
    Broker extended his hand.
    “What?” Mouse said.
    “Gimme your cuffs. Just in case.”
    Broker sat for several minutes in his idling truck as the A/C hummed up to speed and put a sheet of artificial cool between him and the day.
    Okay. C’mon. Let’s do it.
    He left town and drove south on Highway 95. It had been more than a decade since he rode with a pair of manacles hanging from his belt. The thought of a take-down grapple to the pavement in this heat . . . Broker shook his head, leery. The fact was, he assumed the worst. It smelled like a setup; Harry making an overture like this, setting a time and place.
    He stared out the windshield, and the day glared back. Crazy-making hot. The cars and trucks went by like brightly painted blisters. Even buttoned up in air-conditioning, he could feel the sweat puddle on his scalp.
    Carefully, he reviewed the last time he’d seen Harry. At the Washington County Fair, last summer. A sweltering night perfumed with animal barns and sweat and cotton candy. Broker had been with his daughter, Kit, standing in line for the pony ride when Harry walked up.
    He’d just looked at Broker, tried to smile, and said, “I heard you were married. Cute kid.”
    So they attempted to get a conversation going, but their small talk hobbled like stragglers through the no-man’s-land yawning between them. When Harry awkwardly started to tousle Kit’s reddish hair, Broker instinctively reached over and pulled her out of his reach.
    “Must be reflexes, huh?” Harry had said. So the time machine had kicked in and they were back to it. They’d exchanged poison looks while his daughter unconsciously wrinkled her smooth broad forehead, soaking up the ambient hostility.
    Harry half-turned as he was walking away. “You never had anything to lose before, did you, Broker?”
    Broker once had heard a