Free Iron Lake by William Kent Krueger

that’s for sure,” Johnny observed. “Knew it had to happen.”

    “Coffee ready yet?” Cork asked.

    “Molly’s doing it now. Ski’d in from her place. Got here before me even.” Johnny leaned on his snow shovel. “Wish Maria was like that,” he said, speaking of his wife. “Takes a couple sticks of dynamite to get her out of bed most mornings.” He wiped the drip from his nose and eyed Cork man to man. “Wish she was like Molly in a lot of ways, if you know what I mean.”

    “I’ll see you inside,” Cork said, and left Johnny to his shoveling.

    Except for Molly, the place was empty.

    “Well, well.” Molly smiled, glancing up from the big stainless steel coffeemaker. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

    “Anybody ever tell you you look mighty good in the morning?”

    “Not for a long time.” She leaned across the counter to where Cork sat on a stool. “Thought about you all night,” she said.

    “Long night?”

    “It went on forever.”

    “Try reading a book next time. It’s what I do.”

    “I knitted. I’m working on a Christmas present for you. Something for cold nights.”

    “Wool condom?”

    Molly laughed, poured him a cup of coffee, and slid it across the counter. Then she turned to the kitchen. She fixed him bacon and eggs and wheat toast. By the time he’d finished eating, the place had begun to fill with men. The Broiler was a popular stopover for people on their way to work. The clientele were regulars, men mostly who ordered the same breakfast every day, said the same things day in and day out. They worked at the brewery or the sawmill or for the highway department. Or they were shop owners killing time before they headed to the task of clearing the walks in front of their stores. Johnny had taken over the cooking. Two other waitresses had arrived, but it was Molly who caught everyone’s eye. She moved quickly and efficiently from table to table, booth to booth, slipping easily among men who eyed her just as keenly as Cork did. He liked how she cocked a fist on her hip and said something hard and funny to the ones who made passes, and there were a lot of them. He liked the combination of her plain good looks, her efficiency, and her elusiveness there in a place where men hungered around her in a lot of ways. She was a woman who knew how to take care of herself.

    At the register, he spoke to her quietly. “Got it on good authority there’s an ex-law enforcement officer heading out your way later. Maybe that civic minded ex-officer could give you a lift.”

    “Wouldn’t accept anything from an ex-officer of the law. But I’m a definite pushover for any man who knows how to flip a burger. Is there a charge for this ride?”

    “That’s negotiable.”

    “Then you’ve got me over a barrel,” she admitted with a smile.

    Cork lifted his eyebrow. “Now, that sounds interesting.”

9

    O N THE STATE HIGHWAY just beyond the limits of Aurora stood a big marquee, a neon bow that shot a neon arrow in the direction of a newly paved road through a stand of white pines. “Chippewa Grand Casino,” the marquee proclaimed; “¼ Mile To A Jackpot Of Good Times And Good Food.”

    Growing up in Aurora, Cork had often traveled the road through the white pines. The road was gravel then and the pines part of a large county park. At that time the quarter mile led to a ball field and a huge picnic area shaded by maples and a long stretch of beach on the lake. A year ago the land had been sold to the Iron Lake band of Ojibwe so they could build a gambling casino. Under federal law, property purchased by a tribal entity became tribal land, exempt from the prohibition against gaming that constrained non–Native American landholders. Initially there had been a good deal of objection to the sale. Rust River, a good trout stream, ran through the land. Trout fisherman and conservationists questioned whether the stream would be ruined. Construction of the casino was to be bankrolled by