Free North of Nowhere by Steve Hamilton Page B

it,” I said. “It’s not like Tiger Stadium, I tell you that much.”
    “Of course not,” he said. He picked up a wet dish towel and threw it at his son. Ham O’Dell was even taller than his father, at least six foot six. He’d played power forward at Northern Michigan. He was what the newspapers politely called a “physical player,” meaning that he couldn’t do much besides get in other people’s way. Ham peeled the wet towel off his face and threw it back at his father, missing the man by three feet.
    “Basketball players,” Bennett said. “No coordination.”
    That started a series of arguments about sports, and then about which generation had it harder. Somehow it went to fishing after that, and then finally to women. That brought Mrs. O’Dell out of the kitchen. Margaret O’Dell was a truly lovely woman, and neither of the two men in the room deserved her. That’s what she said anyway, and when she put me on the spot I was more than glad to agree with her.
    “How’s Jackie doing?” she asked me. “I haven’t seen him in I don’t know how long.”
    “He’s still the same,” I said. “Aside from last night, he’s doing fine.”
    As I talked to her, I remembered something that Jackie had told me. Or had almost told me but not quite, about how he had loved Margaret once, years ago, and about how he had lost her to his best friend. I wondered if he had seen her face when his life was flashing before his eyes.
     
     
    It was dinnertime when I got back to Paradise. I stopped in at the Glasgow again. Jackie was out of bed, God bless him, and sitting by the fireplace. He still looked a little tired, but nothing a little friendly needling wouldn’t cure. I had my dinner with him, and told him about my day—my meeting with Maven, then with Leon, and finally how I stopped in to see Bennett. And Margaret.
    He gave me a slow nod and a smile at the sound of her name. “You really got around today,” he said. “Not bad for a hermit.”
    When I finally made it back to my cabin that night, the light on my answering machine was blinking again. There were two messages this time. I pressed play and heard a voice I didn’t recognize at first. Then it came to me. It was Winston Vargas, inviting me to have lunch with him the next day. On his boat, of all places. The second message was from Eleanor Prudell, Leon’s wife, asking me to call her back as soon as I could.
    It was late, but I figured Vargas’s message was one invitation I shouldn’t leave hanging. He had left his number—I dialed it and waited through five rings until a woman answered.
    “Is this Mrs. Vargas?” I said. “I’m sorry to call so late. Is your husband there?”
    “Who is this?”
    “My name’s Alex McKnight. I was one of the men playing poker at your house last night.”
    “Let me guess, you had so much fun you’re calling to set up the next game.”
    “No, actually, your husband invited me to lunch tomorrow. On his boat. I was calling to decline. I hope I didn’t wake you, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”
    “He’s not here right now,” she said. “He’s out having some kind of meeting with his hired goon.”
    “With Leon Prudell? It’s almost midnight.”
    “I don’t know his name. He’s the big guy with the orange hair, the one who’s been following me around for the last few weeks.”
    I wasn’t going to touch that one. “Well, can you give your husband the message, ma’am? That I won’t be having lunch with him?”
    “I’ll do that,” she said. “I hope it doesn’t break his heart.”
    “Thank you, ma’am. And good night.”
    “Alex, was it? Sleep tight, Alex.”
    I was going to save Eleanor Prudell’s call for the next morning, but this business with Vargas was getting stranger by the minute. The way Leon had been acting, and that line about his first priority being his client, his second priority being the police. I was thinking that was just Leon being Leon, but now I wasn’t so sure. I