Free Cold by John Smolens Page B

determination in the set of his mouth.   Norman never really believed in failure, his failure.   He couldn’t accept it; always figured there must be some other way, and he’d set out to find it.
    A little after six Warren pulled into the parking lot next to the skating rink, which was closed because of the blizzard.   There was only one vehicle in the lot, an old Camaro with Bondo on the fenders, which belonged to a kid named Buck.   Warren waited in his pickup a couple minutes, finished his cigarette and took a last slug of schnapps.   Best thing for his stomach, though sometimes he cut it with Pepto.   The Navy really should have put him on disability for what they’d done to his stomach.
    After a few minutes he was satisfied that it was all clear.   He put the .38 in the right pocket of his long leather coat, got out and walked through the snow to the small brick building that housed the restrooms.   He stopped a minute outside the men’s room door.   He could hear them talking inside, their voices echoing off the tiles.   “Buck,” he said.
    “Hey, Warren!”
    “Who you talking to, yourself?”
    “Naa.   It’s just Pete.”
    “Just you and Pete?”
    “Just me and Pete.”
    Warren pushed open the door and went inside.   There was the smell of cold wet concrete and he could see his breath in the overhead florescent light, but at least it was out of the wind and snow.
    “Hey, Warren,” Buck said.   A tall kid in a grimy parka, scraggly blond hair.
    Pete was leaning against one of the sinks, smoking a joint.   Pete had been a pretty good wrestler in high school—had the shoulders for it.   Now he did roadwork for the county.
    “Hi, girls,” Warren said.
    Buck came over to Warren.   “Fuckin’ snow, eh?”
    Pete stayed where he was, finishing the joint.
    “Yeah.”   Warren had both hands in his coat pockets.   Buck kept smiling, trying to get friendly.   “Let me see it,” Warren said.
    Buck hesitated and Pete looked toward them for the first time.   The bill on his worn Tigers cap was tightly curved; you had to work on a hat to get that look.   After a moment Buck shifted his weight and dug a wad of bills from the front pocket of his jeans.   “Here’s the thing,” he said.   His voice seemed high, nervous.   “We’re a little shy.”
    “What do you mean shy?”
    “Yeah.   Pete was supposed to get paid today, but fuckin’ Mr. Townsend calls in sick.”
    “So?”
    “So it means I get paid tomorrow,” Pete said.   “Nobody got paid today.”
    “I was nice and warm back there in my truck,” Warren said.   “You work for the county, right?   That’s like the government.   You know they’re supposed to pay people on time.   You mean nobody in the county got paid because Mr. Townsend stayed home to bang his wife?”   Pete just stared at him.   “I mean when I was in the Navy we got paid on time.   Didn’t matter if the captain was on board ship or whether we were in port or out on maneuvers.   It didn’t fucking mat ter, it was the gov ernment and we got paid.   So what is this shit with the county?”
    “Sorry,” Buck said.   “Didn’t know how to reach you, and Pete only picked me up a half hour ago.”
    “We got sixty.”   Pete took his weight off the sink and came over.   “We’ll owe you the twenty.   I’ll have it tomorrow, soon as I get paid.”
    “Tomorrow,” Warren said.
    Buck nodded and said, “We’re not going to, like, skip out on you or nothing.”
    “Listen,” Warren said very patiently, “I said it was eighty.”
    Buck stared down at the puddle of melted snow around his boots.   Pete hadn’t taken his eyes off of Warren.
    “Geez,” Buck said, “I’m sorry.   We’ll do this tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”
    “What?” Warren said.   “You want me to come back here tomorrow?”
    “We’ll have all eighty then,” Buck said.   Pete was still staring at Warren.
    “Eighty is today’s price,” Warren