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CHAPTER 12
Dean had Guthrie drive them to the Tracks Diner for lunch. The restaurant was beside the old freight-line railroad tracks. Guthrie asked him what the FBI line was about.
“I haven’t a clue, other than we’re talking a border here, so maybe he thinks the FBI knows something. Or he heard ‘communist’ and assumes the FBI knows something. That’s a scratcher.”
They stepped out of the car. Guthrie asked across the roof, “And what about the drugs question? You hadn’t mentioned that before.”
Dean stuffed the keys into his pocket and shrugged. “Seems only natural, right? How many of the B and Es around here are ultimately drug related?” Breaking and entering. People smashing open a window or door and grabbing the valuables. Sometimes they turned violent if a person were at home, but most often just a violation of property.
Guthrie shrugged. “I don’t know. A quarter? A third?”
They walked across the poorly cleared parking lot to the restaurant, a small building on the edge of town. The restaurant was more a mobile home than a proper building. The poutine was the reason—at least in Dean’s opinion—that the Tracks had survived the arrival of McDonald’s.
“I’d bet you it’s half.” Dean held the door open for Guthrie. “I mean, most crime when it comes down to it,” he continued as he followed to their table, “is about money or love. And drugs are a big part of the money factor. I want a hit, I don’t have money, so I hold up a gas station for it. I sell drugs. You do, too. I want more money. I kill you I sell drugs to your clients. I make more money. Stupid, simple shit.”
The waitress put two plastic cups of water on the table. Dean asked for coffee and ordered the poutine. Guthrie chose the meatloaf sandwich and a Coke.
They talked game plan over their coffee and Coke while waiting for the food. The diner was crowded, the noise of people talking, glasses and plates clanking and jingling, and the door opening and closing with a swoosh of wind were enough to make discussion challenging. They agreed they would talk to Billy’s friend Corey next. Guthrie asked why not interview Sarah, the girlfriend, first. Dean wanted to get to at least one of the friends, see what his opinion of the girlfriend was.
The waitress set their plates in front of them and asked if they needed anything else. Guthrie tapped his Coke glass, which was two-thirds empty, and Dean shook his head. She turned and headed back to the counter.
Dean stuck a fork into his poutine as Guthrie eyed him before dousing his meatloaf sandwich in ketchup. He set the ketchup bottle down. “I don’t know how you eat that stuff.”
Dean smiled. “Like everyone else who eats it.”
Guthrie frowned and shook his head.
“I love it. As good as you can get in Quebec.” Dean watched Guthrie’s lips thin and almost say something before winking at him. Dean stuck a forkful of curds and fries into his mouth. After he finished chewing, he said, “I keep trying to figure out why Billy was out there, at the Pratt farm.”
“Who knows.” Ketchup squirted out the backside of Guthrie’s sandwich. He looked down at his pants to ensure none fell there. “I mean, we’ve got to figure that out. But if you ask me, the stack of money. That’s the key.”
“How so?” Dean thought it was key as well, but he wanted to hear what his partner came up with.
“Frankly, seems like he got involved with some people he shouldn’t have. That’s where drugs make sense.”
Dean leaned back and wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin. The door to the restaurant opened and in walked Tony, his younger brother.
He looked around the restaurant, caught sight of Dean, smiled, and waved. He walked over and the two brothers embraced. The middle of the Wallace brothers still maintained his thin frame by running five miles daily—rain or shine. He wore a wool, gray peacoat and light blue jeans. A large gray scarf encased his neck and piled on his chest. He pulled off his Montreal Expos knit hat, revealing his full head of light brown hair.
“Join us?” asked Dean. “This is Jeremy Guthrie, my partner.”
Tony shook his head. “Nice to meet you.” They shook hands. Dean’s brother looked back at him. “Was in town for some supplies, but I need to get back. You should come by. We’ll share a beer.” Tony patted Dean on the back and walked up to the counter, where Steven handed over a styrofoam container. Tony left cash on the counter and walked out.
Guthrie turned from the closing door back to Dean. “Can I ask you something?”
“Is it about my brother?”
“Yeah.” Guthrie grinned. “It is.”
“I won’t stop you.”
“What’s the deal with him? Your dad doesn’t have a photo of him in his office at all. Got yours and Nolan’s everywhere.”
Dean picked up the last gravy-covered fry with his fork and jammed it into the last cheese curd. “There is one photo with Tony.” He paused before continuing, “Short or long answer?”
“I always prefer the long.”
“Hmmph.” He popped in the last bite and ordered two coffees, which he spiked with some whiskey from his flask. “You’ll have to ask him.”
The truth was, Tony had used college and other deferments—actions not unique or special during those years—to avoid the draft and active duty in Vietnam while Dean, the rambunctious thorn in the family’s side, and Nolan, the youngest and favorite of Jessica, volunteered. Dean joined the Marines in an effort to impress his father and without much sense of purpose. Nolan joined out of a sense of duty. Dean still had the letter the youngest brother had sent him from Zion a few days before he officially joined. He read it on some blasted, forgotten, terrible hill. Read it between shouts of “Tubing” and huddling in captured NVA bunkers.
Dean, I know you think I’m crazy for doing it. I know you’re counting the days until you can leave. I know this. But I can’t sit around here and do what Tony did or many of my friends are doing. I can’t ignore that my brother is over there fighting a war his country has asked him to fight while I sit here, drinking cold sodas, enjoying walking out in the world, while you walk in terror. I can’t not join. Duty calls.
And Nolan did.
“Seriously, man,” said Guthrie.
Dean chuckled. “The old man has his reasons. Let’s say Tony didn’t land on the right side of the war.”
Guthrie dug with his tongue into his teeth. “Fine. Does he live around here?”
“He lives out down Route 22 toward Plattsburgh. He works for the FBI. One of their lawyers.” Dean slapped his forehead. “We had our FBI guy there. We could’ve asked him about what Renard said. I’ll call him up later.”
Guthrie folded up his napkin and put it on his plate. “He can probably help, yeah. So why did you move back?”
Dean squinted at him. The question was such a radical pivot from their conversation it held him up a bit. He did not like that Guthrie had asked it. “You know why I moved back.”
“Only what they say on the streets. Is it true?”
“Is what true?” Dean ground his teeth.
“Did the guy get off? The one that killed those hookers?”
He stood up and put a dollar on the table. He leaned in close, putting his hand on the back of Guthrie’s chair. “Then what you heard is probably true. Yeah, the shithead got away with it because I was too drunk to do anything right.”
Guthrie looked at Dean’s arm on the chair and changed the subject. “So besides talking to people, do we need to do anything else with Billy?”
“Yeah, we need to see who owned those pistols. The forty-five and the thirty-eight. Look up all the people we’re talking to and see if they have a gun license.”
“Hold on.” Guthrie pulled out a notepad. “Let me write this down. Check gun licenses.”
Dean tapped the table with is fingers. “While you’re writing it down, note we need to talk to Corey, Alex, Josh, Sarah, and probably Paul Zorn.”
Guthrie sighed. “You think he’s the source of the drug money?”
“Who better to talk to than Zorn?”
Guthrie wrote it down and closed the notebook. “Let’s get going.”
They picked up their checks from the table and walked to the register.
“Detective Wallace.”
Dean looked behind him to find her standing nearby, arms crossed. “Paige.”
Guthrie turned back and looked at Paige as he handed his check to the waitress along with three dollars.
She smiled at the both of them and focused back on Dean. “So you got anything for me?”
He shrugged. “I’m a public servant. I can only afford my lunch.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
The waitress handed Guthrie his change. Dean handed her his check and three dollars.
“Come on. You’ve got to say something.”
Dean smiled at the waitress. “Thank you.” He looked back at Paige. “Actually, I don’t.”
The two detectives walked back into the cold January air. Cold despite the shining sun.
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