he was pulling into his driveway and saw a four-door sedan, silver or white, parked in front of the volunteer fire station. Nothing outstanding about the car so he didn’t pay it much attention. Said it could have been a Toyota or Honda, but he wasn’t sure.”
Looking at me, “What’d you see, Nick?”
Closing my eyes, turning the images slowly through my mind’s eye, “Man, medium height, silver gun. Probably that Phoenix 22. Mask. Actually a blue polka dot bandana covering his lower face. Dark eyes. Not blue. Not certain, but gray hair. I could see a bit of it under the hoodie. Left handed. He was standing on the right side of the tree, from my view, and using his left hand to fire. White guy. No gloves so I saw his skin.”
I continued running the images. “A ring. Third finger left hand. Wedding band, maybe. Gold color. And glasses. He was wearing glasses. Light gray tint, maybe. Could have been the shadows, but I don’t think so. That’s about it.”
“Okay, then. I’d better get back to the office and file a report or something.” Forte climbed from his chair, finished his beer in a single pour and said, “Still going to show that golden ball to Bo?”
I nodded. “Almost forgot about it.” Pulling it out of my pocket, still wrapped tightly in cheesecloth, I held it up. “I’ll put the clay egg in a box so we can take a closer look at it, too.”
Forte bobbed his head and walked toward the driveway and his cruiser.
Sal and I sat quietly, reflecting on the close call. But not for long. The cell buzzed in my pocket.
“Drago.”
“Nick, it’s Karl. At Western World?”
“What can I do for you Karl?”
“I hear there was a shooting at your place today. Care to tell me about it?”
“Nope.”
“Come on, word is already all over town that you gunned down an assassin.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Karl. No one was gunned down. We were cleaning guns when one went off accidentally and nicked Sal. Nothing more.”
Karl laughed. “Don’t go all Nixon on me, Nick. Does this have to do with the Tree Man?”
I gave it some thought before answering. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re not on deadline because the paper only comes out on Thursdays…”
“Wrong, Nick. The Oregonian has hired me as a freelancer to write daily reports on this story.”
“Good grief, The Oregonian?”
“Big time, Nick.”
“They get it wrong more often than you guys do. Give me a break.”
“They get things wrong because people like you don’t tell them the truth in the first place,” Karl retorted. He had a point. A small one, but a point.
“Here’s the deal. Meet me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you what I can. Has to be after 1 p.m. though.”
“I’m supposed to file notes at 2 for re-write.”
“Not my problem, Karl. After 1. Best I can do.”
The silence was brief. “Deal. Where?”
“Eatin’ Station.”
I clicked off. Sal started to say something, but I raised a hand to stop him and dialed Bo’s number.
“Nick!! You’ve only called me twice in my entire life! Geeze, this is great! So you killed an assassin! What a guy!”
“Bo, no one got killed, but I do need to see you in the morning. I’ve got an official job for you, but you have to promise me it remains a secret until I tell you otherwise.”
“Secret job! This has to do with Tree Man, doesn’t it Nick. Sure, my lips are zipped. Really.” His voice lowered into a conspiratorial tone. “No one gets anything out of me. Promise, Nick.”
“We’ll meet you at Eatin’ Station at 10. How’s that?”
“I’ll be there, Nick. I’ll be there. Lips sealed.”
But someone’s lips were hardly sealed. When Sal and I sat in our customary booth at the restaurant, a constant flow of Bandonians came by to give a thumbs up, pat on the back or ask for details about the shootout. No matter what we said, everyone left convinced some foreign nationals were trying to get even for the Russian-thing that happened two months back.
At precisely 10 a.m., the voice.
“Hey Nick!” Bo scurried to the table. “Wow, you’re the man. You’re better than that Jack Reacher guy. Well, maybe. No offense. Big gun fight at the ranch, huh? Shot up the place! Saved the Chief’s and Sal’s lives! Wow, Nick. That’s cool!”
All ears in the restaurant were tuned into the conversation. “Bo, Jack Reacher isn’t real. He’s the figment of Lee Child’s imagination, okay?”
“You’re wrong Nick. I know a guy whose cousin knows a guy who actually met Reacher in Texas! They had coffee in some diner together. He’s real, Nick. Really.”
Sal couldn’t help himself. “Listen Bo, if Reacher and Drago had to fight to the death, Nick would be the one walking away.”
Bo looked at Sal and mulled it over. “He’s pretty tough, Sal. Pretty tough. I’d bet on Nick because he’s my friend, but I don’t know. It’d be close.”
“Guys, listen to me. Jack Reacher is not real, okay? He’s a character in a book. I know. I’ve read all the Child books.”
With a straight face Sal said, “You’d whip his ass.”
Bo, trying not to offend me, changed the subject. “We gonna meet, Nick? Now, huh?”
“I wasn’t quite expecting all these folks listening to us, Bo, so let Sal and me finish breakfast and meet you at your office in, say, an hour?”
The small man bounced his head up and down then to Sal, “That Reacher guy’s mean, Sal. He might just be able to take Nick.” To me, “Sorry, Nick. But, you know…” He turned away from the table and began walking to the exit muttering, “It would be close. That’s for sure. Real close.”
Sal bent over, put his head down on the table and laughed so hard it splashed coffee from my mug.
I glared at Sal. “Thanks for that, you shlub.”
Between gasps for breath, he said, “The way word travels in this town, it’ll turn into a story that you claimed you could beat Jack Reacher in a fist fight.” Sal laughed even harder. “Bo just turned you into Billy the Kid, Shane and Muhammad Ali in less than a minute.”
“Well, sheet.”
CHAPTER
