"Lose the battle?" I said, gesturing at the makeshift ashtray.
"Nah." He stubbed out the cigarette. "Back-to-back jobs. Went a few weeks cold turkey. Never cures me. Just catches up later."
"Jobs go--" I cleared my throat and switched to full sentences, before we were reduced to exchanging grunts. "Did the jobs go all right?"
"Yeah. Routine."
That was all I was getting. If something was bothering him, he wasn't sharing. Nor was he telling me our destination.
Though Jack wasn't talking about anything he didn't wish to talk about, he was up for conversation. Or what usually passes for conversation when we're together on a long trip--me talking and him listening.
I talked about the lodge. It's not just a business; it's a never-ending project. I bought it after my professional disgrace, shooting Wayne Franco. A few years ago, I'd been about to lose the lodge through bankruptcy. That's when I started working for the Tomassinis. A few jobs a year for them doesn't just keep the lodge afloat; it gives me the money I need to turn it into my dream business. Of course, I can't just pull a hundred grand out of my stash and go crazy with the renovations. It has to be a slow, measured withdrawal, weighing cost against income potential. With the work I've done so far, the lodge is breaking even. One day, it might even make a profit.
Little things do make a difference. Extras, I call them. Amenities is the business term. I don't allow hunting on my property--yes, hypocritical, I know--which means I can't court the market that doesn't give a shit about hot tubs and groomed hiking trails. I need to appeal to everyone from wilderness sports enthusiasts to honeymooning couples to church ladies on retreat. The amenities are what draws them.
"So the ATVs are a big hit," I said. "Thanks to you."
Jack shrugged. He'd been the one who'd saved the secondhand--or probably twelfth-hand--vehicles from being a money pit, after my caretaker bought them and discovered new spark plugs weren't quite enough to get them running.
"No problems?" he said.
"Just wear and tear, and I've got a kid from town who handles that. I'm not a fan of things with motors racing around the forest, but with restrictions on where and when they can be used, I'll admit they worked out better than I expected. Which now has Owen eyeing a few used snowmobiles that 'just need a little work.'"
"You want them? I'll fix 'em. Thinking about coming up this winter. Couple weeks maybe. If that's okay."
"It's always okay, and while you don't need the snowmobiles as an excuse, I know that your idea of a vacation doesn't mean sitting around ice fishing. I'll take you up on that offer if you're serious."
"I am. Only tell Owen I'll find the machines. He doesn't know shit about motors."
I grinned over at him. "I'll tell him the first part and skip the last."
Jack took the exit for Cleveland.
"Is this our destination?" I asked.
"Yeah."
After a minute of silence, I said, "I'd love to ask what we're doing here, but apparently
, I'm not getting that. Just as long as there isn't a surprise party at the end." I paused. "Actually, I'd be okay with a party. Just no clowns. I hate clowns."
Jack didn't even acknowledge the lame joke. He kept his gaze fixed forward, his face tense. He drove down two more streets before pulling into a mall parking lot. I was about to get out when I realized he'd stopped to make a cell phone call. I motioned to ask if he wanted privacy, but he shook his head.
His voice took on a flat midwestern accent as he asked to speak to David Miller. His gaze slid my way, as if checking to see if I recognized the name. I didn't.
"Yeah, I figured he was on duty today," Jack said. "Can I leave a message? Tell him Ted called. He's got my number."
A pause. Then, "Thanks. Oh, and when does his shift end? It's kinda urgent."
He waited for a reply, then thanked the person on the other end again and hung up. When he did, he sat there a moment, staring out the windshield.
"Is that someone we need to talk to? A cop?"
"Yeah. Don't need to talk to him. Just making sure he's at work. Figure he knows a Ted." He paused. "Speaking of names. David? Most popular male name for a guy his age. Miller? Sixth most common surname in the U.S. Put them together? Fifteen thousand Americans named David Miller."
"That's . . . fascinating. Either you've taken up a new hobby or this is a roundabout way of telling me it's fake."
"Yeah."