The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)

I wondered how often men attempted to sit next to Tracie without permission and what the small man was prepared to do about it. Tracie removed the threat.

“No, Wayne,” she said. “This is McKenzie I told you about.”

“The real McKenzie?”

“’Fraid so,” I said.

“You’re the one who fucked up Church. Well, hell, that deserves a beverage on the house. What’ll ya have?”

“What can you tell me about Ringneck Red Ale?”

Wayne shrugged. “It’s pretty good. Brewed down in Sioux Falls.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

When the bartender left, I glanced over at Tracie. She was smiling.

“It doesn’t take much to become a hero in this town, does it?” I said.

“I knew you’d come back.”

“You knew nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, yes, I knew. It’s your eyes. Even when you demanded a rental car I could see it. You have tenacious eyes.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about me and not the other guy?”

Before she could answer, Wayne reappeared with my order. It turned out that the Ringneck was a medium-bodied ale. It poured a clear red, smelled slightly of caramel, and tasted of roasted malts on top followed by oak and chocolate at the finish.

“What do you think?” Wayne said.

“Nice,” I said. “Very smooth.”

“Better than anything you’ll get in North Dakota, that’s for sure.”

“Heady praise, indeed.”

“All they have up there is churches, more churches per capita than anywhere else in the country.”

“Don’t forget the missile silos,” Tracie said.

“Blow themselves off the face of the earth and who would notice?” Wayne said.

He gave me a look as if he expected a challenge to his claim.

“I think much the same way about Iowa,” I said.

“Iowa is the fucking Garden of Eden compared to North Dakota.”

I wasn’t prepared to go that far but let the argument lapse just the same. Instead, I spun on the stool and faced the rest of the bar. Most of the patrons were male, and nearly half of them were watching me.

“You don’t get many strangers in Libbie, do you?” I said.

“They’re all waiting to see what I do about you sitting here,” Tracie said.

“Oh yeah?”

“If I tell you to get lost and you don’t, half of them will jump to my defense.”

“You have a lot of big brothers.”

“No, just a lot of men who think they should be sitting here instead of you.” Tracie turned to face the audience as I had done. “Hey, guys. This is McKenzie.”

“The one who beat up Church?” someone said.

“I heard he sucker-punched him,” said someone else.

“Chickenshit,” said a third man.

“Glory is so fleeting,” I said.

“It is, indeed,” Tracie said.

We both spun back on our stools to face the fading mirror.

“Do you mind knowing that so many men are, what’s the word—interested—in you?” I said.

“I’m used to it.”

“How many of them”—I paused to choose my words carefully—“have you let sit here?”

“Damn few.”

She waved her glass when she spoke, and some of the golden liquid spilled out. It was only then that I realized that Tracie was smashed.

“How long has your husband been in the jar?” I said.

“Ex-husband. It’s been about five years. Why?”

“I was just thinking—that’s a long time to be without somebody.”

“Oh, there’s been a lot of somebodies, McKenzie, but I’m holding out for that someone. How ’bout you? Is there a someone in your life?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you.”

“So,” I said, “do you come here often?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Chief Gustafson knew where I could find you.”

“Eric always knows where he can find me, day or night.”

Tracie emptied her glass and waved it at Wayne, who had been watching intently out of the corner of his eye while pretending not to. A moment later, he refilled the glass. Tracie was drinking amaretto and 7UP, and Wayne was being generous with the amaretto.

“What’s the plan, McKenzie? Do we have a plan?”

“Tomorrow after breakfast, if you’re up to it, I want you to introduce me to every man, woman, and child that the Imposter knew in this town. Everyone involved in the phony mall. We’ll see if we can cut his trail.”

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight, I’m going back to my room at the Pioneer Hotel.”

“No, no, don’t do that, McKenzie. You don’t want to go back to Sharren Nuffer. Stay with me. I have plenty of room.”

I wondered briefly if Tracie had made the same offer to the Imposter who called himself Rushmore McKenzie, but I let the question slide.

“I don’t think my girl would appreciate that,” I said.

“Do you have a girl, McKenzie?”

“I told you I did.”

“Did you? I forgot. What’s her name?”

“Nina.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes, I do.”