The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)
Page 38“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Saranne was just out of earshot when Tracie spoke. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” she said. “That’s why you insulted Mr. Miller. To make an ally of his daughter.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
A few minutes later, Saranne returned with the bill. She set it in front of me. Tracie reached across the table and picked it up.
“I got it,” she said.
“Whatever,” Saranne said. “You know”—she was talking to me now—“you should be careful how you talk to the old man. He’s mean.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s so old.”
“How old is he?”
“Over seventy.”
“Must be tough for someone as young as you to have a father that old.”
“His age isn’t what makes it tough. It’s not his time anymore, and it pisses him off. He wishes Reagan was still president, arming the Contras in Nicaragua and firing air traffic controllers and scaring hell out of the Russians.”
“Long before you were born.”
“That, too. My mother says he was a good person back then. She says he was happy back then.”
“How well did he get along with Rush?” I said.
“The other McKenzie? I don’t think he liked him. Rush wore expensive suits and real cuff links, and the old man thought that was way too la-de-da for South Dakota. My mother liked him, though, even liked the cuff links. When he came over for dinner that one time, they talked up a storm, mostly about the Cities. Mom was from the Twin Cities. ’Course, that just made it worse as far as the old man was concerned, them liking each other. I gotta go. If you come back for dinner, make ’em seat you in my section, okay?”
I watched as Saranne made her way back to the kitchen.
“How to win friends and influence people,” Tracie said. “You should give lessons.”
I left my chair and made my way to the restroom.
“Leave a generous tip,” I said over my shoulder.
I didn’t use the facilities, yet I washed my hands just the same. Afterward, I activated my cell phone and called a familiar number.
“Hello,” Shelby said.
“Hi, Shel.”
“McKenzie, where are you? Are you still in South Dakota?”
“I am.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not bad. Is Victoria around?”
“Upstairs.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Just a second.”
A minute later, Victoria was on the phone. She spoke as if I had forced her to put her life on pause. “What is it?”
“Do I have to do anything illegal?”
“Of course not.”
“Dangerous?”
“No.”
“What’s the fun of that?”
“I want you to go online and find out if there are any high schools in Chicago that call their sports teams the Raiders.”
“Do you think the Imposter’s from Chicago?”
“You’ve been to Taste of Minnesota—”
“Where you can buy food from all those booths and they have free concerts.”
“Do you remember where is it?”
“Well, yeah. On Harriet Island, down by the river in St. Paul.”
“The Imposter said it was in Grant Park.”
“The place in Chicago where President Obama gave his victory speech after he won the election?”
“Correct.”
“I’m all over it.”
“My password? I’m not going to tell you my password.”
“What I meant—if you wanted to hack into someone’s Facebook account or something, what password would you use?”
“I don’t know. Their name and birthday?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I met Tracie outside the entrance to Grandma Miller’s. The bison was waxing poetic about the vistas of South Dakota.
Tracie said, “Where to now?”
The bison started singing “Home on the Range.”
I pointed across the highway.
“Introduce me to Farmer Randisi,” I said.
“I’ve never actually met the man.”
“I thought you knew everyone around here.”
“Randisi is a recluse. Or antisocial. I don’t know what. He has no family, as far as I know. No friends. You never see him in town except for Sunday morning services, and even then he’s in and out in a hurry, never stops to talk. He does his shopping—I don’t know where he does his shopping, but it’s not in Libbie.”
My admiration for the Imposter was starting to grow.