I couldn’t read her expression; probably I had insulted her. She turned, moved toward the upstairs staircase, and paused.
“This is the second time tonight that you’ve impressed me,” she said before floating silently up the carpeted steps.
Yeah, my inner voice told me. You’re a helluva guy.
“Rushmore McKenzie, this assassin in blue, this killer of children,” the minister chants from behind his podium.
Benjamin Simbi turns to face me. I brace the stock of the shotgun against my shoulder and sight down the barrel. “Police. Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air.”
“This is just another example of the racism that is rampant in the St. Paul Police Department,” the minister says.
There’s a Smith & Wesson .38 in Simbi’s hand. I beg him to drop it. Instead, he raises his hands slowly—slowly—slowly—slowly. The gun is nearly level with his chest when I squeeze the trigger.
“Proof—as if we need any further proof—that it is impossible for the black man to get justice in a white man’s court.”
The impact from the blast lifts Simbi off his feet and hurls him against the convenience store.
The woman screams.
The man shouts an obscenity.
“There is no hope in the system for people of color,” the minister says.
9
I tried to wake up, but I was having a hard time managing it. I was flotsam—or is it jetsam—bobbing along on the lake Up North where I built my cabin. Each time I drifted close to shore, a wave would pull me away again. Finally, G. K. rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and they focused on her face, and for a moment I thought she was an angel.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
An ice pack, the contents melted long ago, slid to the hardwood floor as I pushed myself into a sitting position on G. K.’s sofa. I stretched, slowly, purposefully. Every muscle felt like a rubber band that was extended to the breaking point—a little more pressure and snap! There was a dull throbbing behind my eyes, and my stomach bobbed and pitched like a small boat on a large, unruly ocean. Yet as stiff and achy as I felt, I knew it would be much worse later. It’s been my experience that the body doesn’t hurt nearly as much the day after as it will the day after the day after.
“Are you all right?” G. K. said.
“You keep asking that question. Don’t I look all right?”
“Not really.”
“Swell.”
“You were talking in your sleep.”
“Did I say anything interesting?”
“You said, ‘It’s not my fault.’ ”
“Then it probably isn’t.”
“What were you dreaming of?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe I was running for public office.”
G. K. helped me to my feet. I was hoping for the white lace nightgown, but instead she was wearing a turquoise skirt suit and black pumps. Her hair was arranged in a pile on top of her head. She offered to feed me breakfast, but I declined and told her I should go home and get cleaned up. She said it was just as well, she needed to get to her office. I told her that there were a few things I would look into later that morning and that I’d call her. She said that would be fine. She did not repeat her offer from the previous evening.
Oh, well.
Ice for the first twenty-four hours, then heat—if you’ve been beaten up as much as I have, you learn things. One of the things you learn is that sitting around and nursing your wounds won’t make them hurt less or go away sooner. Best thing to do is to be up and about. Stretch those muscles; ignore that pain. That’s what I kept telling myself while I showered, shaved, dressed, ate my last bagel, and popped enough ibuprofen to boost the stock price for at least three pharmaceutical companies. Despite the heat, I wore a lightweight sports jacket—the better to conceal the nine-millimeter Beretta that I fetched from the safe built into my basement floor. True, carrying the gun probably wouldn’t have helped much the day before, but it made me feel better. I also parked the Audi in the garage and switched to my Jeep Cherokee. It bothered me that my friend was able to find me at the Regis Art Center, and I decided the Audi must have had something to do with it.
I checked my voice mail. A message from Nina Truhler made my heart race, even though it wasn’t much of a message. She didn’t say why she called, or if she would call again, or if I should call her back. Nor did she attempt to reach me on my cell phone. Still, I took it as a good omen and tried all four of her phone numbers. Either she wasn’t around or she wasn’t picking up.
“You snooze, you lose, Nina,” I said aloud.
Only I didn’t mean it.
Thirty minutes later I was standing on the “police side” of the City of Anoka Public Safety Center. A plaque on the wall outside the administrative offices proclaimed that the Anoka Police Department had been accredited by the Commission on Accreditation for Law Enforcement Agencies. That meant it was rated among the top 3 percent of all police departments throughout the United States and Canada.
