The Bodies Left Behind

least.”
    “I just fuck her momma. The kid’s not mine.” He slid the door closed with a hollow bang.

    JAMES JASONS WAS still some distance from Lake Mondac but figured he’d better cut off the GPS (not as easy as you’d think but he’d had a special switch installed). Those satellites and those servers . . . who knew what incriminating information they retained?
    Good for security but bad to find restaurants. Still, he’d spotted a golden arches and went for it. He did the drive-through, going for two plain hamburgers, sliced apples and a diet cola.
    He was back on the road, driving fast but not too far over the limit. He looked to all appearances like a slim, agreeable businessman. But if you got stopped, even for nothing other than an unplanned DUI roadblock—at which they’d let nondrinkers like him go immediately—your name and tag might still go into the system.
    But tonight he had to make good time and was pushingthe limit. He was prepared for a speed stop, of course. Presently listening to jazz, he would flip the preset selector on the steering wheel if stopped by a trooper, and a Christian inspirational sermon would come on. He also would slip a sponge-backed Jesus effigy and pro-life sticker onto the dash.
    Might not save him from a ticket but it would probably prevent a car search.
    And James Jasons definitely didn’t want his car searched tonight.
    Eating his food, he wondered how things were going at Great Lakes Intermodal Container Services.
    In 99 percent of the cases, all you have to do is find a sensitive spot and you touch it. That’s all. You don’t need to hit, you don’t need to stab.
    A touch.
    Only instead of sending Paulie or Chris to extort me, Mankewitz picks a scrawny little asshole like you. That the plan? You whine at me until I cave?
    Jasons chuckled. His satellite phone chirped. It was an Iridium model and customized; the signal was scrambled both through a camouflage system and a multiline shifting program, impervious to any snooping, probably even to the government’s infamous Echelon, because of the dual-mode scrambling.
    He swallowed the burger he was fastidiously chewing. “Yes?”
    The voice said, “Your meeting seemed to go well.” Mankewitz didn’t identify himself. The key word about Echelon was “probably.”
    “Good.”
    “There’ve already been certain overtures of cooperation.”
    So Morgan had read the note and decided to be smart. Jasons wondered if the information he was going to deliver to Mankewitz would be helpful. There was always the chance it wouldn’t and the risk had been wasted. But isn’t that the truth about life?
    The union boss said, “On that other matter, your personal trip now?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’ve heard from a relative.”
    He’d mean the round, fuzzy-haired detective in the Milwaukee PD—whom Jasons thought was cute. The cop was more than on the take; he was basically on the payroll. “And?”
    “It seems there’s going to be a party up there.”
    This was troubling. “Really? Did he know who’d be attending?”
    “No close relatives. Mostly local but I think some folks from the East Coast might be. They’re debating coming.”
    Meaning no Milwaukee police, just local officers, probably county, though the FBI—the East Coast family—was a possibility. That was very troubling.
    “So it could be pretty crowded?”
    “Could be.”
    “Anything more about what they’ll be celebrating?”
    “Nope.”
    Jasons wondered what the hell was going on up there. “Still think I should go?”
    He said “think,” but the real verb was “want.”
    “Sure, have some fun. You’ve had a busy day. A party’ll do you good.”
    Meaning: Hell, yes. Get your ass up there.
    And fix whatever’s broken, whatever it takes.
    Without hesitating, Jasons said, “I think I’ll go then. Like to see who shows up. Besides, I’m not that far away.”
    “Have fun,” Mankewitz said, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
    They disconnected.
    Jasons sipped the soda, then ate some of the green apple. It was sour. They gave you a yogurt dip with it but he didn’t like the flavor. He was reflecting on Mankewitz’s deferential tone. The man always sounded like he didn’t know what planet Jasons came from, was almost afraid of him.
    Stan Mankewitz, one of the most powerful men on the lakefront, from Minnesota to Michigan, and yet he was uncomfortable around the slim young man who weighed probably half what the union boss did and