“I don’t give a shit about the language! I’ve seen Finns. Used to work in the woods with ’em. Worked with your dad. He was blond, blonder than Anna, and when you were little, you had hair the color of cotton. That’s Aryan!”
He paused, waiting for Lute’s comeback. When all he got was another grin, he asked, “How come fifty thousand?”
“How many people do you think would like to kill Ngunda Aran?”
“God! There’s got to be millions! I know a hundred myself.”
“And he’s still running around breathing and talking. Why do you suppose that is?” When neither of his uncles replied, Lute answered his own question. “To him, fifty thousand is nothing. He wipes his ass with hundred-dollar bills. He’s living on a big ranch in Colorado, farther out in nowhere than you are, and you can bet your ass he’s got protection. High-powered, expensive, professional protection.”
He paused for effect. “I’ll tell you what. You give me—three thousand ought to cover it—and I’ll drive down to Colorado. Go to the Soil Conservation Service and buy the aerial photos for Huerfano County. Then I’ll rent a plane and fly over the place. Learn the terrain. There’s a squatters’ camp full of hippies on the property; I’ll go there and see what I can learn. Snoop around in the dark with night binoculars, sketch out a map. If it looks doable, I’ll talk to some guys I know. Old buddies from my merc days; best pros you can find. Then come back and talk business. If it doesn’t look doable, you’re out three big ones, and I’ve wasted three, four weeks of my time.”
He raised the mug and sipped boiled coffee. There was a long silence before Carl spoke again. “Three thousand’s a lot of money for no guarantee.”
Lute grunted. “You ought to be used to that. You put in a crop every spring without knowing if you’ll get diddly out of it. And I drove nine hundred miles from Portland with no guarantee, because you asked me to.”
“Shit. Three thousand dollars.” This time Carl’s voice was pensive. “Well—” He turned to his older brother. “What do you say, Axel?”
It was Lute that Axel spoke to. “You’ll have to stay around a day or two. Carl will talk to some folks. Get the three thousand. You can help me with the chores.”
Lute’s eyes gleamed as he studied his uncles. He wondered what they’d say if they knew who he planned to pitch to. Sarge was bigger than he was, and tougher, maybe even smarter. And black. The grin reappeared, grew. “Sounds good,” he said cheerfully. Abruptly his face turned hard. “But be goddamn careful who you talk to about this, and what you tell them, ’cause with that Anti-Terrorism Act, I’ll be putting my life on the line.”
* * *
That touch of reality sobered Carl into silence. He left the kitchen, going to his bedroom early, as usual. He was strong as a grizzly, but because of Axel’s damaged back and hip, Carl did all the heavy work. Someone had asked him once if he didn’t resent that. He’d answered he’d rather do the heavy work than go through what Axel had, and anyway Axel was his brother.
Axel’s back and hip also interfered with sleep, and he spent long hours on his recliner, reading by the light of a Coleman lamp, sipping a little whiskey from time to time to ease the discomfort. Lute sat on the other side of the lamp, also reading. Axel laid his open book facedown on his lap, then took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “D’you still read all the time, like when you were a boy?” he asked.
Lute snorted. “I never read all the time. I spent too much time cutting wood, chopping and heaving out frozen cow shit, and fixing fence. And doing sports. The only way I got through all those books was, I read fast.”
“Well maybe you can tell me what the hell a jiggerton is. Or is jiggerton like saying whatchamacallit, means whatever you want it to?”
Lute laughed. “You thinking about what Ngunda said?”