36

THIN CRUST

Henry steered the Black Baron off Interstate 80 at the Anita, Iowa, exit. The suspension felt stiff as the wide Goodyears bounced over some frozen roadkill, stringy strips of bright red flesh ripped from fur wrappings. Anita’s main drag looked like an Edward Hopper scene. “Stanley’s Diner, Nothing Finer” spouted steam next to a storefront bank. Farther along, fast-food franchises, motel chains, and gas stations sprouted. The homogenization of America. He steered into the Pizza Hut lot.

Fran was already there, nibbling a bread stick in a rear booth. They were halfway between Omaha, where she had been digging up who knew what about Peele, and Des Moines, an hour’s drive for each.

The Pizza Hut was bustling, with a gaggle of plaid shirts and faded overalls at the salad bar, but their corner was empty. As he slid into the booth, the vinyl cushion gripped and bunched his khakis. He extended a leg under the table to press his topsider against her boot. She leaned her calf into his, and warmth spread through the cotton between them. This was the first time another human being had touched him with affection in weeks, since the last time he had seen Fran. He didn’t count a chuck on the shoulder from Eggert.

A waitress came by and returned with their “pops.” By the time the woman left with the empty breadbasket, Fran had rested her foot on his.

“Good to see you,” he said. “I should expense this meal, since it’s keeping you from whatever you’re digging up on my guy.”

“Actually, I’m just finishing,” she said. “They extended my contract to follow up on some leads.” She smiled. On Tyler’s campaign, Fran had produced a 150-page book on the Iowa governor with a carton of supporting documents, including voting records, expense vouchers, invoices, and financial disclosure forms.

“Is Ed Zabriskie one of the leads you’re following up on?” His latest odyssey with Fran had begun with the Teamster beating. But after Burr’s initial burst of stories, Fran hadn’t advanced the Zabriskie angle, at least not through Burr. But Fran never left a lead until she had picked the carcass clean.

He met her eyes, probed. She projected her poker face, school-girl innocent.

She might have made the connection to the stock scam. Zabriskie was already nervous, and she might have rattled him more. Ed would have done anything to protect himself, to avoid exposure. The union boss could have had Elizabeth beaten or killed, to shut her up, the same script he’d been working for decades on rogue Teamsters. Elizabeth said Ed had adopted her, but bears sometimes kill their young. That would explain why Zabriskie couldn’t beat anything about Elizabeth out of Ostrow’s goons; the Jersey toughs might not have had anything. Zabriskie could have had Moffat bludgeoned just as cover. But Zabriskie couldn’t have faked that reaction at the diner, could he? His head began to throb. Fran’s voice pulled him out.

“Sorry, what’s that?” he asked.

“I said, I did some research for you. Or mostly for you. No charge.”

He gave her a wary look.

She leaned closer and said, barely above a whisper, “Elizabeth Walmsley’s ex-husband, Evan Tabor, filed a claim in probate court against her estate. He’s challenging their divorce settlement.”

He tightened. Fran’s poking felt like another violation of Elizabeth, what little remained of her. But Elizabeth’s book-throwing, cokehead ex certainly deserved to be a suspect in her death.

“The cops are looking at Evan, now, too,” Fran continued. “Partly because of his record, including a couple of drug-related arrests.”

Well, good, at least Rensi was doing something right. Wait. “How do you know what the cops are looking at? From your little bearded friend at the Globe-Times? You know, it’s funny, Fran, how things I tell you pop up in his stories.”

She withdrew her leg. “I may have given him a nudge in the right direction, but he did the rest himself. He’s better than you think.”

Where did you nudge him, he wanted to ask. He gave the family snort.

“Henry, you don’t win campaigns with moderation. I’m not talking about your middle-of-the-road … values. I’m talking about your whole approach. You know, I’ve never heard you raise your voice.”

He was tempted to bleat out a Howard Dean scream, right there in the Anita Pizza Hut.

“Oh, let’s not sandbag the Governor’s son just because he sold a little dope. That wouldn’t be moral. That wouldn’t be moderate. Even your new guy, Peele, his big thing is reaching across the aisle and working with the Ds. It’s nothing bold. Nothing radical. Today, all that buys you is a ticket to the political graveyard, with your friend Tyler.”

The waitress lumbered over, granting reprieve. Fran ordered a small pie with mushrooms and he asked for a plain thin crust and the salad bar. Rensi would be appalled. He found himself dipping his knife into his water glass and painting swirls on the green Formica table. A few large drops leaned toward neighboring swirls until they rushed together. The key to keeping the swirls apart was moving the knife fast enough that the water didn’t clump, yet slow enough to draw a solid strand. He went back and sharpened the swirls with his fork tines, separating gobs that had joined. He dabbed one blot with a corner of his paper napkin, but it left a sloppy streak in the divide between two swirls. He was trying to loop a stream around his water glass when Fran took his hand in hers.

“Hey, you all right?”

He looked up. “Yeah.”

“Maybe it would help to talk about it,” she said. “Off the record.”

She was still holding his hand. He felt his face tighten and thought he might cry. He swallowed and breathed. He looked down at his evaporating artwork. Gaps had formed in several of the thinner strands. The water left a dull residue where it receded. What chemicals had he been drinking all these months in Iowa tap water?

She seemed to know that all she had to do was wait long enough.

“Well,” he began, “you know most of the pieces already.”