Raid and the Blackest Sheep (5 page)

    
“Then let’s make it even more clear.”

    
A billboard on the side of the road advertised a service station about a mile up where they could get a donut and coffee for one euro.

    
“Let’s go for coffee and donuts. My treat,” said Raid.

    
Apparently, the special offer hadn’t worked, as the parking lot was vacant.

    
Raid stepped out of the car, stretched his arms and headed toward the station. Nygren paused to look back for a moment before following.

    
For lack of anything better to do, the balding fifty-something owner had arranged the donuts in a cone-shaped stack. When Raid spoiled the symmetry by buying two donuts, the owner promptly fetched two more from the kitchen to fill in the space.

    
Raid carried the tray to a corner table while Nygren stood in the doorway watching the parking lot. The blue van paused at the bottom of the exit ramp leading to the station, then turned onto it. Nygren came to the table and started unwrapping sugar cubes, all the while staring out the window. His fingers were as deft as a card-dealer’s.

    
Two men got out of the van, one short and stout, the other average in height, but lean. The skinny one hadn’t shaken off his prison look. He wore track pants, running shoes, a leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, and long hair combed straight back past the nape of his neck. The short one was dressed in black pressed pants and a brown leather jacket. In his attempt to look like a proper citizen, he ended up looking like a cross between an auto mechanic and a bouncer. The thin man spoke, but the stout one didn’t seem to be listening. With a commanding air and determined stride, he started off toward the station.

    
“The guy in front is the one to look out for—Sariola. Lehto just chauffeurs and packs the heat, but he doesn’t use it—he’s nothing without Sariola.”

    
Just inside the door, the stout one paused and let his eyes roam the room. His gaze fell on Nygren and a feigned smile spread across his face. He walked over to the table and went through some rendition of “it’s a small world.”

    
“Somebody told me they saw you, but I didn’t believe him. I thought, well there’s plenty of Benzes in the world. What a coincidence! We were just talking about you yesterday, wondering what you’re up to nowadays.”

    
He turned to his skinny partner.

    
“Cream and three sugar cubes…and a donut.”

    
The skinny guy scurried off to the counter and started clinking dishes. The division of labor between the two was plainly evident.

    
“So what’s new?” the stout one said.

    
“I’m retired.”

    
“Nice that you can afford that.”

    
“Even with a small salary, you put a little away and it starts to build up.”

    
“I reckon you’ve built up more than just a little.”

    
“Enough for me. I’m a modest man.”

    
“Enough to spare a little for old friends?”

    
“I’m not a bank.”

    
“And what if you just gave it…for old-time’s sake?”

    
“Here’s what I’ll give you: some good advice. Drink your coffee, eat your donuts and be on your way.”

    
Shorty dispensed with the cheerful expression.

    
“Shame. You oughta be thanking us for your little nest egg.”

    
“You should’ve saved your own cut.”

    
“Not everyone can be as lucky as you.”

    
“It’s not about luck, it’s about brains. Even if I handed you my last euro, you’d be broke within a week. It’s a law of nature. Whosoever hath, to him shall be given.”

    
“Fucking harsh words,” the stout one hissed.

    
As Slim returned to the table with a tray, Shorty took Nygren’s insult as an opportunity to twist things back in his favor.

    
“That hurts… But we’re old friends, right? I’m willing to overlook it for a little start-up capital…so little it’s almost embarrassing.”

    
“We’re launching a business,” said slim. “Another guy wants to partner with us…”

    
The stout one shut him up with a scowl.

    
“Let’s just say fifteen grand,” he ventured hopefully.

    
“Let’s not.”

    
The stout one pulled his coat aside to reveal a gun in his shoulder holster.

    
“If I were you, I’d strike a deal. Afterwards, we can all quietly go our own ways. You remember Lehtinen? He crossed me and didn’t want to reconcile. Things didn’t go well for him—got a screwdriver in the gut.”

    
“A Phillips,” added slim.

    
The owner slipped quietly behind the cover of the bar.

    
Nygren patted Raid on the shoulder.

    
“My nephew isn’t fond of guns. If I were you, I’d leave before he gets angry.”

    
The stout one smiled doubtfully, drew his gun and pointed it at Raid’s forehead.

    
“So your nephew’s gonna get mad? If I were you, I’d be worried about me getting mad.”

    
Glancing over to see Nygren’s reaction was a mistake.

    
Raid sprang into action, and in a flash, he had the stout one’s gun in his hand. Shorty’s reflexes were sluggish and his finger grasped at the trigger, but the gun was already gone.

    
Raid swept out Slim’s legs from beneath him and he crashed to the ground beneath his tray of coffee and donuts. In the same instant, Raid swung his gun hand around and thumped the stout one behind the ear with the butt of the pistol. The man sank to his knees and struggled to stay upright.

    
Raid took a pot of coffee off the counter. The owner cowered behind the donut pile, apparently fearful that his meticulously built tower might collapse.

    
Raid approached Shorty, kicked him onto his back and emptied the coffee pot onto his crotch.

    
“You wanted it black, right?”

    
The man screamed, threw his hands over his crotch and tried to scramble to his feet, but his floundering halted when Raid’s knee rammed into his forehead.

    
Nygren was more merciful. He took a carton of milk from the refrigerator and poured it onto the man’s coffee-soaked pants.

    
Slim crawled toward the exit, leaving a trail of sugar and jam. Raid intercepted him and tore the car keys out of his pocket. Then he bent down and shook him by the hair.

    
“If we meet again, I promise it won’t be pleasant.”

    
He hit him on the right cheek first, then the left. The man’s eyes started to roll back.

    
“That’s enough.”

    
Raid eased up and let go. He followed Nygren outside, hurled the keys into a thicket behind the station, and the gun even further.

    
Nygren sat in the front seat for a change. He looked somber.

    
“Less would’ve probably been enough.”

    
“I doubt it.”

    
“Roasted nuts. That’s gotta hurt like hell.”

    
“Better his nuts than his soul.”

    
“Sariola’s the vengeful type. He won’t stop chasing me.”

    
“Maybe so, but at least he’ll move a little slower.”

    
“Next time he’ll play it safe, which makes him more dangerous. He’ll know to be more careful now.”

    
Whatever the case, Nygren knew he owed Raid a debt of gratitude.

    
“Well done, though. I suppose I made the right choice.”

    
“I suppose so.”

* * *

The police were waiting for them about ten miles from the gas station. The cruiser was parked at a bus stop with its blue lights flashing. On both sides of the road were open fields of plowed clay-heavy soil. A tractor was turning over a fresh row with a flock of screaming gulls close behind. Two officers were standing in front of the squad car. One was holding a small stop-sign in his hand, which quickly rose when the Mercedes came into view.

    
Nygren’s face darkened.

    
“I should have guessed. Where’s the gun?”

    
“It’ll turn up when we need it.”

    
Raid snapped on his right blinker and stopped about fifteen feet from the cruiser. The cops stood at the ready, their right hands resting on the butts of their guns.

    
One of the officers was young, the other a seasoned cop about twenty years older.

    
The younger one approached the car while the other hung back. The lessons from the police academy had stuck. Raid pushed a button, and with a soft hum, the window slid down.

    
“License and registration,” said the officer.

    
Raid handed over his driver’s license. The cop looked it over, comparing the photo to the live model.

    
“Registration too.”

    
Raid handed over the Mercedes’ registration. The younger officer gave the documents to his partner, who sat down in the cruiser to call them in.

    
“Out of the car.”

    
Raid and Nygren obeyed.

    
“Were you guys at the Ellu gas station about fifteen minutes ago?”

    
Nygren perched his sunglasses on his forehead.

    
“Not sure if it was Ellu, but some station at any rate. What’s going on?”

    
“What happened over there?”

    
“We had coffee and donuts. Bargain price.”

    
“There was no incident?”

    
Nygren shook his head.

    
“We got a call about a fight and heard somebody pulled a gun. The guys from the neighboring station are over there and said somebody had to be taken to the hospital for burns.”

    
“Sounds awful,” said Nygren. “I burned my own ass on the sauna stove once when I was drunk.”

    
The other officer chimed in.

    
“They’ll be here soon.”

    
“The description of the car matches this one. Don’t see older Benzes like this every day. Why don’t you put your hands on the car and spread your legs.”

    
The younger officer checked both Raid and Nygren, but found nothing.

    
He pulled his partner aside and they exchanged a few words before returning.

    
“Alright with you if we search the car?” asked the younger one.

    
“Wouldn’t that call for a search warrant?”

    
“Not if we suspect you have a radar detector.”

    
“Do you?”

    
The officers glanced at one another. The older one shook his head, but the younger one took a harder tack. He drew a pair of thin white gloves from his pocket and fanned out his fingers like a magician preparing for a card trick.

    
“Yes, we do. Open the trunk.”

    
Raid opened it.

    
The younger officer leaned in and lifted Nygren’s suitcase out onto the pavement.

    
He rummaged through the spare tire compartment and a toolbox. Then he circled around to root through the cabin, glovebox and under the seats. After finding nothing, he turned his attention to the suitcase.

    
“Just dirty socks and underwear in there,” Nygren warned.

    
The cop didn’t believe him and spilled the contents onto the pavement.

    
“Where you guys headed?” asked the older officer.

    
“To Lapland, to see the leaves,” said Nygren.

    
“With what gear?”

    
“The colors look just as nice from a restaurant window, and the trip from the cabin to the restaurant is enough hiking for us.”

    
Just then, the officers from the neighboring station pulled up. A blue and white police van stopped behind the other two cars and two cops in coveralls hopped out. One of them slid open the side door and jerked out a reluctant-looking Lehto, his shirt collar still splattered with jam and sugar crystals.