Page 1 of Sweet and Salty
CHAPTER ONE
Jesse
It’s fucking cold.Not just “oh brr, I wish I had some cocoa and a fireplace” chilly but “eternal wintry apocalypse, step outside and death by imminent frostbite” cold.
I slump in the seat and pull the lapels of my brand-new puffer jacket over my scruffy beard. The frigid air seeps in through the centimeter of space between the door and the frame of the SUV.
“You don’t mind The Rolling Stones, right?” Harbor Stryke, a pseudonym if ever I heard one, turns up the volume on “Sister Morphine.” If anyone would know about pseudonyms, it’s him.
Under normal circumstances, no, I do not mind The Rolling Stones. There was a period of time in my angsty ’90s-era teendom when I would, in fact, claim to be a major fan of The Rolling Stones.
This is not that time.
We turn eastward from civilization, driving down the two-lane highway, deeper into the Wisconsin woods.
Harbor has an open, pleasant face with firm cheekbones and dark brown skin. His demeanor does not fit my mood. “Come on, it’s a new adventure, Jesse.”
A new adventure. Right.
“Is this east of Bumfuck Nowhere or west?” I ask, my face to the window. All I can see are trees and fields of snow. Prior to this, I couldn’t even picture snow fields, but there they are. Acres of white. Islands of ice.
No use for my saucy chef novelty swim trunks up here.
Harbor shrugs. For a US Marshal, he’s compact. I pictured an Army Ranger type, but he’s shaped more like an accountant. An accountant who could probably murder me with his left pinkie toe. I would have preferred that to being sequestered in the literal middle of nowhere.
“Sister Morphine” rolls into “Sway.” Seeming to realize I am in no mood to converse, Harbor whistles along. Is there anything in the world more irritating than a grown man whistling?
For starters, being forced to move to the frostbitten version of hell.
We drive in silence for a few more miles. It’s more preferable than feigning any interest in small talk, in my opinion.
Not, apparently, in Harbor’s. “You’ll like St. Olaf. Sure, it’s not Ft. Lauderdale, but at least no one will try to kill you there. The Midwest is a pretty friendly place. You’ll get a job in no time. We arranged an apartment and a car for you, just like we talked about in orientation, but feel free to find something else if it doesn’t suit. Sometimes you need to live in a place before you find the right spot, you know?”
I don’t reply. With any luck, a rogue snowball will hit the SUV and I’ll die in the rollover with frostbite on my dick. It will be a glorious end to my ignominious life, and vastly superior to moving to St. Olaf, Wisconsin.
Harbor nudges me in the side, and I grunt. “Do you want to know the history of the town?”
“What’s the point?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine, but I can’t bring myself to care. “It doesn’t matter.”
Harbor exhales slowly, his unlined face marked with an expression of disapproval. Like he is my favorite third-grade teacher and caught me cheating on my multiplication tables with a hidden abacus.
Okay, I never would have done that. Grandma would have flayed me alive if I cheated on a test.
He turns east again off the two-lane road and down another, smaller lane cutting through two thick stands of trees. They look like skeletons, harbingers, their branches covered in ice, heavy with snow and devoid of leaves.
“It’s especially pretty here in summer,” Harbor says, blithely ignoring my black hole of a personality. “The lakefront lights up with festivals and activities and tourists flock to this town.”
“But how is it still winter?” I can’t help saying. “It’s March and it looks like a post-nuclear war zone.”
Harbor scoffs. “Please. It’s not that bad. Two weeks ago it was eighty degrees. Get yourself some snowshoes or cross-country skis. Take up ice skating. St. Olaf is a great place. My wife is from here.” His tone softens at the mention of his spouse.
The overwhelming forest thins, now interspersed here and there with houses. Harbor stops at an intersection and points down the northward-facing road. “Downtown’s that way. Perfect little Main Street, USA. Best kringle you’ve ever had.”
“Sounds like they eat Santa Claus,” I grumble.
Harbor tosses aside that comment with a wave of his hand. “Best coffee is at Sweet and Salty. There’s a little bookstore too: Time Enough at Last.”
I blink. “That was aTwilight Zoneepisode. Talk about an omen, Marshal Stryke.”