Hunter's Moon

by Chuck Logan

  Harry’s hot eyes with the bland, accommodating smile he’d learned to wear all those years hanging out with the Vietnamese. “I just hope you remember what I taught you. I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” he said.

  Harry closed the door after him and muttered, “Goddamn you, Randall, if I could have picked my own father I would have chosen you.” You’re wrong, old man. I can handle it. I have to. Because it scares me.

  He took the shoebox that contained ten numbered one-year AA medallions and his medals out of the closet. He cast them, ribboned stars and brass circles, in a random pattern on the table. He selected the ten-year AA pin and set it aside.

  Carefully he unrolled a musty Buddhist wall hanging. Mildew had eaten parts away and the once brightly colored threads were faded now and his fingers came away from the frayed cloth dusted with a fine talcum of red dirt.

  Some Buddhist tough love. Go to your worst fear, embrace it, and see it as a product of your mind.

  The Tibetan tanka portrayed a Buddha sitting in the lotus position.

  A blood-red naked woman sat in his lap in a sexual posture with her legs wrapped around his waist. Her violent hair streamed up into flames and her upstretched arms turned into claws. The Buddha’s teeth projected as fangs. Skulls were woven into the woman’s fiery hair.

  She is here, the Vietnamese used to say. In groves of bamboo, not pine…

  Go see what was in the card she had facedown on the table.

  Bet it all.

  24

  “Circle the wagons, the bitch is on a ram page!” Bud shouted on the phone.

  Harry had overslept. Awake now.

  Bud’s voice was outraged. “I’ve been on the phone all 142 / CHUCK LOGAN

  morning to Stanley. I called the locksmith at the hardware store and sent him to the lodge to change the locks. He gets there and finds Jesse and that shitbird Cox with a fucking chainsaw hacking the figurehead out of the woodwork over the fireplace. They got Cox’s truck and they’re loading it up with everything that isn’t nailed down…”

  He took a breath, “So I call Emery and get him over there and he at least gets them to put down the chainsaw, but he says she’s got a right to half the stuff we bought after we got married…Jesus. The locksmith calls me and says he’s isn’t going near the place till things settle down. Then he tells me he was having coffee with one of the Hakalas, Greg, who owns the bank, and hears the latest gossip.

  Jesse drained the business account we set up for the lodge. There was 125,000 bucks in that account. Every cent I had that isn’t tied up in investments. I’ve been shot and now I’ve been fucking robbed!”

  Bud paused, “What?”

  “Welcome back, Bud,” Harry laughed.

  “Very fucking funny. Thing is, according to Emery and Margoles, it isn’t robbery because, technically, the business account—since Jesse and I set it up jointly after the goddamn wedding—can be considered marital property. Sonofabitch! And while this is going on I’m in a hospital doped up. I gotta get outta here, man, and get up there before she carries off the whole damn lake bucket by bucket!”

  “Calm down,” said Harry.

  “Calm down?”

  “It’s a game. Get it? She’s negotiating. First she softens you up with a Mau Mau routine, then she lets you off if you give her a truck full of money.”

  “Easy for you to say. She’s got my plastic, man, my Visa, American Express—”

  “Sit tight. Get on the horn and call Visa or whatever and tell them to freeze the accounts.”

  “Stop by Linda’s office and pick up the summons and petition. I want that snake served. A chainsaw, Harry. They were cutting my house apart with a chainsaw!”

  HUNTER’S MOON / 143

  “Look. You clear Ramsey. I’ll pick up the divorce papers and tuck you into St. Helen’s—”

  “No shit,” said Bud. “I need a court order. An injunction, something to freeze assets. Emery won’t keep an eye on the place. He’s still carrying a torch for her. Jesus, what a mess.”

  “Hey, Bud. Trust me. You sit this one out. Get your head straight.

  Now listen. I’m going to ask you for a favor.”

  “Sure. Hell, Harry, anything.”

  “I want the keys to the lodge. I’m going up there and take care of your things for a while. Until this settles down.”

  “No way. That’s definitely out. I don’t want you anywhere near that place. Not after—”

  “You can’t do it. You made a deal with Hakala. I’m the logical one.”

  “God, Harry.”

  “Think about it. I’ll be at Ramsey at noon. Meet me in the lobby.”

  Harry hung up. Bud would fight it, but he’d cave in.

  The introspection of last night was gone. He enjoyed the slant of bronze sunlight against his skin and the texture of the carpet under his bare feet. The day felt brand new and a little bit dangerous.

  The phone rang again. It was the department store. His suit was ready. He pulled on his sweats and went through the skyways to Dayton’s, picked up the suit, and charged a pair of dress shoes, two silk ties, a belt, and two shirts.

  He hung the suit on his closet door, black and authoritative.

  Flipped on his FM tuner and searched for the station that didn’t have a lot of commercials, that played vintage ’60s. He called Linda Margoles at her office. Linda was way ahead of him. The papers were being typed up as they spoke.

  He turned the radio up and took a shower. Shaving was tricky, with the scabs, but he grinned and sang along with Bob Dylan’s

  “Positively Fourth Street.”

  With a scissors, he trimmed the stitch ends down closer to the knot under his left eye. Then he dug out his shoeshine kit and slapped a spitshine on the new shoes until the leather gleamed and twisted the reflection of his face into a crooked smile.

  144 / CHUCK LOGAN

  Dressed. Threw the Italian silk tie in a half-Windsor, smoothed his hands once down his lapels.

  On his way out he slipped the AA medallion in his pocket. He took the elevator to the parking garage and tossed his duffel into his car. Then he hit the skyways with a roll to his walk, cutting smooth angles, a ripple of hipster muscle in a hot-shit black double-breasted suit.

  He went to his bank and withdrew $2,000 from savings. The twenty $100 bills were crisp and new. He had never seen an old $100 bill.

  Harry walked into the first hair salon he came upon. A blond receptionist stared up from her morning coffee.

  “Fit me in. I got a heavy day,” he said, handing her a twenty.

  She would have been pretty, the genuine Scandinavian article, if her skin hadn’t been artificially tanned to the texture of a Zulu shield.

  She grinned at his face. “Rough night, huh?”

  “And I’m going back for more,” Harry smiled.

  Down on the street the air nipped the fresh tonic on his ears. He hailed a cab. “Selby and Dale,” he told the driver.

  Selby and Dale was an intersection in the Hill District behind the cathedral where turn-of-the-century mansions gave way to vacant lots and run-down storefronts.

  “Stop over there,” Harry pointed. “Keep the engine running, I’ll be back in five minutes,” Harry got out.

  The bar’s name was a mystery of broken gray neon and two slit windows gave it a besieged inner-city squint. The door was sprayed with the tangled prophecy of gang symbols imported from Chicago.

  The interior smelled of stale beer and smoke and the felt on the pool table was patched with duct tape. Beer cases stacked on the peeling linoleum. Cheap Formica tables. Goodwill aluminum tube chairs.

  Two sets of eyes clicked on him through the gloom; the bartender and an old dusty fucker in a shapeless overcoat whose knotty fingers grew out of the bar and twisted around a glass.

  HUNTER’S MOON / 145

  Harry bowed his eyes to the shrine of bottles.

  “You lost?” asked the bartender, who was bald, with the wide, calm face of a w
orld-weary African Buddha. His ropey forearms shone with scars.

  Harry inhaled, shot his cuffs, and swung onto a barstool.

  “Yeah,” said Harry. “I’m lost. Find me a drink.”

  “So whaddya want?”

  “Jack Daniel’s. Double, straight up.”

  The bartender shrugged, wiped his hands on his apron, and poured two shots into a glass. With the deliberation of ceremony, Harry placed the ten-year AA medallion next to the glass. The bartender chewed the inside of his lip and looked directly into Harry’s eyes.

  “Know what this is?” Harry asked.

  “Uh-huh. But it don’t buy no whiskey,” said the bartender.

  “Like a medal,” Harry said, picking up the medallion and weighing it on his index finger. “Got me another medal. That one they give me for saving somebody else’s life. So I’m gonna keep that one. But this one”—he studied the medallion—“they give me for saving my own life. Now what do you call a guy who gives himself a medal for saving his own ass?”

  The bartender studied him. “Man, what the fuck is your story?”

  “I missed a payment on my clean, safe life and they took it back.”

  Harry tipped the drink to his lips and drank half of it. The gasoline tingle evaporated through the roof of his mouth and he felt a boost of fuel-injected sweat. He left the glass half full to prove he was in control.

  “Keep the change,” said Harry. He tossed down a twenty and left the AA coin on the bar.

  He had the cabby drop him at the cathedral. Down the hill, the windows of St. Paul shimmered like purple seashells in a cold cloak of steam.

  146 / CHUCK LOGAN

  He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and it was freezing, but he walked unhurried toward the downtown loop. Halfway there, he stopped in a cafe and had a cup of black coffee.

  Then he walked again, using the cold to work an edge. He walked until his nose and his hands were red and his ears stung. The alcohol traveled through his body and affected his balance. Like walking in a pair of ten-year-old shoes.

  He’d read somewhere that it takes an hour for your system to process an ounce of alcohol.

  He headed for the word factory.

  Perfectly creased and coiffed but skewed by the cold, he stepped off the elevator. A female reporter stood waiting for the door to open. Suzanne was married now with two kids and had filled out in an appealing way, but she still had those great fucked-out eyes…

  “Ye God,” she raised her hand to her mouth, seeing his face.

  “Trick or treat,” said Harry.

  “Nice suit,” she said as he went by. People saw him and froze.

  Ha, he thought. The Story Walks Among You.

  He stopped at the bulletin board and looked around. Franky Murphy moved across the newsroom, a mobile zit in a tableau of statues.

  Someone came up behind and took him by the arm. Arnie Cummings.

  “Harry, there you are…” Arnie paused, sniffed. “Christ, you smell like a gin mill. This is a hell of a time to fall off the wagon.”

  Murphy danced into Harry’s vision. “You set me up, you sonofabitch.”

  “Two things I hate, Franky. A liar and a thief.”

  Franky pointed a narrow finger. “I’ll get you, fucker, just wait.”

  So much for the ounce-an-hour theory. Squirt one shot into the swamp, add a dash of hassle, and the shadowy figure bubbles up from its enchanted sleep. “Why wait?” Harry grinned, poised on the balls of his feet, ready for something.

  HUNTER’S MOON / 147

  The pressure of Arnie’s hand turned rough, pulling him away from Murphy.

  Harry bristled. “Don’t mess with me, Arnie.”

  “You’ll blow this if you talk to the boss smelling like booze.”

  “Hands off!”

  People standing, at desks, in midstride, all eyes glued to the tugging match at the bulletin board.

  Arnie pulled him toward the lobby. “C’mon. Let’s take a walk.

  There’s time. Get you something…”

  Harry broke Arnie’s grip with a sharp, combat-speed arc of his forearm. Arnie tottered back, off balance. Recovering, he stepped forward, angry now, struggling to keep his voice down.

  “I’m trying to help you, you dumb shit.” For emphasis, Arnie thumped Harry on the chest.

  “Don’t touch me,” Harry warned.

  “Listen, you!” Arnie said, determined, his knuckle rapping over Harry’s sternum.

  “Get back!” He meant to push Arnie away, just get him out of his face. But Arnie’s hands came up defensively like he might throw a punch.

  The shadow sprinted in Harry’s blood, showy and nasty.

  Somebody screamed. Harry got control of the punch at the last second and the viscous left hook arced an inch from Arnie’s shocked face. Harry’s knuckles furrowed into the bulletin board, crushing a plastic stick pin. Harry recoiled into a fighting stance with blood on his knuckles. Dots of it on Arnie’s cheeks.

  “What is this? The parking lot in high school?” Arnie’s voice shook.

  Harry dropped his hands.

  “Outside,” ordered Arnie. Harry pushed past him into the lobby and down the stairwell exit. They left the building and went out on the street.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” yelled Arnie.

  Harry sucked his bleeding knuckle. “You pushed me.”

  148 / CHUCK LOGAN

  Arnie shook his head. Diplomatically, he said, “I’ll take care of it. We can talk to the boss when you get back.” There was a resigned plea in his voice. Just get out of here. Take the mess out of sight.

  Harry gave Arnie a vacant grin. The idea of coming back had not occurred to him.

  “Watch yourself, man. You got a lot of people freaked,” muttered Arnie, not making eye contact.

  “You bet.” Harry walked off toward his parking garage.

  25

  Harry left his Honda Civic parked illegally in front of the First National Bank building and dashed for the elevator. Linda’s office was on the seventh floor.

  She saw him when he entered the reception area. At work, she drew herself down tight as a health-spa panther in a blue power suit.

  She padded toward him.

  “Harry, your hand is bleeding,” she said crisply. “I suppose it’s apt that the first time I see you in a suit you look like you came from a brawl.”

  Harry sucked on the bloody knuckle. “I love you, too. Where’s the divorce papers?”

  “What do you mean? Bud picked them up a half hour ago.”

  Harry firmly took her by the elbow. “Say again?” he asked.

  “You’re getting blood on my jacket,” she enunciated. Harry released his grip. “He came by and asked for the papers. Said he was going to serve them. I told him to have someone else do it. He’s not supposed to actually hand them over himself.”

  “Christ. He’s out—” Harry started for the elevators. Linda kept pace.

  “He didn’t look well, even considering that he’d been shot. And he was dressed…weird. He asked to borrow some cash,” said Linda.

  “Why didn’t you keep him here?” Harry spun on her.

  HUNTER’S MOON / 149

  “He’s my client. Not my swim-check partner at summer camp. I assumed he was on his way to see you.”

  “He’s bottoming out of a year-long drunk and he’s devious as a snake. I’m supposed to haul his ass into treatment at noon today so he ran from Ramsey. If he comes back this way, hold on to him.

  I’ll call.” The elevator door closed before she could reply.

  It would be funny if it wasn’t so damned serious. The million-dollar kid, on foot and penniless in his hometown. Christ. He could still have credit cards. What if he chartered a plane? Hopped a Greyhound? Was in a Hertz rent-a-car right now cruising north on 35?

  Next stop, the Maston Foundation. This time he double-parked in front, leaving his flashers on. He bounded up the stairs into a marble-pillared, oak-paneled atrium. Louise
Lennon, Bud’s elegantly appointed mastiff, sat behind her desk. Her color looked a little steamed.

  “Bud,” said Harry.

  “Mr. Griffin, in my opinion they should have not let Mr. Maston out of the hospital in a gymnasium suit and tennis shoes.”

  “How long ago was he here, Louise?”

  “Fifteen minutes. He asked…” Her cheeks reddened slightly, “for a loan and for the use of my automobile. That alarmed me, after everything that has happened.”

  Harry drew in his breath. “Did you give him your car?”

  “No, he withdrew the request when he saw this on my desk.” She held up a poster that portrayed an American Indian drum. An Assembly of Men—Tad Clark. Sponsored by the Maston Foundation.

  Today. At the old Rivers Hotel on Kellogg Boulevard. Louise cleared her throat. “He called Steve Cotter and asked to borrow money.”

  Shit. Cotter was the manager of the Rivers Hotel. He’d give Bud the shirt off his back.

  “Tell him to wear a hat,” Louise sang out after Harry. “There’s a storm…”

  The Rivers. Shoulda figured. Bud still kept a suite of rooms. The wounded animal always returns to its den.

  150 / CHUCK LOGAN

  Bud had lived there for years. The Rivers was a crumbling brick relic that had been slated for demolition for three decades. George Armstrong Custer had reputedly received his last haircut in the hotel barber shop. Bud had a soft spot for the old wreck and had managed to get it on the Historical Register. The hotel bar had been their old drinking haunt.

  He ran six blocks and a red light in fourth gear and left the Honda idling, flashers on, in front of the hotel, and went into the lobby.

  Bennett, the reception clerk, had a startled twitch to his handlebar mustache as if he just seen an elephant graze through the ferns in the lobby.

  “Where is he?” Harry demanded.

  Bennett rolled his eyes toward the bar, which had swinging doors that Harry knocked wide apart going in. A small early luncheon crowd looked up from their small sandwiches and large tumblers.

  An aroma of sawdust, whiskey, and tobacco smoke cured the air.

  The long horseshoe bar had a rail. Tall stools. Circa 1860 spittoons.

  No Bud. He walked to his old stool and drummed his fingers over the scarred teak bar. He kept his left hand out of sight.