A Matter of Malice

by Thomas King

  Dedication

  For my cousins John and Joanne,

  who like good stories with cranky cats

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  About the Author

  Also by Thomas King

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Thumps DreadfulWater stood on his porch and considered the night and the high, bright sweep of stars overhead. He shouldn’t be up. He had gone to bed in good order, had even fallen asleep. Yet here he was. Standing in the dark, awake, depressed, waiting for the dawn to find him.

  Not a problem. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  For pragmatists, autumn marked the end of barbecues, swimming at the lake, and sunbathing in the backyard. For the more philosophically inclined, the cold skies and the fading light were a metaphor for old age and death.

  Or something equally melodramatic.

  Thumps liked the season. Cool nights. High mountain colour. The end of days for the bitey bugs. But this autumn hadn’t started well, and he wasn’t sure that it was going to improve any time soon.

  FIRST, THERE HAD been the trip to Seattle. Claire had not wanted him to come, had wanted to face the disease by herself. But he had insisted. In some ways, it had been a mistake. Yes, he had been there to support her through the interminable medical procedures, to take her to the hospital and back to the room they had rented at the residence motel, to be around in case she wanted to talk.

  She hadn’t.

  The operation had gone well enough, but the chemotherapy had been difficult, and Thumps had been forced to watch the woman he cared about spend her waking moments in the bathroom or lying on the sofa, so close to death that there were times when he would reach out and touch her to make sure she was still alive.

  But as bad as it had been watching Claire suffer, the time spent in the hospitals and the clinics had been worse. Thumps wasn’t sure he would forget the faces of the people he saw in the waiting rooms or wandering the halls, or lying in beds or waiting on gurneys that were parked in the hallways like a funeral procession, people for whom life was over but not over just yet, people who understood that there was no hope but who were going to hope anyway because it was the only thing they had left.

  He tried to pretend that Claire would not become one of those walking ghosts, that she would rally and walk away from the slaughterhouse, whole and complete.

  Over the course of two months, they had talked with a dose of doctors, each one hinting at the gains medical science was making in the fight against cancer. Towards the end, Thumps had raised the question of the nutritional and environmental causes of the disease, and the medical fraternity had just shrugged and offered up brochures on new drugs and innovative procedures that were showing encouraging results.

  “If we were sharks,” one of the younger doctors had joked, “cancer wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Thumps and Claire had laughed at this, not because it was funny but because they needed to laugh at something.

  SECOND, THUMPS HAD left his Volvo with Cooley Small Elk, and Cooley had gotten into an accident. A guy ran a red light and hit him. Roxanne Heavy Runner, the tribe’s secretary, had called with all the details.

  “Cooley busted up some ribs and got a bunch of cuts on his face.”

  Roxanne was not known for compassion or humour, but there had been the hint of empathy in her voice.

  “He’s fine, but your car is toast.”

  Okay, maybe not empathy.

  “Not a big deal,” Roxanne had told him. “It was an old car.”

  THIRD, FREEWAY HAD disappeared. Thumps had asked his neighbour to look after the cat. Virgil “Dixie” Kane had a large Komondor named Pops who looked like a pile of dirty laundry. The dog had a digestive problem that was toxic. Freeway didn’t seem to mind and, so far as Thumps could tell, Pops was Freeway’s only friend.

  Two weeks after Thumps had left to go to Seattle with Claire, Freeway had vanished.

  “I figured she’d come home as soon as she got hungry,” Dixie had told him, “but she didn’t.”

  The obvious answer was that Freeway had been killed, hit by a car, eaten by a coyote. “I wouldn’t give up,” his neighbour had said. “You never know with a cat.”

  THUMPS CHECKED THE horizon. Nothing. No silver glow to suggest that there was a dawn lurking out there somewhere. It was all a trick, of course. Dead dark one minute and then when you weren’t looking, a soft blush, a smoulder, and then the light would magically appear in the sky.

  Claire would still be asleep. He had tried to get her to stay with him, just until she felt better, but she had wanted to be in her house on the reservation.

  Alone. She had made that part clear. Alone.

  Thumps leaned against the railing and considered the day. There was the matter of his car. He’d have to find out where it had been towed, and he’d have to talk to Dolores Cardoza at Chinook Insurance about the accident. There was grocery shopping to do. The only things in the refrigerator at the moment were the shelves.

  And his medical appointment with Beth Mooney. Was that today or tomorrow?

  Tomorrow. It was tomorrow.

  Thumps had made it his life’s mission to avoid doctors, and Beth was no exception to this rule. Ever since she had determined that he was diabetic, she had insisted on doing regular blood tests. He had had blood work done just before he left for Seattle, and tomorrow’s appointment was to go over those results. Thumps was sure that the numbers would be within the normal range, but Beth would probably want to do more tests. She’d certainly give him another lecture on his eating habits, and she’d try to convince him, once again, to watch the short film on the complications of the disease—blindness, organ failure, amputations—that the American Diabetes Association had produced.

  That wasn’t going to happen. If he wanted to be distressed and depressed, his imagination would do the job as well as any film.

  And there was breakfast.

  As a diabetic, Thumps had to eat regular meals. And since there was no food in the house, he was going to have to find someplace and someone willing to feed him. And that would be Alvera Couteau. He’d start his day at Al’s and take it from there.

  Thumps checked the canvas messenger bag to make sure he had his testing kit and the sugar pills, as well as his camera. He had bought the tan bag at a surplus store in Seattle, and it was proving to be more useful than he would have supposed. And it had the unexpected effect of making him feel tough and mysterious, as though he were a photojournalist on a dangerous overseas assignmen
t.

  He looked up and down the street in case the cat was lurking in the bushes or hiding under a parked car. Then he set his hat at a rakish angle, put the promise of dawn at his back, and started walking.

  Two

  Al’s was sandwiched between the Fjord Bakery and Sam’s Laundromat, and it wasn’t the easiest place to find. The café didn’t have a sign, and the only clue was the turtle shell Preston Wagamese had glued next to the front door with the word “food” painted on it. Al’s had originally been an alley until the new Chinook Convention Center was built and blocked off one end. The city figured that Otto Lunde, who owned the bakery, or Sam Maloft, who owned the laundromat, would buy the dead-end alley and expand their business.

  But that isn’t what happened.

  THUMPS COULDN’T REMEMBER ever getting to Al’s this early, and he expected to have the place to himself. But he didn’t. Wutty Young Beaver, Russell Plunkett, and Jimmy Monroe were already there, perched on the three stools closest to the front door and the grill like a trio of crows on a wire. On the wall, at Russell’s shoulder, was a large coloured poster that said, “Stop the Pipeline.”

  “Hey, Thumps!” Wutty sang out. “Long time, no see.”

  “But you’re just in time,” said Russell.

  “That’s right,” said Jimmy, “just in time.”

  IT TURNED OUT that no one wanted a blocked-off alley, so it sat vacant, filling up with trash, beer bottles, and used condoms. Teenagers with nothing better to do, vagrants who needed a place to sleep, and the working women of Chinook all made use of what became known as the “Alley Motel.”

  The dead-end laneway quickly turned into a civic embarrassment and a Chamber of Commerce nightmare, and after two years of fielding complaints from the businesses along the block, the city put the alley up for public auction. There was one bid. Alvera Couteau offered one dollar with the promise to build a restaurant in the space. The city, happy to have anything that resembled a business on the site, agreed, and nine months later Al’s opened for business.

  Al’s had great food, but it wasn’t going to win any prizes for decor or atmosphere. The place was dark and cramped. Most of the space was taken up with a long, lime-green counter and a run of chrome and red Naugahyde stools, with a row of plywood booths staggered against the side wall. The only light came in through the plate-glass window, and the steam from the grill rose up in greasy clouds and floated in the air like a storm front.

  Al’s wasn’t in any guidebook, and tourists in search of a tourist adventure who happened to stumble upon the café seldom stayed.

  RUSSELL PLUNKETT WAGGED a knife at Thumps. “Wutty’s trying to guess Al’s age.”

  Jimmy Monroe, who was sitting next to Russell, started chuckling. “Man has a death wish.”

  “Al has been clear on the matter.” Russell raised his voice, in case Wutty was hard of hearing. “Anyone tries to guess her age will be eating breakfast up at Shadow Ranch for the next year.”

  “Man has a death wish,” repeated Jimmy.

  “Yeah,” said Wutty, “but she’s not serious.”

  A few years back, Wutty had tried to push Al on her “no smoking in the café” rule. Wutty lit up a cigarette at the counter and dared Al to throw him out.

  She hadn’t.

  Instead, she stopped serving him. No coffee, no food. Wutty protested, told her that she couldn’t treat a working man like that, told her that the café was a public institution and that he was part of the public.

  It took a month before Wutty apologized and another month before Al began serving him again. Even then she didn’t give him a full helping of hash browns, and she didn’t fill his cup all the way to the top.

  Russell turned to Wutty. “I hear the French toast at Shadow Ranch is real pretty.”

  The French toast at the Ranch was pretty. A few months back, Thumps had gone to the resort to talk with Vernon Rockland about a photography show. They had discussed the exhibition over breakfast. Thumps had had the eggs and elk sausage, and Rockland had ordered the French toast. It had come on a long, rectangular plate with fruit purée squiggles and mint leaf garnishes, along with strawberry slices and blueberries arranged on thin orange slices like flowers. The bread was a thick multi-grain dusted with powdered sugar, each piece leaning against the other to form an abstract tipi. Thumps remembered thinking that the whole thing looked more like a goofy Plains Indian diorama than a meal.

  Al turned away from the grill. “So,” she said, looking each man in the eye, “which one of you boys wants to go first?”

  “Hell, Al,” said Wutty, “you know I’m only fooling.”

  Russell dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and grabbed his hat off the hook. “Got to get to work.”

  “Me, too,” said Jimmy, as he attempted to beat Russell out the door.

  Thumps had tried a piece of Rockland’s breakfast. The French toast was drier than he would have expected, somewhat soft and chewy with a faint aftertaste that reminded him of fish. The syrup was good though. Real maple from Canada.

  Wutty stayed put on his stool, but now he had his cellphone out and was looking intently at the screen. Thumps wandered down towards the pay phone and found his favourite stool.

  Al walked the coffee pot down the counter. “So just how old do you think I am?”

  Thumps settled his elbows on the counter. “Does it look like my head zips up the back?”

  Al set a knife and fork wrapped up in a paper napkin in front of him. “You’re never here this early.”

  “Thought I’d get a jump on the workday.”

  “You don’t work,” said Al. “You still on Seattle time?”

  “Damn!” Wutty slid off the stool and held his phone up like a flag. “I got a callback.” He dropped a five on the counter and banged out the front door.

  Al watched him go and shook her head. “One of these days,” she said, “I expect I’ll have to shoot him.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a job.”

  “Television show,” said Al. “They don’t care who they hire.”

  “Television show?”

  “One of those reality thingies.” Al turned a cup over and filled it. “Got a question for you. Could use a second opinion.”

  “Your coffee’s good,” said Thumps. “And I’m not guessing your age.”

  “Course the coffee’s good,” said Al. “And I sure as hell know how old I am.”

  Thumps took a sip of coffee. It was hot and black. “I’m good with that.”

  Al leaned her hip against the counter. “You think I’m unreasonably grumpy?”

  “That’s the question?”

  “That’s the question.”

  Thumps checked Al’s face to see if it was a trap. “How about I try guessing your age.”

  “You know Roger Menard?”

  “Head of the Chamber of Commerce? Smells like a car air freshener?”

  “That’s the one.” Al pulled a brochure out of her apron. “So Roger comes in with this.”

  The cover art on the brochure featured a stylized cowboy standing in front of a stylized Indian. The cowboy was waving his hat over his head. The Indian was holding up a hand in a traditional Hollywood greeting.

  “So, Roger tells me I should consider being more pleasant. Wants me to sign up for the Chamber’s new ‘Howdy’ program.”

  Thumps could smell the hash browns cooking on the grill. His stomach was grumbling. He might have to have a second order of toast.

  “Menard actually came in?”

  “Got as far as the door,” said Al. “Hey, I got some new salsa. Real bite. You want to try it with your eggs?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want to know about the Howdy program?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s just what I told Roger,” said Al, and she walked back to the grill.

  Thumps opened the brochure. Inside was a glowing description of the town and the surrounding area. “High Plains Paradise” was one of the accolades.
“Western Wonderland” was another. Both came with the promise that “Chinook is open for business.” There was a three-step program on how to greet the visitors and tourists, and a list of “westernisms” that merchants were encouraged to add to their vocabularies. “Pardner.” “Reckon.” “Mosey.” “Purdy.” “Grub.” “Yonder.” “Shucks.”

  Thumps was chuckling when Al returned with his breakfast. She set the plate in front of him and put her hands on her hips.

  “Here’s your grub, pardner.”

  Thumps tapped the brochure. “Don’t see ‘yahoo’ in here.”

  “Must have been an oversight.” Al cocked her head. “You actually read that?”

  Thumps opened the brochure and held it up. “Step one is to say ‘Howdy’ to everyone who comes in.”

  “Howdy, huh?” Al took the brochure back and dropped it in the trash.

  “Needs more enthusiasm.” Thumps mixed the salsa into the eggs. “You could probably throw in a ‘yippee,’” he said, trying to contain the smile, “but only if you feel like it.”

  The café was empty for the moment. In a while it would be full, and there would be a line waiting to be fed.

  Al leaned against the cash register. “So tell me about Claire.”

  Thumps stopped smiling.

  “Roxanne says they got it all, but that’s what doctors always say.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Didn’t expect to see you for a while,” said Al. “Figured you’d be looking after her.”

  Thumps pulled his head into his shoulders and tried to let Al wash over his back.

  “Everybody is worried about her.” Al strolled back to the grill. “Worried about you, too.”

  He hadn’t imagined that Claire would see him as a knight errant on a white charger, hero of damsels in distress everywhere, but he had expected that his efforts in Seattle would have strengthened their relationship, that he and Claire would have become closer, that the disease would have given them common cause. Instead, little by little, Claire had drifted away, had become withdrawn, had become silent.

  Thumps had tried to draw her out, but the distance became more and more profound until he couldn’t reach her at all. He had told himself that it was just depression, that the cancer and the drugs were to blame, that when they got home, things would be better.