Montana Noir

by James Grady

  He went into the first bar he found, easing past a gleaming line of poker machines gaily draining the life from their patrons. Finding a stool, Chance slid a twenty across the bar. The man behind it inclined his chin and Chance replied, “Whatever ditch.” When the drink came he held the brimming glass of whiskey and “ditch” water to his lips, toasted his reflection and a town he’d found a little less OK, and enjoyed a first delicious violation of parole.

  * * *

  Chance and his father leaned against opposite sides of the truck bed, resting on grimy forearms. The shop was quiet. It was Sunday and the town was in church.

  “Battery’s fucked,” his father said. “Put the trickle charger on it but in this cold it probably won’t hold.”

  The pickup, a great square International, had been Chance’s since high school. It was brutish and lovely and filled with garbage from the glory days. The engine idled, exhaling a fragrant plume of exhaust.

  “I’d have picked you up at the station. Or Deer Lodge, for that matter.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  “You ever hear from your mom over there?”

  “Not once.”

  “Too bad. So you know, I put the place up last fall. Sold it to Charlie Carter.”

  Chance looked up, surprised for the first time. “Why?”

  His dad glanced off toward the light. “No point keeping it since your grandma died. Charlie could use the pasture and I could use the pocket money. Kept the buildings, though. House is yours to stay in if you like.”

  “Thanks. I might, for a bit.”

  “Good. I threw something in the cab for you. Your granddad’s wool coat. Winter’s been a bitch.” He gave the truck an approving nod. “Come see me about a job in a couple days.”

  “Sounds good.”

  His dad drummed the heel of his hand against a rusty quarter panel. “Well. Let ’er rip.”

  * * *

  Chance drove the rifle-shot length of Tenth Avenue South under a cold overcast sky. The engine pulled grandly and he allowed himself a vision of swerving the steering wheel, plowing through burger chains and payday loan shacks, feeling their matchstick frames explode against the truck’s hungry grille. Goodbye, strip mall. Goodbye, Target. Sayonara, Tokyo Massage. He pulled off when he reached the east end of town with nothing but icy stubble fields and the towers of the air base beyond. The truck idled and the cab heater muttered its low sigh. He reached across the bench seat to a buffalo-plaid Pendleton he recalled his grandfather wearing at the ranch. He pulled it on and it fit, a bit snug but warm.

  Sitting back, he felt a lump against his spine. Reaching into the coat’s rear game pocket, he found an envelope with CHANCE scrawled in pencil by his father’s crude hand. Inside was three thousand dollars.

  * * *

  The mermaid traced a slow, liquid curl through the turquoise pane of water, revealing a pleasantly bare midriff as she rolled into a sinewy loop. Her metallic tail chased behind, drawing gorgeous curlicues with each wondrous pelvic kick.

  Chance lifted his drink and followed her silvery shape as she swam to the glass separating the bar back from the motel’s indoor pool. She gave him a bubbly grin from behind blue swim goggles.

  “She’ll do,” said the big Indian sitting next to him at the bar, swiping the screen of his phone and sipping a High Life.

  “But will she do me?” Chance added, just to be polite.

  “Only if you’re lucky.” He offered a paw. “Amos.”

  “Chance.” They shook.

  “Lucky Chance. How could you lose?” Amos fished some bills from his Seahawks jacket and waved the barmaid over. “Another one for my lucky friend. Me too.”

  Chance thanked him and they sat in blue vinyl chairs watching the mermaid flit in and out of view. Behind them a crowd of college kids and ranchers sipped Windex-tinted drinks beneath the bamboo-thatched ceiling as a small old woman at the organ crooned a gravelly “Mack the Knife.” Amos took a pull from his beer and stood, waggling the phone. “Have to check my stock portfolio.” He clapped Chance on the back and faded into the crowd.

  Chance sampled his drink. A second mermaid had entered the pool and she entwined with the first, forging a heavenly double helix suspended in chlorine. He ran his eyes along her shape and realized that he knew her. Amy. They’d dated in school. He raised his drink, tilted the glass in a toast.

  From behind the glass she threw a sidelong smirk, cocked a finger at him, and fired. Then she went up for air.

  Chance grinned and watched her tail slip up out of sight.

  “She’s easy on the eyes.”

  Chance turned to find Amos’s chair filled by a fit-looking man his own age wearing a bright yellow down jacket. His short black hair had a touch of gray at the temples.

  “Hello, Matt.”

  “Hello, Chance . . . Out already. Good behavior?”

  “Good enough.”

  “Glad to have you back.” Matt set his whiskey on the bar.

  “You follow me from my dad’s?”

  “More or less. Thought we should chat, since you’re a free man.”

  “I’m not sure how free, but okay.”

  Matt centered his drink between index fingers. “Lots of free time, at any rate. Enough time to work off some debt.” Matt looked at him for the first time.

  “Sure,” Chance said from behind his glass. “Just not sure how.”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “I can’t make any runs into Canada, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  “Fucking A, you can’t. Legal or otherwise.”

  “Well?”

  Matt drained his drink. “Be creative. Rob a bank.”

  “Great.” Chance turned in his chair. “I’ll sling all the weed you can give me but I need to keep a low profile.”

  “That’s not going to work. Town’s too small. And it would take a lifetime to earn off that much.” Matt stood. “Walk me out.”

  They came out into the second-floor parking lot, ringed by motel rooms on all sides. The moon was up and gleaming through an iridescent layer of cloud. Matt fumbled with his keychain and a red Suburban yawned to life in the parking lot.

  “Matt, I don’t have that kind of money, and I’m never going to have it without selling dope. Plain and simple.”

  “Join the club. I’m already losing my ass to medical marijuana. Anyone with a card can run out to a trailer house in Vaughn and buy in broad daylight. I need to be retired in five years. I need that money.”

  “What can I do? I got caught.”

  “Not my problem. You gave a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of weed swimming lessons, not me. Fuck you. Find it.”

  “Fuck you, too. Maybe I can ask your mom the fucking cash fairy for it.”

  If it hadn’t been for the drinks, he might have caught Matt swinging. The punch hit his gut through the heavy coat and he was going backward and Matt was on top of him, throwing right after right into Chance’s nose. Matt was still fond of his class ring. The sound of Matt yelling, getting fainter. Something red going all over Matt’s bright yellow jacket.

  * * *

  “Lucky.”

  There was a circle of light but a shape loomed in and eclipsed it. Something was spinning and he discovered it was the world.

  “Hey, Lucky. You still alive?”

  “Amos,” he croaked, remembering. He sort of sat up.

  “Easy, Lucky.” Amos helped him stand, then held his arm while Chance leaned over to vomit. When he was finished he tried to lay down for a nap, but Amos pulled him upright. “Not a good idea. You look like you got beat up by five Indians, and three of them was my cousins.”

  “Oh my God!” Behind them the door to the motel held the silhouette of a woman, a hand to her mouth. “I’m calling the cops.”

  Amos let go of Chance’s arm and raised his palms. “No, no. I just found him.”

  From the ground, Chance put up a hand. “He’s okay. He’s Amos. Amos, Amy.”

  Amy he
ld her phone, ready to dial. Her hair wasn’t quite dry from the pool. A halo of steam framed her face in the yellow courtyard light. Chance thought she looked pretty good, but he could really use a nap.

  Amos and Amy each took an arm and lifted Chance to his feet. He pointed toward the International and they dragged him over, sitting him in the passenger side. Amy probed his nose with a finger and winced. “You need to go to the ER.”

  “No ER. No police. Just give me a second.”

  Amos and Amy shared a glance. Amos shrugged. “Your call, Lucky.”

  Chance tried to fish the keys from his jeans but razors shaved his fingertips. “I think my hands are frostbit.”

  Amos shook his head. “I’m not gettin’ ’em.”

  Amy shot him a look and sighed. She reached in Chance’s pocket, pulled out the keys, then walked around to the driver’s side. “Guess I’m driving.”

  She got in and turned the key: nothing. “It’s dead. When was the last time you drove this thing much?”

  “Five years,” Chance groaned.

  “That sounds about right.” She slid the vehicle into neutral. “Amos, can you help me push it?”

  Amos and Amy leaned into the front grille and got the truck backed into the center of the courtyard.

  Amos touched her arm. “You get in and I’ll push you down the ramp. Get him to the ER. Nice to meet you, Amy.”

  “You too. Take care.” She hopped in and slammed the door. From the far edge of the cab Chance mumbled, “It’s a stick.”

  “I know, genius. That’s why this shit will work.” Amos put his shoulder against the tailgate and the truck inched forward, tires crunching in dry snow. The wheels cleared the edge of the parking ramp and took off.

  Amy waited till the bottom of the ramp before popping the clutch. The engine caught and roared to life.

  Chance sat up as she turned onto the street. “Really. I’m okay. Not my first fight.”

  “Sure looks like it was. Did you even land a punch?” She pulled over and let the truck idle.

  “Don’t recall. But, hey. Amy, how you been? You still married?”

  “I’m going to make a judgment call here. You probably aren’t going to die at this point, and I’m guessing this has something to do with your time in prison. So I’m going to let you drive yourself home if you can. I’m not going to be involved in whatever this is. But you have to call me when you get there, so I know you made it.”

  She scribbled a number on a card from her wallet and tucked it into the dash. “Can you drive home?”

  He slid over as she stepped out onto the street. “I’ll be fine. But can we go for a beer sometime?”

  “A convicted felon with shitty friends, a shitty truck, and a broken nose,” she purred. “Mmm . . . tell me more.” But she pecked his bruised cheek before closing the door.

  * * *

  He awoke the next afternoon in the farmhouse’s back bedroom. His nose had bled through the sheets, but he could smell the sawdust-and-baby-powder scent of the house. He got up and made coffee to the ticking of the old mantel clock in the front room. The house was cool but not cold and it looked like his father had left everything in place. Hopefully.

  Back in his room, he reached under the bed: the box was still there. He tipped it open and drew out the .357, worn but clean. He broke it open and loaded five rounds, leaving the one on the chamber empty. The gun barely fit in the inside pocket of the Pendleton coat.

  Driving out from the old place, he topped the rise leading to the county road.

  A tan military-spec Humvee sat parked at the pullout along the square chain-link enclosure where giant signs read, WARNING: USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED, in red. The missile silo had been on their ground since his grandfather’s time. Joking about the sale, Chance’s dad had called it a pot-sweetener for Charlie Carter: “Property includes one Minuteman III missile, well-maintained, never fired.” Now Chance drove past the Humvee and lifted a few fingers off the wheel. The nineteen-year-old airman in the rig gave a curt nod from behind wraparound shades.

  * * *

  Chance drove around town. He had a pint of Jim Beam from the state liquor store between his legs. He let the truck take him wherever. He rolled to a stop in front of the high school, then eased out the clutch and pulled away. He turned onto Central headed for downtown.

  The line of stone storefronts leered from either side, the pulled-molar gaps where businesses used to be. It was nearing five o’clock and the cold blue light of evening was settling in. Passing the burned-out drugstore he saw a friendly shape at the curb: Amos. Catching sight of the International, a big grin spread over the Indian’s face and he put up a burly set of dukes. Chance slowed to lift the pint in salute, but Amos crossed behind him with a wave and was gone.

  The engine coughed. He’d go for a new Diehard in the morning and firm up an exit strategy while bolting it in. He saw the card wedged in the seam of the dash and ran his thumb across Amy’s delicate number before flicking it over. The front read, BLACK EAGLE COMMUNITY CENTER, above a dated line cut of the building. Chance tucked it back in the dash and spun the wheel with his palm.

  He passed along the riverfront park and its hollow band shell covered in snow. He’d kissed a girl there once, in summertime. A thin sheen of ice lay over the duck pond and the truck guided him under the low rail bridge onto the drive along the river. On the far shore rose the great chrome mass of the refinery, a glittering cathedral of plumbing and sodium light. He should’ve turned at 9th Street but he knew he’d have to do it sometime. The truck knew it too, and slowly it pulled him back to the scene of the crime.

  * * *

  It had been this time of day but with the balm of a fine June evening. He’d dropped into town on the far side of the river, coming from Havre and Canada beyond. Having walked a heavy backpack through a sympathetic farmer’s field, he’d passed a concrete pylon marking the border and over to his waiting rental. The drive was a couple hours. The slopes of the Bears Paws waxed and waned as he sipped a Coke behind the wheel, one arm propped on the open window.

  Something went haywire at the edge of Great Falls. Whether he’d been informed on, he still didn’t know. But down the hill toward the river a deputy’s lights were in his mirror and the backpack was propped against the passenger seat.

  He’d pulled over, counting the officer’s steps toward his window. He saw the man unsnap his holster. That was enough for Chance. He stood on the accelerator, watching the scrambling deputy recede in his mirror as the rental shot through the night.

  Chance pushed the engine hard but the traffic light was red on the 15th Street bridge. He saw another sheriff’s rig coming at him.

  Braking to a halt, he’d run the pack to the bridge’s east rail. He tore open its flap and hurled compact green bales over the side. The last had taken flight before the deputy’s brakes howled. Chance watched the bundles tumble toward the water below. They smacked into the face of the Missouri, rolling off toward the hungry turbines at the dam.

  All but one. The last bale, thrown just a little short, landed with a dusty puff atop a piling below his feet and settled to rest. Another three inches and it would have floated to Fort Benton. Three inches short and he’d gone to jail.

  * * *

  Now Chance crossed the bridge slowly, easing past the point where the chase and life had stopped. Ice jammed up against the Black Eagle Dam. He turned off the bridge at the south end of Black Eagle, toward the absence in the sky where the giant smelter stack should be. His grandfather had worked in its furnace as a blacksmith in the war, forging one link in a great chain bringing bright nuggets of copper from the bleeding earth of Butte to Nazi brainpans in France.

  At the edge of the hill, the community center lay squat above a mostly empty lot overlooking the river and lights of Great Falls. Chance goosed the throttle to give the battery some juice, then switched it off.

  Double doors opened on a hall lined with faces of men his granddad had known. Built by the Anac
onda Company as a place these boys could drink and fight respectably, it opened on one side to a bowling alley. Chance peered through the door and saw knots of rowdy, pretty women whooping it up on the lanes. League night. He went the other way into the bar and pulled out some money. The place was vacant except for the haggard gamblers growing roots at their machines. Amy was tending bar.

  She sidled toward him, drawing a pilsner glass from the rack and filling it with beer. She wore jeans and a black T-shirt and arrived with a quiet grace to set the glass by his hand.

  “Joe Frazier. Still alive?”

  “More or less.” He hoisted the glass. “Thanks for helping me out.”

  Her naked left hand rested on the flat bar. “You see the doctor yet?”

  “I’ll be fine. You work here too, huh?”

  “Mermaiding doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “Yeah. So what happened to Billy?”

  “He went to drill for oil in North Dakota. Wasn’t all he wound up drilling.” She threw a wan grin and looked him up and down. Her gaze stopped at his side. “Naughty, naughty.”

  Chance touched the pistol’s checkered grip and realized the gun was peeking out of his coat pocket. “Yeah, well. I’m not going another round like last night.”

  Amy shrugged and shied away from the bar, sweeping its top with a rag. Chance sipped his beer and slid off the stool to find a poker machine. He fed a twenty into the slot and got three of a kind his first hand. He fooled with the notion of going on a run, cashing out at eight hundred to parlay into a big stake to pay off the debt. Maybe go to Vegas and hit a streak. Maybe just go.

  He tapped the buttons for a while, earning a few dollars in the pale glow of the machine. He reached for his beer and found a fresh glass in its place, turned to see Amy retreating to greet new arrivals. The place was starting to fill. He settled back in to earn his way to freedom.

  * * *

  Chance sat in the truck, his breath frosting the glass. The outside of the windshield was layered with a rime of ice. He dug the pint from below the seat. Took a shallow pull. Tried the key. Nothing.