Black Mountain

by Laird Barron

  We shook hands and I thanked the brothers for their hospitality. I hesitated at the front counter.

  “Suppose I might take a gander at that shotgun?”

  “You ain’t afraid of bad luck?” Bonner said.

  “Nor ancient Indian curses,” I said. “Anyhow, one might argue it was bad luck Harry didn’t pony up the cash.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I slid the Mossberg in its case and several boxes of shells behind the seat of my truck. When I was driving home, the cold draft through the window on the passenger side felt like Harold Lee’s ghost trying to tell me something.

  * * *

  —

  CHARLES BACHELOR (Chuck to his pals) and Walter Connell walked through my office door around 3 in the afternoon. Best practice required me to interview Walter, fiancé to the fair and frazzled Aubrey Plantagenet.

  Chuck’s permanent limp seemed negligible—to me, at any rate. Probably not to him. Here stood Dino the Ax’s prodigal nephew. He’d shaved his greasy blond hair to stubble, which represented a dramatic change from his former impression of ponytailed Eurotrash. He wore a dress jacket, slacks, and wingtips. The jacket concealed a plethora of bad prison tats emblematic of even worse life choices. Chuck packed a lot of muscle, as many ex-cons do.

  “These are your digs, eh?” He surveyed the room with characteristic dispassion.

  “A bit of trivia,” I said to Chuck. “You are the very first person to visit my humble establishment, outside of a building inspector and a couple of buddies who helped lug some furniture and the safe upstairs.” Meg had also helped me christen the office by having wild sex on the desk. “Who’s watching Aubrey P?”

  “Two of my boys will soon be parked in front of the salon. Nobody gonna fuck with her. Ain’t how the Trasks roll. Uh, this is Walter Connell. Walter, Isaiah Coleridge.”

  Walter appeared as I’d expected—long, tall drink of water, to put it in the vernacular of my Southern kin. Young and sunburned from hours of laboring in the elements. Corduroy jacket and blue jeans. His scowl poorly concealed nervousness. We shook hands. I disliked him on the spot.

  “Man, life boomerangs on you,” Chuck said. “Me and Burt are tight; always were. He saw me in the clink, y’know? Dino didn’t. Wiseguys are allergic to stir. I thought of Aubrey as my kid sister. But I sort of lost touch with her. Now comes the trouble and we’re talking again. Sorry it took an emergency; not sorry to see her.”

  While Chuck spoke, Walter glumly stared at the carpet.

  “Walter, I chatted with your girl this morning.” I sat on the edge of the reception desk and waited for him to meet my gaze. Took a while. “Would love to meet the other woman. Elvira seems to be in the wind. I asked around and nobody has seen her since last week.”

  “Lying low to plot Aubrey’s doom, eh?” Chuck said with an appreciative smirk.

  “Elvira isn’t the other woman,” Walter said. “We’ve been quits since high school. We weren’t ever really a thing, you know?”

  “Allow me to rephrase,” I said. “You used to sleep with her.”

  “I fucked her in high school, yeah.”

  “Fingerbangin’ and hand jobs don’t count,” Chuck said.

  “That’s ancient history, isn’t it?” I said. “High school romances usually have the half-life of a mayfly.”

  Walter smirked. The conversation lightened his mood.

  “What can I say? She covets the D.”

  My dislike of him intensified.

  “Amigo, get that prick of yours patented. Because if she’s still begging for it halfway to your ten-year reunion, the thing should be gold-plated.”

  “Elvira’s a crazy bitch who can’t let go. She had it bad and I bounced. She don’t like it when people walk. None of the Trasks do.”

  I glanced at Chuck.

  “Seem legit to you? Are the Trasks a bunch of sore losers?”

  Chuck frowned the way not-so-smart guys do when the teacher hits them with a pop quiz. He looked at Walter as he answered.

  “Elvira was a wild child, know what I mean? She could lose her shit with the best of ’em. Comes to people, she’s got no mercy. Have to say, I wouldn’t peg her for a cat murderer. She’s soft on critters. Loves dogs, adores cats. Says pets are the only redeeming quality of human beings.”

  “Maybe one of her flunkies felt differently. Maybe she acquired an edge.”

  “People change, yeah. She was young and I went inside for a while. The meth and the booze ate her fuckin’ brains, or somethin’.”

  I trusted Chuck’s insight in this matter. It jibed with what my own research had shown. History played a role as well. Before informally joining the Deluca organization, he’d run with the Trasks; a misspent youth directly contributing to his chronic delinquency and later estrangement from the Family. He knew the Trasks better than anyone and recognized the real threat his erstwhile comrades presented to Burt and Aubrey.

  Folks wrote the Trasks off as trailer trash and small-timers. Chuck didn’t argue otherwise, except to note that every single member of the clan subscribed to a philosophy of savagery for the sake of savagery. No slight, real or perceived, against Family honor could go unavenged. One couldn’t afford to take madmen (or madwomen) lightly.

  I took off the metaphorical gloves and laid it on Walter.

  “Hate to ruin your fantasy. That note Aubrey received indicates the true motive here. Your superpowered dick aside, this has nothing to do with love, or lust, or jealousy. It’s a cash grab. Although, terrorizing your fiancée is likely a bonus.”

  “Hey, that sounds like a Trask ploy.” Chuck nodded approvingly. “Muddy the waters and stick in the gaff.”

  “Are you on speaking terms with Elvira?” I said to Walter.

  Walter didn’t reply until Chuck and I had stared at him hard enough to change his mind.

  “I wouldn’t say speaking, exactly.”

  Chuck shook his head disgustedly.

  “The Trasks will move soon. They’ve heard of you, and it’s a concern, but not enough for them to realize it’s time to fold their tents. They’ll send a crew to the house. Could kidnap Aubrey P on the street, except they’re mad-dog motherfuckers. Prefer terror. Home invasion is their jam. Expect four or five guys, ready to unload if you give them any grief. I’ll assume you’re going to give them grief.”

  “That’s a safe assumption.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I lurked behind a bush, waiting for the Knarr Tavern to go dark at 2 a.m.

  Murder wasn’t on my itinerary. This presented its own set of problems. Chiefly, that kidnapping is fraught with peril. Far safer to pop a target at two hundred yards with a sniper rifle and go crack a beer. The grand hitter emeritus, Gene K, had admonished me to never get into the bodyguard or bounty hunting professions. Take-’em-alive occupations were anathema to a born predator and dangerous to boot.

  Stepping into the world of fixing and detection was akin to circling back into my hellish childhood. Incidents of close-quartered battle skyrocketed. Sadly, I’d traded my authority to drop fools in a hole on a whim for a fig leaf of respectability. It meant more lumps, bumps, and broken bones in my future. I kept all my edges sharp anyway.

  Which brought me to the subject of Nic Royal, the roving arm breaker.

  Snuffing a man is easy. I didn’t want to murder or maim Royal; I wanted to chat with him at a place and under circumstances of my choosing. Restraint often requires overwhelming force or the application of pain. Pain is unreliable. In my old line, neither great physical strength nor any elite level of hand-to-hand skill were essential when it came to clipping guys. The vast majority of people I’ve dusted were unaware of my presence as they segued from this world to the Hereafter. Any five-foot-five waif armed with a sharp knife can operate from the shadows. I’d met my share.

  Royal trudged across the deserted lot. He started hi
s shitty two-tone Mazda pickup on the third try.

  I climbed in beside him and flashed the .357.

  “Both hands on the wheel, slick.” The cab was cramped; not built for a full-sized man, much less two. Naked springs jabbed me in tender places. My knees were practically in my chest, which aggravated the dull ache in my ribs. The cab reeked of cigarettes, sweat, and soured meat. Royal lived a truly unglamorous life reserved for the destitute. Mice crept into filthy old vehicles like this Mazda and made nests. Sometimes the critters died and rotted within a vent or the very frame of the vehicle. Driving around with desiccated mice in your truck had to be the start of a country song.

  The radio kicked in with a screeching, metallic blast that stabbed into my eardrums. I cursed. Royal hastily lowered the volume on Black Sabbath.

  “Apologies, sir,” he said. Soft as a shy child, or a rattlesnake. “It’s a piece of crap. Speakers take a few seconds to warm up.”

  “Let’s go for a drive,” I said as the ringing in my ears subsided. Cliché or not, the phrase scared people spitless and that’s exactly how I wanted him. “By the by—I went through your glovebox and couldn’t help but notice it’s crammed with traffic tickets.”

  “DWB.”

  “Driving while black?”

  “Maybe troopers dig my ride.”

  In a certain light, I received the same treatment.

  “Be extra-cautious, then.”

  He put the truck into gear and stared straight ahead as he drove. Kingston’s streetlamps grew farther apart. Highway stripes and fragments of trees floated in the void sculpted by the headlights.

  * * *

  —

  I GAVE DIRECTIONS that steered us down a lonely secondary road.

  Royal whistled a dry, disjointed version of The Twilight Zone theme until I told him to put a sock in it.

  He parked at the edge of a field somewhere between Woodstock and nowhere. There was a moment when he could’ve tried to bust a move—I heard the tumblers clicking in his brain. Doubtful he carried a piece while bouncing in the tavern. I’d searched the Mazda earlier for a hideout and confiscated a .32 from under the seat. The lack of a gun would severely limit his options.

  Still, my pulse thumped as we exited the vehicle. In terms of controlling an adult human, nothing is certain. My due diligence notwithstanding, there might be another hidden weapon; he could decide to make a break for it. After three steps, the night would swallow him whole.

  Nothing bad happened. Royal didn’t believe in the principle of carpe diem. Regular guys seldom do when it’s their ass on the line. He beat people with a pipe, yes, but that didn’t make him dangerous to me. I’d reversed the script and penciled myself in as the wolf. He complied like a dutiful sheep.

  We stood fifteen feet apart. I held my revolver pointed toward the dirt.

  “Sir, permission to smoke?” he said.

  “Already? I haven’t even given you the blindfold.” I chuckled at his sharp inhalation. “Kidding. I didn’t bring one. Go ahead, smoke.”

  He reached with exaggerated care into his jacket, got a cigarette going. The burning match was the only artificial light for miles. His hands trembled. I liked that.

  The brief halo of flame confirmed he was a handsome dude. Around my height, decent build. Looked quick and fluid. Leather jacket and leather pants. Exactly as I recalled him, except up close and personal.

  The match fizzled and we became silhouettes to each other.

  “Did you kill Harry?” He stole my line. Still soft, still ominous.

  Intriguing gambit on his part. Were he innocent, his natural assumption would be I’d done for his buddy and returned to snip dangling threads. I couldn’t determine whether he was cunning or as ingenuous as advertised.

  “Someone did.” I let it hang. “Clipped Harry and swiped his head for a souvenir. Who, oh who, is capable of such an atrocity? There’s the kind of wild man I’d love to meet.” Again, I waited. “Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is—am I talking to that charmer right now?”

  “You’re talking to a poor boy who’s shitting his pants.”

  “Are you afraid because you think I killed your partner, or are you afraid because you did it and time has come to pay the check?”

  “Uh, the first choice.”

  I buzzed like a game show special effect.

  “I’m not a trophy hunter. The powers that be sent me down from heaven to sort this business.”

  “Who—”

  “Far as you’re concerned, I’m Archangel Michael. Oversized wings, fiery sword, a yen for avenging injustices perpetrated by idiots. I toil for God. God is extremely interested in solving the mystery of Harold Lee’s tragic demise.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Shut up. I didn’t kill Harry, and you allegedly didn’t kill Harry . . .”

  He smoked furiously, then realized I was awaiting an answer.

  “I didn’t. He was a friend. Murder isn’t my speed.”

  “Murder isn’t your speed?” I said.

  “Negative.”

  “Okay, double jeopardy—what does the Croatoan mean to you?”

  “Negative. I don’t know what that is.”

  “Who. Who he is.”

  “Never heard of him, sir.”

  “Pinky-swear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The man you maimed at the salvage yard didn’t give you a sterling character reference.”

  Royal hesitated.

  “Would you believe me if I said that racist prick got what he deserved?”

  “Well, I’d at least acknowledge he was breathing, last I saw him. You’re a model of restraint.”

  “Fucking A.” Drowning, he grasped at this bit of flotsam on an ocean of trouble. “I could’ve jacked his shit permanently. Skinhead was begging to get capped. But I don’t roll like that.”

  “Ray Anderson. Freelance thief. Somebody bumped him too, in fairly recent history. He a friend of you or Harry?”

  “I saw the dude around and that’s it. Heard he got whacked. Harry took him drinking sometimes. They fished too.”

  “They do any jobs together?”

  “Harry never mentioned.”

  “Easy for me to verify your story.”

  “Feel free. I’m not lying.”

  “It’s your lucky night, Nic,” I said. “I’m going to extend you the benefit of the doubt. You and Harry rubbed elbows with unsavory sorts. He put the hurt on his share of suckers. One of these acquaintances or victims is probably responsible for the murder.”

  “Sir, if I had the first clue, I’d sing like a canary. Listen, they zapped Harry and I could be next. I’ve wracked my brain for a name, a reason.”

  “Hit me with your best estimate.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told the cops. Problem with our job is everybody and his dog has a hard-on for us. Be easier to make a list of the five people who didn’t want to stick his head on a pole.”

  “Who’d you speak with?”

  “Dumpy older guy and a blonde chick sniffed around yesterday. Plainclothes detectives. They wanted to come inside the house and poke around. I said, No warrant, no joy. And they bugged. Didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “They might give a rat’s ass. A small rat. I heard Harry’s granddaughter has medical issues. He bailed her family out in a major way not long ago. Is that true?”

  “Affirmative. Girl’s got a leaky heart valve. Harry called in a marker and paid what the insurance didn’t cover. I didn’t ask who loaned him the scratch. He only mentioned paying it off. I wonder if he did.”

  At this point in the conversation I’d reached the unscientific conclusion that Royal was partially on the level—seventy to eighty percent. Criminals hoard the truth like gold even when it has zilch to do with their predicament. Stubbornness is a hallmark of t
his type. Another strong possibility was PTSD. Some of his mannerisms reminded me of Lionel’s tics—particular quirks of speech and posture, gesticulation that were indicative of weariness and wariness.

  How hard to press is always a judgment call in these circumstances. Too light a touch, you’re a patsy, and word travels fast in these circles. Too brutal and a guy will sing any song he thinks you want to hear. I played it safe and grilled him for easy stuff; info he was practically begging to divulge. My hammer-and-pliers routine could wait for another evening, if it came to that.

  Where had Harry gone previous to his murder? Was he on the trip alone? Anybody make extraordinary threats against him lately? Had he come into sudden money? Who was Delia?

  Royal spilled.

  When not smashing kneecaps and seducing showgirls, Harry enjoyed long nature walks and hunting and fishing in the Catskills. He often disappeared for weekends away from the loan-sharking grind. His destinations were vague. Usually he went alone, although he sometimes mentioned meeting a buddy en route, or hooking up with a girl. Around two weeks ago, he’d headed north for such a trip; the plan was to catch the final days of trout season at several choice locations. Harry said he’d be back within a week.

  I asked Royal if he’d ever ridden along.

  “Did all the hiking and foraging I could stand in the service. No thanks.”

  He couldn’t recollect any recent threats. He and Harry had been friendly acquaintances for a while and divided the condo the last year. Rarely, Harry flashed a wad of money—scores came and went with the tide. As for Delia, Royal met her in the flesh. Smoking-hot. Neither she nor Harry volunteered her personal info such as a last name, where she lived, et cetera. She danced somewhere—Harry had a weakness for showgirls. He frequented the Bird of Paradise, a nightclub that hosted a weekly review.

  I privately noted that the Bird of Paradise wasn’t among Lee’s receipts. Did he receive a pass in return for off-the-books services? Happened a lot, tough guys getting comped that way. Some places, barter was as good as cash.