by G. M. Ford
“I’ll sleep with the night-light on,” I assured her, then held out my arm. “What say we work the room?”
“What room?”
“Figuratively speaking, of course.”
The plaid jacket worked a lot like a polar icebreaker. The minute we approached a knot of people, they parted and fell back like pack ice before the ship’s steely bow. We started out at the edges, nodding and exchanging pleasantries with the assembled multitude, and then began working our way through the thickest part of the throng, smiling and nodding, pretending we didn’t notice the horrified looks my jacket engendered. Better part of half an hour later, we popped out on the far side of the lawn.
Under the covered veranda of the pool house, a table long enough to use as a bowling alley held a dozen chafing dishes, several enormous flower arrangements, and a cake, shaped like the Eagle Talon Casino and Lodge-to-be.
Some kind of reception line was forming down at the far end of the table.
“What’s this?” I whispered as we approached.
“This is your chance to kiss the ring.”
We fell in at the back of the line and began to shuffle forward with the others.
Up ahead, at the nearest edge of the banquet table, a man and a woman were shaking hands and exchanging small talk with our fellow supplicants. I was betting the tall older guy was Deputy Dog’s daddy, Roland Moon. Big ol loose-jointed hound of a guy, wearing a western suit, a spotless white cowboy hat, and enough turquoise jewelry to make Elvis tremble.
The woman was at least twenty-five years his junior and pretty much at the other end of the fashion spectrum. I wasn’t sure Irene’s description of her as a “trophy wife” quite covered it. Everything about her was perfect. The impeccably coiffed hair, ringlets and all. The halogen-white teeth. The understated designer dress. The violet eyes, which just hadda be contact lens. The impossibly, and I mean impossibly, swelling bosom. Looked like maybe they kept her in a glass case when she wasn’t being used. Or maybe they had a mold out in one of the barns and they just whipped up a new one every time out. Either way, she looked way too good to be true.
We were about three couples from the front when Irene leaned close to my ear.
“Roland and Cassie Moon,” she whispered. “The royal couple.”
“How long they been married?” I asked.
“Couple years,” she said. “His first wife, Rita . . . Rockland’s momma . . . she died about ten years back. Roland was single for a long time. Rumor had it he used to fly in working girls once in a while, but nobody knew for sure. I think most folks figured he’d go to the grave a bachelor . . . you know, what with all his business dealing and community property and all. Then a couple summers back, straight out of the blue, he takes a trip down to San Francisco and comes back with Miss Barbie there.”
“Does she ever exhale?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve ever seen.”
“Blink?”
“Nope.”
And then we were there.
Roland Moon looked down at me, a feat accomplished by very few.
“Glad you could join us . . .” He left a your name here space.
“Waterman,” I said. “Leo Waterman.”
His right eyebrow twitched at the mention of my name.
He stuck out a hand the size of a hubcap. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Waterman.”
My hand disappeared into his. He began pumping my arm up and down, and then turned his attention to Irene. “Always lovely to see you, Irene,” she said.
“Thought I’d see how the other half lives,” she said with a smile.
“You’ll have to forgive my surprise, Irene, but I was under the impression that you didn’t approve of our plans for a Greater Lewiston.”
“Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind as to whether it’s gonna be greater after y’all get done with it,” Irene said.
Still pumping my arm, he glanced over at his wife. “Cassie, honey . . . you’ve met Irene, as I recall.”
“On several occasions,” she assured him. She smiled and threw Irene a look that could have flash-frozen fish.
The vibe emanating from Mr. and Mrs. Moon was, to say the least, a bit odd. After a while, married folks start to take on one another’s mannerisms. They develop mutual default settings. These two felt like they’d met about five minutes ago. Every time Roland Moon swayed a foot in her direction, she instinctively moved to keep her distance. Like opposing poles of a magnet.
And then, before I could massage the thought any further, our audience was over. Roland stopped trying to dislocate my shoulder, dropped my hand like it was a turd, and turned his attention toward the next couple in line. “Jeff,” he boomed.
The pressure from behind extruded Irene and me forward. I liberated a bacon-wrapped prawn from a silver serving platter and popped it in my mouth as we exited the royal enclosure and found ourselves back among the peasantry.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I feel blessed.”
“He knew who you were,” Irene said as we began to stroll around the perimeter of the party. “Bain musta told him about you.”
I shook my head. “Junior,” I said. “Rockland may be a cop in another jurisdiction, but I don’t think there’s much doubt where he gets his orders from.”
I told her about the confrontation out at the casino job site and Tyler Bain’s crude joke about circle jerks. “Keith didn’t tell him and neither did I, so it must have been Rockland.”
She took my arm again. “You seen whatever it was you wanted to see?” she asked.
“I think I’ve had just about all the hospitality I can stand,” I said.
“Good. Cause mornings come early at the cafe.”
We skirted the crowd as we ambled our way back toward the van. Approaching from this direction, I saw a long, low outbuilding I hadn’t noticed on the way in. Must have been a dozen white garage doors. Third one from the left was rolled up. Two red Dodge pickups sat side by side. I stopped walking.
“That where they keep their herd of trucks?” I asked.
“Whole damn building’s full of em,” Irene said.
“What say we have a look?” I said.
“That why you wanted to come out here?”
“Part of it,” I admitted.
“What’s the other parts?”
“I also like showing up places with the best-looking woman.”
She thought it over. “Well,” she said, “in that case I guess I won’t leave you out here.”
We wove our way through the parked cars, over to the open garage door.
I stuck my head inside and looked around. Irene was right. The better part of a dozen identical trucks adorned the inside of the garage.
“Keep an eye out here,” I said as I stepped inside.
I fished around in my jacket pocket and came up with the cocktail napkin I’d stuffed in there earlier in the evening, when I thought Rockland Moon was about to take a poke at me. I used it to wipe the dust off the nearest bumper. No sticker. Then moved to my right and repeated the process.
I kept moving down the line, checking truck bumpers, until I reached the far end of the building, and finally struck pay dirt. Next-to-the-last truck. Freshly washed, no need to wipe away the grime. Staring me in the face. BANTAMS.
I checked the license plate. Standard-issue Idaho Commercial Vehicle, with up-to-date tabs. This was the truck somebody had used to pick up Gordon Stanley’s body.
No doubt about it. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the BANTAMS bumper sticker and the truck’s license plate.
The question that kept rolling around in my head was: Why? Why swap out the license plates, cobble together some bogus paperwork, and then pretend to be his sister, just to steal a theretofore unidentified dead body, three hundred miles from home? No matter which way I turned the question, it seemed like a lot of risk for no reward.
I didn’t get a chance for further rumination. The staccato click o
f Irene’s heels pulled me back to reality. She was moving my way, as quickly as the dress would allow.
“Someone’s coming,” she hissed.
I heard the rumble of an engine outside. Then the closing of a car door.
I pulled Irene to my side and squatted down behind the nearest truck.
I peeked over the fender just in time to see the garage door roll down. Heard the snick of the lock and then the sound of an engine starting outside.
Somebody was closing up the garage for the night. Seemed pretty much a big nothing, until I heard the unmistakable scrape of nails on the floor. I dropped to the concrete and looked under the truck. Sometimes I hate being right. Just what it sounded like. Dog legs. Four of them churning this way like a rocket.
I barely had time to stand up, shrug myself out of my coat, and wrap it around my arm before the dog came fishtailing around the rear of the truck, his feet scrabbling for traction on the smooth concrete floor. Big German shepherd. Teeth bared. The hair around his neck standing straight up, as he suddenly found his footing, pulled his legs beneath his big body, and launched himself up at my face.
At that point, instinct took over. Some survival sense left over from another era, when humans were still several rungs down the food chain. I slammed my back into the wall and straight-armed the dog in the opposite direction. His snapping jaws came close enough to my face for me to smell his Alpo breath.
He bounced off the door of the truck and fell heavily into Irene’s legs. They went down together, in a pile. A guttural scream launched itself from my chest. I rushed forward, hoping to divert Fido’s attention from Irene. Thing was, though, I needn’t have bothered. He didn’t so much as glance at Irene as he scrambled back to his feet. He’d already ordered his next meal, and it was me.
My forward momentum wouldn’t allow me anything nifty. All I could do as he lunged for my crotch was drop my jacket-covered arm in the dog’s mouth. Felt like my arm was suddenly in a vise. He shook his big head, and I could feel his teeth breaking the skin. I lifted him all the way off the floor and slammed him against the side of the truck, but he hung on, so I slammed him into the truck for a second time, and again he refused to let go of my arm. He shook his head, driving the teeth deeper. I screamed in pain and kicked him in the chest with everything I had.
The force of the kick drove most of the air from his lungs. He dropped my arm and backed up a couple of steps, panting hard and licking his chops. When he gathered himself and came at me again, I pulled open the truck’s passenger door, hoping he’d run into it, but he was too quick for me. He hit the floor on his belly and came at me from under the door.
Instinct pushed my wrapped arm back into his dripping jaws. The pain was nearly unbearable. My peripheral vision was going black as I lifted him from the floor again and swung him at the truck. He pivoted in midair and managed to miss the edge of the open door. Instead, he landed on his side on the front seat of the truck.
I yanked my arm as hard as I could and then slammed the truck door on his snout. The power of the closing door ripped his teeth from my arm, trapping him inside the cab, leaving me leaning against the door, cradling my torn-up arm. The dog threw himself at the window. The truck rocked on its springs as the dog made lunge after lunge at me, trying to throw himself straight through the safety glass. When I looked up, the window was smeared with blood. His . . . mine . . . ours, I couldn’t tell.
Irene was at my side now. “Oh God, oh God,” she chanted. “Are you . . .”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Pull over here,” I said.
Irene looked startled, but slid the van to the curb.
Valley Hospital was half a block away. The second “e” in the EMERGENCY sign was out. “I’ll get out here,” I said.
“Oh . . . no . . . you gotta let me—”
I cut her off. “About the time morning comes around, they’re gonna know somebody was messing around in their garage.”
“But . . .” She looked down at my arm, which at this point had pretty much gone numb.
“No need for you to be involved in this,” I said. “You’ve got to live here when this is over. I don’t. You’ve got a business to run. A daughter to get out the door. I don’t. There’s no need for you to be directly connected to any of this.” I nodded toward the hospital. “I’ll get myself fixed up and take a cab back over to the cafe to get my car.”
She looked pained. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The local jungle telegraph around here seems to be pretty effective. I’m bettin that by noon they’re gonna know I was in here getting my arm looked after. They’ve already got a problem with me. They’ll wonder about you, but there’s no point in letting them be sure. We’re both better off if you can maintain some level of deniability.”
She opened her mouth to protest. I reached across my body with my left hand and opened the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She nodded bravely and looked down at my arm. “Pity about the coat,” she said with a wan smile.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Haute couture suffers yet another blow.”
The slamming door had broken two of the dog’s teeth off in my arm. Took the ER people the better part of forty minutes to dig em out and then sew me back together. I looked down at the bloody teeth on the surgical tray and grinned. I knew it was petty, and that the animal rights crowd would have roasted me for it, but I somehow felt better knowing that the mutt was suffering his share of the discomfort.
Everything from my elbow down was wrapped in one of those bright blue horse bandages that seemed to have replaced adhesive tape a few years back. Although I recognized the fact that it was a technological step forward, it somehow made me feel like I ought to be running at Pimlico on Saturday.
Pulling a cell phone from your right-hand pants pocket while using only your left hand is not only très awkward, but rumored to be illegal in seven southern states. By the time I’d pulled it off, even the hardened ER staff were hiding their amusement.
I asked the ER receptionist for the name of the local cab company and was in the process of dialing the number when I had a sudden spasm of lucidity and instead walked down the hall to the elevator, rode it two floors down to Critical Care, and stepped off.
She’d moved two chairs to the right, and found herself a friend, but otherwise Sarah Jane was exactly where I’d left her yesterday. The friend was about her age. Big portly guy, with a male-pattern bald spot threatening to envelop his ears, and a pair of gold-rimmed specs that seemed way too small for his face. They’d appropriated a couple of chairs from across the waiting room, turned them backwards, and were using them as a makeshift desk.
She sensed my approach and looked up.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“What happened to you?”
“Little accident,” I said.
I thought she was going to press for details, but instead, she bowed her head. “Olley had another episode,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t bother to try.
She stared at the floor for a moment and then realized she hadn’t handled the introductions. “Fred,” she said, “this is Mr. Waterman. He was one of the young men who helped get Olley to the hospital.” She clamped an affectionate hand on the man’s shoulder and looked at me. “This is Fred Simmons,” she said. “Fred is our attorney.” She ran her eyes over the room. Looked like she’d awakened to find herself in a spaceship. “We’re trying to figure out how we’re going to pay for all this.”
“Like trying to stuff ten pounds of sand in a five-pound bag,” Fred Simmons said.
“We been over it every which way,” Sarah Jane said disgustedly.
“Social Security will pay for some of it, won’t they?” I asked.
The muscles around her jaw tightened.
“We don’t get it,” she said. “Olley don’t want to be on the government dole.”
I sat down on
the chair next to her, cradling my damaged arm against my chest. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Sarah Jane . . . but it might be a good time to take another look at that decision.”
“He’s my husband” was all she said, before looking away.
“Won’t help in the short run anyway,” Fred said. He waved a pudgy hand around the room. “You know these people . . . first two things they want to know are what’s wrong with you and who’s gonna pay the bill.”
“Fred says we’re gonna have to sell the ranch,” she said bitterly.
“Anybody other than Keeler interested?” I asked.
“Nobody who’s got the money,” the lawyer said. “Way things are . . . tight as money is . . . somebody’s gonna have to have the cash in hand. No responsible financial institution is going to loan that kind of money in this kind of market.”
“It’ll kill him,” Sarah Jane declared. “I sell the ranch to those Keeler people, it’ll kill Olley Hardvigsen sure as summer follows spring.”
Fred picked up an official-looking document from the chair in front of Sarah Jane.
“They own another eighty acres over by Pigeon Roost, but that ain’t going to begin to cover this dog and pony show . . . even if we could sell it, which we probably can’t do in a timely manner. What with the Feds involved, the average real estate transaction in this part of the country takes about eighteen months. By the time they research water rights and homestead filings . . .” He waved himself off with a disgusted hand. “You know the goddamn government,” he said.
“I might have an idea.” The words were out of my mouth so quickly, I nearly looked around to see who said it.
“We’re all ears,” the lawyer said.
I laid it out for them. Fred Simmons was shaking his jowls back and forth before I was halfway through.
“You been drinkin?” he asked, only half joking. “That’s crazy.”
Sarah Jane reached out and put a restraining hand on his knee, but she was glaring straight at me. “You are a first-class troublemaker, aren’t you?” she asked.
