Dangerous Men

by Michael Katakis

  He had thought about George’s suicide over the years, but no rationalizations seemed to quiet the memory. He kept telling himself that George was responsible. He had choices. He could have sold when they first offered a fair price. Since Marjorie’s death, George Lesser was haunting Cold’s dreams.

  After breakfast he went into the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Exploring the lines on his face, he was surprised by the dark circles under his eyes and his skin’s grayish color. It was as if all the evil he had done was written on his face. He closed the window. A cold wind had come up.

  By 9 a.m. that night, Walt was in Winnemucca. He hadn’t been there in years. He wondered if Martin Alicante, his father’s Basque friend, was still there and if Martin’s beautiful daughter Maria would remember him. The Alicantes had owned Martin’s, a Basque hotel and restaurant, for over fifty years.

  Walt drove down the old street by the railroad tracks and remembered his father telling him that the best steak anywhere was at Martin’s place. He turned where memory directed and there it was. The whitewashed walls and handpainted sign with faded black letters looked the same.

  He rolled down the window and could hear the music playing inside. He was hungry, hungry for familiar faces and a good steak. Stepping through the swinging doors was like stepping back in time. Everything seemed the same, from the red vinyl bar-stools to the wine-stained tables. A young woman came up to him.

  ‘My God. Maria,’ he said.

  ‘May I seat you, sir?’ she asked.

  Walt was taken up in the past. Years ago they had been the best of friends, and clumsily had learned about love in the back of his truck.

  ‘Sir,’ the young woman interrupted.

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Oh, are you looking for my mother?’

  Walt looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, yes. I’m looking for your mother.’

  ‘She’s in the back. May I ask your name?’

  ‘Just tell her an old friend.’

  The woman showed Walt to his seat and glanced back before walking behind the bar and into the kitchen. The beautiful woman with long black hair was rubbing her hands on her apron as she walked towards Walt’s table. She searched her memory for some reference to the stranger. Walt stood up.

  ‘Have I changed that much?’ he asked.

  Maria said nothing until her arms were around him.

  ‘You’re still my handsome cowboy.’

  Maria’s daughter and the locals watched as the two of them held each other.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ she said. ‘Where did you go? Why didn’t you come here after your family’s troubles?’

  ‘I got lost for a while.’

  Maria took off her apron and ordered wine. As patrons came and went, the old friends talked through the night. Maria told him about unrealized dreams and the things that had gone well. Walt told her about his life after the ranch. Maria cried. Walt assured her that he was all right and then asked if she knew where Harry Colds lived.

  ‘No, Walt. No no, mi carrameo. Move on. Better to stay with me. Revenge brings misery.’

  ‘I have no time, Maria. I’m dying.’

  Maria didn’t look up. ‘I remember, Walt. I remember it all. It was good. I wish . . .’

  Walt was smiling. His eyes were red.

  ‘I remember, too. It was good. I’m grateful for those days and for you.’

  ‘Colds lives west of here, about fifteen miles. His ranch is the Double Irons.’

  ‘Thank you, Maria.’

  Maria crossed herself and turned. ‘God be with you.’

  Walt pulled into a truck stop for coffee and gas. It was past midnight when he drove past the Double Irons sign and up the long drive. Stopping alongside the road, he shut off the truck’s lights and sat in the dark. There was no moon. He drove on until he saw some lights in the distance. Parking behind a small rise, he got out of the truck and followed the road to the house. Until some dogs began to bark.

  Walt slept in his truck. He woke and poured some coffee from the dented thermos. He didn’t know what he was going to do but understood that if he did do something, it was going to be bad.

  Sipping coffee, he heard Maria’s words and began to think she was right. Then a sensation moved from his back to his chest, paralyzing him with pain. He couldn’t speak or catch his breath; he just sat there sweating and pushing against the steering wheel. And then, like an outgoing tide, the pain retreated. The times between the pain’s leaving and return were growing shorter. He understood that before long the pain wouldn’t leave at all.

  He forgot Maria’s words and hardened himself. Taking a drag from his cigarette, he got out of the truck and started up the road. A few hundred feet from the house was a barn. Inside he found some rope and an old milking stool and then waited but wasn’t sure for what. Sitting behind some hay bales he watched the door.

  After a few hours the door opened. Walt covered his eyes from the morning light.

  A man walked over to one of the empty stalls and then turned. As Walt’s eyes adjusted he could see the man. Harry Colds had changed. He had lost his hair and put on some pounds, but those dead eyes were still the same.

  Colds was walking toward the door when Walt rushed him. Turning, Harry Colds felt a hard blow to his head. When he came to, Colds was sitting on a milking stool. His hands were tied behind his back and a rope was around his neck.

  The barn door was closed. Dogs were barking and scratching to get in. In the dark Colds began to see the outlines of a figure standing in front of him. He concentrated on the stranger’s face and when it came into focus he yelled out, ‘Oh God, George.’

  Then he remembered that George Lesser was dead. He was relieved, then realized it was still bad news.

  ‘Oh, Walt,’ he said, ‘what are you doing? You know I was a small part of what happened. It wasn’t me, Walt. Yeah, I know and can tell you the whole story.’

  Walt just stared at the pleading man. Colds offered him excuses then money and said something about being forced to cooperate with Ringer and how he still had grandchildren who needed him. Walt didn’t hear any of it. He was lost in thought and wondered how such a nothing of a man could have destroyed his family. Finally Colds’s voice broke through.

  ‘It was a long time ago, Walt. In my own way I’ve tried to make up for those days. I became a deacon in my church and, believe me, I know I will pay for my sins.’

  Walt listened without expression.

  ‘I don’t know how bad it’s been for you all these years, but I’m sure it’s been real bad. I could make the rest of your life easy. I’ve got lots of mon—’ Colds caught himself and realized the absurdity of his situation. Of course he had lots of money; he stole it from the family whose son was standing in front of him.

  Colds panicked. ‘Please, for God’s sake, don’t kill me.’

  ‘Where are the others?’ Walt asked.

  ‘Ma . . . McCormick and Jakes were killed in a car accident four years ago and Mitchell died of cancer last year. He died slow, Walt, yeah,’ said Colds, hoping the news would get him somewhere.

  ‘What about the others?’ Walt asked as he reached into his pocket.

  ‘Well, Ringer is still there,’ said Colds.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Where?’ Walt asked again.

  Colds was afraid to say. He was afraid to tell Walt what Walt already knew.

  ‘He’s living on your folks’ ranch. He fixed up the old place and moved in a few months after you left. I had nothing to do with that, no sir, nothing at all.’

  ‘What about Lazlo and Byers?’

  ‘They’re all out there. Byers is in Livingston and I think Lazlo’s up north. Glasgow, I think.’

  The dogs were still barking and scratching at the barn door.

  ‘Those dogs just love me,’ said Colds nervously. ‘People are going to hear them carrying on and come to see what’s up. You better get going while you can. I swear I
won’t say nothing.’

  Walt stared into Colds’s eyes and knew he was lying and Colds knew that he knew he was lying. No one was coming. They were alone.

  ‘Don’t kill me. Please don’t.’

  Walt pulled his hand out of his pocket, retrieving the hamburger he bought at the truck stop. He unwrapped it and put it on the ground between the legs of the stool.

  ‘I’m not gonna kill ya, Harry.’

  Colds’s mouth shifted into a trembling smile. From one of the posts Walt untied the rope that went over the rafters and around Harry’s neck. He instructed the man to stand on the stool. Crying, Colds did what he was told. Walt took up the slack and tied off the rope.

  ‘I remember how you used to beat your dogs, Harry, and I’m betting you’ve done the same to those dogs out there. You probably haven’t fed them for a while, either, but I could be wrong. You might be a changed man, like you say.’

  As Walt walked out the dogs rushed in. Colds started talking to them in a calm voice.

  ‘Potter, Black Boy, easy, boys, easy.’ Smelling the meat, the dogs dove at the stool. Colds started yelling. The dogs sensed his fear.

  ‘Get outta here, you son of a bitch,’ Colds said, before kicking at one dog’s face.

  Potter, remembering his beatings, bit Colds’s leg. Colds screamed just as Black Boy dove for the meat again. The dog tipped the stool, and for a moment Colds balanced the stool on two legs as the rope tightened around his neck. He was trying to say something before he choked to death.

  Back at the truck, Walt threw up. He drove away but had no idea where he was going. It didn’t matter because he understood that revenge was not sweet, and that he was no avenging angel. He was just a dying man who’d committed murder. Driving on, he told himself the others would be easier.

  GEORGE LAZLO

  A Very Cold Autumn

  It was an unusually cold October. The predictions were for a hard winter.

  Late autumn was Walt’s favorite time of year. He loved the clean, cold air, with its bite and how it stung when he inhaled fast. Driving north he remembered his family’s camping cookouts that came at the end of the busy summers.

  The women would prepare a few weeks before while the men tended to the cattle and the other chores that the ranch demanded. The tradition took place in the last week of September. George, Catherine, Walt and some of the ranch hands, along with a few neighbors, would pack up supplies for three days.

  After saddling the horses, Walt guided everyone to a corner of the ranch.

  Once there, horses were fed and a large fire was made. The women unpacked the pots of chili and made biscuits in their camping ovens while the men pitched the canvas tents. Old Rollie, one of the ranch hands, played his fiddle and the couples danced under the evening sky that showed a million stars.

  Walt rolled down the window. The cold autumn air rushed in and mingled with his memories. It was fun to play them back like an old recording. The sharp pain brought him back. He focused on the landscape, trying to get his bearings, and struggled to keep the truck under control. He swerved left, nearly crashing into an oncoming car, and then turned right into a ditch, hitting his head on the wheel.

  He never lost consciousness but it took a long time for the pain to subside. His hand fiddled around in the bag and found the pills that the doctor in Chicago had given him. Dr Petrosian told Walt that in a month or so the pain would be bad and that the pills would help, at least for a while.

  Walt was determined to hold off for as long as he could. He had to have his wits about him. He tossed the pills back in the bag.

  George Lazlo had moved out of Park County seven years after Ringer took possession of the Lesser ranch. The Livingston Enterprise reported that its former county commissioner and one of Livingston’s most prominent citizens was moving to a large ranch in Glasgow, Montana. The editorial went on to say that George Lazlo had done good service for the people of Park County and would be missed. The author, who, by the way, was Lazlo’s cousin, also extended the county’s good wishes and thanks.

  What the editorial had not said was that Lazlo had been quietly encouraged by the city attorney to leave town. Lazlo always had a weakness for young girls, and while he had been a powerful commissioner he had been able to silence legal assaults with cash or threats. It was different now but even though Lazlo wasn’t a commissioner any more, he knew where the dirty secrets were buried. The city attorney was well aware of that because he had gotten a lot of pressure from family values Republicans who didn’t want their own transgressions known. The district attorney couldn’t sweep it all under the rug because that might get the state police involved and then no one could control it. Better to keep it in the family, he thought.

  The girl that Lazlo had recently introduced to womanhood was fifteen years old. She was the daughter of a newcomer from California. The city attorney knew that people in Park County didn’t care much about justice and cared even less if it was an outsider, especially from California. If it had concerned a local girl, it would have been a different story. The father of the girl was a day laborer and not well off so he couldn’t make too much fuss.

  In the closed hearing the girl was vilified. Lazlo’s defense attorney made innuendoes about prostitution and entrapment, while the prosecution offered no objections. The presiding judge found Lazlo not guilty. The girl’s father was given $1,500 to go away and keep his mouth shut. The matter was closed.

  Before the hearing, Lazlo had met with the district attorney and a few influential citizens. It was agreed that they would make Lazlo’s mess go away under the condition that he would leave Park County. Lazlo had no choice; he took the deal.

  The other matter that the Livingston paper never covered, though it was whispered about for years, was what had been done to the Lessers and by whom. Some Montanans had a strange code. Even when people knew someone was a shit they were reluctant to say so, even to friends who might unsuspectingly get involved with that person. As for outsiders, you were on your own.

  Livingston, like a lot of places, was rich in rumor. The folks who didn’t have the guts to say things out loud would whisper in the dark and, like most small towns, get the story wrong. In the case of Lazlo, the rumors were true. Lazlo had surpassed Ringer with his cruelty and ruthlessness. George Lazlo was a sociopath. As a commissioner he had been skilled in getting people to do what he wanted by persuasion, though he preferred threatening them.

  ‘He liked to see the fear well up in their eyes,’ a friend once said. ‘For him, fear was like sex with the girls. He had all the power. They could cry and plead, but it didn’t matter. Only what he wanted mattered. It was like being God.’

  Unlike Harry Colds, George Lazlo had never given what he had done to the Lessers a second’s thought. He had forgotten how he and Bill Jakes had altered the county assessor’s records, declaring the Lessers’ road a county one. For his crimes Lazlo made $1,500,000 from the Wild West Estates fraud. A portion of that money had been used to purchase a ranch in Glasgow, Montana. His wife of twenty-three years had been born and raised in that country and was eager to return. With all that space maybe he’d be different, she thought, even though she knew the beatings would continue. The abuse was as much a part of her life as her children. Yes, the children. Maybe in Glasgow they would come and visit. James, her oldest, loved the fall bird hunting and surely if James came, so would Sissy who adored her older brother. Yes, the family would be together, and they would never mention the time when James beat his father after finding him with Sissy.

  She had been a good mother, she thought, and had tried to explain to James, as he was walking out with his sister, that their father didn’t mean it. He’d been drunk, she said. As James was walking out he stopped and kissed his mother’s cheek. He understood the years of abuse had made her simple. He told her to leave but she had nowhere to go.

  Walt turned into the diner parking lot. He searched his pockets until he found the folded yellow paper. He pulled the pencil f
rom his shirt pocket and ran a line through Harry Colds’s name.

  Judith Lazlo’s hopes about a new life in northern Montana were short-lived. Less than two weeks after moving, George was bored and drinking hard. He would come home late and yell at her, claiming the children left because she didn’t support him enough or love him enough. During one of the fights, Judith surprised herself when she found the courage and spoke back.

  ‘The children left because you raped your daughter. They never returned because they hate you. I hate you.’

  George smiled. ‘They hate you too, dear. Why else would they leave you with me?’

  He walked across the room and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and then slapped it as she turned away. He punched her in the face and tore at her clothes and then bent her over the kitchen table and raped her. All the while she thought of him dead and smiled for the first time in a long while.

  Walt had driven all day and most of the night. It was 2.20 a.m. when he parked by the train station in Glasgow and walked across the street to the Johnny Café. A waitress carrying two plates of hotcakes moved past him.

  ‘Anywhere, hon,’ she said.

  He sat in the back corner under the flickering fluorescent light and watched the railroad men come in.

  ‘What’ll it be, hon?’ she asked. The old waitress with thick pancake make-up and bright red lips was adjusting the bun on her head. ‘How ’bout some coffee, hon?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Sipping his coffee Walt stared at the front door. His mind wandered back to Nevada and the look on Harry Colds’s face as he pleaded for his life. Even though he’d had a hand in destroying his family, Walt took no comfort from his death. He tried to rationalize his actions but couldn’t convince himself, and for a moment the thought of stopping appealed to him. Maybe he could just rent a room in Glasgow and wait for his time to come.

  ‘More coffee?’ the waitress asked.