“Why that’s elk sausage. Ye want some more? I got aplenty.” He half-rose as if to get more.
“No, no, that’s all right,” Boz said. He smiled affably. “It was the best damn sausage I ever ate. So, how come they call you Kibosh?”
“Oh, ye know, it’s a long time gone. I don’t hardly ’member.”
“Oh, come on, now,” Boz said. “You must remember how you got your name. They call you that from a kid?”
The old man made a wry face. He got up and poured a little more whiskey for each of them. When he was reseated, puffing his pipe, he said, “Wal, ye see, I was just a young feller, younger’n you. I killed a feller.”
Boz drew back in mock surprise. “Whoa! A killer! I wouldn’t of took you for an outlaw. That why you live up here, by yourself?”
The old man saw he was joking and took it well. “Naw, they caught me all right. Fact is, I turned meself in. It was a fight, prob’ly like your’n. Over a girl, a course.” He sighed. “Neither one of us got her, the way it turned out. He was dead, natcherly, and I went to the pen for five years, over to Deer Lodge.” He gestured over his shoulder, beyond the mountain at their back.
“Five years, that all they give you for killing a man around here?”
“Well, hell, it was a fight,” the old man protested. “We was both working up in the woods, at a camp on the Little Blackfoot, and the sumbitch came back from Hel’na, drunk as a hoot owl, an’ started in on me about … her. I give him some back, an’ he come at me with a damn bowie knife an’ I jes’ snatched up a double-bit axe was stuck in the log like that there”—he pointed to an axe a few feet away, buried in a chunk of pine—“and laid his goddamn fool head open.”
“Well, Jesus, that’s a fair fight,” Boz protested. “Why’d you get any time?”
“Wal, the jedge said I hadn’t orter kilt him, I coulda avoided it. Ye see, someone made off with that knife. Some of the fellers in the camp, who seen it, now said they wasn’t sure they’d ever seen a knife. But ever’body agreed, he started it. Anyways, they give me five years. I served my time. I felt bad about killing him. But I served my time.”
Boz shook his head. “That’s something,” he said. “But how’d you get the name?”
“Why I guess I give it to meself. I went on down there to Hel’na an’ tol’ the sherf, ‘Lisle, I done put the kibosh on Frog Davis.’ An’ folks took to callin’ me Kibosh. Mostly, though, they call me Kibe, anymore.”
“That’s a hell of a story,” Boz said. “I’m proud to meet ya, Kibe.” He half-stood and stretched his hand across to shake the old man’s callused one. “You’re a hell of man,” Boz said, reseating himself. “So how long you been up here?”
“’Bout forty, fifty year. I worked in all these mines.” He swept his arm around the scene. “There’s hundreds of old mines out there, though ye wouldn’t know it. Ye’d never find a dozen. I know ’em all. Hell, I could walk to Butte underground, I betcha. See, these mines, you wouldn’t guess it, are a lot of ’em interconnected. They run for miles underground.”
Boz was impressed. “What did they mine? Copper, was it?”
“Up here? Oh, hell no. Gold. Gold and silver.”
“No shit?” Boz stood up and looked around. It was all mountains and forest, as far as he could see. “You mean there’s gold out there?”
“Quite a bit,” Kibe said. “But it’s jest damn hard work gittin’ it out. I work at it a bit, I kin git out an ounce er two, oncet in a while. Ain’t hardly worth the effort, price a gold nowadays. But I don’t need much.”
Boz nodded and sat down. “Well, better you than me, Kibe. I never had any desire to go down into the earth, you know? But I see you got electric up here, and water, so you mine a bit for groceries and pay the electric bill, eh?”
“Why that’s about it, only I don’t pay no ’lectric. A kid I know down the way, he showed me how to rig up some solar panels on the hillside up there, and a ram in the crick for backup, that runs ’bout ever’thin’, for free. I shoot me an elk now and then, make some sausage. Rest, why, a week or so of scratchin’ will grub me up pretty well.” He puffed his pipe and looked pretty satisfied.
“Well, I like it,” Boz said. “I got a mind to kick back for a few days, Kibe. What do you say? I could pony up a few bucks, in case we run out of booze.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and came out with a handful of fifties. It was more than he expected. “Hell, I got more than I thought. I figured those bastards robbed me last night. I could spare a couple hundred.” He counted off four fifties and thrust them at Kibe.
“Hey, that’s too much,” Kibe said. “Ye can stay if ye like. Lord knows, a little comp’ny’d be nice for a change. Long as ye didn’t stay too long, a course.” He laughed and took one of the fifties. “That’ll do.”
“You sure?” Boz said. “’Cause it looks to me like we’re gonna need more of that.” He pointed at the nearly empty bottle of County Fair.
“Well, I’ll tell ye a secret—what’s your name? I never did hear it right last night. Boz? That’s a good name. Boz. Secret is, I keep a little stash a this. It’ll be enough to git on with.” He got up and scuttled inside.
Boz shifted his log butt against a pine tree and settled back. He felt a lot better. He cupped his hands behind his head. The air was clear, the food was good, the company amiable, and the whiskey plentiful.
When Kibe returned, waving a full bottle of whiskey, Boz said, “What kind of gun you use on them elk, Kibe?”
Lying in Wait
Joe Service strolled into Smokey’s Corner. It was still midmorning, not much business. Bernie signaled him from the end of the bar with a lift of his head. When Joe approached he took him aside to a small table near the back.
“Coffee?” Bernie offered, “or something stronger? Maybe you oughta take something stronger. No?” He yelled out to his regular bartender for coffee, black, as Joe had requested.
“What’s the trouble?” Joe said.
“You heard about Gary?”
“Gary? Oh, you mean Frank’s uncle,” Joe said. “No, what about him?”
Bernie filled him in. “I hope you took my advice,” he said, “and steered clear of Frank.”
“Why is that?” Joe said.
Bernie told him about his night bartender’s encounter with the stranger who had been asking about “Franko.” The bartender had given Gary’s number to the guy.
“Nothing wrong with giving a number that’s in the phone book,” Joe said. “Where’s your bartender now? That him?” He nodded toward the man behind the bar.
“No. I told him to take a vacation. He left town an hour ago. I don’t want no part of this business. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“You think this guy, this stranger, is the one who—”
Bernie interjected before he could say it, with a quieting motion of his hand on the table. “He was pretty drunk, awful drunk, the kid says. He mighta gone over there, to Gary’s. The kid told me that he was pretty sure the drunk—he said his name was Boz, or Badger—had some heat on him.”
“Did he see a gun?” Joe said. “No? Well, then he doesn’t know. Where did he go?”
“Just between you and me, he went to California. Driving. I told him to drive slow. See the sights.”
Joe thought that was wise. “Have you talked to the cops?” he asked.
“About what? That a feller came in here asking about a ‘Franko’ Oberavich, and then another feller came in asking the same thing? No, I told you, I don’t want no part of this.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that so much as I was about whether you knew anything about what the cops know about the case. But thanks for not mentioning me. I appreciate it. I just want—”
“Yeah, I know,” Bernie said, “peace and quiet.” He looked sour. “But just so you know, if Jacky—the sheriff’s dick—asks me anything, I’d have to consider what I did know. Now, don’t get your balls in an uproar…. I’m just thinking, this guy has prob’ly asked other fo
lks around town about ‘Franko,’ and so have you. Did you?”
Joe considered. There was the realtor, of course, Carmen. And she had mentioned her friend, and her friend’s friend. And there was the realtor–bar owner in Forkee. Carmen had also mentioned Gary to Joe. But all of this was really about Frank, a possible real estate deal, perfectly explicable, although he had provided a story. People remember stories. If the cops didn’t connect Gary’s death to Frank … it might be all right. But it was getting a little shaky.
“It’s no problem,” Joe said. “Tell me, what do you hear? What are the cops thinking?”
“They don’t know shit,” Bernie said. “I haven’t heard nothing about Frank. One rumor says Gary was in with some bad cops, a while back.”
“Bad cops? What’s that all about?”
“We had some robberies around town, they never were explained, but some cops may have been involved. Liquor store, two or three drugstores. One of the cops was an old buddy of Gary’s. That was, oh, ten-fifteen years back. The buddy of Gary’s they found shot to death in Billings, a while back. Lot of talk about that.”
“What do you know about it?” Joe asked.
“Nothing. Oh, the cop that was shot … he did the robberies. I don’t know if Gary was mixed up in any of it, though. I kind of doubt it. But I’d guess that Jacky would be thinking along those lines. That’s why Jacky is bound to come around here asking about Gary, and strangers.”
Joe nodded. “But you don’t know anything.”
“That’s right,” Bernie said.
“Well, thanks for letting me in on what you don’t know,” Joe said. “Uh, you said ‘cops,’ plural. There was more than one in on the robberies, then? Where are they?”
“A couple of them got into some sticky business, tried a Brinks robbery, over in Missoula County. The robbery didn’t go down—the FBI jumped the gun, the Missoula sheriff was pissed—so there was no charges. They didn’t even pick ’em up. But they were advised to vamoose, and they did. I think one of them’s up in Kalispell.”
“What’s the situation in the cop shop now?” Joe asked.
“Oh, that’s all past,” Bernie said. “This bunch, they’re pretty straight, far as I know. Especially Jacky Lee. You don’t want to try no funny stuff with Jacky.”
“If this guy, this Boz, did Gary,” Joe said, “and he’s still around … I wonder where he’d be?”
Bernie lifted his eyebrows in thought. “Well, he asked about Frank. If he was really after Gary … ?” He let the question hang. “I’d say he’s gone, but he may still be interested in Frank. I’d keep away from Frank.”
Joe thanked him and left. It was too early to meet Helen, at the Uptown Cafe. He decided to make his call to the colonel. But how to play it? By ear, he supposed.
“Joe, I’m glad you called,” Tucker said. “There may be a complication.” He told him about Harry Hartsfeld, a.k.a. Bozi Bazok. “A man using a stolen passport entered the country a couple of weeks ago. We think he’s Harry, and we think he’s headed for Butte.” He didn’t give any particulars on how they knew this, but he gave a description that Joe recognized as Boz.
This was the spot for telling about the stranger asking around town, and possibly about the murder of Gary Oberavich, but for some reason, Joe didn’t say anything. Instead, he said, “You know, that Oberavich name … any results on that?”
“What? Oh, no. That’s a dead end, I’m afraid. But a good thought. Now, about Harry … I just thought you should be on your guard, Joe. This fellow is pretty dangerous. He’ll also be attracting the attention of other investigators, international ones included. You follow? So step carefully. If you don’t make some progress on Franko soon, it might be as well to just drop it. Are you and Helen having a good time?”
“A good time?” Joe said. “Well, sure. I always liked this country, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry it’s gotten so complicated,” the colonel said. “Where are you staying? I may have to give you a hurry-up call … to fold your tent, you know.”
Joe explained that they had been staying at the Finlen, but it seemed a little too exposed, in a way. They were thinking of shifting over to Helena, but he didn’t know where. This news about Harry suggested that a move was a good idea.
The colonel agreed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’m expecting some further information about Harry. It’s unfortunate that you didn’t call an hour later. Give me your number at the Finlen and I’ll call back as soon as I hear.”
Joe told him that they had already checked out. But he was meeting Helen for lunch, in a little while—she’d gone off to do some shopping. “I think she had some, ah, personal items she needed to pick up,” Joe said. “You know how that is. I could call you from the Uptown.”
“That’ll be fine, Joe,” the colonel said, and rang off.
Now why, Joe wondered, didn’t I tell him about Boz? Joe hung up the phone and walked over to Carmen Tomarich’s office.
“Oh my God, did you hear the news?” Carmen said. “Did you ever get hold of Gary? It’s just awful!”
Joe listened to her gush for a while and commiserated with her about the Oberaviches. No, he said truthfully, he hadn’t called Gary. In fact, he and his wife were interested in some of those other, more developed properties she had mentioned. Unfortunately, he said, his wife had gotten into a conversation with some woman about what a great place Missoula was, and she insisted that they drive over there to take a look. But Carmen was not to worry; Joe wouldn’t make any decision until he looked at Carmen’s properties. They’d be back in a day or two.
Carmen listened, of course, always attuned to business, but her mind was really on the poor Oberaviches. “I was thinking about that other guy,” she said, “the one who was looking for Frank. Do you think I should tell the police about that? It could be connected.”
It was her way of suggesting that she was worried about Joe’s interest in Frank, as well. Joe had the impression she was asking for reassurance. “Gee, I don’t know,” Joe said, with an innocent air. “Were Frank and his uncle close?”
Carmen didn’t think so. “They were sort of opposite sides of the coin, if you know what I mean,” she said. “Gary was this really straight guy, you know. Never miss a day of work kind of thing. He was friends with the police, I know. He worked with the department on their annual children’s circus thing. And Frank, I guess he was sort of a hippie … maybe he still is.”
“I wouldn’t say anything,” Joe said, thoughtfully. “The guy wasn’t asking about Gary. Why get Frank involved, or yourself? You aren’t a friend of the family, are you? It’s not as if you actually knew anything about the killer, is it?”
“Me? Oh, no,” she said. “You’re right. I just wondered … if the question came up, about strangers asking questions about the Oberaviches … you know?”
“If the question comes up,” Joe said, “I’d certainly not conceal any relevant information you had about Gary. But a businessperson has to be kind of careful about involving others, don’t you think?”
Carmen saw his point. With that, he left. It wasn’t very satisfactory, but at least he had drawn her attention to the fact that this might be a can of worms, something not quite nice, not worth taking a chance. He headed over toward the Uptown, a little early, but hoping that Helen would be early as well. He had begun to be anxious about Frank and Paulie. The day was getting on. He felt that they should get back.
On the other hand, he thought, the colonel’s information about Boz had reminded him of the name on the rental-car papers. Harry Hart. A little detective work could be in order. It could also be the name he’d used to rent a motel room. It was worth a try. He was passing a motel ludicrously called The Palms, complete with a large sign featuring two such trees—not what one looked for in Butte. He stopped in at the desk and said, “Is Mr. Hart back yet?”
The girl checked. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a Mr. Hart. Are you sure you have the right place?”
“I thought he said The Palms,” Joe said. “Oh boy.” He frowned. “Now what?”
“Maybe he meant The Oasis,” she said. “That’s clear down on the flat. Did he say it was uptown? There’s The Pines. That’s over on Molybdenum.” She pronounced the street name “Molybdum.” It was two blocks west. Joe thanked her and walked that way. The street deadended into a great mound of overgrown dirt that evidently was part of the rim of the Berkeley Pit, the huge abandoned pit mine that was such a dominant feature of Butte.
“Mr. Hart?” the man at the desk said. “I could ring. Let’s see … one-one-five … nope. Sorry, no answer. Was he expecting you? I could take a message. Actually,” he said, leaning out and looking down the parking lot, “I don’t see his car.”
Joe glanced at his watch with a worried expression. “I guess he must have meant to meet me at the restaurant. I better run. Bye!” And he quickly left.
Joe stood in the parking lot for a brief moment, as if getting his bearings. He marked the location of 115, then walked around the corner and along the street to the back of the building. There was no alley. Amazingly, the brick building was right up against the berm of the pit. It provided an excellent vantage point for breakers and enterers, like himself. He counted off the windows until he had arrived at the bathroom window of 115. He clambered up the berm, which was crumbly, clayey dirt, and was able to lean forward and look into the bathroom. It was just a motel bath. The door to the bedroom was open, and he could see the edge of a bed, all made up.
He squatted on the steep edge of the berm and considered. It was broad daylight, although—he glanced around—there really wasn’t anyone who could see him. At his back was the berm, off to his right an abandoned mining structure. The berm angled around to cut off any view of the street at the other end, and at the nearest end. There were some office buildings over the way. Possibly, someone in an office on the third floor or higher could look out and see him crouched here.
But what could he hope to find? Would Boz really leave anything of interest in a motel room, where maids came and went, making the bed? The window, he noticed, was a simple sliding affair in an aluminum frame. It appeared to have double-glazing, which he’d noticed was usual in this cold country, to keep the heating bills down. Fairly stout, then. He absently tapped his pockets. He didn’t have anything more than a penknife to use for a jimmy. It might work, but more likely he’d break the blade.
Badger Games Page 20
