by Thomas King
Lorraine had her mother’s looks as well as her brains, and before the ashes of the old Mustang had cooled, she bulldozed the site and began building a new bar, a red prefab aluminum building with a herd of wild horses painted across the front. Lorraine was of the opinion that a twenty-first-century bar didn’t have to look and smell like a nineteenth-century brothel, that there was no reason that cowboys and bikers shouldn’t enjoy a clean, contemporary ambiance with all the modern amenities.
Free WiFi, satellite TV, video gaming.
It was still the rough-and-tumble place it had been when Hack was alive, but Lorraine did have three rules. If you wanted to fight, you did it outside. Lorraine put up a rope ring in a sandpit at the back of the Mustang.
With work lights.
And to ensure that any injuries were dealt with in a timely fashion, she had set up a first-aid station stocked with bandages, antiseptic ointments, and analgesic sprays.
Lorraine’s second rule was no puking in the bar. Anyone who was feeling under the weather was expected to make it to one of the bathrooms or find their way to the parking lot. Throw up in the bar, and you were gone for the rest of the evening.
Her last rule was simple and straightforward. There was to be no excessive talking or yelling when she was on stage singing karaoke. Not that Lorraine had a great voice. It was okay. But she liked to sing, and when she sang, she expected that people would have the courtesy to shut the hell up and pay attention.
THE LAST TIME Thumps had been in the Mustang, Big Fish Patek had been behind the bar pulling drinks. Tonight, the man was nowhere to be seen.
“DreadfulWater!”
The bar was packed. Cowboys and bikers were stomping their way through a line dance.
“Thumps DreadfulWater!”
Anthony Mercer and Runa Gerson shuffled off the dance floor, keeping time with Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine.”
Mercer had traded his preppy look for a pair of jeans, a white shirt, and a soft, straw cowboy hat. Gerson was still dressed in her Viking disguise.
“Bet you think we’re following you.” Mercer’s face was glistening.
“But we’re not,” said Gerson. “We heard about this place and had to see it.”
“You don’t get this in Tinseltown.”
“Except on a sound stage,” said Gerson. “I’m thinking we can use this as a location for the film.”
Mercer wiped his face with a checkered handkerchief. “You ever line dance?”
“Let’s grab that table,” said Gerson. “Before Tony falls down.”
“I play a lot of tennis,” said Mercer. “But this cowboy stuff is hard work.”
Thumps hadn’t really expected to find Big Fish still working at the Mustang. The man’s real passion was upscale watches. Audemars Piguet, Vacheron Constantin, Blancpain, Jaeger-LeCoultre, Breitling. And you didn’t see many of these in a cowboy bar. Thumps always expected that, one day, Big Fish would head out to San Francisco or Los Angeles or Denver, cities where such extravagance was the norm.
Big Fish liked to tell anyone who would listen that his father had named him after Patek Philippe, the famous Swiss watch manufacturer in Geneva. His real name was Patek Carpenaux. Wutty Youngbeaver thought the French sounded pretentious, so he had shortened Carpenaux to Carp, and Carp somehow became “Big Fish.”
“So,” said Gerson, “you coming to the meeting?”
Thumps made a space on the table for the pitcher of beer and the glasses. “Where’s the other guy?”
“Harry?”
“Not a party animal,” said Mercer.
“Spends all his time holed up in his room working on the script.”
Thumps tried to remember the last time he had gone out at night. Maybe he and Harry had more in common than he realized.
“This your hangout?” said Mercer.
“No.”
“Then you were following us,” said Gerson. “How exciting.”
“Should I be?”
“I’m okay,” said Mercer, “but Runa’s somewhat alarming.”
“It’s going to be a good movie,” said Gerson. “But it will be better if you come on board.”
There were two bartenders tonight. Thumps didn’t recognize either one of them, but he’d ask about Big Fish before he left. Just in case the man left a forwarding address. Or a general direction.
Maybe Lorraine would know.
“The meeting tomorrow is to go over the ideas for the script,” said Mercer. “Harry has a couple of scenarios he wants to run by us.”
“It’s to be a surprise,” said Gerson. “Wants to get our first reactions.”
“Think about it.” Mercer got to his feet and tipped his hat at Gerson. “What about it, darling? Another stroll around the floor?”
“Anything you can do, I can do better.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
They continued to murder the song as they got into line with the rest of the dancers. Thumps left the pitcher where it was and made his way to the bar.
“Lorraine?” He tried to keep his voice low.
The bartender put a hand to his ear. “What?”
“Lorraine,” Thumps shouted over the music. “Lorraine Chubby.”
“Office.”
THE OFFICE FOR the Mustang was down the hall, past the restrooms. The door was open. Lorraine Chubby was sitting in a leather lounger with her feet up. It took Thumps a moment to realize that she was pregnant.
“Doctor says I have to stay off my feet.”
“Congratulations.”
“Whoever came up with the logistics of human reproduction should be shot.”
“You look great.”
“Now I know how a cow feels.” Lorraine raised the footrest.
“Hey, Thumps.” Big Fish Patek was stretched out on a sofa in front of a television. “Pull up a chair. You got to see this.”
Thumps stepped in behind the sofa.
“How to stalk an elk,” said Big Fish. “They got videos that show you how to do it.”
Thumps had been on one hunt with Cooley. All he remembered was the cold, and the bugs, and the early-season snowstorm that had come out of nowhere.
“Cooley got a new rifle, and he’s going to take me and Stas over to Bear Hump,” said Big Fish. “Maybe I’ll get an elk. Those suckers are big. Be enough food to last me and Lorraine and the little guy all year.”
It didn’t register at first.
“You and Lorraine?”
“Ain’t that something.” Patek sat up. “Bet you never thought you’d see me settle down.”
“Don’t quite believe it myself,” said Lorraine.
“Going to be a father,” said Big Fish. “Never saw that one coming.”
“You and Lorraine?”
“I’d’ve been your last guess,” said Patek. “Am I right?”
Thumps wasn’t sure he would have even thought of Big Fish as a possibility. Lorraine was smart. Big Fish was clever. Lorraine was tall and thin with soft blond hair and pale blue eyes. Patek Carpenaux was short and squat, dark, with a nose like a hammer. Lorraine was a flamingo. Big Fish was a bumblebee in a bucket.
“Don’t hardly see you out here.”
“Don’t drink.”
“Neither do I,” said Big Fish. “Not anymore. Not since I’m going to be a dad.”
“That’s good thinking.”
“So,” said Patek, “you didn’t come all the way out here for the halibut.”
Thumps took the watch out of his pocket.
“Nice.” Big Fish held the watch up to the light. “Rockford.” He hefted the watch in his hand. “Steel case.”
“I’m hoping you can tell me something about the watch.”
“So, it’s not yours?” Big Fish turned off the television and sat up. “This about a case? ’Cause you know I can be very helpful.”
“This a general information question,” said Lorraine, “or something that could get my sweetie shot?”
“General,” said Thumps.
“’Cause I’m going to need someone to change diapers and rub my feet.”
“Is there any way you can tell me who bought the watch?”
Big Fish shook his head. “Don’t know much about pocket watches. Wristwatches are my thing. Now, if this were a Rolex Milgauss . . .”
“What about a serial number?”
“Got a friend in Livingston who’s an expert on pocket watches,” said Big Fish. “You want me to ask him?”
“Sure.”
“Can you leave this with me?” said Big Fish. “Binh has a lot of contacts. If there are any records, he’ll find them.”
“But before you two get started,” said Lorraine, “I’m going to need a sour cherry spritzer.”
Big Fish slid off the sofa and rubbed Lorraine’s shoulders. “You ever been married?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing like it,” said Big Fish. “We’re due any day.”
“Congratulations.”
“I like it when he says ‘we,’” said Lorraine. “It makes me laugh.”
“Luckiest man in the world,” said Big Fish. “Luckiest man in the world.”
Lorraine rubbed her belly. “You and Claire ever work things out?”
“You know what the baby’s going to be?”
“Naw,” said Lorraine. “We want to be surprised.”
“Just so it’s healthy, right?”
“That’s momma’s job.” Lorraine patted her belly. “Going to be a party here at the bar. You’re invited.”
“Look forward to it.”
“Just be careful on the way out,” said Lorraine. “You know what happens if you hit any of the bikes.”
THE LINE DANCE had broken up. Mercer and Gerson had re-formed themselves into a Texas two-step. Shania Twain had been replaced with George Strait and “Amarillo by Morning.”
It was after one when he walked through the parking lot and climbed into the Element. The moon was a cold sliver in a black sky, and the stars were fierce and bright. Lorraine was pregnant and happy. Big Fish couldn’t believe his good luck. The neon lights on the front of the Mustang were in full flash, creating the illusion of the horse herd galloping fast and getting nowhere. Someone had found Neil Young on the jukebox. Even with the door closed and the windows rolled up, Young’s soft, plaintive voice floated out into the night.
“Four Strong Winds.”
Thumps sat in the car and waited to see if the melancholy would pass. And when it didn’t, he leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and let the night hold him.
Fifteen
The sun came up in a rush and set the red brick of the old Land Titles building on fire. Thumps checked his watch. Eight o’clock. The second-floor windows were dark. He didn’t know the kinds of hours that doctors and coroners kept, but it stood to reason that they should be early risers.
Now it was 8:01.
Thumps stepped out of the car and set the box on the roof. Maybe he should wait until eight thirty, a compromise between now and nine. Or he could be bold and take his chances. On the plus side, even if Beth was annoyed by the early morning intrusion, at least she wouldn’t be in the basement.
He hadn’t slept at all. He had sat in the car in the Mustang parking lot for a while and listened to the music. Then he had driven out to Red Tail Lake for no better reason than it was there.
Red Tail was a shallow lake with a state park on the south end, the tiny town of Red Tail on the western edge, and a wetland of swamps and marshes to the east. The northern end was an extended crescent of waterfront with rocky outcroppings, sporadic sand beaches, and deep-water moorings.
The Shore.
The Shore had originally been a collection of fishing shacks—large outhouses with a window and a wood stove—that the locals used during the summer and winter. Then a developer from California arrived. He bought all the buildings and the land, moved the road back away from the lake, and began putting up waterfront summer homes the size of small villages. No one actually lived on The Shore year-round. The houses here were second or third homes that were shut down for the winter, opened for the summer, and ignored in between.
Why anyone would build a house and not live in it full-time was something of a mystery, though Thumps supposed that if he had been rich enough to afford a place on The Shore, he would understand.
Some of the houses, the ones with deep-water frontage, had their own private docks, but much of The Shore was shallow, and the homeowners association had built a long dock and mini-marina to house the summer boats and to provide a place for kids to fish.
Thumps had parked the car, walked to the end of the dock, and watched the lake shift under the night sky. He had imagined that a little peace and quiet would help him think, imagined that communing with nature would help him decide what he wanted to do.
A modern variation of a vision quest.
But it hadn’t. The night had stayed black. The lake rose and fell like a sleeping child. The wind kicked up and died down toward dawn. By the time he walked back to the car, the only understanding he had come to was that he was cold and that he was hungry.
And that he wasn’t any smarter.
SO NOW HERE he was, standing in front of the old Land Titles building. And it was 8:12. He pressed the button and waited. And then he pressed it again. The voice on the intercom didn’t sound like Beth, and it didn’t sound friendly. Thumps could feel the camera mounted above the door do a full body scan.
“What?”
“It’s me.”
“I can see it’s you.”
“Beth?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Almost nine?”
“No, it’s not. Go away.”
“I brought breakfast.” Thumps held up the box. “Eric the Baker.”
Thumps could hear Beth breathing into the intercom. Then the lock on the front door clicked open.
The family doctor–cum–county coroner was waiting for him on the second-floor landing. Beth was dressed in a pair of zebra pyjama bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. She stood like a colossus in front of the doorway, her hands welded to her hips.
“You know the phrase ‘What plays in Vegas, stays in Vegas’?”
“Sure.”
“Are those sour-cherry Danishes?”
“And raisin.”
Beth turned and went into the apartment. “You get one cup of coffee and twenty minutes to drink it.”
The apartment was warm and bright. Sunlight filled the windows, and the cream curtains glowed against the darker walls. There was a pot of coffee waiting on the table, along with two cups.
“You were expecting me?”
“Hardly.” Beth went to the cupboard and took down a third cup and a large plate. “What are you doing here?”
“The blood test.”
“The blood test you missed?”
“I got tied up.”
“And you want me to do it now?” Beth shook her head. “That’s not the way the doctor-patient relationship works.”
Thumps opened the box, put a Danish on the plate, and cut it into fourths.
“Did you bring any protein?”
“Danishes don’t have protein?”
“Did you ever read that brochure I gave you?” Beth closed her eyes and then went to the refrigerator. “I’ll get you some cheese.”
Thumps had just started to pour himself a cup of coffee when the bedroom door opened and Gabby Santucci came out, dressed in a thick terry-cloth robe.
“Buon giorno.”
Thumps looked at Beth.
Beth looked back. “Vegas?”
Gabby was smiling. “We have surprised our Thumps.”
Thumps held up the plate. “Danish?”
The coffee was good. The cheese was a pleasant surprise. Most women Thumps knew favoured the softer, smellier cheeses. There had been a French-Canadian he had dated briefly who would only eat cheeses that had the viscosity of heavy m
otor oil and smelled like a condemned barn.
The cheese Beth had found was a straightforward Swiss that didn’t move.
“I’m not going to do your blood work right now,” said Beth. “But I’ll tell Rawat to fill your prescription.”
“It’s okay.” Thumps helped himself to a piece of Danish. “I probably can’t afford it anyway.”
“The medicine in this country is molto costoso,” said Gabby. “It is cheaper, perhaps, to die.”
“And since you didn’t come here at this hour for a blood test. Or free coffee”—Beth leaned back—“this must be about the break-in.”
“Break-in?”
Gabby settled in the chair and helped herself to the Danish. “Someone, they come in. To this building. And then they leave.”
“Okay.”
“Shit,” said Beth. “Have you talked to Duke?”
Thumps was having trouble keeping the conversation straight. “What about the break-in?”
“They take nothing,” said Gabby.
It had been a long night. Thumps could feel his energy sag. “Then how do you know there was a break-in?”
“All the drawers in cabinets.” Gabby waved a hand. “In the basement. They are pulled open.”
Beth sipped her coffee. “So Duke didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Beth took a deep breath. “Whoever broke in left a black stone on my autopsy table.”
Suddenly, Thumps was awake. Wide awake.
“Duke said he was going to tell you himself. After he checked it out.”
“Obsidian?”
“You were on the coast,” said Beth. “There was nothing to do about it until you got back.”
“I’ve been back for . . .”
“Hardly two days.”
“Three!” said Thumps. “I’ve been back three days.”
“The first day does not ever count,” said Gabby. “Jet lag.”
“I drove!”
“It’s probably no big deal,” said Beth.
“Which is why you put in the extra security?” Thumps put his cup down with a bang. “The alarm? The camera? Because it’s no big deal?”
