by A P Bateman
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No, just saying,” he said.
“Saying what?”
“Well, I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Well, you’re not from around here, that’s all.”
Stone looked around the store and studied the knives under the counter. He pointed when he found what he wanted. “I’ll take that small whetstone.”
The store keeper opened the glass doors, took it out and placed it on the counter. “Twenty dollars.”
“Nice round number again.”
The store keeper shrugged, took Stone’s twenty and opened the till. Stone noticed that there was only change in there. Same as before. Should have been two twenties and a ten from his earlier purchase. The IRS wasn’t getting a dime out of this guy.
“You got an auto-parts around here?”
“McClusky, at the south end of the strip. Fuel, repairs, sales and tow service,” the store keeper replied. “Tyres too.”
“You don’t say.”
“Figure he’ll be closed now.”
“I’d best try the hotel then.”
“Not a lot goes on here. I didn’t figure on you staying a while.”
“Well I wasn’t, but somebody changed my mind.”
“Who was that?”
Stone walked to the door and turned around. “That’s what I’m staying to find out.”
Stone looked across at the diner. The same waitress was pouring coffee for two men in the window booth, but there didn’t seem to be any of the Conrad brothers inside. Both of the men were brick outhouse types wearing trucker caps and sporting a foot of beard each. Stone was sure the waitress would be finishing her shift soon. Unless she was doing fifteen or sixteen hours. He supposed jobs were not too plentiful out here. Maybe the employers could dictate longer shifts.
The hotel was situated on the middle of the strip. Stone hadn’t seen the sports bar that the guy in the hardware store had mentioned, but he could see that the hotel was as he described. Quiet. No lights within, and it was losing light fast outside now. And no cars parked in the spaces out front. Stone glanced back down the street when he saw the headlights. The car drove slowly, purposefully. When it drew alongside him he couldn’t make out the driver behind the wheel. It was the same police cruiser as before, and it maintained its speed and carried on down the strip. Stone stepped up to the last step and pulled the bell rope. A sharp bell sounded within and about a minute later a woman in her early fifties came to the door. Stone could see she was attractive, would have been stunning a couple of decades back, but he could also see that she worked hard. The skin of her left hand on the door frame was dried, the nails trimmed short. Maybe she broke nails making the beds, or washing dishes.
“Hi,” Stone said. “I’m looking for a room. Just for me, I’m not sure how many nights.”
“Sorry, no vacancies.” She went to close the door, but Stone casually leaned into the frame. “I’m sorry,” she added.
“You don’t look so busy,” he said.
“Maintenance.”
“On all your rooms?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, just one night then. I’ve got car trouble and I’ve heard you’re the only hotel in town,” he paused. “I can eat in the diner.”
She hesitated. “One night.” It was a firm statement, not a question.
Stone nodded. He raised his bag. “I’m travelling light. I won’t even unpack.”
The woman relented, introduced herself as Maggie on the way up. The décor was neutral, but clean and although the corridors and painted doors looked to be a little worn it did not look as if it were in need of a closure for maintenance. Certainly there were no signs of preparation for refurbishment.
“It’s sixty bucks a night,” she said as she unlocked the door. The door had a number eight on it. It was the last room on the first floor and they had passed another stairway. With a kitchen and living area, a bar and a lounge on the ground floor Stone figured on the hotel just having sixteen rooms. Maybe one or two more. A nice income if it was full most nights, but it was empty and he imagined it would be for much of the winter as well. “If you don’t mind taking breakfast at the diner.”
“That will be fine,” he said. “There’s a bar in town somewhere, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go out and get a beer and a burger there. Maybe they’ll have a game on TV.”
“They should.”
“You have a bar here as well, don’t you? The guy at the hardware store said something about you cooking a mean roast dinner.”
She seemed pleased, flushed a little at the compliment. “I do a dinner on Sunday nights, mainly the older people, unmarried or widowed, they like it. They like to have a drink some place quieter.”
“Does the sports bar get rowdy much?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “When they come to town.”
“Who?”
“The loggers mainly. The guys who run the teams.”
“And apple pickers?”
“No. I’ve never seen them.”
“Really? I heard there’s a big cider business near here.”
“There is, the younger Conrad brother owns it,” she said. “But we don’t see any of his workers down here. Just a few loggers from Big Dave’s operation. Drivers mainly.”
“Must be more than a few. I hear he’s got the whole mountain sown up, cutting and loading by hand. Must be plenty of workers from there.”
“A few, the same faces. They act up a bit, get drunk and throw their weight around. They don’t come down much.”
“What about Claude? I hear he’s the mayor,” Stone said. “What does he do?”
“Why do you ask? You seem very interested.” Her tone was brusque, her demeanour cool. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“A reporter then?”
“No. Why would I be?”
“There was one up here last year. Freelancer. He was writing a piece on the abandoned silver mines in the hills. He was all over asking questions and looking for information and records. Got real interested in Claude Conrad and his brothers. Are you writing a piece, Mister…?”
“Stone.”
“Mister Stone?”
“No. I’m not a reporter. Or a freelance journalist.”
“A private investigator then?”
“No. Why would you think that? I’m just interested, that’s all.”
“Well, you know what curiosity did, don’t you Mister Stone?” she smiled, but there was no humour in the expression. “It got that smart-assed cat killed.”
“Why did you think I might be a private investigator, Maggie?”
She stepped back from the doorway and turned to walk away. “Because there was one here last fall, Mister Stone. He was asking a lot of questions too.”
“Did he get any answers?”
“He died, Mister Stone. Got run off the road by one of Dave Conrad’s semis. Loaded up with timber, the poor driver couldn’t stop in time. Worried about his job and drivers’ licence he fled the scene. Hit and run. He got drunk one night, couldn’t live with the guilt, ended up turning a shotgun on himself.” She walked back along the corridor, not bothering to turn and look at him as she spoke. “I’ll leave the front door unlocked, you can drop the catch when you get back in.”
4
Stone looked around the room, but there wasn’t much to see. There was a king-sized bed, a desk, a chair and a reading lamp. A small flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall, but to Stone’s annoyance it was lopsided. Maybe not quite an inch, but it bugged him nonetheless. The TV measured about twenty inches wide. Stone estimated it to be out of true by fifteen percent. Not acceptable in a home, let alone an establishment for paying guests. He got undressed, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water took a little time to run through hot but when it did the pressure was strong and Stone showered vigorously with the sho
wer gel and shampoo provided. He towelled off, combed his hair with his fingers and got dressed in cargo pants, T-shirt and a plain grey sweatshirt. He wore a pair of lightweight suede dessert boots and took a tan leather jacket out of his overnight bag.
He opened the cardboard box containing the whetstone, ran it under the hot tap and squirted a pea-sized amount of shower gel on it. He took out the ruined knife and set about honing the edge and filing the chips out of the blade. It had saved his life on the ledge. It had also saved his life on another occasion. He worked the blade to and fro and after twenty minutes the blade was smooth of nicks and razor sharp once more. He folded it and slipped it into his pocket, before grabbing the jacket and heading for the door.
He found the sports bar simply by heading the opposite way to which he’d walked into town. There was no name above the bar. The space where the sign had once been being visible, less faded than the rest of the wooden façade. There were neon signs for Budweiser and Coors in the window. The font was old. He doubted it was a retro intention, merely dated. He climbed the four wooden steps and looked up as he was bathed in light. A police cruiser drove slowly past, its headlights cutting through the darkness like search beams. It was a new Dodge Challenger with a Hemi V8. It was the same cruiser he’d seen twice before. It was black and white and had Abandon & Aldridge Valley Sheriff Dept. written down the side in gold lettering. In smaller writing it said, Endeavour & Overcome. He’d seen plenty of logos on law enforcement vehicles but not like this. They usually contained serve or protect or values or integrity. The cruiser drove on, its low rumble echoing through the silence of the town.
Inside the bar Stone was met with the wonderful aroma of chargrilled meat and frying onions. It smelled like they baked their own bread as well. He instantly felt ravenous. A baseball game was playing on the large screen, the season having just got underway. Stone was a football fan and not interested in baseball. He’d played quarterback and wide receiver in high school and college. He missed out playing the coveted Army Vs Navy game because of deployment to Afghanistan. He liked basketball also, but all ball games played second place to him in favour of NASCAR and Formula 1. He also enjoyed superbikes and rally when he could find them on various sports channels.
There was a man tending the bar, drying glasses. He eyed Stone, but made no effort to welcome him. A young woman in her early twenties leaned against the bar holding an order pad and pen. She was chewing gum. A slow night. Stone mused that the town was called Abandon. It most probably had been.
Stone nodded at the pair and sat down at a booth under some prints of boxers of the sixties and seventies. He took off his coat and dropped it on the seat beside him, then looked at the menu, but already knew what he wanted. He glanced up, but the waitress hadn’t yet moved. Stone noted that he always tipped on a sliding scale, and it was heading downwards pretty damned fast. He glanced back at the menu, more to occupy himself than anything else. He looked up at the pair, who were still talking at the bar.
“Excuse me!” he called. “Is it table service, or do I order at the bar?”
The waitress turned around and walked into the kitchen. The bar tender put the glass down and dropped the cloth onto the bar.
“We’re not serving food tonight,” the bar tender said.
“Smells like you are,” Stone said. “I’ll have a beer while you tell the chef to get started on a double Swiss with fries.”
“I don’t think you heard me.”
Stone smiled. “No, I think you’re the one having trouble hearing. Make it a Bud on draught. A pint.”
Before the bar tender could answer a bear of a man stepped out from the restrooms and walked over to the bar. He stood six-six. Stone estimated him to be three-hundred pounds. Ten pounds of that was pure beard. His arms were as thick as Stone’s thighs.
The bar tender smiled. “No, I think my hearing is just fine.”
The waitress bustled through the swing doors of the kitchen with a plate piled high with a cheeseburger as big as a child’s head and a mound of fries that could feed four. The side of onion rings took up a large serving plate of their own. The bar tender pulled through a pint and placed it in front of the bear, where it was joined by the steaming food.
Stone got up and walked to the bar. “You seem to be serving food now,” he said. The waitress went to walk around Stone, but he caught her gently by her elbow. “Double Swiss and fries, please.” She glanced at the bar tender, who was wavering, unsure whether to step out from around the counter.
“Problem here?” the bear got off his stool and stood up straight. Stone could see he’d underestimated the guy’s size. He was six-eight and at least three-twenty. The beard was still ten pounds though. It ran down to his navel. “They don’t want to serve; they don’t have to serve.” The voice was deep, resonating. It had a twang to it, like Canadian or North Dakota.
“You work here?” Stone asked.
“No.”
“Well sit back down and mind your own damned business.”
The bar tender scoffed, blurting out a laugh. The bear looked incensed. He took a step forward. Stone stayed put, his feet planted on the floor, shoulder width apart, relaxed at the knees. He looked up a long way into the bear’s eyes. But his stare was unwavering.
“I don’t think I will. And I don’t think you’ll make me,” the bear said.
“Well, we have ourselves a difference of opinion,” Stone said. “You have a chance to sit back down and eat your dinner, drink your beer and go home without a headache.”
The bear smiled and stepped forwards swinging a right hook. It was way back, like in last week. The fist was like half a ham and the fingers wore great gold and silver rings, like a pretty knuckle duster. Stone suspected the man would attack like this, it was how the biggest men fought. Solid punches and grappling. Strength was their weapon. But strength had little to do with winning fights and Stone ducked low and left and brought his left fist hard up into the man’s groin. It was a solid punch, but on its return he gripped a handful of the guy’s testicles and ripped savagely downwards. The bear was already wincing, his punch stopping halfway, his knees already giving out when he caught Stone’s right uppercut to his chin and then two hard left jabs on the nose and a right cross on his jaw. He whipped out a snapping front kick into the man’s groin as he started his long descent, his face then taking the tip of Stone’s rising left elbow with considerable force. The bear went down, but wasn’t out. Stone was surprised. His desert boot was a US size fourteen with a heavy tread and it came down with all the force he could muster into the man’s face. His head rocked back and hit the floor. He was out cold. Or dead. But he had been given a choice and played the cards he was dealt.
Stone stepped over him and sat down on the stool. He took a sip of beer and nodded approvingly at the bar tender. He looked at the untouched meal in front of him and smiled. “Well, what do you know? A double Swiss!” He took a bite and chewed, popping a couple of fries into his mouth before he’d finished the mouthful. “Delicious. Hey, can I get some ketchup?”
5
Stone felt he’d made his point in the bar. The bear had finally started to stir, but not before both the bar tender and the waitress had struggled with his huge frame and rolled him over onto his side. He had breathed slowly but steadily as Stone had sat perched on the bar stool and eaten all of the burger, but had been beaten by half the fries and most of the onion rings. He had finished his beer, placed the glass down and dropped a twenty on the counter. It would cover the meal, but the tip would be negligible. It hadn’t been the best service he’d ever had. But it still hadn’t been the worst. Unhurried, he had casually thanked the waitress and bar tender, retrieved his jacket and headed out into the deserted street.
Only it wasn’t.
Two trucks pulled up outside. One was a big Ford. Tuned and slammed. Loud exhausts, colourful paintwork and big alloys. The other was a Chevy. The same Chevy he had seen earlier at the hardware store. Claude Conrad got out and
stood beside the hood. He perched himself there, a foot on the bumper. He could have had a guitar and broken into some country. But the guy didn’t look like he had that on the agenda this evening.
“I hear you beat up on one of my workers,” he said. The pimped and slammed truck’s doors opened, all four in unison, followed by four big men. And four big beards.
“Well, he made my business his own,” Stone said flatly.
“Looks like it’s my business now.”
Stone smiled. “And these four? Are they allowed out this late?”
“You got lucky. Mister?”
“Stone.”
“Mister Stone. Very lucky indeed. Carl is in a bad way, I hear.”
“Just sleeping it off.”
“Maybe not.”
Stone glanced around and saw the bear rubbing his forehead gently in the doorway of the bar. He took a couple of steps, but was clearly in pain. Stone looked back at Conrad and shrugged. “Well it was real nice of you guys to come by and take him home.”
“Oh, we will, Mister Stone. We will. But the boys here want to have a little word with you first.”
“No, they don’t. Let’s not play games, Mister Conrad. Your boys want to give me a beating. And that’s understandable. But we have a problem here.”
“Which is?”
“I might not let them,” Stone said. “In fact, I know I won’t.”
“Four,” Conrad glanced up at the bear, then back at Stone. “Make that five. Five against one. Not great odds, are they Mister Stone?”
“Six.”
“Sorry?”
“Six against one,” Stone smiled. “After I’ve taken them down I’ll be counting you in. You better be tougher than you are smart.”
“I’m not fighting, Mister Stone.”
“If you don’t back your boys down, you won’t have a choice.”
“You’re a very arrogant man.”
“Confident.”
“We’ll see.”
“The problem is - I took it easy on your boy in there.” Stone stepped around to his left and put some distance between him and the group of four men. In doing so, the bear was in his periphery vision. “Now, big odds will mean a change of pace. I have no choice but to go in hard. We’re not going to have a boxing match out here. One of your guys will lose an eyeball for sure. I guarantee it. Maybe two of your guys. Another will lose his throat. It’ll be smashed and ruptured and he will choke on blood and vomit and the last full breath he ever takes will be the second before I do it.” Stone looked across at the four men. The two in front were waiting for the off, the two behind looked to be wavering. The fact they hadn’t lined up with their buddies told Stone as much. He pointed at the bigger of the two lead men. “Take a good look up at the stars, cupcake. It’s a beautiful night. You won’t see them again. But maybe one of your girlfriends here will tell you what they look like from tomorrow night onwards.” He pointed at the man next to him. “But not him. He’s not going to be telling anyone anything.”
