Full Curl

by Dave Butler

  Castillo paced the room, his hands in the pockets of tan linen pants, his mind swirling. Focusing on his breathing as though he were about to shoot a rifle, he forced air in and out of his lungs, deep and slow.

  “This puts my supply chain north of the border at significant risk,” said Castillo. “Because of you and your trust in the wrong people, I’ve lost the ability to move any product south … which puts me in a very difficult position.”

  “Whaddaya want me to do?” asked Eastman.

  Castillo stood still for a moment, his hands on the corner of his desk now, his eyes piercing under thick, dark brows. He began to move his upper body up and down as though doing push-ups. “I need you to find out who’s in this gang,” he said. “How many are there? Who are they? Where do they live? Where do they work? Who are they selling to? Who do they hang out with, and where? I want to know everything about them, more than they know about themselves. There isn’t room for two operations in that area, and I will not accept being on the outside looking in. Are you capable of doing that?”

  “How am I gonna find out all that?”

  “You’re going to figure it out. Or do I need to find someone else to fix your mess?”

  “No … no, I can handle it,” said Eastman.

  “I will not accept failure on this, Bernie,” said Castillo. He glowered at Eastman without blinking. “You’ve had a couple of major fuck-ups and I will not allow it to happen again. Do you hear what I am saying to you? Do you fully understand the implications of making another mistake?”

  “I get it,” said Eastman, again swallowing hard.

  “I’m not sure you do,” said Castillo. “Think about your wife and kids as a widow and orphans.”

  Eastman’s earlier bravado was nearly gone. “When I find out who these guys are, what’re you gonna do?”

  “That is no longer any of your concern. Let me be clear. I need that information quickly. You have left me no choice but to take care of them myself, permanently. You deal with Clark and I’ll deal with this. And before you go, I remind you that I need you to let me know when you’ve spoken to Clark. I will come across the border on September third, so you must talk to him soon.”

  With his emotions back under control, Castillo pushed a small button on the side of his desk. The outer door to the office opened quickly.

  “Billy will ensure that you and your family have a few minutes to gather your things, check out of the hotel, and be on the road home,” said Castillo. “It’s unfortunate you couldn’t stay longer to enjoy our hospitality. You have work to do and you don’t have much time in which to do it.” He dismissed Eastman by turning his back on him.

  When Eastman left the office and the door clicked shut behind him, Castillo moved back to the window overlooking the casino. He looked down as Whitehead escorted Eastman across the floor of the casino toward the hotel entrance. The gambling patrons parted as the two big men moved through them, like supertankers through thin Arctic ice.

  Just like earlier in the afternoon, Castillo’s mind was not on the casino or the patrons feeding coins into his machines. He thought about Eastman, the man who’d just added another layer of problems to his world. Castillo rarely second-guessed his own decisions, but in the case of the outfitter, he recognized that doing anything more than hunting with the man had been a mistake. It was a mistake that needed fixing — and fast.

  Castillo considered himself an optimist, but he was also a realist. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was slowly losing control of the world around him. For a man like him, that was the ultimate in failure.

  Chapter 23

  After his troubling meeting with Castillo in Bonners Ferry, Bernie Eastman arrived home, bad-tempered and thirsty. It wasn’t enough that he’d been made to feel like a complete fuck-up, but his family’s ejection from the hotel, only hours after checking in, had left them sullen and resentful. With two disappointed boys in the truck, Eastman would have preferred silence to their questions. “I don’t understand why we had to leave, Daddy,” the youngest kept saying. “Why did we have to get out of the pool so fast?” While he could deal with that, he knew that his wife would ask more questions when they got home, in her shrill, incredibly annoying voice. And she had.

  It was at times like this that Eastman wondered why he always ended up around tiresome, unpleasant, yappy women. He despised them and yet, for most of his life, he’d been surrounded by them. Perhaps it was some kind of goddamn karma, he thought, for something he’d done in a past life. His mother had been a horrible nag until he left home, his older sister no better. Since they’d arrived home, his red-haired wife had asked the same dumb question again and again, so he’d tuned her out. She was clueless about their financial situation and would likely ignore any explanation he tried to offer, constantly reminding him that it was her money that bought the territory. As far as he knew, all she thought about was shopping and gambling. And not necessarily in that order, which was why he’d kept her away from the casino. Instead of listening to her, Eastman had pictured Wendy Clark in her hole in the ground, buried in a remote corner of his property. There was room for both women in there, he thought. They could complain and natter at each other forever, talking and never listening. But he was also sure that if there was a hell for him, that was what it would be, and that was where he’d end up. He shuddered at the thought.

  Carrying their hastily packed bags, his sons had disappeared to their bedrooms as soon as the front door was opened. Eastman chose a chair in the small office from which he ran his business. His door closed, he placed an ice-cold Guinness on the desk in front of him, and then sat with a groan and a sigh. The swirling tans and dark browns in the tall glass matched the churning currents of his thoughts. He had contacts in the drug trade, some reliable, some less so, and he’d have to use every one of them to identify the guys who’d beat up Wendy Clark and then ripped him off. Of all the things Castillo had asked him to do since they’d first met, Eastman understood that the ultimatum he’d just been given had the most significant consequences. If he failed, his wife could spend the meager proceeds from his life insurance on whatever the hell she wanted. At that point, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

  An hour later, Eastman’s cellphone rang, disturbing his random scribblings on a pad of paper. From the sound of the ringtone — a bad imitation of a bugling elk — he knew it was Charlie Clark. This was a surprise. He’d been trying to locate the guy for weeks.

  “Charlie, where the hell’ve you been?” asked Eastman when he answered the phone. “I’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere. You didn’t return my calls.”

  “I know, I know, I’ve been lookin’ for my wife,” said Clark. “I haven’t seen her for weeks. Any idea where she mighta gone?”

  In the aftermath of his rage-fuelled assault on Wendy Clark, Eastman had given no thought to anyone missing her. Not even her husband. “Uh … I got no clue, Charlie. When and where did you last see her?”

  “I haven’t seen ’er since late May, I guess. I can’t remember for sure. But this ain’t like ’er,” said Clark. “I think the last time I saw ’er she said she was headin’ out your way.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, that was a long time ago. She was here to pick up somethin’, but then I think she headed toward Kimberley,” said Eastman, omitting a few key facts. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.”

  The guy must be desperate for money, Eastman thought, and maybe for food and medication. But he knew he’ d done Clark a favour. He was better off without her.

  “Forget about her, Charlie, she’ll show up,” said Eastman. “What’s important is that she told me you talked to the cops and COs about our hunts. How could you be so fuckin’ stupid, Charlie? What did you tell ’em?”

  “After they found the dope at our trailer,” said Clark, his voice echoing that of his wife, “my lawyer told me I should meet with ’em ’cause he might be able to get t
he drug charges reduced. When we met with ’em, though, they already knew about your guarantee … and they knew about Castillo, though they don’t know his name yet. But they know he’s an American and they knew he shot animals in the parks. I don’t know how, but they knew everything! With all those uniforms and lawyers in one room, I got scared and confused. I didn’t know what the hell was goin’ on and I didn’t understand the legal bullshit they threw at me. They tricked me into agreein’ with what they said. It wasn’t my fault! But I never told ’em Castillo’s name. I never did.”

  In a disturbing shot of reality, Eastman heard himself saying the same thing to Castillo that very morning. It sounded as sad and empty coming from Clark now as it must have coming from him then. But if what Clark was saying was true, if he hadn’t willingly ratted Eastman out, then how had the COs found out about his guarantee and about his client being an American? “Jesus Christ, Charlie,” he said, “how could you do that to us? Castillo is gonna want our hides.”

  “I had no goddamn choice, Bernie, I’m sorry.” He sounded completely defeated. “But … but, like I said, they have no idea who he is. That’s gotta be good, right?”

  “That’s the only thing you did good,” said Eastman. “You are fuckin’ lucky I didn’t find you in person, Charlie, because I woulda beat the shit out of you. I may do that, anyways. Are you still talking to the cops?”

  “I got nothin’ more to say to them,” said Clark. “The lawyer’s handlin’ it. I tried to keep you out of it as much as I could, Bernie, I really did. You gotta believe me. But now, I know I’m goin’ to jail. I just don’t know for how long.”

  Even though his anger and anxiety were mounting by the second, Eastman remembered Castillo’s precise instructions about the upcoming hunt. He didn’t want to add to his already long list of screw-ups, and he could square things with Clark later. “Well, it’s done now,” he said. “We’ll have to sit tight and see what happens. I guess I’ll lose my fuckin’ guide territory because of this — you and I are gonna square that up at some point.” He paused before continuing. “But, Charlie, we’ve got one more hunt to do before that happens and I can pay you upfront for it.”

  “Say what?” asked Clark. “Who are we gonna hunt with?”

  “Castillo. He’s gonna come up one more time,” said Eastman.

  “Are ya sure?” asked Clark. “I can’t believe it. The guy has got big brass balls. When’s he comin’ up and what’s he goin’ for?”

  Eastman could tell that Clark was surprised by the news, but his question about when and what made it clear that he was going to tell the COs about the plans as soon as he could. But, whether it made any sense or not, that was what Castillo wanted. And after all that had happened so far, Eastman wasn’t going to argue.

  “He’s comin’ up to the territory in the first week of September to get a big male griz,” he said.

  “That goddamn Mexican doesn’t give a shit about the COs or wardens, does he?” said Clark. “Are we really gonna risk shootin’ somethin’ else illegal?”

  “At this point, Charlie, we got nothin’ to lose,” said Eastman. “This may be our last chance to make some money for a bit. So I need you to help guide. The base and satellite camps are ready to go. All I have to do is buy food, get the horses ready here, and hire a cook. I’ll let you know when everythin’s set. He’s gonna arrive on September third, and we’ll start the hunt on the fourth.”

  “What about the money?” asked Clark.

  “I’ll pay you two grand for this last one. I’ll bring it over the next time I’m in town. Until then, try not to do anythin’ else stupid.” He hung up the phone. This was one guy he wasn’t going to miss.

  Finishing the last of his Guinness, which was now, like his current situation, warm and bitter, Eastman suddenly realized he had something on Castillo that he could use to his advantage, to help turn back the waves of legal and financial problems threatening to drown him. It was serious leverage, leverage that, if he chose to use it, had to be wielded carefully and at the right time. The COs and park wardens didn’t know who Castillo was. And they didn’t know all the activities the American had his dirty hand in. But Eastman did.

  Chapter 24

  July 23

  The sun had abandoned the town of Banff for the day, but it still lit the west-facing slopes of Mount Rundle, the bare alpine glowing, trees below in shade. Jenny Willson stood at the window of the warden office, watching the line between light and dark creep up the mountain. In her hand was the final mug of Kick Ass poured from her thermos — a thermos hidden in her desk so she didn’t have to share it. Steam from the coffee misted the window. With her right index finger, she traced a question mark in the condensation on the glass.

  Since arriving in Banff from her Sandpoint meeting a month earlier, Willson had reviewed the case file, page by page, paying particular attention to her notes from the interview with Charlie Clark. Her focus was always on this case, even when doing other things. It distracted her during the day and dominated her dreams by night. Throughout, she was looking for something, anything, that she could use to push, prod, or cajole Clark into saying more than he’d already told her. But so far, nothing.

  She’d considered dropping in on Eastman, laying out the evidence they had against him, doing her best to persuade him to give up the American. Other than the quick meeting in a dark Banff parking lot, she still hadn’t spoken to the guide, hadn’t looked him in the eye, hadn’t let him know that she was the one who was rocking his world, and not in a good way. And that left her dissatisfied, as though she was purposefully abstaining from the pleasure of seeing his face. But she wasn’t delusional. She knew enough about the man to understand that unless she was there to arrest him, he’d probably laugh at her if she showed up at his door. There was no doubt that he knew about her, perhaps even had a vague recollection of her. She assumed that Clark had mentioned her name and her role in their troubles. But so far, it was probable that she was as much of a mystery to him as he was to her. Given that, perhaps it was best if she left him looking over his shoulder, wondering when she would come for him.

  She walked back to her desk. “Not yet,” she said to herself, “not yet. We’ll get our chance to meet again, Bernie. You and I have lots to talk about.”

  Instead, she elected to call Clark, to tell him that she’d drop in to talk to him in person. She was confident that if she could get him alone, without his lawyer, she could persuade him to talk. The man was already uncertain, clearly on edge. She could push him over that edge, and once there, he might open up about the American hunter. But first, she’d tie a belay rope around his waist, at least figuratively. Clark’s testimony in court would be critical, so she couldn’t push him so far over a cliff, emotionally or legally, that he’d be useless to her. Willson found his phone number in her notes and dialled.

  Clark answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”

  “Charlie, this is Jenny Willson from the Banff warden office. I’m sure you’ll remember that we met at your house and then again at the Cranbrook RCMP detachment.”

  “Yeah, I remember you. Whaddaya want?”

  “I’ve got some information I want to share with you. I’d like to come down tomorrow to meet with you.”

  “New information?” asked Clark. “Is it about Wendy, my wife?”

  “No,” said Willson, suddenly curious. “What happened to your wife?”

  “She’s been missing for a while now — almost two months, I think — and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “You don’t know how long she’s been missing?”

  “No, I … I don’t remember for sure. They cops found her car in Kimberley. The door was open and it was out of gas. It was like she just walked away. But she knows how to get into our bank account and I don’t. And now I’ve run out of money … and I can’t get my pills … or any food. But I need those pills ’cause …”


  Willson could tell that Clark was struggling. His speech was halting, slurred, and he was clearly anxious about his wife, or at least about the missing drugs and food. “Are you sick, Charlie?”

  “Well, yeah,” Clark said. “I got Parkinson’s … and I need my meds.”

  “You mean Parkinson’s disease, Charlie?”

  “That what I said. I … I need the money to buy my pills.”

  “Doesn’t your B.C. health plan cover the cost?”

  “Not all of it. And I need food … and gas for the truck … and I have to pay rent on the trailer.”

  “Geez, Charlie,” said Willson, her voice rising. “Have you phoned the RCMP?”

  “No, I’m not sure what to do … or who to phone,” Clark said, sounding scared and confused. “When they found her car, they called me so I could get it towed back here, but I didn’t think she was missin’ then. With all that’s goin’ on, I thought maybe she mighta gone off somewhere, maybe a holiday or to visit some of her family back east.”

  “You might be right. But two months is a long time. And to just abandon her car like that …” Willson said. “Look, let me call the RCMP. One of them will want to talk to you and get more details about Wendy, just in case.”

  “Shit … the last thing I need is more cops in my life,” said Clark. “But yeah … whatever.”

  “I’d still like to come down to talk to you. I need your help.”

  Clark coughed, as though he was having trouble breathing. “I’ll help you out, but you gotta promise to help me out.”

  “I promise. I’ll come down tomorrow. Is there anything else about Bernie’s hunting plans that’s changed since you and I last talked?”