by Todd Borg
I wiped at the dried blood with my forearm and gave her a weak smile. “Just a scratch received in the course of achieving a positive denouement,” I said.
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, I sat in my big chair and drank my coffee while I looked at the Bierstadt painting. It was so overdone, the mountains, the waterfalls and the God-like light in the clouds around the peaks. Yet I was drawn to it as one is drawn to all excess of beauty. It was as if Bierstadt said of his painting, ‘If a little beauty is good, more must be better.’ He made the subject of the painting less a mountain landscape and more an essay on beauty. It seemed that beauty was sacred to Bierstadt, and the excess of it in his painting was like the excesses of gothic cathedrals. No depiction of sacredness can be too grand for the worshipful parishioners. I looked up from the book and swept my eyes across the lake. The beauty before me was not as loud as the beauty in the painting, but it was just as sweet. To burn it up was like burning my church. And when people were in the church as the flames engulfed it, the crime was beyond outrage.
I realized I’d been breathing fast, and the tension through my body was palpable. Maybe it was time to take it out on someone.
An hour later, I parked directly in front of the High River Saloon in Truckee. The place was crammed between a Laundromat and a beauty salon in a low-slung, dark, clapboard building. Outside were parked two pickups and two Harleys.
Spot and I walked up to the front door of the bar like we did it every morning. I pushed in through actual swinging half-doors like those on an old-west saloon in the movies.
The inside was dark and stunk of wet wood and malted hops gone bad. I walked across an uneven wooden floor, past a pool table with a trio of fat biker types playing eightball.
A broad man a good two or three inches over six feet was behind the bar, rinsing glasses. He had on a white, short-sleeved shirt. The sleeves were rolled up high, exposing large biceps. Over the shirt was a gray banker’s vest, open at the front. The effect was a little Victorian elegance over casual Film Noir. The pockmarks on his face were obvious from a distance. He telegraphed tension, and it bunched the powerful muscles of his neck and shoulders.
“Hi, Joe,” I said as I walked by.
He instantly looked up, no doubt wondering who I was and how I knew his name.
“Lose your phone?” I said. I slid the phone onto the bar and walked past him down the long stretch of mahogany.
“Hey, man,” the bartender said, his eyes stealing a furtive look at Spot. He picked up the phone. “Where’d you get this? Somebody stole it right off of this bar.”
I ignored the man and took Spot to the opening at the end of the bar where the hinged section lifts up so that bartenders can come and go. I lifted the hinged piece up and over, then touched Spot on the shoulder and pointed to the opening.
“Sit-stay,” I said. Spot sat. He wasn’t the smartest dog in the world, but he made up for it by being practically the biggest. And he’d learned well a few of the tricks I’d taught him. I pointed to the bartender. “Watch him.”
Without budging from his haunches, Spot turned and focused on Joe.
It is an impressive sight when a 170 pound dog with pointy ears and very large teeth turns his attention on a single person without letting anything, man or beast, distract him. His normally lugubrious eyes become laser weapons and his panting tongue flicks little drops of saliva toward the would-be prey just as if he were entering a pre-prandial Pavlovian response.
The result is that the person being watched usually caves. I’ve seen big guys with loaded guns go limp under Spot’s intense gaze.
I was glad for the exercise because it was a good way to change Spot’s mood.
I left Spot and walked back up the bar to where Joe stood. Behind me, the pool players stopped poking at the balls and watched my dog, their pool cues in suspended animation.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Joe said.
I was surprised. If my dog flustered him, he didn’t show it.
I pulled out the napkin that had my office address on it. “Did you write this?” I asked.
“Screw you,” the bartender said.
I turned toward Spot, almost winking, as we were about to show off his most impressive trick. “He’s trying to sound tough, Spot. Maybe you should show him we mean business.”
At this, Spot stood, lifted his lips in a snarl and gave forth one of the deepest, most impressive growls in the history of the earth. Spot kept up his chest-shaking volume as he walked up the aisle behind the bar toward Joe.
Spot bends his legs a little when he does this, so it appears he is stalking his prey. But the intensity is so out of proportion to merely collecting dinner, that it seems instead as if he is about to exact a terrible revenge.
Joe betrayed the tiniest of quivers. He glanced at the bar, possibly wondering if he could vault it.
I was ready to leap over the bar myself just in case Joe pulled out a weapon.
Spot was now only ten feet away from Joe. The amplitude of his growl ratcheted up another notch, and his lips pulled back further revealing teeth that would give pause to a grizzly.
“Okay!” Joe said. A distinct tremble ran through his body. “What do you want?!”
“Enough, Spot,” I said.
My dog immediately stopped growling, looked at me and, for the first time since the Pussy Cat incident, vigorously wagged his tail.
“Damn it, Spot,” I said. “When you wag, it spoils the whole effect.”
Spot wagged some more. His tail knocked a large, plastic tonic bottle off a shelf. It hit the floor, bounced and rolled away.
“Sit,” I said.
He sat once again. At least now, the wagging tail swept the floor and was somewhat subdued. I couldn’t blame him, really. He knew his growl was majestic acting, the dog world’s version of Laurence Olivier playing Iago.
Joe leaned on the counter below the bar. Tiny drops of sweat on his face glowed in the recessed light like little glass beads.
Again, I gestured at the napkin. “Did you write this?”
“Shit!” Joe said. “I knew they wouldn’t...” he glanced at Spot and then stopped.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Yes, I hired them,” Joe said, his voice cracking. He leaned heavily on the counter. His breathing was labored. “I gave Jeremy Dodger five hundred and your address and said he was to convince you to drop the fire investigation.”
“You thought he’d intimidate me alone?”
Joe hesitated. “I assumed he’d bring Bobby along for the ride.”
“Why did you hire them?”
“I was paid to,” he said.
It was the answer I expected. “By whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” I said, anger welling. I wanted to turn Spot loose on him.
“My instructions came over the phone. I don’t know who paid me.”
“Guess.” I was getting very irritated.
“I still don’t know.”
I lifted up my knee and braced it against the underside of the bar. In a quick, fluid movement, I reached over the mahogany slab, grabbed the fabric of his shirt and vest and yanked him off his feet and over the bar. It is a dumb move, because if the person being yanked has any sense, he can box your ears, punch your throat or poke out your eyes. But I was angry and I sensed that jerking a 200 pound man off his feet would have an intimidating effect.
I was right.
Pulled into a sprawling position over the mahogany, Joe stammered, “I’m telling the truth! I got a message about it on my machine! A woman’s voice. The money came through the slot in the door. A thousand bucks. Ten C-notes. Wrapped in a piece of newspaper. I gave five to Jeremy. Honest. I’ll give you the rest if you want!”
It felt good to see him frantic with fear. But the information about the high voice was unnerving. “Tell me about the person who called.”
“I don’t kno
w how to describe her. Her voice was distorted. Kind of tinny and buzzing.”
“Like the sound of a kazoo?”
“Yeah! A kazoo! I knew it sounded like something I’d heard before.”
I let go of his shirt and vest and pushed him back over the bar. “What did she say?”
“Just that she was going to put an envelope through my door slot with a thousand bucks in it. I was to hire someone to persuade you to stop looking into the fires. Then she told me your office address. It was her idea that I keep five hundred for my trouble.” Joe was panting. He paused and took a couple of deep breaths. “If I didn’t do it, she was going to shoot my balls off. So I figured, no skin off my back if I do it, so why not? It didn’t occur to me that you would... you know, figure out who had sent Jeremy. What happened? Your dog get them?”
I ignored the question. “Could the voice have been a man speaking falsetto?”
He thought a moment. “I don’t think so. It was pretty high.”
“Why did this person pick you?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s common knowledge that some pretty rough types hang out here.”
I glanced at the pool players still taking cover behind the pool table. When I turned back I saw the beer taps. “I’ll take a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.”
“Yeah, sure.” He wiped his hands off on his pants, got a glass and filled it. His hand shook as he set the beer on the bar. “It’s on me.”
“No, I insist,” I said and got out three ones and set them on the counter. I sucked down half of the dark amber brew, then licked the head off my upper lip. “I’ll take the five hundred, too.”
Joe swallowed. He glanced at my dog. “Uh, sure,” he said, slowly. He bent over and reached for a drawer beneath the counter.
“Real slow,” I said. He looked at me and saw my hand under my windbreaker as if I had a weapon.
He pulled out the money and set it on the bar.
I drank more of my ale. “You know a woman named Joanie Dove?”
He shook his head. “Who’s that?”
“She died in the Tallac Properties fire.”
“Never heard of her.”
“What about Jake Pooler?”
“Sure. Everybody knew Jake.” Joe leaned back against the counter behind him. His eyes flicked toward Spot. “Jake used to come in here after work for a bump or two. A shame about him getting fried in that fire.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was a customer, what can I say?”
“You wouldn’t want to light him on fire? Just for kicks? Or send Jeremy and Bobby to do it?”
“Look, man,” Joe said. “I made a mistake sending them after you. I’m the first to admit it. But I wouldn’t burn nobody. I’m a moral guy.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “You go to church?”
Joe hesitated. “Yeah, sure. I go to church.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to burn Jake Pooler?”
Joe threw his head back in laughter. Spot looked at me, concern on his face, then looked back at Joe.
“Look, man, there’s probably a couple hundred people who wouldn’t lose any sleep over that man’s death. He was the biggest S.O.B. in this town.”
“Give me some names,” I said. “People who’d like to see him gone.”
“Well,” Joe said slowly. “A lot of men in this town have wives who spent some time with Jake.”
“Why?” I asked. “Was he a real charmer with the ladies?”
“Must have been,” Joe said. “Either that, or he was hung like a moose. And some of those husbands for sure would have wanted him turned into toast.”
“Who can you think of?”
Joe started fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable. He glanced again at Spot who sat there watching us, blocking Joe’s escape.
“Names,” I said again.
“Well...” he said, “Jimmy MacIntyre has a real cute little wife, a young brunette, five-four, hundred five pounds.” Joe moved his hands through the air, outlining a curvy woman. “I know for a fact that for several months last summer she was spending afternoons in the sack with Jake.”
“How did an older guy like Jake get her into an affair?”
“You know, the usual. Young woman meets an older man who seems so worldly compared to her husband. The older guy uses all the right words. Next thing, the young woman is all limp in the knees, dreaming about romantic love. She never realizes that all the bastard wants is to get into her pants.”
“You’re saying Jake was a sexual predator?”
“Absolutely. Except, instead of using a knife for persuasion, he used sweet talk. It wasn’t until Jimmy’s wife discovered that Jake had two other ladies going at the same time that she went back to her husband. Yep, ol’ Jimmy MacIntyre, he especially had a bad thing going about Jake.”
“Does he live in the Truckee area?”
“Yeah. Out by Sugar Bowl ski area. He’s a maintenance guy on the chairlifts. You’ll find him in the book.”
“Who else would have been happy to have Jake gone?”
“Like I said, just about half the men in Truckee. Hell, in all of Tahoe, for that matter. Let’s see. There was Dan Turner and Wally Grossman and Big Moe Walsh over at the lumber yard. And, of course, there was that kid who worked in Jake’s office, what’s-his-name.”
“Winton Berger?” I said.
“Yeah. Jake brought him in here a time or two. God, you should have seen the way that kid looked at Jake. From what I saw, lighting Jake on fire wouldn’t satisfy that kid. More like cutting off the old man’s balls would be Winton’s style.”
“Did Jake have a fling with Winton’s girlfriend?”
“Of course,” Joe said as if I weren’t paying attention. “It was sad, when you stop and look at how hard she fell for Jake. She was built like a garden rake, skinny and plain as the workday is long. And her hair was this stringy stuff, it looked like old spaghetti. I’ll never forget, it was only about three weeks after Winton first brought her around. One afternoon she meets Jake in here by herself. They have a few bumps and for the next month or so she is in here early, waiting for the old jerk, this sappy look of bliss on her face like big daddy is some kind of drug or something. When Winton found out, he threw a brick through my front window. I had to talk lawsuit before he paid for it.”
“Did he threaten Jake or anything?”
“I don’t know. He’s pretty poor, so he probably couldn’t do anything that risked his job.”
I ruminated on that while I finished my beer. I was getting up to go when I asked the bartender, “Anyone else notable? Someone Jake really wronged? Someone who threatened Jake?”
“Well,” he said with a smirk, “there was that fireman.”
“Who?”
“I forget. It was a few years ago. This guy was on the department here in Truckee and got into an argument with Jake. Right over there by the pool table.” Joe pointed. “The fireman was a brave sonofabitch, I’ll give him that. He duked it out with Jake even though Jake was near twice his size. Now, Jake wasn’t what I’d call a real skillful fighter, but he was big and he could throw a mean punch. ‘Course, Jake was old enough to be the fireman’s father, but even so, Jake cleaned his clock. A couple of the fireman’s friends had to carry him out. His eyes swelled shut from Jake’s blows, and he was yelling that he was going to come back and burn Jake’s ass.”
“Were those his words, ‘burn his ass’?”
“Yeah. It stuck in my mind because of the word ‘burn’ coming from a fireman.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. Like I said, it was a while back. There was a group of them that would come in after their shift. One of them was Larry Riverton, and he’s still on the department up here. I could call him.”
“Let’s do that,” I said.
Joe got on the phone and dialed a number off a three-by-five card he had push-pinned to the wall. “Hey, it’s Joe over at the saloon. Lemme talk to L
arry.” In a moment he said, “Hey, Larry. Joe. Got a question. Remember that fight here a couple years ago where Jake Pooler decked that fireman? Yeah, you helped carry the poor sucker out. Right. Do you remember his name? What? No, just curious. We’re having us one of those reminiscing conversations. Hey, thanks. Your next beer is on me.”
Joe hung up the phone and turned to me. “I guess the guy left the Truckee Fire Department shortly after that fight. Went to work for one of the South Shore departments.”
“What was his name?”
“Terry Drier.”
TWENTY-TWO
Spot and I left the bar and walked up the street. I had more suspects for Jake’s murder than I knew what to do with and none for Joanie Dove’s.
Jimmy MacIntyre, Winton, Terry Drier and half the male population of Tahoe apparently had it in for Jake Pooler.
I had a lot of questions to ask Terry Drier. He previously said he’d met Jake Pooler, but nothing more. I was already in Truckee, so it made sense to first question Winton as well as Jimmy MacIntyre, the man whose cute wife apparently got lost in Jake’s allure.
When I got to the building that housed Jake Pooler Construction, I told Spot to sit at the base of the stairs. I hiked them two at a time and found the lights on and the door unlocked. When I pushed in through the weathered door, the dead man’s secretary Betty Williamson quickly closed a file folder and slipped it into the top drawer of her desk.
“Mr. McKenna!” she said, a little too much enthusiasm in her voice. “Why, what a surprise!”
“Good morning,” I said. “You’re working hard even though Jake is gone.”
“Oh, well, you know, I’m struggling to collect on some of these receivables. Lenora Pooler is going to need all the money she can get, what with funeral expenses and all.”
“Is Mrs. Pooler going to keep the business?” I asked.
“I don’t imagine so in the long term,” Betty said. “But there’s people owe us money and we deserve to get what’s coming to us.”
