Cutter's Run

by William G. Tapply

  “What else did you hear?” I said.

  “Oh, I ain’t the kind to spread rumors, don’t you know. Anyways, you was there.” Her eyebrows were arched expectantly.

  “I don’t really know anything about it,” I said. I lifted my hand to her, then went out past the woodstove and its semicircle of chairs and pushed open the door into the back room.

  It was lit by a single bare sixty-watt bulb screwed into a ceiling socket and two dusty windows that bracketed the back door. It smelled of dirt and mold. All four walls were lined with sagging wood-plank shelves crammed with cartons, bags, bottles, and cans. Cardboard boxes and wooden crates were piled randomly over most of the floor space. Leon was sitting on one of the crates. He had a clipboard on his knee, a lump of tobacco in his cheek, a Styrofoam cup in his hand, and a pencil over his ear. He was looking at me as if he’d been expecting me and I was late. He patted the crate beside him. “Take a load off, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “I was just gettin’ away from that old witch for a few minutes.”

  I went over and sat beside him.

  “Ain’t seen you in a couple days,” he said. “Been savin’ them papers for you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Ain’t had a chance to congratulate you.”

  I frowned. “What did I do?”

  “Some folks’re wondering how a fella from away gets himself deputized.” He pursed his lips, lifted the Styrofoam cup to his mouth, and spit voluptuously into it.

  I shook my head. “It’s just Sheriff Dickman’s idea of a joke, Leon.”

  “Folks’re thinkin’,” he said, turning to look at me, “what’s a slick lawyer from Boston doin’, snoopin’ around other people’s property, stickin’ his nose in places it don’t rightly belong.”

  “In the first place,” I said with a smile, “I’m not all that slick, Leon. Anyway, I’m not a real deputy. I found that swastika on my car and reported it to the sheriff, and…” I flapped my hands to suggest the foolishness of it all.

  He shrugged. “I don’t make no judgments, mind you. But that ain’t the way Hoodie sees it.”

  I cocked my head. “How does Hoodie see it?”

  Leon reached over and patted my leg with his big rough hand. “Now, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Don’t you get me wrong, okay? Hoodie’s been needin’ a thrashin’ for some time, and most folks around here are probably clappin’ and cheerin’ for what you and the sheriff done to him. You ask me—”

  “What,” I said, “did we do to Arnold Hood?”

  Leon shifted his chaw to the other cheek. “I guess you drug him out of his house and whacked him around some. Serves him right.”

  “Arnold told you this?”

  “He come limpin’ in yesterday just before we closed up, pissin’ and moanin’. I ask him what was the matter with his leg. He said you done it to him.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he say why I did it?”

  Leon grinned. “Hoodie says he’s mindin’ his own business—which I don’t believe, Mr. Coyne—and you and Dickman go bargin’ into his kitchen, grab ahold of his shirt, and haul him outdoors. Start askin’ questions about Miz Charlotte, which he says he can’t answer, and you shove him down and start thumpin’ his leg with a tire iron. He says—you gotta pardon the expression, but it’s how Hoodie put it—he says he guesses you got a hard-on for Charlotte.” He shook his head. “Anybody got a hard-on for anybody, it’s Hoodie. Like I said, I don’t believe him. But he did say you showed him a deputy’s badge. Hoodie ain’t got enough imagination to make that up.”

  I smiled. “That’s quite a story, Leon.”

  “It’s Hoodie’s story, not mine,” he said. “You want a beer?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” I said.

  He pushed himself up and went to an old refrigerator beside the back door. He came back with two cans of Coors and handed one to me. I snapped it open and took a long swallow.

  Leon settled back onto the crate beside me. “I tell you this,” he said. “Hoodie’s had it comin’ for a long time, and I doubt many folks around here are feelin’ bad for him. Especially Miz Palmer. No, sir.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You never met Janine Palmer?”

  I shook my head.

  “Lives in a trailer with that girl of hers out to West County Road past the old dump. Brings her food stamps here. Janine ain’t never had it easy, but whenever she’s got a spare dollar she tries the lottery, and every time she does, she tells me she expects she’s gonna win, and then she’s gonna move her and her little girl back up to Calais where she come from, buy a house near her folks.” He paused to pop the top of his beer can. “I don’t spread gossip, Mr. Coyne. Pauline does, but not me. This ain’t gossip. It’s the truth, and I guess there’s no harm in sharin’ what’s true.” He turned and arched his eyebrows at me.

  “The truth isn’t the same as gossip,” I said.

  Leon tilted up his head, lifted his beer can to his mouth, and took a long swallow. Then he squinted at me. “Hoodie likes girls,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that, I guess.”

  “No, I mean girls. Not women.”

  “Young girls, you mean,” I said.

  “Yup, suh.” He nodded emphatically. “I sure’n hell don’t get it. Hoodie’s not too bright and not very good-lookin’ and he ain’t got any money.” He shrugged. “Must be hung like a gorilla, only thing I can figger. Anyways, poor Miz Palmer, tryin’ to raise that wild little thing of hers all by herself, and that Louise, twitchin’ her butt around in them painted-on dungarees of hers at anybody with a lump in his pants.” Leon took another long swig of beer, and I noticed that he did it without removing the tobacco from his cheek. When he lowered the can, he looked at me and said, “Louise is tellin’ everybody it’s the LeClair boy. But most folks figure it’s Hoodie.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Louise—that’s Paris LeClair’s girlfriend?”

  He nodded. “Hoodie wanted nothin’ to do with her once he knocked her up.”

  “Paris calls her Weezie,” I said. “Is that who you mean?”

  “Yes, sir. That boy’s braggin’ on how he shoved a biscuit in her oven, and she ain’t contradicting him. But that’s Hoodie’s biscuit, and I guess young Paris LeClair is about the only one in town who don’t know it.” He tilted up his beer can again, and I watched his throat work as he drained it. Then he said, “But you come back here for a reason, Mr. Coyne, and I don’t guess it was to find out who’s gettin’ who pregnant around here.”

  “No,” I said. “Actually, I wondered if you know anything about the old tannery.”

  “Cutter’s?” He shrugged. “What’s to know? It shut down before I was born, and Noah Hollingsworth’s daddy bought it up.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at me. “I s’pose you heard about Noah. Damn shame. Knowed him all my life. Good fella, Noah. Knew how to mind his business, always paid cash.”

  “I liked him a lot,” I said.

  “Hear they think Miz Susannah might’ve done it.”

  “Leon,” I said, “is there anything you don’t hear?”

  He shrugged. “People come in here, they tell you stories. Ambulance picks up somebody in Garrison, I hear about it. Sheriff shows up, then some state cops, don’t sound like no heart attack to me. Gotta figure there’s something to it.”

  “Well, I doubt if Susannah is a suspect,” I said. “What about the tannery?”

  He shook his head. “Nothin’, far as I know. Why?”

  I shrugged. “I just wondered if it was being used for anything.”

  “Now why would you wonder a thing like that? That tannery’s been shut down since they brung in electricity. Nothin’ but falling-down concrete and a few holes in the ground.” He sucked on his lips for a minute, then looked up at me. “Though I understand Hoodie had some interest in it a while back.”

  “What kind of interest?”

  Leon shook his head. �
��Hoodie figured Noah ought to deed it over to him, since it was next to his property there and no good to Noah.” He flapped his hand. “That’s Hoodie. Always lookin’ to get something for nothin’.”

  “But why would Arnold Hood want it?” I said.

  Leon picked up his Styrofoam cup and spit into it. “Beats the hell out of me.” He examined the inside of the cup, then turned and peered at me. “And why would you care about that old place?”

  “No reason,” I said. “I tried to catch a trout out of the beaver pond there yesterday and saw the remains. I’m interested in old historic places, that’s all.”

  Leon laughed. “Nothin’ historic about that place. What I hear, old man Cutter never did make any money at it. Anyways, I guess it’s Miz Susannah’s now. Maybe Hoodie can convince her to sign it over to him. That Hoodie’s got a way with women.” He held up his empty beer can. “Another?”

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly six-thirty. “No, thanks.” I stood up and held my hand out to him. “I’ve got to run, Leon. Thanks for the beer.”

  He nodded. “Anytime. Listen, though. Pauline’s givin’ me a lot of shit about holdin’ your newspapers.”

  “It’s very considerate of you. But hereafter, if I’m not in by noontime, you go ahead and sell them.”

  He smiled. “Appreciate it. I gotta choose my fights with Pauline, and much as I’d like to oblige you, holdin’ your paper for you ain’t one of ’em.”

  CHAPTER 30

  WHEN I GOT BACK to Alex’s house, I found the red light on the answering machine blinking. One message. I pressed the button, the tape whirred, beeped once, and then I heard Charlie’s voice. “Coyne,” he said. “You’d better call me.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Even when he’s leaving a message on my answering machine, Charlie rarely fails to insult me, or crack a bad joke, or mention trout fishing or the Red Sox bullpen or a new Italian restaurant he’s discovered. On the few occasions when he has failed to, it’s invariably meant bad news of some kind.

  I sat down, lit a cigarette, and poked out his number, and when Shirley answered and I told her it was me again, she said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Coyne. Mr. McDevitt is waiting for your call.”

  When Shirley is all business, something’s definitely up.

  “Brady,” said Charlie when Shirley connected us, “what in hell is going on up there?”

  “I thought I explained—”

  “Yeah, you did,” he said. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “I told you everything I know. You’d better tell me what this is I’m hearing in your voice.”

  He cleared his throat. “Maybe I’m in the process of being shitcanned here, and this is their way of letting me know. Otherwise…”

  “Otherwise what? I said when his voice trailed off.

  “Otherwise I would probably be risking my neck to tell you. But fuck it. Listen. Normally, getting the dope on someplace like SynGen, Inc., is simple. Tap into the IRS files and I can scan their tax returns. Department of Commerce gives me the terms of their incorporation, history, clients, employees, board of directors, who they buy stuff from and sell it to, anything I want to know about their business. Anything I still don’t know, I can slip into the State of Maine files by hitting about three keys on the computer. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Access denied,” said Charlie. “All across the board. I type in ‘SynGen, Inc.,’ and I run into a brick wall. I tried a few roundabout routes, because this kind of thing both pisses me off and scares me. I tried those guys—Passman, Tate, Stasio. Same fucking thing, Brady. Listen, I can get Saddam’s shoe size if I want it. I can get the names of every woman the president’s ever looked at, and what cigarettes they smoke and whether they like their martinis stirred or shaken. See, it’s not as if these guys aren’t in the computers. There are files on them, all right. I just can’t open them. You getting the picture here?”

  “Maybe,” I said slowly, “you’d better spell it out for me.”

  “Okay. Read my lips, here, and I’ll make it simple for you. Stay away from SynGen. Steer clear of Tate, Passman, and Stasio. Just forget it. Okay?”

  “Why?”

  I heard Charlie blow out a quick breath. “Why? Because, my naive but nevertheless beloved friend, I want to keep my fishing partner around for a while. I want to collect that plate of Marie’s calamari. Because, goddammit, I am sincerely afraid that something bad will happen to you if you don’t back off.”

  “Charlie, wait—”

  “No. You listen to me. Sometimes you are too damned curious for your own good. And sometimes you are just so—so stupid that I want to slap some sense into your face. Curiosity and stupidity are a very dangerous combination, Brady. Access denied. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said. I hesitated. “What about you? Are you in trouble, Charlie?”

  I heard him sigh. “I don’t know. It’s for damn sure that they’ll know I tried to get into the company’s files. Well, that by itself probably wouldn’t set off too many alarms. But then, stupid me, I went after those three guys. They’ll see that. What the hell is McDevitt after? they’ll be saying. What’s he know? Of course, I don’t know anything, or if I do, I don’t know what I know, which doesn’t help. So I’m sitting here trying to think up a story for them when they come around asking. Got any bright ideas?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. Obviously it’s got something to do with Charlotte Gillespie and Noah Hollingsworth, but whatever it is… Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who’s the ‘they’ who’ll know you were trying to access those files? The ‘they’ who might come around to interrogate you?”

  “Well, hell,” he said. “If I knew that I’d be halfway there, wouldn’t I?”

  “Listen,” I said. “I gave a SynGen financial report to an accountant friend of mine to look at. If he finds anything, I’ll let you know. It might help you deal with… with whoever you’ll have to deal with.”

  “Oh, boy,” muttered Charlie. “Now there’s a financial report floating around. Oh, boy.”

  “It’s not floating around. It’s—”

  “Get it back. Send it to me. No. Cancel that. Just burn it. Okay?”

  “It’s on a computer disk. I e-mailed a copy of it to Skip Churchill and copied it onto Alex’s hard drive.”

  Charlie laughed. I heard no humor whatsoever in his laugh. “Terrific,” he said. “So it’s out there in cyberspace somewhere for anybody to snag. And now you probably got Skip in the soup, too. Jesus, Coyne.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Ah, shit, I know you didn’t know. Don’t worry about it. Just do what I tell you. Stay the hell away from those guys and that SynGen place. Destroy that disk and erase it from Alex’s computer and tell Skip to trash whatever he got from you pronto. Okay?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “I mean it, Brady.”

  “I’ll do it, Charlie.”

  He sighed. “Why do I not quite believe you?”

  “Because you think you know me,” I said. “But you know I would never do anything to put my friends in jeopardy. I’ll talk to Skip right away. I promise.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean, ‘and’?”

  “And you’ll stop snooping? And you’ll destroy the disk?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He laughed. “You’re a fucking liar, Coyne. Look. Be careful, will you?”

  “I promise you that,” I said.

  After I disconnected from Charlie, I tried the sheriff. The dispatcher said she couldn’t reach him but would tell him I had called. I asked her to patch me through to his cruiser and mentioned my rank of deputy, but that didn’t seem to impress her. I told her it was pretty important, and that didn’t impress her, either.

  I tried his home number, got his machine, and told him I needed to talk to him. “I’ve heard some things
,” I said, trying to sound mysterious.

  The phone rang about ten seconds after I hung up. “It’s Skip,” he said when I picked it up. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Does this urgency mean you found something?”

  “Well, I found something. I don’t know what it means, and I wouldn’t know if it was urgent or not.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Basically,” Skip said, “this is the raw data an accountant used to prepare a corporate quarterly report. It’s not the report itself. It’s the accountant’s equivalent of a scratch pad. Income, expenses, taxes, inventories, capital depreciation, salaries, benefits, all that stuff, broken down into categories. In this format, I couldn’t tell you what all those categories are, though I can make some guesses. If I had, say, the previous quarter’s report, I could nail all of them for you.”

  “What would that tell you?”

  “That,” said Skip, “would tell me where this corporation is cheating.”

  “What do you mean, cheating?”

  “Hell, Brady. I don’t know. Like I said, this is all in the accountant’s shorthand. It’s like code. Acronyms and abbreviations that don’t make any sense to me. But they’d make sense to a financial officer in the corporation, and they’d sure as hell make sense to a squinty-eyed IRS accountant who had the other records handy.”

  “Can you make a guess?” I said. “What’s your hunch?”

  “We accountants,” he said, “don’t know from hunches. We crunch numbers, not guesses.”

  I laughed. “Jesus, Skip.”

  “Well, it’s true,” he said. Then he laughed, too. “My guess would be wild and irresponsible. But, hell, accountants can be as wild and irresponsible as, say, a lawyer, when their client isn’t paying them.” He hesitated. “What it looks like to me is that somebody’s stealing this firm’s inventory.”

  “Stealing?”

  “Yes. Or destroying it, or using it in a manner that they want to hide. See, in a report like this one, everything’s got to be accounted for. That’s why they hire accountants. To account for things. And whoever prepared this data found something they couldn’t account for.”