Dead Silver hd-2

by Neil Mcmahon

  "I don't see why it should matter," I said. "She's a professional. You might want to make sure she discloses the rat problem."

  "It's just that I'm uncomfortable with her. But she knows the place, I don't have to hassle finding somebody else and showing them around, all that."

  "You're dodging a bullet, too," I said. "If you went with somebody else, she'd never forgive you."

  "Amen," Renee said solemnly.

  I stood up and reached for her empty plate, but she caught my hand and held it.

  "I've already dragged you into such a mess," she said. "Are you sure you want to keep going?"

  I'd said much the same thing to Madbird once; he'd answered much the way I felt now, and those words came to my mind. But they were a notch too colorful for this situation, so I toned them down.

  "Ever hear an old song called 'Riot in Cell Block Number Nine'?" I said.

  "No. It must have been before my time."

  "There's a line that goes something like, 'Scarface Jones said it's too late to quit-pass the dymamite, 'cause the fuse is lit.'"

  She smiled and gave my hand a grateful squeeze.

  It wasn't yet eight o'clock, too early for Evvie Jessup's office to be open, so Renee called her at home. Evvie was surprised to hear that Renee was back in town, and thrilled to get the news about the house sale. She said she'd hurry in to her office and be there by the time we got to town.

  I cleaned up the dishes and made the round of morning chores while Renee showered-I'd have lobbied to get in there with her but the space was small, and while usually that would be a wet soapy delight, an elbow to my ribs was inevitable-then took my own turn.

  When that was all done, I tried Tom Dierdorff's phone. He answered with Monday morning grumpiness.

  "Sounds like you're getting ready to sweet-talk a jury," I said.

  "Sorry. I like to drink kerosene to get me going, but the doctor made me switch to coffee. Just doesn't have the same bite."

  "Yeah, but you can start smoking again."

  "Goddamn, I never thought of that. You're a fucking Pollyanna, Huey."

  "It's a mick thing. Hey, I'll stop wasting your valuable pissed-off time. Any chance I can talk to that tree-spiker you defended in the Dead Silver deal? Some new twists have come along."

  There came one of his considered pauses.

  "I'll ask him, if I can find him. He was living in Missoula, but we haven't been in touch for quite a while."

  "I'd really appreciate it, Tom. This is important."

  "I'll get right on it. You still healing okay?" He was one of the friends who'd called to check on me after I'd been shot.

  "Never better," I said, glancing at Renee.

  I gave him Renee's cell phone number in case he got the information while we went to town to deal with Evvie. Then Renee and I packed overnight bags to take with us so we could head straight to Missoula without having to come back here.

  Missoula was a hundred-plus miles west of Helena, on the other side of the Rockies and the Continental Divide. The division between here and there wasn't just geographical; it aptly symbolized a deep social and political rift in this state, and probably in the nation. Missoula was widely perceived as the Berkeley of Montana-home to the state university, and a hotbed of 1960s-type alternative lifestyle and activism. Some found the atmosphere positive and exciting; many others saw it as a cesspool of decadence and subversion. The two edges of that sword were getting sharper all the time. I had friends from there who had actually become nervous about driving in other parts of the state with license plates that began with the telltale number 4, which identified them as residents of Missoula County.

  What a lot of people didn't know was that the original hippies there were mostly working-class kids from small towns, ranches, and reservations around the state-tough, hardworking, many of them war veterans-and that while some were educated, they were far from effete intellectual snobs. I'd always thought that the true underlying reason for the establishment's wrath at them was that they refused to walk any company line and they were very canny about seeing through bullshit. In general, they had a lot more in common with old-time people like my father than either group did with the newer Montana that was springing into being.

  I had always loved Missoula, and I'd had a lot of good times there. The old bars-Eddy's Club, Charley B's, The Top Hat, Luke's, The Turf, The Flame-were the kinds of places where you might meet people who'd led lives you could hardly imagine, fall in love, and get the shit kicked out of you, all in the same night.

  But my ambivalence about growth kicked in again every time I visited. The funky old downtown had been gentrified and was thronged with tourists in summer. The university-once a modest, well-run operation that was mostly attended by Montana residents-had doubled in size and turned into a moneymaking venture, largely designed as a party school for rich kids from out of state. The city itself was exploding at the fringes with commercial strips and industrial parks, while a policy known as "infill" had invaded quiet older neighborhoods, with second residences shoehorned into back and side yards, many of them cheaply built rentals. It was getting to look more and more like someplace in California. But there again, I had to recognize that all those elements would serve more human beings in many ways; and personally, I didn't feel that I had any claim to locational purity.

  The drive from Helena to Missoula was about two hours. It would have been sensible and politically correct for us to take Renee's comfortable, economical Suburu instead of my truck. But I felt cramped in smaller vehicles, I liked sitting up high, and I liked having a lot of metal around me.

  I stowed our gear under the pickup's seat, and we headed for town.

  41

  Evvie Jessup's office was a ground-floor suite in a mini-mall off Eleventh Avenue, toward the east edge of Helena. I wasn't particularly anxious to exchange small talk, so I pulled up in front to drop Renee off. I could see Evvie through the large plate glass windows, sitting at her desk. As soon as she spotted Renee, she rose and hurried to the door, waving excitedly.

  I backed up and swung the pickup around in the parking lot. Just before I turned onto Eleventh again, I glanced automatically at my rearview mirrors. I was compulsive about that, checking them constantly even on deserted roads. My glimpse showed Renee stepping into the office, with Evvie embracing her.

  A third figure had also come into view, a burly bearded man wearing tinted eyeglasses-Evvie's husband, Lon. He must have been in the rear of the suite and had opened the door to come into the main room. But a few seconds later, when a break in traffic allowed me to pull out, he was still standing there motionless.

  A tiny tick registered in my brain. As often happened, it was gone before I could make sense of it. But I'd started learning to pay attention to those occurrences, and to remember where I was and what I was doing at the time. Sometimes they came to light later, with interesting results.

  While Renee took care of her house business, I had a matter of my own to attend to. Having her around had opened my eyes to things I hadn't noticed for years. This had started when she'd chipped a fingernail unpacking, and realized that she hadn't brought a nail file. The only help I could offer was the tool I used to round off my own manicuring snags, an automotive file for cleaning the points in my truck's distributor.

  My awareness had escalated from there. My twenty-year-old shaving brush had shed almost half its bristles; my only belt was worn thin and stained with construction glue; the shower caddy I'd cobbled together out of tie wire and welding rods was functional, but lacked an aesthetic je ne sais quoi; and so on. Most of my other possessions, clothes, and furnishings were in equivalent shape, but that was too much to worry about now. I figured I'd start by upgrading a few personal items and try to grow with the job.

  Renee had given me her cell phone so she could call me to come pick her up. I was just getting downtown, on my way to DeVore's Saddlery to buy a belt, when it rang. That surprised me mildly-I hadn't thought she'd be done so soon
. It also flustered me; I barely knew how to operate the things anyway, and I didn't dare to try while I was driving, so I steered the truck over to the curb.

  But the caller was Tom Dierdorff, with the news that he had scored-located his former client, who was not only willing to talk about the Dead Silver incident but jumping at the chance.

  "He's still got a hard-on about it," Tom said. "Sounds like if anything, you're going to have trouble shutting him up."

  His name was Buddy Pertwee; he was still living in Missoula. I wrote down his phone and address-I recognized it as being on the north side, the core enclave of the old hippie scene and still home to a fair share of holdouts from those days-thanked Tom, and went on about my rounds until Renee called me to come get her, a half hour later.

  I'd hoped I could just swing by the realty office and pick her up outside, the same way I'd dropped her off, and when I pulled up in front I stayed in the truck. But Evvie came out, too, and practically fluttered over to me; obviously, my stock with her had risen dramatically. She reached in through my window, pressed my face between her palms, and planted a kiss on my lips, eyes shining beneath her nuclear sunset hair.

  "We are so grateful to you for saving our dear one," she said. She seemed as sincere as she was capable of being.

  Lon Jessup shuffled outside, too, hanging back, as seemed to be his style. When Evvie let me go, he stepped in and offered a hearty handshake.

  "Nice work, pardner," he said. "My hat's off to you."

  Then Renee and I hit the road for the bright lights of Missoula.

  42

  It was still morning, and we weren't in any rush to get there. Buddy Pertwee worked for a landscaping business and wouldn't be available until late afternoon. I decided to avoid the Interstate and take a longer route that was one of my favorite drives-all two-lane roads, first northwest to the Blackfoot River corridor, and then following the Blackfoot west to Missoula. There'd be hardly any traffic most of the way, and the landscape was a showcase of what I loved about Montana.

  The day was typical for this time of year, with big billowy clouds that put a biting edge on the breeze when they darkened the sun, but then would part for a tantalizing burst of warmth. Canyon Creek was still iced along the banks but mostly rippled fast and free, so clear it made me thirsty. The forest thickened and the patchwork of snow became a solid quilt as we climbed the hairpin curves up Flesher Pass. From the top, the view stretched for miles, ended only by mountains or the horizon.

  "I didn't sleep with Ian again, since us," Renee said. Her words came out of the blue; she'd hardly spoken for the last half hour, and she hadn't mentioned him at all until now. The Continental Divide seemed an odd place to suddenly bring him up. But then again, maybe it was exactly right.

  I got one of those pleasant little tingles that I'd gotten with her before, a mix of emotions and physical sensation that brushed across my skin, or maybe rose up through it.

  "I figured that was none of my business," I said. "But it's nice to know."

  "I told him about you and me."

  "I've been wondering about your ring."

  "I gave it back to him," she said. "We didn't completely break the engagement. I just need to step away for a while."

  "How'd he take it?"

  "He was very understanding. Hurt, but he knows it's not about him. It's my own problems, that I've been having all along. Then on top of that comes this crazy situation with my father."

  I was relieved. I had feared that Ian was the one who had broken the engagement because she'd confessed our affair or he suspected it, and that her regret might be growing.

  "Does he still think you'll come to your senses?" I said.

  "I guess so. He's the one who asked not to break things off. But he might change his mind. And let's face it, there'd be women standing in line for a nice young doctor."

  "I hardly know Ian, but I suspect he's not going to change his mind unless he has to."

  She gave me a quick grateful smile. "I hope I don't sound heartless. I feel guilty, of course."

  I felt bad for him, too. But if I'd been him, I sure wouldn't have wanted to be on a marriage track with a woman who felt anxiety instead of anticipation.

  Renee settled back and turned her attention to the roadside scenery, while I concentrated on negotiating the steep tight turns of the pass. Coming up it was one thing; going down was another, especially in an old rig like mine. This truck was built for work, and though it handled well and soundly, it didn't have the correction buffers built into modern vehicles. If you went into a curve a few miles per hour too fast or a few feet too far to one side, pulling out would be hairy at best. Then again, she was still running as strong as ever after forty years-well worth the extra effort-and she'd never let me down.

  As the terrain leveled out the road continued to wind through a particularly lovely area approaching the Blackfoot highway. West of the Divide, the ground cover of snow mostly disappeared except in the distant higher mountains, and the crisp blue of the sky segued into a softer gray. The weather over here tended to be warmer and wetter anyway, and now it looked like a front was moving in from the Pacific. A fine drizzle began as we followed the Blackfoot, fat and roiling with spring runoff. The last few miles into Missoula took us through Hellgate Canyon, a narrow cliff-lined stretch that had been a favorite place for hostile Native tribes to ambush each other. According to one theory, this was the origin of the city's name-a Salish Indian word meaning "horrible."

  We splurged on a good hotel, a sedate older place near downtown, and got a third-floor room with a little balcony overlooking the Clark Fork River. After lunch, we still had a couple of hours to while away before meeting with Buddy Pertwee. We decided to stay home and rest up-get ready for the reason we'd come here.

  There's a special quality to a situation like that. With the door closed, the room was our sanctuary, cozy and private, and nobody knew or cared that we were there. We stretched out on top of the bed and bundled up together in the comforter, achieved a satisfactory arrangement of limbs, exchanged one brief chaste kiss, and slipped into a delicious trance soothed by the murmur of the river below and the fingers of rain streaking the hazy windows.

  43

  I called Buddy Pertwee just after five o'clock that afternoon; he suggested meeting at an old downtown bar called Knuckles. I was slightly hesitant about taking Renee there. I hadn't done much partying in Missoula for quite a few years, but back then Knuckles had been the watering hole of choice for local bikers and a lot of other hard-edged individuals.

  But there were leavening elements of old hippies, blue-collar working people, college students, and other young folks groping their way up the perilous ladder of life, and rowdy as it was, real trouble was rare and usually happened later in the evenings when enthusiasm was running high. It was also a good-sized place, so we'd be able to get off by ourselves and have a private conversation. And I wanted Buddy to feel comfortable, on turf of his own choosing.

  Downtown was only a few blocks away, so Renee and I walked. She carried one of those little traveler's umbrellas that she offered to share, but the rain had lightened to a drizzle and I enjoyed feeling it against my face. I liked rain, at least when I didn't have to stay outside working in it all day-maybe a throwback to my Celtic heritage, a gloomy, gene-deep love for a misty land where I had never gone.

  Still, the damp weather enhanced the neon-lit welcome of Knuckles when we stepped inside. The main room was a long rectangle, with an L-shaped bar running most of its length and a fine old hand-carved backbar. The first thing that struck you when you walked in was a unique and stellar portrait collection, by a renowned local photographer, of old-time cowboys, railroad men, and drifters who had frequented this place. The way that he had caught their faces was magic; their eyes, their creased, weathered skin, and their broken smiles were windows into their hard and sometimes desperate lives. A gold star pasted in a bottom corner meant that they were dead. There were a lot of those.

&n
bsp; We paused to order drinks from the bartender, a pretty young woman with multiple body piercings. When she turned away and crouched to pull a beer out of a cooler, the scallop between her top and her low-cut jeans revealed what looked like a snake tattooed down her spine. It must have been a fairly big snake, a green one. In general, the body art motif spoke loud. I saw one guy shrug off his jacket and sling it over a barstool, and I thought at first that he was wearing a striped shirt. In fact, his arms were bare.

  Renee leaned close to me and whispered, "I almost got a tramp stamp once, but I chickened out."

  "Tramp stamp?"

  "You know. A butterfly or something, up high on a girl's behind, so you can just see it above her whale tail."

  "Whale tail?"

  "Thong, The back part," she said, giving me her patient-teacher look again.

  After several seconds, it registered. "Oh. Because that's the shape. Like the tail of an actual whale, sort of, uh, rising up out of the ocean of her womanhood."

  She patted my hand approvingly. "What a quick study you are. Did you ever think about it? A tattoo?"

  "I never had the money."

  We took a booth toward the rear. The crowd was moderate-a few regulars who'd probably been there all day, several men bullshitting over their after-work beers, and a couple more playing desultory eight-ball-but there was a steady trickle of newcomers, mostly of the younger set. I watched them as they came through the door; I didn't know what Buddy looked like, but I'd given him a brief description of Renee and me, and she, at least, wouldn't be hard to spot in here.

  When he did come walking over to us, I liked the immediate hit I got. He had the knobby look of a guy who was accustomed to using his body; banged-up hands and scraped forearms spoke to the landscaping work he did. His face had the kind of wary, tough look that came from taking some hard shots in life, like the time he'd done in the state prison in Deer Lodge.