Intrepid Reporter Lost in Den of Iniquity!
A couple of pickups and three cars were in the parking lot of the Bulldogger when Julie pulled in and eased to a stop near the front door. She checked her watch: 7:27 a.m. The beer light advertisements in the windows weren’t on yet, she noticed, but she heard conversation from inside. She got out of her truck, locked the door, and took a deep breath. Then she opened the door.
The lighting in the Bulldogger was murky, maybe because the air was already fouled with thick clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke. Or maybe because most of the overhead fluorescents either flickered weakly or were completely dead. While Julie squinted, trying to adjust her eyes, the four men seated at the bar turned to look at her.
The one closest to her, a heavyset fellow with several empty beer bottles in front of him, turned on his stool. Julie thought it had to have been at least a couple of days since he’d shaved. He wore a black leather vest over a gray T-shirt, and his jeans and boots were worn and dusty. He held a cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand, and the smoke from it curled up toward the darkness of the ceiling.
“Ya lost?” he asked.
Julie swallowed hard. “No. I’m not. I’m looking for Rick Castle.” She was proud of her voice—both its tone and the message it carried. “Is he around?”
The heavy man stared at her and took a long drag on his cigarette but didn’t answer.
The bartender, a man not terribly different in looks from the one who’d spoken to Julie, said, “We ain’t open yet, honey. You come on back at 8:00, and I’ll take good care of you.”
“I asked if Rick Castle was around,” Julie said. “How about an answer? And if you’re not open, what’re you doing serving these guys?”
A voice called out from the end of the bar, where there was almost no light at all. “Those fellas are employees, lady. There’s no law against an employee havin’ a beer before we open.”
Julie stared back into the darkness, seeing only a tall figure.
“I’m Castle. What do you want?”
“I’m Julie Downs—News-Express. I want to talk with you.”
“Well, what if I don’t want to talk to you?”
“Then maybe I’ll just go talk with the Montana Liquor Board and the Coldwater town council and to the parents of the minor you overserved yesterday until he got so drunk he almost killed himself trying to find his way home.” She waited for a beat. “You ever hear of the Dram Shop Acts, Mr. Castle? The law that says an owner of a place like this is liable and responsible for what happens to the people he serves to the point of obvious intoxication?”
“You got nothin’. Nothin’ at all. I suggest you get lost.”
“Do you really want to bet on that, Mr. Castle? Remember when Dean Kendricks left here yesterday? How he almost crashed into a nice, new Dodge truck? I was driving the Dodge.”
“That punk wasn’t here yesterday or any other day. I don’t serve minors, an’ neither do my bartenders. Like I said, get lost.”
“Sure,” Julie said agreeably. “But Mr. Castle—film doesn’t lie, does it? My cameraman is awfully good—don’t you think he could take pictures of a kid almost falling into his vehicle as he leaves this place and then bucking over the curb onto Main Street—”
“I don’t believe you. You got no tape.”
“Thanks for your time and your hospitality, Mr. Castle,” Julie said. She turned and started toward the door. I blew it, she thought. I pushed too hard. I shouldn’t have tacked on that videotape bit.
The moment her hand touched the doorknob, Castle’s voice called out, “Wait a minute. Come on back. We can talk in my office.”
Julie sighed silently and stifled a grin. “Put some lights on back there.”
A couple of fluorescent tubes begrudgingly flickered on. Julie started down the length of the bar, the soles of her boots sticking to beer and booze. The eyes on her back as she walked caused a palpable sensation—as if she were being spat upon.
Castle was a man of about fifty; he wore a wristwatch that appeared to be a Rolex until Julie looked at it more closely, and a tangle of gold chains around his neck. He was tall, rather lean, with neatly combed short hair that didn’t look quite natural. When he opened a door and turned on the light inside a storage room/office, Julie saw he was wearing a toupee—and an apparently inexpensive one at that.
“Sit,” Castle said, pointing to a folding chair. He moved behind a gray metal desk and sat on another folding chair. Cases of whiskey and cartons of potato chips and pretzels were stacked against the walls in the small and hideously hot room. Huge jugs of maraschino cherries rested on top of an obviously defunct air-conditioning unit. The place smelled like the primate cage of a zoo.
Julie sat and locked eyes with Castle.
“So, what’s your beef?” he said. “I run a clean business here.”
“I’m not at all certain that’s true. A kid—a boy who was too young for you to serve—left this place and—”
“We check IDs. No kids get served in here.”
“And almost killed himself. Since the drought got severe you’ve been opening earlier, right?”
“No law against that,” Castle said. “Men are outta work. It’s good for them to have a place to go be with their pals.”
Julie snorted. “And to get drunk and fight and spend what little money they have—and maybe kill themselves or someone else on the way home?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, and it ain’t my problem how these yahoos spend their time or money. Look—I got work to do. What’s your point?”
“This: I wanted to talk to you before I wrote my story about this place and the damage it’s doing to the community. I wanted to hear your side. I’ve done that. Thanks for your time, Mr. Castle.” Julie stood and opened the door.
Castle smirked. “Don’t ever play poker with a man, lady. You don’t have that tape you made up no more than I have the Hope Diamond.”
Julie didn’t respond. Walking the length of the bar was, once again, like walking a gauntlet. This time, however, Julie was facing the men on stools, and her eyes met with those of each man. Two of them looked away, almost sheepishly, and focused on their drinks. None of them said a word.
The air outside the Bulldogger was steamy and smelled of melting asphalt and the acrid exhaust fumes of a diesel rig that had just lumbered by—and to Julie Downs, at least for a few moments, it was as sweet and pure as a cool spring morning after what she’d breathed inside the bar.
She stepped to the passenger side of her truck, unlocked the door, and took her Nikon from the glove compartment. She walked across the parking lot, avoiding shards of broken glass and puddles of oil from leaking engines.
The road told the story as clearly as any words could. Kendricks’s tracks began in the lot, where his spinning tires and his sideways momentum had dug through the stones and debris to the dirt beneath, jumped the curb, and skidded out into the street. Julie’s skid lines were much darker, parallel black streaks gouged into the surface of the road, and showed how she’d swerved to avoid impact, banged over the curb, and stopped. She took eight or ten shots of the roadway. As she walked back to her truck she saw Rick Castle standing in front of the door of the Bulldogger. He spat to one side and raised his arm in an obscene gesture, and Julie raised her camera at the same time.
“Gotcha,” she said to herself.
Drago’s Café on Main Street in Coldwater had served the town and the county as an unofficial meeting place for almost thirty years. Regulars met for breakfast every day but Sunday, the lunch crowd was always large, and countless high school romances had begun—and ended—within its walls. The food was good, the coffee was strong and hot and never more than a few minutes old, and the ambiance was comfortable and easy. Referred to as “the diner” by most of the cowhands, the café drew people at all times of day who were seeking a hit of caffeine, a piece of pie, or some conversation.
It was too early f
or the pie, but the coffee and conversation sounded just fine to Julie. She parked next to a familiar Chevrolet pickup with a Montana Barrel Racing Association sticker on its rear window and hustled through the heat to the café.
Maggie Lane, wife of Rev. Ian Lane, was Julie’s best friend and had been so for several years. Before marrying Ian, Maggie had operated her Quarter Horse breeding and training facility alone after the death of her first husband. Now she and Ian shared both ranch and church duties. Julie called out to her friend, who was sitting at the counter, a cup of coffee and a large pastry on a plate in front of her. Maggie smiled and patted the empty stool next to her. “Hey, Julie—sit down.” She pointed at the pastry. “Get fat with me.”
“Fat?” Julie said as she sat down. “You could eat a truckload of anvils and not gain an ounce. Ian with you?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, he’s sleeping, actually. He was at the hospital all night with the family of a kid who’d been in a car wreck.” Maggie must have noticed the change in Julie’s face immediately. “What’s the matter?”
“Dean Kendricks, right?” Julie asked quietly.
Maggie nodded. “You know him?”
An older fellow in working cowhand clothes stopped next to Maggie, clutching his Stetson in his large hands. “Uh . . . Maggie? I saw Rev. Lane last night at the hospital with Dean’s folks. They—all of us—were sure glad he was there, ma’am.”
“I’ll tell him you mentioned it, Jake. Thanks. Julie and I were just talking—”
The toe of Julie’s boot found the side of Maggie’s foot quickly and painfully.
“Uh, talking about . . . the heat,” Maggie finished somewhat lamely.
The cowhand nodded to Julie. “It’s a sad thing,” Jake went on. “That scrapheap the kid drove didn’t have no more brakes on it than a fresh-broke colt. Dean, he’s a good boy. Awful good roper for a kid too. I figured he was gonna take open ropin’ over at Dansville come next Sunday. Now . . .” Jake went silent, his eyes heavy and sad. After a moment, he said, “I’d best be on my way.” He headed for the front door.
“Let’s get a booth,” Julie said. “Why don’t you grab one and I’ll get some coffee?” She walked to the counter to save a waitress the trip.
After she sat down in the booth with her coffee, Julie explained to Maggie about what had happened the day before, where she’d been not half an hour ago, and why she’d been there.
“I’m happy for you about the series, Julie. But I’m not sure I see how the Bulldogger and Dean Kendricks fit into the drought. I know the place is a cesspool and always has been, but how—”
“Don’t you see, Maggie?” Julie interrupted. “If you give a roomful of little kids some loaded handguns to play with, somebody’s going to get hurt real soon. Correct? Castle running his gin mill more hours acts like a magnet, drawing the men who’ve been put out of work by the drought. And I’ve verified that the Kendricks kid is barely twenty years old. He can’t legally drink or buy alcohol, but Castle served and overserved him to the point where he was driving like a lunatic.”
Maggie remained dubious. “I don’t know. Sure, Dean is too young to drink legally, but it seems to me that there are other factors involved. Suppose he had a good fake ID? Lots of kids do. Or suppose the guy who almost crashed into you wasn’t Kendricks? See what I mean? It could be a great story and it could even close down that dump for good, but I think you need to tread carefully. That’s all.”
“I know what I saw. I’ve got photos of the skid marks from the kid’s truck and my own. I saw his face, and I can match it to his high school graduation picture.” Julie’s voice had risen with the intensity of what she was saying. A couple of heads at the counter turned to look over at the booth.
Julie sighed. “Sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to take your head off. This thing—this story—is very close to me.”
“I know. I don’t mean to knock your story. I’m not trying to be adversarial—really I’m not. I just . . . well . . . I want you to be careful.” She smiled. “OK?”
“I know that,” Julie said with perhaps a bit more understanding than she was really feeling. She sipped at her coffee. “Danny was out to my place last night.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “For dinner?”
“I wish. But no, Drifter has some abrasions on his heels.”
“Scratches?” Maggie asked.
“How in the world did you know that?” Julie laughed. “Danny had to make ointment for me. There’s no commercial stuff available.”
“So . . . how did it go with Danny?”
Julie expelled a long breath. “He gave me a steak. I automatically thought we’d grill it together—and then he was gone.”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m not sure what it is with that man,” she said. “I do know this—he’s interested in you and he cares for you. What keeps him from letting himself get even a little bit close, I can’t figure out.”
Julie met her friend’s eyes. “Are you certain he’s over you, Maggie?”
“Absolutely. I guarantee it. I can’t say a whole lot more without breaking confidences, but yeah—I’m certain. And I know he cares for you—for all the good that does if he keeps on avoiding getting to know you better.”
Although there was barely a half inch of coffee remaining in Julie’s cup, for some reason she found it necessary to stir it vigorously and closely watch the process—if only to avoid Maggie’s eyes. “I get the feeling he’s somehow afraid of me,” she said quietly.
“Julie . . .”
“No, I mean it. Remember the time Danny and I went riding? We tied our horses and walked a little, and he took my hand, and it felt so natural and good and sweet—and in about a minute he dropped it like I’d burned him or something. I asked him what the matter was, and he got all red faced and backed away and said he had to check the horses.”
“OK,” Maggie said. “What about later?”
“We rode some more and then went back, and I tried to ask him about it again, but he clammed up in that exasperating way he has.”
“Well,” Maggie said, “I don’t understand it either. Danny Pulver is a tough one to figure out.” She checked her watch. “Oh, shoot. I have to run. Ian’s doing a mailing, and I need to pick up a ton of stamps.” She paused for a moment. “Are we OK about your story, Julie? You’re the last person in the world I’d want to hurt, particularly by running my mouth about something I know nothing about.”
Julie’s smile was real. “We’re fine.”
Maggie stood. “Good luck with Danny,” she whispered.
“Luck? I’ll need more than that,” Julie said ruefully.
Maggie patted her friend on the shoulder. “Give me a call tomorrow, OK?”
After Maggie left, Julie motioned one of the Drago kids—Bonnie—to the booth to request another cup of coffee.
“How’ve you been, Julie?” the girl asked. “I love your column, ya know. It’s so not phony like the ones in the big papers.” She stretched the word so until it almost collapsed.
“I’ve been fine, Bonnie. I’m glad you like my column.”
The girl smiled and began to turn away.
“Bonnie,” Julie said, stopping her, “do you know Dean Kendricks?”
“Sure. He just graduated last year. Cool guy. Isn’t it awful about his accident?”
“Terrible.” She waited a heartbeat. “What kind of a kid is he?”
Bonnie didn’t need to stop and think. “Fun—funny. Not a rocket scientist, but his grades are OK. He hangs with the kids on the rodeo team most of the time. Not a stoner or anything. Horse crazy. Heck of a roper. Cute too.”
“Mmm,” Julie nodded. “Thanks.”
Julie sipped at her cup of coffee while her mind replayed her conversation with Maggie. Is the story too much for the News-Express? Am I pushing too hard because of my feelings about alcohol and the accident I almost had with that poor kid? Would anything really change if the Bulldogger were closed down? The drought is the drought
, and until it’s over, can a bunch of words in a small newspaper—a series of articles—accomplish anything?
Julie answered her own question with a whisper. “Yeah. It can. It will.”
But then another self-chiding headline formed in her mind, unbidden as usual, in stark, bold letters:
Plucky Reporter Changes World, Ends Drought
Everything on Earth Perfect Because of Series
Julie smiled in spite of herself. Her “headlines” had started out as a sort of game between her and her roommate at journalism school when they began leaving notes for one another taped to the bathroom mirror or on each other’s desks: “Date Flops—David Found to Be Geek,” “Pop Quiz Ends Journalism Career,” and “Roommate Indicted on Messiness Charges.” Somehow, the silly headlines had become part of Julie, and they popped up in her mind seemingly of their own volition.
Julie finished her coffee but didn’t get up from the booth. I need to get over Danny Pulver, she thought. I’m like a teenager infatuated with the captain of the high school football team. I’ve given the guy chances—maybe too many—to see if there can be something between us. Enough is enough. Danny no longer possesses any space in my mind.
As she slid out of the booth, she found herself almost nose to nose with Ken Townsend.
“Oh!” Julie peeped.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Ken said in a feminine voice.
“Ken—I was kind of . . .”
“Lost in space?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
“I saw your truck outside, and even though I was on my way to solve the crime of the century, I thought I’d pull in and buy you a cup of coffee.” He looked into her eyes. “You’re under no obligation, of course. Seems to me, though, that press-police relations are the very bedrock of a safe community. And,” he added, “I know the secret of the Snickers—”
Julie laughed. “Hush about that! Actually, I’m drowning in coffee. How about I let you buy me a small dish of ice cream?”
“Deal,” Ken said, sitting on one side of the booth. Julie settled back across the table from him. “What kind of ice cream?” he asked.
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