by Thomas King
Not that it mattered.
As he walked down the street, heading home, he wondered if the battery had committed suicide or if the car had killed it on purpose. Which for a moment brought him back to Mitchell Street lying dead on a motel floor. But that was, as the song said, someone else’s misfortune and none of his own.
THIRTEEN
Robert Frost might have enjoyed the woods on a snowy evening, but that was because he didn’t have to walk through them. He had a sleigh. And all sorts of warm things piled around him. Neither had Frost written the poem on the coldest evening of the year, while riding in said sleigh. He had most likely been indoors, probably in front of a crackling fire or under an arbour in the heart of summer.
He certainly didn’t have to contend with a surly car and a dead battery.
By the time Thumps arrived home, defrosted himself under the shower, and got dressed, he was late. Part of his tardiness was the walk, and part of it was trying to decide on clothes. Not that he had many, but limited options didn’t make the decisions any easier. He was torn between cowboy casual and dress casual, and finally decided on combining the two, leaving the house in a pair of jeans, a black-and-grey sports shirt with tiny yellow highlights, and a black blazer.
He had bought the shirt and jacket at Harry Rosen, an upscale men’s store in Toronto on Bloor Street. Thumps had a weakness for elegance, and Rosen had everything for the folks who could afford the best: Armani, Canali, Brioni, Kiton. You could have your suits and shirts and even your ties custom-made or, as they said at Rosen, “bespoke,” which for some reason reminded Thumps of “betrothed.” And while you contemplated your purchases, you could sit at a coffee bar in the middle of the store on the second floor and have an espresso or a cappuccino or a glass of Perrier.
Free.
Harry Rosen was not the kind of place that Thumps could afford to visit, but with the Canadian dollar rapidly losing ground at that time to its U.S. cousin, he was delighted to discover that he had, in essence, walked into a half-price sale.
Part of the charm of the store was the sales staff. They seemed to appear when you had a question and disappear when you just wanted to look. Thumps wondered if they had been trained to do that or if they had been hired because they could. And all the customers, it seemed, had their own personal salesperson. Thumps wound up with a young man named John, who gave him a tour of the store, made him a cappuccino, and advised him on the essentials of a wardrobe. Not that Thumps had one, but he played along, partly because he was embarrassed about his knowledge of clothes and partly because he was having such a good time.
Most of the salespeople at Rosen were men, but there were a few women. Thumps assumed that they were there to help the wives of successful men who were too intimidated or too lazy to shop for themselves, but he was wrong. As he stood in the middle of a three-way mirror contemplating an Ermenegildo Zegna sports shirt and an Arnold Brant cashmere blazer, trying to see his front and his butt at the same time, a tall, striking blonde with long, hard legs and a firm body—what the fashion folks would call “statuesque”—came by and made a low sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sigh.
“That was Rhonda,” John told him as the woman floated down the escalator. “She likes the outfit.”
As he waited for John to write up the sale and hoped that Rhonda would pass by again, he told himself that he would need such an outfit for those occasions when he was exhibiting his photographs around the world. That hadn’t quite happened yet, but dinner with Dakota Miles was as good an excuse as any to dress up and practise pretending that he was a successful artist.
As he trudged over to the Tucker, Thumps was sorry that he hadn’t bought the navy wool overcoat that he had seen at Rosen. His red windbreaker had all the elegance of a football jersey, and because of the weather and a car that had decided to play dead, he had had to wear his workboots, which made him feel more like a fly fisherman in waders just come off the river than a man about town. His dress shoes were stuffed in the pockets of the jacket, and the plan was to dump the boots and the jacket somewhere long before anyone saw him.
Sometimes plans don’t work out.
Thumps would have preferred that the lobby of the Tucker be deserted. He was sure there was a coat check somewhere that would be happy to take his jacket and boots, and if he could find it quickly, so much the better.
“Thumps!”
Archie was standing in the middle of the lobby. Along with Helen Hoy, Chinook’s perennial mayor; Vernon Rockland, who owned Shadow Ranch, a resort complex in the foothills just west of town that catered to the rich and famous; Beverly Nickerson, the president of Chinook Community College; and Milo Tashkent, who owned the town’s only daily newspaper, the Chinook Tribune.
And Noah Ridge.
Archie trotted over and dragged Thumps back to the group. Thumps could feel the windbreaker get tighter and brighter, could feel the mud and snow slough off his boots onto the marble floor as he went.
“Have you met Mr. Ridge?”
Noah smiled at him, and Thumps smiled back. But they didn’t shake hands.
“Thumps and I are old friends,” said Noah.
Archie was on Thumps in a flash. “You don’t tell me this?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We’re having dinner out at the ranch,” said Rockland. “Informal thing. You’re welcome to join us.”
Not that anyone looked particularly informal. Archie was wearing his suit. The mayor was dressed in a black shift that looked to be silk and a fitted silver grey jacket. Nickerson had on a dark red and green batik dress that reminded Thumps of Christmas, and Tashkent was going to dinner in a brown sports jacket and olive slacks.
Even Noah was dressed for the occasion, all in black.
“Thanks,” said Thumps, opening his jacket just a little so everyone could get a glimpse of the blazer, “but I have some work to do.”
“Never thought of dinner with Dakota as work,” said Noah.
So, Noah knew. No reason he shouldn’t. It wasn’t supposed to be a secret. But for some reason, Thumps didn’t like it.
“Did you hear about the body at the Holiday Inn?” said Archie. “Terrible.”
“Be a story in tomorrow’s paper,” said Tashkent. “I’m talking with the sheriff in the morning.”
And sometimes plans worked out in unexpected ways. No sense using Dakota as the messenger, thought Thumps. Now was as good a time as any.
“Yeah,” said Thumps, “guy’s name was Mitchell Street. Looked like a suicide at first.”
“But?” said Tashkent, who was suddenly very interested.
“Murder,” said Thumps. “They’re pretty sure it was murder.”
If Noah recognized the name, he was hiding it well. Thumps watched his face as he let the details slip. But he didn’t mention that Street was a former FBI agent or that the dead man had had a copy of Ridge’s book with him. He’d leave those matters for the sheriff to share with Tashkent in the morning. If he wanted to.
“Sounds exciting,” said Noah. “But I’m hungry.”
“The cars are out front,” said Rockland. “We can leave any time.”
“Okay, we got to go.” Archie grabbed Thumps’s sleeve. “But tomorrow we do the photographs, right?”
“Any time,” said Thumps as he watched Noah and Archie and the official entourage head for the doors. “Any time at all.”
THE HOTEL WAS only too happy to take Thumps’s jacket and boots. Especially since Mr. DreadfulWater and his guest were going to be eating in the Mother Lode. Thumps hadn’t planned on eating at the Tucker, but with Noah dining at Shadow Ranch and no car, the choices were limited. He had never eaten at the Tucker before, and after he and Dakota had been seated and Thumps had glanced at the menu, he knew he probably wouldn’t eat there again.
You can tell a great deal about a restaurant by the menu. Restaurants whose menus listed their dishes in French or Italian first with English subtitles and that used fine parchme
nt inserts on which the offerings had been printed in raised letters by an offset press generally made up for such expenses in the price of the meals. The other trick, Thumps remembered, was to look at the appetizers. Triple the price of the appetizers and you’ll have a fair idea of what the entrees will cost.
“Are you trying to impress me?”
It wasn’t a growl and it wasn’t a sigh. Thumps wasn’t even sure that it was a compliment.
“I got it at Harry Rosen. In Toronto.”
“I meant the restaurant.”
“My car broke down.”
Dakota hadn’t seemed in a happy mood when Thumps had arrived at her room. Now, here she was sitting across from him in a swanky restaurant, laughing.
“Really, it did.”
“I believe you,” said Dakota. “It’s just what a girl wants to hear.”
Their waiter for the evening was Stephen, who had a French accent and was from Montreal.
“Some bread,” he said, placing the basket in the middle of the table. “May I start madam off with a cocktail?”
“No,” said Dakota, “just water.”
“Evian, Perrier, or Pellegrino?”
“Tap,” said Dakota.
“We also have Aberfoyle Springs water from Canada.”
“Plain water,” said Dakota, “no ice.”
Thumps had thought about ordering a soft drink, until he turned the menu over and discovered that the back was taken up with a succinct and sanitized history of the Tucker that featured the story of the squirrels and the fire but made no mention of the hospital and the skating rink. Five dollars, Thumps decided. Soft drinks here would cost at least five dollars.
“Is water okay with you?”
“Perfect,” said Thumps. “But have what you want. My treat.”
“This a date?”
“No.” Thumps tried to think of something more neutral. “It’s a reunion.”
“I like that,” said Dakota. “So, we’ll go Dutch.”
Stephen wasn’t gone long. “Can I answer any questions about the menu?”
“I’ll have the steak,” said Dakota. “Medium rare. Peppercorn gravy.”
“Me too,” said Thumps.
“And an appetizer for madam?”
“Just the steak.”
Stephen waited for a moment, in case Dakota had misunderstood the question. “We have a superb foie gras.”
“Steak.”
That was the great thing about expensive restaurants. The service staff were trained to ask questions in a way that allowed only one right answer. So you wouldn’t make a mistake and embarrass yourself.
“May I suggest a wine for your meal?”
Dakota looked at Thumps.
“We have an excellent Merlot.”
“I think the water will do us,” said Thumps. He could see from the expression on Stephen’s face that this was another wrong answer.
“So,” said Dakota as she watched Stephen retreat to the kitchen, “what would your girlfriend have ordered?”
Thumps felt the blood rush to his face. He didn’t much like being caught off guard like that. “I don’t really have a girlfriend.”
“Normally, I would have ordered the pasta because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu.”
Thumps could feel a smile forming. Claire would have ordered the pasta too. And for the same reason.
“But tonight’s a celebration, isn’t it?” Dakota held her glass up. “To the reunion.”
“To the reunion.”
“You want to ask me now or later?”
Thumps looked around quickly, hoping that Stephen was on his way over with another rhetorical question.
“You didn’t invite me to dinner just so I’d have sex with you, did you?”
There were some questions for which there were no right answers.
“Good,” said Dakota. “Let’s get the questions out of the way, so we can enjoy our evening.”
The Dakota Miles that Thumps remembered from Salt Lake City had been quiet, deferential. The woman sitting across the table from him was anything but that, and Thumps wasn’t sure whether he liked the new version or missed the old one. Not that it mattered. Whatever Dakota had been in the past was in the past.
“How about I ask the questions,” said Dakota, “and you can answer them.”
“Dakota . . .”
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
Not that Dakota was having much fun at all. Now he could hear it clearly. Sorrow. In her voice. And he could see it in her eyes.
“First question. Why did I come back?”
“You already answered that one.”
“Did I?”
“You came back for the movement.”
“Noah should have left me in that tub.” Dakota broke a dinner roll in half. “I guess I’ve never really got over Lucy. How about you?”
“Didn’t know her very well.”
“She was a warrior. Liked to set men straight. Especially Noah.” Dakota poked at the butter with her knife. “She was like a sister. When she died, I wanted to die too.”
Thumps dove into his memory and came up empty. “I thought she disappeared.”
“You didn’t believe that witness protection program crap Noah was spreading around, did you?” Dakota shook her head. “All her things were still in her house. That leather jacket she wore everywhere was in the closet. She wouldn’t have left it behind.”
“But the clothes weren’t the issue.”
“No.” Dakota closed her eyes. “Okay, second question. What does an executive assistant do?”
“I wasn’t going to ask that.”
“First, she doesn’t fuck the boss.”
Dakota began picking at the skin at the side of her fingers, pulling off little strips nearest the nail. It was an old habit. Thumps had seen her work on her fingers before, especially when she was under stress, but it still made his scalp crawl.
“Dakota . . .”
“And the boss doesn’t fuck her.”
“Look, you want to go someplace else?”
“Like my room?”
Where the anger had come from, Thumps didn’t know, but it carried across the table and filled the room.
“Sorry.” Dakota leaned back in the chair. “I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Some reunion, eh?”
“I hear the steaks are good.”
“I run Noah’s life. I run RPM. That’s what I do. Noah’s the poster.”
“So, why do you need Noah at all?”
“She would have called me,” said Dakota. “She would have let me know she was all right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Thumps could see Stephen coming to the rescue, steaks in hand. “Pepper,” he said, leaning across the table. “Does madam want some fresh ground pepper?”
Dakota didn’t laugh, but she did smile, and for a moment, Thumps imagined that she had been able to chase away the sorrow and the anger.
“I want to go home,” she said, taking a breath and letting it out. “I’d like you to take me home.”
THEY DIDN’T TALK in the elevator or as they walked down the hallway to Dakota’s room. When they got there, Dakota opened the door and turned back to Thumps.
“I’ve got something for you.” Dakota slipped into the room and came out with a copy of Noah’s book. “He autographed it.”
Thumps opened the book. On the title page, Noah had written, May the Red Power Movement open your conscience to a new dawn.
“You want to come in for a while?”
“Sure,” he said. “But I think I’ve done enough damage for one evening.”
Dakota ran her hand across his lapel. “Nice jacket.”
“It’s cashmere.”
“That’s what I like about you, DreadfulWater.”
“My clothes?”
“That you always know the right answers.”
THUMPS SAT IN THE LOBBY of the Tucker and put on his boots and his wind
breaker. He had wanted to say yes to Dakota’s invitation. Yes to staying a while. Yes to coffee. Yes to whatever. Yes, yes, yes. After all these years, after all she had been through, Dakota was still vulnerable. And for reasons that he did not want to dwell on, Thumps found this attractive. But he had had enough experience with anger and sorrow to know that no good could come from taking advantage of someone’s pain.
Dakota had been right. He had wanted to ask questions. Not the ones she had asked. Maybe tomorrow he’d ask them. Maybe tomorrow he’d get answers. But not tonight. With the bright stars high in a black sky, Thumps tried to pretend that he was wearing Asah’s parka as he began the long walk home.
FOURTEEN
Freeway had a bad night. She tossed and turned, and when she got tired of that, she practised pressing her claws against Thumps’s thighs or trying to lick his calves raw. By the time the winter sun rolled up on the horizon, he was exhausted and the cat, who had worked very hard at keeping both of them awake, was sound asleep.
He was sitting in the kitchen, trying to muster the strength to make coffee, when someone began banging on the door. Thumps looked out the window. It had snowed during the night, and the world was white. Maybe it was Santa at the door, unable to find the chimney, needing to use the bathroom.
In fact, Thumps would have preferred Santa.
“Good, you’re awake.” Hockney had the right shape, but he didn’t have jolly old Saint Nick’s general disposition. “You look like hell.”
“The cat had a bad night.”
“You sleep with animals?”
“Beats sleeping alone.”
“Not my problem,” said the sheriff. “Come on.”
Thumps vaguely remembered agreeing to be a sort of temporary deputy for the sheriff and the sheriff agreeing to pay him for the effort.
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“It’s Noah Ridge.”
Hockney’s face wasn’t giving anything away.
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going back to bed.”
“He’s in the hospital.”
Thumps slept most of the way to Chinook General. And he would have been perfectly happy to go on sleeping had not the sheriff shaken him awake.
