by Thomas King
Thumps couldn’t imagine Cooley as anonymous under any circumstances. “What about Buffalo Mountain?”
“They got that new arm,” said Cooley. “So they laid me off. Now I’m working for the hotel.”
“Thought you were working for Noah Ridge.”
“Kind of hard to protect someone when you don’t know where he is.”
Thumps couldn’t disagree with that logic.
“It’s okay,” said Cooley. “This job’s not full-time.”
“Cooley,” said Thumps, “this is a pretty serious case.”
“You bet,” said Cooley. “That’s why you need good security.”
Thumps wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the day debating security with Cooley, but as he thought about his options, he couldn’t think of anything he had to do that was any better.
“Maybe we should team up,” said Cooley. “You used to be a cop, and I’ve just finished the advanced KGB training course.”
Thumps promised himself not to ask.
Cooley held up the notebook. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Cooley had divided a page in the notebook into two columns. At the top of one column, he had written Normal. At the top of the other, he had written Unusual.
Below each heading was a list of items.
“If you want to solve a mystery, you have to break everything down into normal occurrences and abnormal occurrences, so you can see things clearly.”
“Did you notice what time Dakota left with the television people?”
“Under Normal, you put things such as Billy Owens getting drunk and winding up in the tank. And under Unusual, you put that dead guy at the motel.”
Cooley waited for Thumps to react.
“That’s great.”
“And when you get everything on the two lists, you look at everything under Unusual and ask yourself why these things happened and what relevance they might have to the mystery you’re trying to solve. Pretty good, eh?”
“Terrific.”
Cooley wrote a couple of sentences under the Unusual column. “If I do it right, there’s a good chance that I’ll be able to find out what happened to Mr. Ridge.”
“Well,” said Thumps, “we’ve certainly had more than our share of abnormal occurrences.”
“Not that many,” said Cooley, and he consulted his notebook. “Since the day when Mr. Ridge arrived, we’ve had only three.”
There was a certain determination to Cooley that Thumps liked. “The guy at the motel?”
“Yeah,” said Cooley. “That’s number one.”
“And Ridge disappearing.”
“That’s two.”
Thumps tried to think of a third and came up empty. But the first two were enough to fill several notebooks.
“And number three is the fight at the Mustang a couple nights ago.”
The Mustang was a country-and-western biker bar at the edge of town. It had a reputation for being rough, and finding a fight at the Mustang would be no more unusual than finding french fries at McDonald’s.
“Normally, a fight at the Mustang would go under Normal,” said Cooley.
“That’s probably where I’d put it,” said Thumps.
“But Big Fish Patek said this one was unusual.”
“Big Fish Patek?”
“Yeah,” said Cooley. “He’s tending bar at the Mustang.”
According to local lore, which, so far as Thumps could tell, the man had helped to create, Big Fish was either French Canadian from Manitoba or Swiss German from upstate New York. Why he settled in Chinook was equally clear. One version had him running out of gas and money as he got to the outskirts of town. Another had him coming west because he had seen the Rockies in a vision.
Thumps tried to imagine Big Fish tending bar at the Mustang. The man did not like steady employment in any form, preferred to work on the road out of his van selling anything that he could lay his hands on and turn around quickly. More to the point, Big Fish and the Mustang were, to Thumps’s way of thinking, incompatible. Big Fish was built like a match, but he had a blowtorch for a mouth. At the Mustang, you had to be able either to fight or to talk your way out of trouble. Big Fish couldn’t do either.
“He’s one of my associates.”
“Associates?”
“Sure,” said Cooley. “In my business, you have to have a steady source of information. You have to know what’s happening around you. That’s one of the first principles of security.”
Thumps glanced at the front doors. “So, there was a fight at the Mustang.”
“Right,” said Cooley. “Old guy comes in, orders a coffee, and then proceeds to pick a fight.”
“Coffee?”
“Told you it was unusual.”
“That’s it?”
“Big Fish said he was wearing an expensive watch.”
If Big Fish Patek had a passion, it was watches. At any time he had at least a hundred watches with him, and if he couldn’t sell you anything else, he’d try to sell you a watch.
“Big Fish say who the guy was?” Thumps was half-hoping that Dakota was going to walk through the doors and save him from what he was thinking of doing.
“Nope,” said Cooley. “Said he’d never seen him before.”
COOLEY’S CHEVY WASN’T nearly as spacious as Thumps’s Volvo. American car companies liked to build large, bulky cars, but they couldn’t seem to design them with any legroom or headroom, while the Europeans, who made decidedly smaller cars, could.
Thumps pushed the seat all the way back, but he was still left sitting upright, his knees against the dash, his head touching the roof.
“My girlfriend thinks I should get a uniform.”
At least the Chevy had a heater that worked.
“Personally, I think a T-shirt with a nice logo would be just as good. Black on black. So people will take you serious.”
THE MUSTANG WAS the latest in western high tech, a red prefab aluminum building with a herd of wild horses painted across the front and a satellite-receiver array on the roof. You could drink beer with your buddies, watch any sporting event in the country, enjoy semi-clad dancing girls, or catch up on your email.
Lorraine Chubby, who owned the Mustang, was of the opinion that even cowboys and bikers deserved consideration and would appreciate a modern facility with all the latest amenities. And she had only three rules. If you wanted to fight, do it outside where Lorraine had thrown up a rope ring around a sand pit. With lights. And a spectator area. You could get at least eight reasonably large men in the ring at any one time, and to help ensure that injuries could be dealt with immediately, Lorraine had set up an outdoor sink with a remarkably well-stocked first-aid station.
Lorraine’s second rule was no puking in the bar. All the bathrooms had a corrugated metal trough along one wall that, in the case of the men, doubled as a urinal. Anybody who was feeling under the weather was expected to make it to one of the bathrooms and use the facilities. If you threw up on the floor, you were thrown out.
Her last rule was fairly simple and straightforward. No excessive noise or interruptions when she was singing. Not that Lorraine had a great voice. It was okay, but she liked to sing and when she sang, she liked people to listen, and anyone with a modicum of sense knew to shut the hell up.
“Lorraine put in a new sound system,” said Cooley as he pulled into the Mustang parking lot.
“What was wrong with the old one?”
“Said it made her sound flat.”
BIG FISH PATEK was behind the bar, arranging glasses on a white towel. The last time Thumps had talked with Big Fish, the man tried to sell him a Nikon F80, arguing that all photographers needed an auto-focus camera, in case their eyes went bad. The camera had seen better days, and Thumps had made the mistake of asking the price. It had taken an additional two hours to extract himself from the sales pitch.
“Hey, Cooley.”
Big Fish Patek’s real name was Patek Carpenaux, but Wutty Youngbeaver had shortene
d his surname to Carp because he thought the French sounded pretentious. How it got from there to Big Fish, Thumps didn’t know, but things like that happened in the West with alarming regularity.
“Thumps!”
“Hi, Big Fish.”
“You ever find a camera?”
“Wasn’t looking for one.”
“Digital,” said Big Fish. “That’s the way to go. Got just the thing for you.”
“We came about the fight,” said Cooley.
“Oh, yeah,” said Big Fish. “Weird.”
Thumps frowned. “Weird?”
“Old guy,” said Big Fish. “About your age. Hey, guess what he was wearing?”
Thumps knew Big Fish well enough to keep the questions to a minimum. “Okay, what was he wearing?”
“A Rolex,” said Big Fish. “You believe that? A Rolex Daytona.”
Cooley nodded. “That’s a watch, right?”
Big Fish’s eyes lit up. “You don’t see many Rolexes out here. Course, they tend to be a little bulky. The new Cellini with the alligator-skin strap and platinum-pronged buckle is more elegant, though if you want elegant, you can’t beat the Audemars Piguet, with the hand-engraved face.”
“Big Fish—”
“Course, if you ask me, there’s nothing like the Girard Perregaux, Vintage 1945 Tourbillon, or maybe a Blancpain minute repeater.”
“Big Fish—”
“But if I had to choose, I’d probably go for a Patek Philippe Moonphase with a ten-day power reserve and a hinged half-hunter cover. Now that’s a beautiful watch. Did you know my father named me after that watch?”
“Yeah,” said Thumps. “You’ve mentioned it.”
“You guys want something to drink?”
“How about a Pepsi,” said Cooley.
“We got imported beer.”
“I’ll take a Pepsi too,” said Thumps quickly.
“The German beers are always good, and so are most of the Canadians, but you really should give some of the New Zealand brands a try.”
“The old guy with the Rolex?”
“Right,” said Big Fish. “He comes in and orders a coffee.”
“What time?”
“Eleven-thirty, maybe midnight. Place was pretty empty. The weekdays are a little slow. But you should see it on the weekends. Lorraine likes to get a band in on the weekends.”
Thumps wanted to grab Big Fish by the neck and hold him in place. “So, this guy got into a fight?”
“No,” said Big Fish. “He started the fight. Lorraine doesn’t like the place getting broken up, so I told them to take it outside.”
“Did they?”
“Sure,” said Big Fish, “and he got the shit kicked out of him.”
Thumps could see the watch clearly. Stainless steel with a metal band.
“Man must have had a death wish,” said Big Fish. “The stupid sonofabitch picks a fight with Grover Many Horses.”
TWENTY-TWO
Thumps and Cooley drank their Pepsis while Big Fish regaled them with suggestions for watches.
“Since you’re in the security business now,” he told Cooley, “you’re going to need a watch that keeps good time, and not one of the slim-line models ’cause they just aren’t as tough as the steel-cased watches.”
So, Noah had gone to dinner with Chinook’s society page, pretended he wasn’t feeling good, run out to the Mustang when no one was looking, and staged a beating. For publicity. It was the only explanation that made any sense. Still, to drive to the Mustang and let someone beat on you, then go back to your room in pain and wait until morning so you could claim you were attacked, just to get coverage, was hard for Thumps to imagine.
“Of course, the hot watch right now is the TAG Heuer, but that’s just because Tiger Woods is endorsing it.”
But it shouldn’t have been that hard to believe. Noah’s life had been one theatrical performance after another. He had learned the lessons of journalism early. A story had to bleed or blow up or threaten or cry or really piss someone off if it was going to get told. For the celebration of the Columbus quincentennial at the Smithsonian, Noah had cut his forearms and splattered a model of the Santa Maria with blood.
“Thumps here is going to need something rugged with an easy-to-use timing system for those long exposures, and now that I think about it, the Fortis Pilot Professional Chronograph would be a good one for the both of you.”
“Got a watch,” said Cooley, and he held out his wrist.
“Timex?” Big Fish turned his head away. “Sure, it keeps time, but where’s the joy?”
Thumps finished his drink and pushed the glass to one side. “Did you see the fight?”
“Nope,” said Big Fish. “Had to watch the bar.”
“Anybody see it?”
“Yeah, Wutty saw it and so did Reno Johnson.” Big Fish stopped for a moment to think. “That was the other funny part. Wutty said the old guy never threw a punch, just kept shooting off his mouth and Grover kept hitting him.”
“Sure sounds like the Unusual column to me,” said Cooley.
Not as unusual as you might think, thought Thumps.
“So,” said Big Fish, “what about those watches?”
ON THE WAY back to town, Cooley turned up the radio and sang along with Randy Travis. Just for fun, Thumps gave Cooley’s columns a try, but everything wound up in the Unusual column. Noah’s coming to Chinook was unusual. So was Street’s death. Then Noah disappears. And Dakota still with the man? That was unusual as well. In fact, by the time Thumps had sorted through all of the items, he found he didn’t have anything under Normal.
Cooley parked the car in front of the Tucker.
“You think it was him?”
“Don’t know,” said Thumps.
“It’s okay,” said Cooley, “I won’t tell anyone.”
No, thought Thumps, I don’t guess you will. “Yeah, I think it was Noah.”
“That means nobody beat him up down by the river.”
“That’s a good bet.”
“Makes security tough,” said Cooley. “Pretty hard to protect someone who wants to get beat up. Maybe he wanted to disappear too.”
That, thought Thumps, was getting to be a very good possibility. “Good thing he’s not a client.”
“Oh, he’s a client,” said Cooley. “I gave him a complimentary security package. Got to do what you say you’ll do. Otherwise, word could get out that you can’t be trusted, and that would be the end of business.”
“Don’t know that Noah deserves that kind of dedication.”
“Not doing it for him.”
BY THE TIME Thumps got to Dakota’s room, he wasn’t in the mood to waste time. “He didn’t get attacked by the river.”
“What?”
“Noah. He went to a place called the Mustang the other night and let Lucy Kettle’s kid brother beat the shit out of him. You want to tell me why?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Publicity,” said Thumps. “It was for the publicity.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Did Street call you?”
“What?”
“Mitchell Street. Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
Dakota might have been lying, but Thumps didn’t think so. There was something in her face, confusion perhaps, maybe anger.
“Street called the Tucker from his room. If he didn’t talk to you, then he talked to Noah.”
“Why would he call Noah?”
That was one of the questions for which Thumps did not have an answer. Why would Street call Noah? To threaten him? Given the history, it wouldn’t have been to catch up on old times. Or maybe it had.
Dakota walked to the door and opened it. “I think you better leave,” she said, her voice low and controlled.
“If you don’t talk to me,” said Thumps, “you’ll have to talk to the sheriff and the FBI.”
“Then,” said Dakota, opening the door wider than necessary, “
I’ll talk to them.”
AS THUMPS RODE the elevator to the lobby, he wondered if he could have been any more churlish. It was the weather, of course. That was it. And the prospect of not feeling truly warm again for six months. Maybe seven. Not that Dakota had made things easy. Why he was attracted to women with no give was a mystery. His mother had been flexible. More or less.
The wind was up, and a very cold day had suddenly become frigid. Spencer Asah was waiting at the bottom of the stone steps, his breath steaming out of his mouth.
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” said Thumps.
“Yes, we do.”
Thumps wrapped his coat around his body, pulled his neck into his shoulders as far as he could, and headed down the street at a trot. “Give me your parka and we’ll talk.”
“No chance,” said Asah.
“Then I’m going someplace warm.”
“I may know where Ridge is.”
Thumps didn’t break stride. “Tell it to the sheriff.”
“Okay, so I don’t know. But we still have to talk.”
The sun was out, and the horizon was bright. If it weren’t for the wind and the temperature, Thumps might have imagined that it was summer.
“Sure,” said Thumps, stopping for a moment and turning back to Asah. “Let’s talk about the bonds.”
Asah tried to keep his voice cheery, but Thumps could hear the growl. “What bonds?”
“Save it for the cameras.” Thumps jammed his hands in his pockets and headed down Main Street. “And while we’re at it, we can talk about Reuben Justice too.”
AL’S SERVED BREAKFAST, sometimes into the early afternoon, but it wasn’t open at this time of day, so Thumps settled for the closest alternative with heat.
Dumbo’s.
Dumbo’s sat at the edge of Main Street, a brown clapboard building in the middle of a parking lot. Normally Thumps wouldn’t be caught alive in Dumbo’s, but the wind pushed him down the street and in through the front door.
“Jesus,” said Asah, wrinkling his nose, “you eat here?”
Dumbo’s was known for two things, grease and doughnuts. Everything at Dumbo’s was fried. Except maybe the coffee, and Thumps wasn’t completely confident about that. But it was the smell that caught you first, a damp odour that reminded Thumps of wet clothes left too long in a plastic sack.
