Cripple Creek t-2

by James Sallis

  With her there to hold down the fort, I decided to go visit Don Lee. He'd been transferred to the county hospital an hour or so away.

  He was off the respirator now. An oxygen cannula snaked across the bed to his nose. Water bubbled in the humidifier. IV bags, some bloated, others near collapse, hung from poles. One of the poles held a barometer-like gadget that did double duty, registering intercranial pressure and draining off fluid.

  "He's intermittently conscious," a nurse told me, "about what we'd expect at this point. He's family? A friend?"

  "My boss, actually." There was no reason to show her the badge but I did anyway. She said she was sorry, she'd be right outside the door catching up on her charting, and left us alone.

  I put my hand against Don Lee's there on the bed. His eyes opened, staring up at the ceiling's blankness.

  "Turner?"

  "I'm here, Don Lee."

  "This is hard."

  "I know."

  "No. This is hard."

  I told him what went down in Memphis.

  "Kind of let the beast out of the cage there, didn't you?"

  "Guess I did, at that."

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. I'm tired, really tired… Why did someone stick an icepick in my head, Turner?"

  "It's a monitor."

  "Man-eater?"

  "No, monitor."

  "Big lizard you mean."

  "Not really."

  He seemed to be thinking that over.

  "They keep telling me and I keep forgetting: June's okay, right?"

  "She's fine. Back at work as of today."

  I thought he'd fallen off again when he suddenly said, "You sure you don't want to be sheriff?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Smart move," he said.

  I was backing the Chariot out of a visitor's space when the beeper went off. I sat looking at the number while a car and an SUV roughly the size of a tank blared horns at me.

  June.

  I pulled back into the space, earning a middle-finger salute from the tank driver, and went to use the phone in the hospital lobby.

  "How's Don Lee?" June asked.

  "Looking good. Still gonna be a while. So what's up?"

  "Maybe nothing. Thelma called. From the diner? Said some guy was in there early this morning. Waiting in his car when they came in to open, actually. Just ordered coffee. Then a little later-she and Gillie and Jay were setting up, of course, but she swung by a time or two to check on him-he asked after you. Said he was an old friend."

  Any old friends I was supposed to have, I probably didn't want to see.

  "When Thelma said he should check in at the sheriff's office, he said well, he was just passing through, pressed for time. Maybe he'd come back."

  "Thelma say what he looked like?"

  "Slight, dark skin and hair, wearing a suit, that was dark too, over a yellow knit shirt buttoned all the way up. Good shoes. Thing was, Thelma said, he didn't ask the kind of questions you'd expect. Where you lived, what you did for a living, all that. What he wanted to know was did you have a family, who your friends were."

  "Thanks, June. He still around?"

  "Got back in his car, Thelma said-a dark blue Mustang, I have the license number for you-and drove off in the direction of the interstate."

  "I'm on my way in. See you soon."

  Half an hour later I pulled off the road onto the bluff just above Val's house. The old Ames place, as everyone still called it. Val was up at the state police barracks doing her job, of course, but a dark blue Mustang sat in her drive.

  I went down through stands of oak and pecan trees trellised with honeysuckle, through ankle-deep tides of kudzu, to the back door opening onto the kitchen. No one locked doors here, and the kitchen would have no interest for him.

  I also had the advantage of knowing the house and its wood floors. Focusing on creaks above, I followed his progress: master bedroom, hallway, second and third bedrooms, bath. Then the tiny tucked-wing room probably meant for servants, and the hallway again.

  "You'd be Turner," he said from the top of the stairs.

  One cool guy. Sure of himself and waiting to see which way the wind blew.

  I put a round through one knee. He came tumbling down the stairs with left hand and drawn weapon bumping behind him, to the base, where my foot pinned his wrist.

  "Apologies first," I said. "You're obviously not one of the thick-neck boys. They wouldn't know subtlety if it ran over them, then backed up and had another go."

  "Contract," he said.

  "Who's paying?"

  "You know how it works. I can't tell you that."

  I moved the snout of the Police Special vaguely in his direction, a sweeping motion. "Ankle or knee?"

  I used Val's phone to call and tell June I was going to be a little later than I'd thought. Then I drove back to the hospital, one of Val's sheets wrapped tight around my passenger's leg. There wasn't much vessel damage, but joints do get bloody. Ask any orthopedic surgeon.

  I was doing just that ("Case like this, we can rebuild the joint from the fragments, adding a bit of plastic here and there- sometimes that's best, staying with the original-or we can replace the whole thing. The newest titanium appliances are remarkable") when Val walked through the double doors.

  "June called me."

  I thanked the doctor and said I'd get back to him about cost, responsibility, and so on.

  "Not a problem," he said. "Mr. Millikin had proof of insurance with him. He's fully covered. Says he wants to be the man of steel. I've got to go finish a procedure up in OR-got interrupted to check him out. Then we'll have him brought up." Nodding his leave-taking: "Sheriff. Ma'am."

  "What the hell is going on?" Val asked. "This guy was in my house? Why was this guy in my house? Who the hell is this guy?"

  In the basement we found a place to get coffee, not really a cafeteria, more a kind of commissary, and I walked her through what had happened.

  "So, what? He was going to hold me hostage?"

  "Or worse. Beyond saying it's a contract, he won't talk."

  "This ties in with what went down in Memphis."

  I nodded.

  "Going back in turn to Don Lee's arrest of what's-his-name- Judd Kurtz?"

  "Right again."

  "From what little I know about it, farming out enforcement work's not the way these people usually handle things."

  "True enough. What I'm thinking is, given how it went down last time, they've elected for a low profile. Set it up so nothing can be traced back to them."

  Blowing across her coffee cup-absolutely superfluous, since the coffee was at best lukewarm-Val tracked a young woman's progress down the line. An elaborate tattoo scored the nape of her neck. She wore studded boots and sniffed at everything she took from narrow, glass-shuttered shelves. Most of it, she set back.

  "These guys have the longest memories of all," Val said. "They've got wars that have been going on for centuries. Sooner or later, they don't hear from their scout, they'll figure out it went wrong."

  "We could send them his head."

  Having reached the register, the tattooed young woman stood beaming at the cashier as he spoke, waited, and spoke again. Then the smile went away and she came back into motion.

  "Just kidding," I said. "You're right. They'll wait a while, but they'll be back. Someone will."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  That night around eleven I got a call. Mabel had routed it through to me at home. I could barely hear the speaker over the jukebox and roar of voices behind.

  "This the sheriff?"

  "Deputy."

  "Good enough. Reckon you better get on out here."

  "Where's here?"

  "The Shack. State Road Forty-one, mile past the old cotton gin."

  I told him I was on my way and hung up.

  "Where's Eldon playing these days?" I asked Val.

  "Place called The Shack. Why?"

  "Thought so. They've go
t trouble."

  "He okay?"

  "I don't know. You be here when I get back?"

  "I have a home day tomorrow, and some briefs I need to get started on tonight. Call me?"

  I said I would, and asked her to leave a note for J. T. in case she woke while I was gone. Clipped the holster on my belt and headed for the Chariot.

  The Shack was surprisingly well constructed, built of wood and recently repainted, dark green with lighter highlights. Shells paved the parking lot, crunching as I walked across. Specimens of every insect native to the county swarmed in dense clouds around the yellow lights at the door.

  The bar took up the wall just inside and to the right, allowing the bartender to keep an eye on everything. The ceiling was low, bar lit by a single overhead light that filled the shelves with shadows.

  The bandstand, little more than a pallet extending a foot or so above the floor, occupied the corner opposite the bar. Most of the patrons were gathered there. Upon hearing the heavy door, they looked around. How they heard it, I don't know, what with the war sounds coming from the jukebox.

  "Turn that thing off."

  The bartender reached under the bar. A saxophone solo died in mid-honk, like a shot goose.

  The crowd drew back as I approached. Eldon sat on the edge of the bandstand. One eye was swollen almost shut; blood, black in the half-light, black like his face, blotched the front of his shirt. His guitar lay in pieces before him. The bass player stood backed against the wall, hugging his Fender. The drummer, still seated, twirled a stick in each hand. "Come on, you son'va'bitch! Stand up and fight like a goddamn man!" This from a stocky guy with his back to me.

  I put a hand gently on his shoulder and he came around swinging, then grunted as I tucked one fist in his armpit, grabbed his wrist with the other, pulled hard against the latter and leaned hard into the former. When he brought the other hand around to strike, I gave his wrist a twist. What must have been a buddy of his started towards me, saying "Hey man, you can't-" only to have a drumstick strike him squarely between the eyes. He staggered back. The drummer, who'd thrown the stick like a knife, wagged a finger in warning.

  "You okay, Eldon?"

  "Yeah."

  "How about you?" I asked the stocky guy. "You cooled down?"

  He nodded, and I let go, backing off. Watching his eyes. I saw it there first, then in the shift of his feet. Stamped hard on his instep, and when that knee buckled, I kicked the other foot out from under him.

  "Don't get up till you're ready to behave." Then to Eldon: "What's this all about?"

  "Who knows? Guy starts hanging around the bandstand, has something to say every minute or two, I just smile and nod and ignore him. So he starts getting louder. Tries to get up onstage at one point and spills a beer on my amp. So then he stumbles getting down and starts yelling that I pushed him. Next thing I know, he's grabbed my guitar and smashed it."

  "You want me to take him in?"

  "Hell no, Turner. Not like I ain't been through this before. Just get his buddy there to take him the fuck home and let him sleep it off."

  I helped the man up.

  "Your lucky day," I told him. "Give me your billfold." I took the driver's license out. "You come pick this up tomorrow and we'll have a talk. Now get the hell out of here."

  I waited at the bar while Eldon borrowed a towel from the bartender and went in the bathroom to clean up. He came back looking not much better.

  "Shirt kinda makes me homesick for tie-dye. Buy you a drink?"

  "Tomato juice."

  "And a draft for me," I told the bartender.

  The jukebox came back on. I looked hard at the bartender and the volume went down about half.

  "He wanted you to fight him."

  "Sure did."

  "But you didn't."

  Eldon looked off at the bandstand, where drummer and bassist were packing up.

  "Must be about six, seven years ago now. Club down in Beaumont. I's out back on a break and this guy comes up talkin' 'bout You shore can play that thing, boy. Gets up in my face like a gnat and won't go away."

  He finished off his juice.

  "I damn near killed him. Vowed that day I'd never take another drink and I'd never fight another man. You ever killed anyone, Turner?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I have."

  "Then you know."

  I nodded.

  The bass player had scooped up what was left of Eldon's guitar and put it in the case. He brought the case over and set it at Eldon's feet.

  "Talk to you tomorrow," Eldon said.

  "Don't call too early." An old joke: they both grinned.

  Out on the floor, four or five couples were boot-scooting to Merle Haggard's "Lonesome Fugitive."

  "Back when I played R amp;B, I always had half a dozen or more electric guitars," Eldon said. "Have me a Gibson solid-body, a Gretsch, one of those Nationals shaped like a map, a Telecaster or a Strat. Ain't had but this old Guild Starfire for years now. When I bought it, place called Charlie's Guitars in Dallas, it had the finish torn off right above the pickup, where this bluesman had had his initials glued on. Guess he slapped it on his next guitar. And guess I'll be heading up to Memphis in the morning to do some shopping."

  Val hadn't gone home after all. She lay on the couch with one bent leg balanced across the other forming a perfect figure 4. Miss Emily was asleep on the armrest by her head. I tucked a quilt around Val, then went out to the kitchen and poured myself a solid dose of bourbon.

  I'd made pasta earlier, and the kitchen still smelled of garlic. The back door was open. A moth with a body the size of my thumb kept worrying at the screen door. Frogs and night birds called from the lake.

  J. T. had all but fallen asleep at the dinner table. Used to being busy, she said. Not being wears me out, plus there's the shift thing. She insisted on cleaning up, then the minute it was done went off to bed. That the bed was hers was something I'd insisted on, despite voluble protests, when she came to stay with me. I'd taken the couch. And now the couch had been retaken, by Val. And Emily. The house was filling up fast.

  "Is Eldon okay?"

  Wrapped in the quilt, Val stood in the doorway. Miss Emily bustled around her to go check on the kids.

  "A little the worse for wear-but aren't we all." I told her what had happened. "Thought you were going home."

  She sat across from me, reached for my glass and helped herself to a healthy swallow.

  "So did I. But the more I thought…"

  I nodded. There are few things like home invasion to rearrange the furniture in your head. "Give it time."

  She yawned. "That's it, enough of the good life. I'm going back to bed."

  "To couch, you mean."

  "There's room for both of us."

  "There's barely room for you."

  "So where will you sleep?"

  "Hey, eleven years in prison, remember? I can sleep anywhere. I'll grab a blanket or two, take the floor in here."

  "You sure?"

  "Go to couch, Val."

  "Don't stay up too long."

  "I won't, but I'm still a little wired. I'll just sit here a while with Miss Emily and family."

  "Night."

  I poured another drink and sat wondering why Miss Emily had chosen to live among people, and what she thought about them. Hell, I wondered what I thought about them.

  Satisfied the kids were all right, Miss Emily had climbed to the window above the sink, one of her favorite spots. Glancing up at her, I saw her head suddenly duck low, ears forward.

  Then I saw the shadow crossing the yard.

  I was out the door before I'd thought about it, taking care not to let the screen door bang. A bright moon hung above the trees. My eyes fell to their base, seeking movement, changes in texture, further shadows. Birds and frogs had stopped calling.

  Never thought they'd show up this soon.

  I eased across the porch and onto the top step, looking, listening. Stood like that for what seemed endless minutes before th
e floorboards creaked behind me. I turned and he was there, one sinewy arm held up to engage my own.

  "Nathan!"

  His grip on my wrist loosened.

  "Someone been up in them woods," he said, "going on the better part of a month now."

  "You know who?"

  He shook his head. "But early on this evening, one of them came in a little too close to the cabin, then made the mistake of running. Dog took out after him, naturally, came back looking pleased with hisself. So I tracked him down this way. Blood made it some easy."

  We found him minutes later by the lake, lying facedown. Early twenties, wearing cheap jeans and a short denim jacket over a black T-shirt, plastic western boots. Blood drained rather than pumped from his thigh when I turned him over.

  Nathan shook his head.

  Dogs hereabouts aren't pets, they're functional, workers, brought up to help provide food and protect territory. Nathan's had gone at the young man straight on, taking out an apple-sized chunk of upper thigh and, to all appearances, a divot from the femoral artery.

  "Damn young fool," Nathan said. "Reckon we ought to call someone."

  "No reason to hurry." I took my fingers away from the young man's carotid. When I did, something on his forearm caught light. I pushed back his sleeve. "What's that look like to you?"

  Nathan bent over me.

  "Numbers."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I remembered them from childhood. I was six years old. They were everywhere. Covering the trees, climbing the outside walls of the house and barbecue pit, swarming up telephone and electric poles, making their way along the chicken wire around dog runs. There they erupted from the back of their shells and unfurled wings. Hadn't been there at all the night before. Then suddenly thousands of them: black bodies the size of shrimp and maybe an inch long, transparent wings, red eyes. The males commenced to beat out tunes on their undersides, thrumming on hollow, drumlike bellies. As the sun warmed, they played louder and harder. Dogs, the wild cat that lived under the garage, chickens, mockingbirds, and bluejays ate their fill. People did too, some places, Dad told me.