True Intent

by Michael Stagg

  Still, I decided that more investigation down the Nick Heyward avenue wasn’t helpful at all.

  Sports radio seemed like a better option to keep me awake for the last hour of the drive. After forty-five minutes on the Kansas City Chiefs though, I found that there was a limit. I flipped through the satellite channels and found a station that happened to be playing a Lizzy Saint song off the Ripper album. I smiled, turned it up, and rolled the rest of the way back.

  It was early evening when I got back to St. Louis and I realized that I hadn’t eaten anything but gas station snacks and coffee all day and that I was starving. I decided it would be a waste to come all the way to St. Louis and not try some barbecue so I ducked into the hotel, asked the woman at the front desk where to go, and popped back out to my Jeep to head to Shorty’s.

  Most good barbecue joints run out during the day but the woman at the hotel had sworn that Shorty’s had racks coming out of the pit until midnight and that Shorty took it as a personal offense if anyone went home hungry. I made the drive willingly and I’d only gone a few miles when I saw a simple, well-lit white sign with red letters that let me know that Shorty’s ribs awaited.

  The place wasn’t much to look at from the outside; it was an old cedar plank construction with a metal roof, but it was in good repair and the dozens of cars jammed into the lot meant that decor didn’t mean shit. That was confirmed when I got out of the car and smelled the smoke. It was pungent and delicious and I didn’t recognize what kind of wood it was.

  I inhaled, my mouth started to water, and I headed in.

  The place was packed. There were a dozen people standing around the hostess stand and even more filling a bar in the center of the room, drinking and waiting for seats. I made my way up to the hostess who was busy marking off tables with a wax pen on a laminated seating chart. She looked up, harried, and then smiled.

  “One for dinner, please?” I said.

  She looked down at the chart. “It'll be about forty-five minutes,” she said. “Unless you want to eat at the bar?”

  “That would be fine.”

  She smiled and made a tick with the wax pencil. “Then follow me.”

  She grabbed a menu, smiled again, then led me through the crowd toward the back end of the bar. It stuck out like a rectangle into the middle of the restaurant with about ten seats on each long side and five on the side facing the door. She led me to a seat at the far left corner of the rectangle, right by the kitchen door, handed me a menu, and told me to enjoy my dinner. I sat down, the bartender took my order for a beer, and I took a look at the menu.

  There were two choices, a half rack of ribs or a full rack. There were two sauces, Shorty’s Special or Shorty’s Extra. All the ribs came with coleslaw, beans, and a roll. The greatest choice was the drinks; there were five choices of soft drinks and three choices of beer. I looked again at the overflowing crowd. It seemed to me that Shorty had it nailed.

  The bartender set my beer on the bar. “Ordering dinner?” he said.

  “What's the difference between the Special sauce and the Extra?”

  The bartender gave me a look that said no matter how simple we make it, somebody's always got a goddam question. “Extra is spicier.”

  “I'll take a full rack extra and another beer.”

  “You got it,” he said, took my menu, and left.

  A steady stream of platters was coming out of the back of the restaurant. Shorty must've had fifteen people running tables that night and they were all hustling. It smelled great.

  I was halfway through my beer when a full rack of ribs appeared in front of me along with my sides and a second beer. The smell that wafted up reached into my soul and set my mouth to watering.

  “Already?” I said.

  “Already,” the bartender said. He didn’t appear too impressed with my grasp of the obvious.

  I took a bite of the first rib and lost all track of space and time. The meat was cooked perfectly, tender so that you could bite it off the bone but firm so that it didn't fall off. There was the sharp taste of the smoke, a citrusy but spicy taste to the sauce, and a tang that made them just about the best ribs I'd ever had. I decided that the roll and the coleslaw and the beans were an evil distraction and focused solely on demolishing the ribs.

  It took a while but I did it. I was just gnawing the last of the meat off the last rib bone when a man who was easily six foot seven and wearing a red shirt with a white apron came walking out the back and leaned over to whisper to the bartender. I waited until he’d stopped talking then said, “You must be Shorty.”

  The man regarded me with the same look the bartender had used. “I am. Why?”

  “Because those are the best ribs I've ever eaten and I wanted to say thank you to whatever culinary god made them.”

  The man’s expression changed to a smirk and he wiped his hands on a towel that was tucked into his waist. “That would be me.”

  I stuck out my hand. “Thank you.”

  The man took it and his fingers wrapped damn near all the way around my hand. “No problem.”

  “If you don't mind my asking, what kind of wood do you use? I didn't recognize the smell of the smoke.”

  “Red Oak,” Shorty said. “Can't use anything but oak to smoke ribs.”

  “I've been using hickory. It appears that was a mistake.”

  Shorty smiled and looked beyond me at the crowded room. “Apparently so.”

  “And was there cayenne in that rub?”

  Shorty looked at me sharply. “See, now that I do mind.”

  I should know better than that. Blame the ribs. “I suppose you would at that. Sorry, these were just fairly overwhelming.”

  Shorty nodded. “They do have that effect sometimes.”

  “Is this normal?”

  “The crowd? For a Saturday. A little more since it was payday yesterday for the plant.”

  “Which plant’s that?”

  Shorty scowled at me. “The natural gas facility.”

  “That the plant that processes the gas from the Ribbon Falls site?”

  “That's an interesting way to put it.”

  “How would you put it?

  “The plant just down the street.”

  “Ah.”

  Shorty eyed me from a considerable height and said, “You're not from here?”

  I shook my head. “Michigan.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “In St. Louis? Work. In here specifically? Recommended by the clerk at my hotel’s front desk who is going to get an enormous tip when I get back.”

  “What kind of work?”

  No one wants to hear about a lawyer coming to their town and asking questions. “An errand for a friend. She left some things down here so I volunteered to pick them up. Have the protests finally stopped?”

  Shorty wiped his hands on his apron. “Well, it's good to have you come all this way. Be sure to stop in if you ever come back. Enjoy the ribs.”

  With that Shorty disappeared back to his magical pit. I sucked the remaining meat off a rib bone and let it drop to the plate. The bartender walked back to me and pointed. “Need another beer?”

  “Please.”

  The bartender reached into a cooler, pulled out a long neck, and popped off the cap on the opener attached to the bar. As he set it in front of me, he said, “Why do you care about the protests?”

  I shrugged. “I don't really.”

  The bartender nodded as if that non-answer were an answer. “A lot of good jobs at the gas plant. A lot of good men have work.” He pointed around the bar. “And spend money.”

  I nodded. “I can see that.”

  “We're not stupid, the forest brings in a lot of tourism dollars too. And damn near every man in here hunts those woods or fishes those rivers.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Doesn't make sense to let some bureaucrat in Washington decide where we can work and where we can hunt.”

  “That is the truth.”
r />   “You sure?”

  “Am I sure what?”

  “That what I said is true?”

  I took a sip of beer. “If you can't trust the bartender in Shorty’s then I’m not going to answer the phone the next time my momma calls because she’s a damn liar.”

  The bartender eyed me , processed, then barked a short laugh. “Damn straight,” he said, then moved on to the next customer.

  A moment later, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and a voice said, “Done with your ribs?”

  I looked up and saw a man with about five days of growth on his face, brown hair, and green coveralls that said “Doprava Processing” on the left chest. He wore a baseball hat pulled down low so that his eyes were in shadow but I got the picture. “Almost,” I said.

  “No, I said ‘done with you ribs.’” The man changed his inflection to make it a declaration.

  I picked up a rib bone and began to gnaw. “I appreciate that. And I said almost.”

  He was standing right next to me so he couldn't really step closer so I guess it would be more accurate to say he loomed closer to me and said, “See, that's the problem with out-of-town folks. They don't know when supper’s done.”

  “As well-traveled as you look, I can't believe that you know everyone in St. Louis.” I took a sip of beer.

  The man blinked. “What?”

  “Maybe I'm from the north side. Do you ever get up to the north side?”

  “No.” The man blinked again. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, do you ever get to my neighborhood?”

  “What neighborhood?”

  “I didn’t think so. See, you should learn your neighborhoods before you accuse people of being from out-of-town.”

  The man's eyes twitched back and forth before they stopped and narrowed. “I said, you're done with your ribs.”

  I was finding the people in southwest St. Louis to be fairly single-minded. I made a point of picking up another rib and gnawing it clean. I looked around the man’s shoulder and saw two more men in green coveralls watching us from just a couple of arm’s lengths away. This looked like it might go the route of being downright unsportsmanlike.

  I held up one finger and made a point of biting the last bit of meat off the end of the rib. Then I tossed my rib bone into the air so that it flipped up end-over-end until it came down and landed with a clatter on my plate.

  Coveralls Boy couldn't help it. He watched the bone arc up over the plate and then rattle home.

  I stood up quickly and delivered an uppercut just below his ribs and to the left of his solar plexus.

  Recently, I had spent a little more than a year working through some shit. A big part of that had been training with Cade Brickson. I had known my way around a fight before but Cade had taught me the unfettered joy of the liver punch. He would have been proud.

  Coveralls Boy bent over and dropped to a knee. A second later, he puked on the floor.

  I caught him with one arm and lifted him into my chair. “Hey, bartender,” I waved. “I think this guy’s had a little too much.”

  “Jesus, Randy, again?” said the bartender. I peeled off three twenties and tossed them onto the bar. I made a show of steadying Randy into my seat and patting him once on the back before I headed for the door. “Give my best to Shorty,” I said and waved on the way out.

  I kept a straight face and walked, neither fast nor slow, toward the doors. I heard Randy coughing and panting behind me. The other two men in green coveralls seemed confused, looking from me to Randy and back. I nodded, didn't speed up, and walked out the door.

  Once I was in the parking lot, I knew it didn't do to linger. I hustled to my Jeep, climbed in, and drove back to my hotel.

  I decided I felt better all the way around.

  27

  The next day I just had one thing left to do. First thing in the morning, I drove to Gateway Animal Rescue.

  I don't know what I was expecting, maybe a bunch of cages and a little mini jail for dogs, but it wasn't that at all. I found kennels and crates of all sizes, housing barking dogs and aloof cats and one potbelly pig of a surprisingly good disposition. I also found an exercise yard and an agility course and three climbing posts, along with what looked to be at least eight high school and college students feeding and grooming and exercising the animals.

  I waved to a young woman filling the bowl of a forlorn Great Dane and asked for Missy Lincoln, the owner of the shelter who had left the message at Liselle's office. The girl nodded, scratched the chin of the Great Dane (who in turn rubbed his great head against her leg), and told me to wait just a moment. The Great Dane and I each stared with mutual curiosity about what the other was doing here, when a woman in her forties came over from the exercise yard. She had long, honey blonde hair with a streak or two of gray and she wore jeans, work boots, and a gray fleece that was, not surprisingly, covered in dog hair. She smiled and I was taken aback because it was about as nice and as forthright a smile as I'd ever been given.

  “Missy Lincoln,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  She offered me her hand so I took it and said, “Nate Shepherd.”

  Her smile brightened even more. “I like the name.”

  “Thanks. This is a great place.”

  “We try. There's an awful lot of work to do.” She slipped her work gloves off and gestured. “You'll have to excuse the mess; I was digging a post hole for a new obstacle in the yard.”

  I waved. “You can't do good work without getting dirty.”

  “Ain't that the truth. So what can I help you with?”

  “You left a message for Liselle Vila about a Toller. I was following up.”

  A wave of something crossed Missy's face. “I did. I shouldn't have done that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn't know what had happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want some coffee?” Missy said. “It's still not noon and I'm still in the refueling part of my day.”

  “I'd love some.”

  She gestured for me to follow her and we went to a small kitchenette area with a microwave, a mini fridge, a sink, and most importantly, a large coffee maker. “Where did you find one that holds sixteen cups?” I said. “I haven't been able to find one of those anywhere.”

  “A special donation.” She smiled. “Probably the best one we've ever received.”

  She poured me a cup and one for herself and left them both black which increased my admiration for her another notch. The din of the dogs was a little less in here so that it was easier to hear her as she said, “It’s kind of a long story.”

  I smiled and raised my mug. “I’m fully fueled to listen.”

  “You’re a friend of hers?”

  I nodded.

  “I do feel like I owe her an explanation. I know she really liked the dog.”

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  Missy took a sip of her coffee, then said, “We took ten dogs with us to the Furball last year for adoption. It's a great event for that, usually all of our dogs are placed with good owners. We’d had a Toller come in the week before, which is unusual because purebred hunting dogs don't end up here very often. Well, Richard Phillips bird hunts with Tollers so the minute he saw Mac, he wanted to adopt him on the spot.”

  Missy smiled. “Liselle had seen Mac first and had wanted to adopt him herself and the two of them had a good-natured battle over him. In the end, Richard convinced her that his two-hundred-acre estate, regular hunting, and two companion Tollers was the best possible environment for Mac. In exchange for visitation rights, Liselle conceded and played with him while Richard filled out the paperwork.”

  “You remember all that?”

  Missy nodded and sipped her coffee before she said, “You don’t often see a woman in an evening gown willing to get down on a knee and play with a dog.” Missy smiled self-deprecatingly and gestured at her fleece. “I can appreciate that.”

  I smiled. “It’s a rare gi
ft.”

  “People are never ready to take the dogs home right then so we arranged for him to pick-up Mac the next day.”

  “Did you handle that too?”

  She nodded. “I always do. These people are usually big donors and I like to make sure that the dogs all get to their new homes smoothly. Richard came to pick up Mac himself and Liselle was with him.”

  “Oh?

  “I was a little surprised when they showed up together because I had the impression that they hadn’t met until they were competing for Mac.” She paused and took another sip. “By the time they left, I had the impression that the visitation might have started without him.”

  I let that pass.

  “So about a month ago, a young woman I didn’t know brought Mac back and of course I recognized him right away. I asked why she was bringing him here and she said that Mac was ‘that woman’s’ idea and she could just take care of him. I didn't know what she meant because I tend to miss the news with all that goes on here. She left before I could ask anything else but it didn’t take long to figure out that Richard Phillips had died and that there was no one to take care of Mac. My first thought was of Liselle. We’d spoken at the Furball about the fact that she worked in the Forestry Service and we had a lot of common interests so I didn't even think about it and called her office right away.”

  She took the pot off the burner and held it out to me. I nodded and held up my cup as she refilled it and then refilled her own. “Like I said, I don't follow the news much so I didn't know what had happened. Or about the arrest.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  Missy shrugged. “Animals are my life, Mr. Shepherd. I have a hard time believing that someone who loves animals that much could do something like that. So how do you know Liselle?”

  I thought for a moment about being evasive but Missy didn't seem like that kind of person. “I'm her lawyer. I was down here picking up some things for her when I saw your message. She's pretty lonely and I thought that if the Toller was still here…”