by Chuck Kinder
Then, egged on by her admirers, a grinning, drooling audience of assholes, this shamelessly flirty hussy of a Lindsay character went fishing for the ribbony blue eel in the huge tank behind the bar with a piece of string and bobby-pin hook, and Jim flung himself sullenly from that wretched establishment.
2
Back in his hot hotel room, Jim flopped down on the creaky bed, clicked on the table lamp, and reread this Lindsay character’s letters to Ralph for maybe the tenth time, and Ralph’s to her. Her letters were wonderfully written, Jim had to admit, smart and insightful and funny, and, yes, real sexy, dirty even, you’d have to call them, but full of falsehoods. Jim reread parts where this Lindsay character proclaimed her love, her endless, undying, blah blah blah love for Ralph, which, judging from her flirty, hussy behavior at the bar, was clearly a cruel joke on poor old Ralph, that fool for love. Clearly Jim was going to have to take matters
into his own hands, for his idiot buddy’s sake. Jim just couldn’t stand by and watch old dumb Ralph wreck his life any more than he already had, could he? What were best buddies for?
And then Jim reread his favorite dirty parts of this Lindsay character’s letters once more intently, parts where this Lindsay harlot spoke of sexual secrets she and Ralph shared. Petting his parrot, Jim found himself somewhat inadvertently committing these juicy parts to memory. Jim called information for her phone number and memorized it. He dialed her number then, this Lindsay whory character, and lay there simply listening to the ringing. Somehow Jim knew he was getting closer to the real beginning of his life, or rebirth, as it were, and he imagined it dangerous and dramatic, like his teenage dreams of becoming a diver for sunken treasure, or a gunrunner, or a pirate.
Early the next morning Jim rented a car and located the address written on the envelopes. Jim parked up the street from Lindsay’s townhouse on South 6th Street and waited. When Lindsay came out and drove off in her car, he followed her. He saw where she parked near her office, which was a real estate company in a restored old Victorian house at the edge of town not far from the university. Jim drove around for a while, took a spin out Rattlesnake Creek as far as Danny O’Brien Gulch, to get some air, clear his head, then got something to eat at a drive- through.
Jim parked up the street from Lindsay’s vehicle and waited while he puffed a joint and sipped from a pint bottle of bourbon in a brown paper bag. He slouched down into the seat and gazed into that great blue bowl of sky that domed over the beautiful Missoula Valley, within whose long lap the garden city of the Northwest nestled. When there weren’t any sounds of traffic, Jim could hear the low rumble of the Clark Fork River, which flowed through the heart of town, and upon whose banks at about any time of day you could find fishermen fly casting, the white filament of their lines gathering sunlight into curves, bright arabesques flicking out toward the swift current. Jim fired another joint and looked up at the steep slope of Mount Sentinel, rising behind the brick buildings of the university, to that huge design of whitewashed stones arranged in a shape not unlike the letter My high up on the bare brown hillside, which shone intensely in the brilliant sunlight, like a landing signal to alien craft or the ceremonial snake sign of an ancient, fallen race, the nearly forgotten ancestors of the Salish Indian nation, say. He had heard various tales about that mysterious totem, and even initiated a few refried ones of his own. Jim puffed leisurely and let his gaze drift north to Mount Jumbo, which got its name because townfolks thought it looked like a sleeping elephant. In the distance, the snow- covered, high granite peaks of the Rockies glistened bluish in the sunlight as they ranged north toward Canada. Jim could hear the whistle of a Northern Pacific freight as it headed east up Hell- gate Canyon toward Milltown and beyond. When this Lindsay character finally came out at lunchtime, Jim pulled his fedora low over his shaded, steely eyes and sank down in the seat. When she drove off, Jim followed her again; then he followed her when she got off work.
Jim followed this Lindsay character for days like that, snapping photographs of her at every opportunity with a cheap Polaroid he had picked up at a drugstore, photographs (if you could call them that) of her getting in and out of her car, and other people’s cars, men’s sometimes, as she came and went from restaurants, bars, and, on a couple of occasions, with this one clown in particular, from a fancy edge-of-the-river motel only a few blocks from her office. Some photographs captured this Lindsay character coming and going with this same man, who was an older fellow, in his late forties, say, who walked with a slight limp, from her own townhouse at the crack of dawn. Jim was doing detective work for his best pal, Ralph. Jim would do anything for his dopey friend. Jim was going to get the goods on this Lindsay character, amass so much incriminating evidence that old fool-for-love Ralph could not help but come to realize that this Lindsay character did not truly love him, and that her wonderfully written, smart, amusing, insightful, sexy letters were loaded with lies.
Shot through the curved glare of windshield glass, shadowy and grainy, as though culled from ancient newsreel footage, the pictures Jim took of this Lindsay were poor mugshots at best. In this one shot she seemed to be looking directly at him, although through her huge, dark sunglasses he could not see her lovely, gray, otherworldly eyes, so who could be sure. Lindsay seemed, however, to be making a face in Jim’s direction, sort of clowning for the camera, touching her nose with her wondrous tongue.
Sitting in his rented car late one night, while he waited for Lindsay to emerge from that fancy motel at the river’s edge, what Jim had let himself imagine as he studied that particular mugshot in the iridescent light of the dashboard was that trollop and her old coot lover up in that motel room, in the shower, say, soaping each other up, committing unspeakable, sudsy sexual acts. Then, out of the blue, old Ralph climbed into the shower, too. Then, holding hands and naked, Judy and Melvin showed up and asked to borrow some soap. Whereupon Jim had whipped out old nasty Mister Monkey for some serious spanking.
Black Widow
1
Lindsay goes to the party Buffalo Bill and Kathy throw for Ken Kesey after his reading at the university. Her old drinking pal Jim Crumley is there, up from Texas to show off his new detective novel, which is set in Missoula and dedicated to Dick Hugo, the grand old detective of the American heart. Buffalo had speculated that Crumley and this Jim Stark guy, Ralph’s friend up recendy from California, would rooster around each other when they met, but apparently it had been best-buddy love at first sight, and Buffalo, Crumley, and this Jim Stark regale the kitchen hardcore drinking crowd with outrageous tall tales of miscreant misadventures, while Kesey slouches in a doorway bemused. This Jim Stark guy is big and bearded and, when babbling with the boys, seems loud and bullshitty, but then suddenly terribly shy and awkward when Kathy introduces him to Lindsay. He looks down at his boots and mumbles something to Lindsay about having some items to deliver to her from Ralph, and Lindsay nods knowingly, and Kathy, who overhears, widens her blank, unblinking, Orphan Annie eyes with curiosity. Lindsay can’t figure this Jim Stark character out, but in an aside she predicts to Kathy a lot more trouble in this old town in the near future. He is Ralph’s trusted friend, and Bill’s buddy from Bill’s time at Stanford, and Kathy says he has published a novel. Another writer! God! Just what Missoula needs. So this guy is just splitting with his wife, according to Kathy, which, by the looks of him, translates to Lindsay that the poor wife probably parked his butt at the curb. Why did people think Missoula was a town where they could land on their feet?
Then through the screen door Lindsay hears a motorcycle roaring up in the yard outside, and alas, it is her ex-husband, Milo, on his brand-new Harley. He spots Lindsay immediately and is upon her in a heartbeat for old times’ sake. Regales the audience with horrible but apparently hilarious stories of their three pitiful years of marriage, stories which he clearly thinks are a sitcom riot and demonstrate clearly how hip and long-suffering he was with the bride from Belview. Lindsay is stoned, the first time in days, for she is taking h
er turning-a-new-leaf-in-life seriously (two-drink limit most nights, six-cigarette limit daily, $23.67 on new vitamins the previous week, a mile run two mornings earlier, and off the pill for good so she won’t even be tempted to slip). Lindsay has to admit to herself that she is stoned-paranoid, she knows that. And she is utterly stricken and sick to her stomach at Milo’s onslaughts, but she attempts to maintain a bullshitty brave smile. She tries time and again to shove off, but Milo seems to be following her around, doing his fucking number on her.
Then this Jim Stark character comes up out of nowhere and starts mumbling to Lindsay, trying to make small talk about the possibility of life on Mars or some equal weirdness. Then Milo is upon them, and for some reason begins telling about the time his former wife, poor dopey Lindsay, who was Grade Allen and Lucy rolled into one in the dumbbell wife department, once ran their transformed UPS hippie-mobile over the hill at Snowshoe on their way to go skiing when she got her left and right mixed up. Well, that is somewhat true, but why—why?—drag Lindsay’s stupidity up for the world at large to savor? Then Jim Stark asks Milo very quietly to move along, that he and Lindsay are having a private conversation about the possibility of life on Mars. And just who in the fuck are you? Milo barks, huffing up all offended-biker and six-foot-two tough guy, flexing his tattooed, muscly arms.
Whereupon Jim Stark slaps Milo’s face. Dear God! He just slaps the shit out of Milo. With the back of his hand. It sounds like a gunshot. How could this guy have read Lindsay like that? Is her pain that transparent? Everything simply freezes. Milo stumbles backward, his bloody mouth an O of astonishment. He pulls out a handkerchief and clasps it to his mouth. He is absolutely trembling with rage. A couple of his biker buddies move in behind him and puff up ready for action. Buffalo and Crumley (who looks like a fierce, bearded refrigerator) move in behind Jim Stark, which is like having the Grand Tetons of tough guys covering your back. Shades of showdowns in the Old West. Milo’s biker buddies sort of say, Oh, never mind, and fade back into the woodwork. Milo snarls and hisses and splutters with rage, and sort of dances about flapping his arms. Stark just stands there grinning. Then Milo suddenly swirls and stomps out of the house, banging the screen door behind him. Poor Milo. Lindsay can hear his Harley roar and rage in the gravel as he peels out.
Lindsay walks direcdy over to Jim Stark and asks him if she can buy him a drink somewhere besides here, and he mumbles shore in this heavy, hicky accent, which cracks Lindsay up.
2
The next thing Lindsay knows, they are out at the Trail’s End at the edge of town and they are talking about everything under the sun. They talk of Ralph, of Jim Stark’s wife, of Ralph, of Jim’s new novel, of Ralph of Ralph of Ralph. Seems the truth of the matter is that Alice Ann had found Lindsay’s letters, read them through, then tossed them into Ralph’s lap for a little anniversary surprise. Ralph had gone into one of his weasel who-me routines, according to Jim. Jim says that Ralph has a student girlfriend in Berkeley and also writes another lady in Iowa City. Jim says that Alice Ann does not have cancer, as Ralph had told Lindsay by way of explaining why he couldn’t desert Alice Ann right now. It is not like Jim is ratting on Ralph. Lindsay has to pull this information painfully from him. Jim clearly loves Ralph and is really very loyal. Jim tells Lindsay a main reason he and his wife split is that he wants children and a real home life, while his wife, who he says is actually a wonderful woman, is into her career. Jim is on leave from Stanford until the next winter’s term and hopes to have his new novel completed by then, and also his marriage problems resolved one way or the other so he can get on with his life. Lindsay asks Jim why he slapped Milo, and he just smiles and shrugs and says, no. 1, Milo is clearly an asshole who was making Lindsay feel bad, and no. 2, he wanted to make an impression on Lindsay, and no. 3, to be honest, he wasn’t really being brave, for even with all Milo’s leathers and tattoos and his big Harley, Milo was still basically just a fruity poet type.
After a third round of drinks, Jim tells Lindsay he has something he wants to confess to her, and he hopes Lindsay will understand and forgive him. Jim says he has been staying pretty much to himself since he hit town, and he has been amazingly lonely and sad. Jim tells Lindsay that on one particular recent hard night, he had read one of her letters to Ralph. He had felt so desperately alone and unloved, he read and reread one of Lindsay’s letters he had pulled out at random, and he let himself imagine it had been written to him, written by a good woman who loved him. Lindsay tells Jim she understands. Frankly, Lindsay says, she is touched, and she is.
Kathy suddenly appears out of nowhere, saying she needs a break from her party, although things are still going strong. She flops down in her bored, superior way and Jim buys her a drink. Kathy announces that Jim’s wife called the house a while ago and left a message for him to call her when he got a chance. What is it your wife does, anyway? Kathy asks Jim, blowing her perfect smoke rings into the air and leveling her Orphan Annies on him. Jim tells Kathy that his wife’s career, such as it is, is the main cause of their split, that his wife insists upon pursuing a career in porno flicks. He asks Kathy if she has ever seen Passionate Poniesi And if so, does she recall the beautiful brunette in love with the Shetland with balls like cantaloupes?
Then suddenly Bill appears out of the blue, roaring drunk. He is furious that Kathy has scooted out of the party. Who is she planning to meet, anyway, Billy is real curious to know. Are you just dying to see some stranger’s dick tonight, Bill is curious to know. And then, at the top of his lungs, Bill begins requesting that everybody in the bar who has one to haul out their hogs, please, so once and for all Kathy can get her eyes full of dicks. That is not necessary, Billy, Kathy says to him, then points to a table of cute cowboys and tells Bill their peepees will do fine. Billy goes berserk. Somehow Jim gets him out the door, Billy yelling all the way something about Kathy deserving a death by drowning in come.
Kathy lights a cigarette, blows a few perfect smoke rings, levels those cold blanks on Lindsay, and proceeds to lay her low with gleeful venom. First off, Bill is terribly down on Lindsay, Kathy says. He wants “that woman,” viz. Lindsay, out of their lives. Kathy confirms to Lindsay that Bill has maligned her all along with Ralph, which may be the true reason Ralph has balked at commitment. Bill has told Ralph that Lindsay is infamous in Missoula as the “Black Widow,” whose main hobby was to lay all the visiting writers who hit town to give talks and readings, especially the famous ones. Which is why Kathy is personally surprised that Lindsay is out with Jim Stark, a one-book boy at this point, instead of hitting on the really big-time Ken Kesey. Lindsay refuses to rise to this bileful bait and simply looks away, smoking furiously.
A half hour later Jim returns alone, saying he left Bill downtown at the Top Hat, dancing cheek to cheek with some blackeyed Indian princess. Kathy decides to retrieve Billy and return to the party. She says she doesn't care who he fucks, she is simply sick and tired of him getting his ass kicked every other night, as she was the one stuck with bailing him out and/or wiping up the blood and come off the backseat. That fucker is going to be killed before he pays the house off, Kathy says, and she is gone.
3
Ralph calls in the deep a.m. collect and Lindsay takes it in the guest room. Ralph tells Lindsay things down there are crazier than ever, which is why he hasn’t been in touch so much recently, for he doesn’t want to dump his misery in Lindsay’s lap. Alice Ann is doing and saying crazy things; she is acting crazier than a bedbug; her breast cancer has driven her over the edge. Ralph tells Lindsay he finally told Alice Ann (cancer notwithstanding) that he really loves Lindsay and wants to be with her. Before he had given them to his best friend Jim Stark to carry to Lindsay for safekeeping, he had showed Alice Ann the stack of Lindsay’s long, wonderful letters, which were the only things that had kept him from going nuts himself down there sometimes, to convince Alice Ann of the seriousness of the situation, to force her out of denial. No way, Jose, Ralph answers Lindsay, no way has Alice Ann read any of
those letters. He would never let that happen. They are too private and precious to him. Those letters, and his to her, too, they are meant for their eyes only, and for whatever interest posterity might have in them. He has, however, promised Alice Ann that he will stick by her during her time of trouble. Then Ralph talks of his love for Lindsay and of what their life will be like together, of the exotic ports of call they will visit, of the fun and fulfillment they will share. Ralph mentions his increasing fame and solvency. They will be together soon, Ralph swears to Lindsay, just as soon as he gets a few more ducks lined up in his row. Meanwhile, and he hates to ask, but can he borrow fifty bucks until that big loan he is counting on from his mom comes through?
