The Laconic Lumberjack (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 4)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "Remember, I don't want to look like I just got my hair cut. Just cut it back."

  "Don't worry. I know just the thing for you." He started snipping. "You have amazingly curly hair once it grows out. It looks like what Michelangelo put on his David. Do you have any Italian in you?"

  "Not that I've ever heard. Pure Welsh, according to my father, from both him and my mother."

  "I suppose your father's name is David, right?"

  "No, it's Parnell Robert Williams."

  "Parnell? Where does that come from?" Jerry walked around to look at me from the front.

  I said, "Who knows. But, why do you ask?"

  "David Williams is a classic Welsh name. Only thing is, that's not how they pronounce it over there."

  "How is it pronounced?"

  "Oh, honey, the only Welshman I knew intimately could wrap his tongue around those impossible words and I couldn't even begin to repeat it."

  "I bet that isn't the only thing he could wrap his tongue around."

  "Saucy." He kept snipping.

  . . .

  The next morning, Nick took us out to the barn. When he slid opened the door, Carter ran inside before my eyes adjusted to the dark and began to holler. He turned to Nick and said, "Son! An Indian! Where'd you find this?"

  Next to the Buick, there was a blue motorcycle that reminded me of the one that Mike rode when he was on patrol in the 40s and before he was promoted to Lieutenant.

  Nick said, "Henrietta found it. Belonged to one of her customers who was hard up. She got it for you for a couple of hundred, which is a bargain, from what I understand."

  Carter was already on the motorcycle. He put on the helmet that was hanging over one of the handlebars. Without saying anything, he turned a switch, pulled out a lever, and then jumped up and kicked hard. The engine roared to life. He revved the motor a couple of times, put the monster in gear, made a big loop around the barn floor, and was out on the dirt road that led to the front of the house in a shot.

  "I didn't realize that was part of the plan. I thought we were gonna find him an old Ford or Dodge."

  Nick turned to me with a wry smile. "First of all, you look truly handsome in that beard. It really suits you. Second of all, you seem a bit jealous."

  I crossed my arms and watched as Carter sped down the lane. "Maybe."

  . . .

  I looked in the mirror and wondered whether this was a smart move or not. Yes, I had a beard. Yes, my skin was darker than I'd seen it since New Guinea. Yes, I had more muscles all over my body. Many more than I knew were possible. And, yes, they all hurt like hell.

  Carter walked up behind me and looked at me through the mirror. "Whatcha thinkin'?"

  "Whether we can pull this off or not."

  He reached his long arms around me and pulled me in close. Nuzzling my neck with his beard, he said, "I think we can. We owe it to Earl Waskom."

  I nodded. "Yes, we do."

  Chapter 18

  Whispering Pines Inn

  Monday, August 3, 1953

  Half past 8 in the evening

  I parked the truck in front of the motel lobby and jumped out. The neon sign in front of the Whispering Pines Inn blinked brightly in the dusk and showed a green pine tree swaying from one side to another atop a brown trunk.

  I pushed open the glass door and walked up to the desk. Seeing no one, I rang the bell.

  After about a minute, a middle-aged man came out of a door behind the desk.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Lookin' for a room for a week."

  The man looked me over dubiously and then looked at the truck. "Cash up front."

  I nodded.

  "That's five dollars a night plus a dollar room key deposit. Makes the total thirty-six."

  I pulled two dirty twenties out of my shirt pocket and laid them on the counter. We'd spent a few minutes earlier in the afternoon taking a handful of twenties from the briefcase and rubbing them in the dirt to make them look dirty and used.

  The man gingerly picked up the bills, straightened them out, and put them in a drawer. He handed me four silver dollars in return. "Someone was just in here and paid with a bunch of silver dollars." That was Carter.

  I nodded again.

  "Sign the book, please."

  I took hold of the fountain pen and signed, "Robert Parnell, General Delivery, Aberdeen, Wash."

  The man turned the book around and looked at what I'd written. "Mr. Parnell? Aren't you far from home?"

  "Yep."

  He looked at me for a moment while I studied my dirty fingernails.

  "All right, then. I've put you in room 17. You drive over and park right in front, and I'll meet you there with the key."

  I nodded and walked out the door.

  . . .

  The room was comfortable. It had a window air conditioner, a double bed with a pink chiffon bedspread and two fluffy pillows, a console radio that was bolted to the floor, a small table with two chairs, and a large bathroom covered in pink tile. I declined the manager's offer of ice.

  I had brought some books with me from Belle Terre and set myself up in the bed to read for a while. I decided to start over with Moby Dick, a favorite.

  Just past 10, there was a knock. I put the book down on the small table next to the bed, hopped off the mattress, and quickly opened the door.

  Before I could say anything, Carter had the door shut and bolted it. And, in another breath, most of our clothes were scattered on the floor.

  . . .

  The next morning, I drove up to the gates of Smith Brothers Paper Mill. Even though the name said paper, they also sold lumber. The guard at the gate asked, "Help you?"

  "Lookin' for a job."

  "I see. What kinda work?"

  "Lumberjack."

  The man nodded thoughtfully. "You're the second one to come through here askin' about a job. Other one was on an Indian motorcycle. Loud as hell, too."

  I nodded.

  "Well, just go over to that office and look for the door that says 'Personnel'."

  "Thanks."

  The man nodded and said, "Good luck."

  I put the truck in gear and pulled forward. I parked the truck in a spot a couple down from a blue 1947 Indian Chief motorcycle. The building the guard had pointed to was small and made out of wood. There were small boxwood shrubs and a patch of green lawn in front of the building. I walked up the three steps and opened the door.

  The office was air conditioned. A big wall unit was buzzing away. There were three people in the room. A big-bellied man was sitting behind a desk in the corner looking through some folders on his desk. A thin, pinched woman with auburn hair swept up off her neck and face and pulled into a tight bun sat at another desk. She had a sweater on her shoulders. I didn't blame her. It was cold in the small building. Behind her was a row of filing cabinets.

  The other person in the room was slouching in a chair against the far wall of the room. He was in one of five chairs obviously meant for people to sit while they waited. This person had long-ish sandy blond hair and a big blond beard on his face. He wore thick logging boots that were tied up to his knees over a pair of worn dungarees. The rolled-up sleeves of his red and black checkered shirt revealed thickly muscled and hairy forearms. It was Carter, of course. And I enjoyed watching him as if he were a stranger. Made him more handsome than ever.

  The woman asked me, "May I help you?"

  I replied, "Lookin' to cut wood."

  Carter snorted in derision.

  The woman glanced over at him with a questioning and slightly annoyed expression on her already peevish face. "Two of you in a row. That's a change."

  I just stood there and nodded.

  "Well, take this clipboard and fill out this job application. Please fill out all parts of the form completely." I took the clipboard, nodded, and took the seat furthest away from where Carter sat.

  It took me about twenty minutes to fill the whole thing out. I paused for a moment before signing it, won
dering if it was illegal to falsify a job application, and then remembering that was going to be the least of my worries.

  . . .

  Within a couple of hours, Carter and I were on the job. Pay was fifty dollars a week to start and then seventy-five if they liked us. Payday was on Friday and we'd get what we worked through Thursday in cash.

  We were both assigned to the same team. They were out for the day, so we rode together in the back of a big truck that was carrying lunch out to the crew.

  We were alone, and the back window of the cab was closed, so I started things off by saying, in a low voice, "You're handsome when you're being rude."

  He smiled. "I'm never gonna let you shave off that beard."

  "It's a good thing I have one otherwise my face would be red from whisker burn."

  We did this for a good five minutes before Carter said, "Whoa. We gotta stop. I'm not gonna be able to stand up when we get there."

  I just smiled.

  . . .

  The end of the shift came when it started getting dark. Out in the woods, as we'd learned, that was earlier than sunset. I'd been working with a man known only as, "Red." He didn't say much. Neither did I.

  Carter was working with another man whose name I didn't catch.

  The afternoon went by quickly. It felt good to be outside again. I was increasingly more and more intoxicated by the smell of the pine oil that was released into the air with the cutting of the timber. It was a relief from the sickly sweet smell that came from the paper processing plant a few miles down the road.

  Neither Carter nor I spoke to each other in the rear of the truck that carried the team back. I didn't say anything to anyone except, "Yep," and, "Nope." Carter, on the other hand, was a real chatterbox. He asked everyone their names, where they were from, why they were in Albany if they were from somewhere else, on and on. As we were driving by the sawmills, I heard him ask, "Didn't I hear tell that someone fell into one of them saws not too long ago?"

  Red, who was as quiet as me, finally spoke. "Shut up about that, or you'll be thrown out on your ass."

  There was a murmur of agreement among the other men in the truck.

  Carter persisted. "I heard it was some nigger who did it."

  Red said, "Just shut up, man. Forget you ever heard about it."

  Carter looked down at his boots and shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  Once we arrived at the parking lot, everyone got up and jumped out the back of the truck. I moved slowly as if I didn't much care about anything. When I jumped down, I saw that Red was standing there waiting.

  "Beer?" he asked.

  This surprised me. He was just about my height with, of course, fiery red hair and beautiful blue eyes.

  I nodded.

  "Chauncy's is the place. Follow me."

  I nodded.

  . . .

  Chauncy's was a honky-tonk. Two pool tables stood at one end of a big room. A long bar ran along one wall. A jukebox was playing some song with a fiddle.

  Since we'd come straight to the bar from the mill, we were both covered in sawdust. But so were most of the other men. Red ducked into the washroom and came out with his hands clean and his face washed. I did the same while he grabbed us two beers.

  He was seated at a table near the jukebox when I came out of the washroom. He had two cans of Jax Beer already opened and handed me one. We sat there sipping and saying nothing. Finally, he spoke up. "I knew that man that died."

  I looked over at him and nodded.

  "Sumbitch like you ain't ever seen."

  I took a sip of beer. Then I pulled out a package of crumpled Camels and offered one to Red. He took one and I lit it for him.

  He breathed in deeply. "And it wasn't no colored man who killed him neither."

  I lit myself a cigarette and took a deep drag on it.

  He leaned in and said, "I dunno who did it but I'm glad he did, whoever it was."

  I smiled tightly, drained the last of my beer, and asked, "'Nother one?"

  . . .

  After four beers each, I was mildly buzzed. Red didn't seem to be affected by any of it although he was getting more chatty.

  "You married?"

  "Nope," was my honest answer.

  "Me, neither."

  He took a long drink of his beer.

  "Don't understand women. You?"

  I shook my head.

  We sat there while another twangy song blared out of the jukebox. The place was about half full. I'd noticed two or three of the other men on our team come and go while we'd been there. None of them ever walked over to talk to Red or me even though it was obvious they recognized us. I wondered why that was.

  . . .

  Later that night, a little after 11, I was reading Moby Dick when I heard a motorcycle pull into the motel parking lot. The guard had been right. It was loud.

  About five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find Carter. He smiled at me wickedly. He was drunk.

  I quickly pulled him inside and shut and bolted the door. He smelled like he'd been drinking ever since we left work. He leaned on me and asked, "Have a good night with your boyfriend?"

  I laughed and said, "We talked about the constellations, the laws of thermodynamics, religious tensions in India. You know. First date light banter kinda stuff."

  "What?"

  I laughed again and said, "Come on, Chief. Let's get you out of those clothes and into the shower."

  I knew we weren't going to be playing around, so I left him in there to sober up a little more after I was done. I thought about going across the street to the little diner I'd noticed earlier and getting some coffee. But when I looked from behind the blinds, I could see they were closed. This wasn't San Francisco, after all.

  . . .

  The next day went by fast. Red and I worked together in companionable silence. Meanwhile, Carter was quickly becoming the life of the party. He was telling off-color jokes, one after another. After all those years of working with firemen, he'd build up a big collection. He had been keeping them to himself all these years, because I'd never heard him talk like this. Before the day was out, he had most everyone but Red and me engaged in some kind of banter.

  On the ride back to the parking lot, Carter asked again about the saw. This time, the man he'd been working with looked at Red sideways before saying something.

  "That Wilson Jones was a real sumbitch."

  There were several voices that responded in agreement.

  "But he knew how to keep them niggers in their place, man."

  More agreement from the others. Red, who was seated next to me, shuffled his feet but didn't say anything.

  A man almost as tall as Carter who was about 30 and had chestnut hair said, "Yeah. I worked over at his brother-in-law's place before I came here to Smith Brothers. Y'all know who I mean, right? Leroy Roscoe. I had to quit when I figured out he was gonna make one of those niggers over there a goddam supervisor and have regular fellas like me work under someone like that." He paused and spat on the floor of the truck bed. "Ole Leroy thinks he's some kinda F.D.R. liberal. Gonna free the slaves all over again."

  This got a big round of laughs, and no one was laughing harder than Carter.

  . . .

  Red and I went to Chauncy's again right after work. This time I bought us two cans of Dixie Beer, for a change. When he came out of the washroom, he looked at the cans and shook his head. "Can't drink that swill."

  He walked over to the bar and got himself two cans of Jax and that was that.

  . . .

  The tall man with chestnut hair came into the bar as we were sitting there. We were both three cans in by that time. I'd switched back to Jax so as not to make waves.

  Red had his back to the door. I watched the tall man keeping his eye on Red. He made a beeline to a group of men who were standing at the far end of the bar. He said something I couldn't hear that got big laughs in reply. The group turned and loo
ked at Red. One of them looked at me and caught me staring. I didn't know him from Adam but lifted my can of beer and nodded. He looked down at the floor and spat.

  Red said, "That one's real trouble."

  I wondered if there were mirrors on the wall behind me and which one he was talking about.

  "Name's Hoss."

  I nodded and took another drink of beer.

  "Always gunnin' to be a manager."

  I just looked out at nothing and listened.

  Red leaned in close and whispered, "He mighta killed Wilson Jones." He looked me directly in the eye and added, "Mr. Williams."

  Chapter 19

  Chauncy's Bar

  Wednesday, August 5, 1953

  Half past 8 in the evening

  I did my best to look confused and disinterested at the same time. "Who?"

  "Mr. Nicholas Williams of San Francisco, that's who."

  He leaned back in his chair and winked at me. I didn't smile even though I wanted to. I shook my head slightly, instead.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Then why you drivin' Nick Smith's farm truck? Why's your boyfriend ridin' my old Indian that I sold to Miss Henrietta not a week ago?"

  Before I could help it, I said, "Damn," softly.

  Red smiled broadly at me and tilted his head to the right. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe."

  I nodded, trying to stay in character in front of Hoss and his little gang in the corner.

  "You read the papers?"

  God, I was beginning to hate that question.

  "No, why?"

  "You're all over them, even the Albany Herald."

  I took out my Camels and offered Red one. He declined. I lit one and could feel my hand shaking slightly as I did.

  "They think you're missing."

  I shook my head slightly and looked around. No one was paying the slightest attention to me, not even Hoss and his pals. But it felt like there was a bright light shining right over my head and a big neon arrow pointing at me.

  . . .

  We left the bar and went to eat at a diner in the Negro part of town that Red knew. Miz Jen's was small but clean and brightly lit. We were the only white men in the room, which suited me fine. I felt like I could relax a little.