Wolf Who Walks Alone: A Raymond Wolf Mystery Novel

by Steve R. Yeager

  A bell rattled and dinged when he pushed open the front door. The interior looked clean and neat in contrast with the dusty streets outside. Upon entering, the aroma of hot grease and fried meat hit him hard. White Formica tabletops and bulging red cushions with chrome-accented wood filled the space. Along a narrow countertop to his left, sat eight bolt-down stools, each covered in red vinyl. Behind the countertop, a shelf displayed a series of huge baked pies, each sitting under clear glass covers. Blueberry pies, apple pies, pecan pies, and even more he could not identify. All appeared freshly baked, and a sign above them boasted: BEST PIES IN NEBRASKA.

  He flexed his fingers, working the road numbness out of them and scanned the space. There was no one there. No one was waiting to be served those pies. No one at all. He was the only lunchtime customer.

  He liked it that way.

  A skinny waitress pushed her way through the swinging kitchen door and hurried to greet him, flattening her apron along the way. She stopped to grab a menu from a wooden box affixed to the cash register podium and made her way over to him. She paused for a beat to adjust her brown hair, fluffing the brittle curls in a practiced sort of way, then continued her approach. She appeared to be about forty. Her face was painted with thick makeup, which was working hard to conceal a nasty bruise. As she drew near, she forced a smile that cracked her lipstick and showed smeared bits of red on her yellowed teeth. But she quickly stopped smiling and stopped moving when she was about five feet from him, as if to approach any closer would put her in imminent danger.

  Now that she was closer, he made a quick reassessment of her age. She couldn’t be any older than thirty, and the cheap wedding band she wore told him all he needed to know about the life she had lived.

  With an almost imperceptible tremble, she bent forward to hand over the menu. “You…can sit anywhere you would like. We have people coming. Lots of people. They’ll be here shortly.”

  He took the offered menu without comment. He was used to such treatment. People feared him like one might fear any monster. It was nothing new.

  He chose a table near the back with a good view of the front door and his bike parked just outside. The booth was soft and compliant, and the cushions amenable to his weight, and by the time he had settled into his seat, the waitress had produced a blue pad and a stubby pencil and was now tapping the tip against the pad.

  “Today’s lunch special is meatloaf and mashed potatoes,” she said. “All the pies were made this morning. Nice and fresh.”

  He tried to return her newly forced smile. “Best pies in Nebraska, I hear.” He looked back at his folded hands on the tabletop and the napkin-rolled silverware and the overturned stoneware coffee cup, and added, “Just coffee, ma’am.”

  Her smile dropped into a frown. “Is decaf okay?”

  He swiveled his head in disapproval.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “Later, Mrs. Tammy.”

  She flinched a little, then glanced down at the name tag stitched to her pink uniform and opened her mouth as if she wanted to add something else, but stopped herself and jotted down his order on the blue pad. Without saying another word, she left to fetch a pot of coffee from the burners behind the counter, choosing the black carafe, not the orange. When she returned, she flipped the stoneware cup in front of him over in its saucer with a one-handed jerk, steadied it, and filled it to the brim.

  “Brewed fresh not more than twenty minutes ago,” she stated proudly.

  He nodded at the cup. “You’ve got a special talent there. Flipping it like that.”

  She straightened, and a hint of genuine smile replaced the false one. “Like I said, we’ve got people coming soon. You might want to order before it gets busy. JT’s got the grill all good and warmed up.”

  Wolf lifted the cup to his lips and sipped a sample of the brew. It was still too hot to taste, so he set it back down to cool a bit. The waitress put one hand on her hip and slouched against it, holding the carafe with the other. She waited, watching him with an anxious, yet patient interest as if she suddenly cared what he thought of the coffee and was waiting to receive his judgment of it. He refolded his thick hands together on the table and stared back into her eyes.

  It was easy to tell that she’d lived a hard life. Pallid skin, hints of yellow and purple bruises, broken blood vessels, and an offset nose gave it all away. He figured that her husband must beat her with some regularity, and even though it was none of his business, it bothered him just the same.

  She peeked at the laminated menu he’d set on the tabletop. It hung off the edge, so she bumped it back into place with her fingertips, giving him a come-on-buddy-I-don’t-have-all-day look. But he did not need to refer to the menu. Every diner in America worth its salt did one thing right. To not do so would be distinctly un-American.

  “Two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries, please,” he said.

  She glanced around as if someone else were listening in on their conversation then shifted the hip she was slouching on to the opposite one and rebalanced the coffee pot.

  “You want what now?”

  “Two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries.”

  “So, you are telling me that you want a double cheeseburger and an extra order of fries?”

  “No,” he said in a correcting tone. He lifted a hand from the table, turning it palm up. “I would like two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries.”

  She glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowed. “Are you expecting someone to join you?”

  He shook his head side to side just once.

  “So you want me to bring you two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries?”

  “Yes, that is what I would like.”

  “It would be cheaper to get a double cheeseburger and an extra order of fries.”

  When he said nothing for several seconds, she snorted, then made a huffing sound like he was crazy for asking. “Okay, hon. Two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries coming up.” She set the carafe down to jot down the order on her blue pad and then stuck the pencil behind her ear, grabbed the carafe, and headed for the kitchen, giving him one last questioning glance before pushing her way through the door.

  A few seconds later, a man with shiny black hair restrained by a hairnet stuck his head through the slot between the kitchen and the lunch counter. Wolf figured the guy had to be her husband, JT. He just looked the part. Weasely. Coward. Which explained a lot.

  The guy kept watching from behind the large stainless steel wheel now holding the single blue ticket. Wolf lifted his coffee cup in mock salute and sampled the contents. It had cooled just enough and could be appropriately tasted. It was good. Not too bitter. Not too grassy. Not burnt. It had indeed been brewed recently and not been stewing since breakfast service. Fresh, well-made coffee usually meant the place also offered quality food. Which was good because he had taken an instant dislike to the man who would be cooking that food.

  The waitress returned from the kitchen and slouched against the register podium, picking at her painted fingernails, looking bored. Wolf closed his eyes and relaxed. He could still feel the vibrations of the road and the wind rushing past. But, to his disappointment, the voices on the wind had so far told him nothing. They had been unintelligible. His maternal grandmother had set him on his current path months ago. She’d told him to listen to the voices on the wind and hear what they had to say, for only they would heal what was broken inside him. He understood little of what she meant, but he trusted her wisdom, and trusted her words. He was certain the voices were there. He just had not heard them clearly yet.

  His eyes opened and they landed on the waitress. She checked her wristwatch and glanced out the front window and back at him, then held his gaze for a brief few seconds. But in those few seconds, he could read her thoughts as clearly as if they were his own. You don’t belong here. Get out while you can.

  He drank a sip of coffee and set his cup back in the saucer, and the waitress promptly came out of her slouch a
nd returned to refill his cup, as if to not do so would cause him to linger a second or two longer than he should.

  After she refilled his cup to the brim, she hovered at the edge of the table. “You want anything else, hon?”

  “No, but I have a question for you.”

  She waited.

  “Why do they call this town Crow Canyon?”

  She stared at him for a moment. Her lips puckered as she thought. Maybe not in consideration of what to tell him, but in consideration of whether she should tell him anything at all.

  “There’s a canyon about five miles south of here,” she finally said. “It’s more of a ditch, really. There’s nothing special about it. No one goes there anymore. And…I guess it just meant something to someone, once.”

  “Is that it?”

  “As much as I know about it, yeah.”

  “And you have lived here long?”

  She sighed. “All my life.”

  She quickly perked up when a bell chimed and two red plastic baskets lined with checkered waxed paper appeared on the sill behind the lunch counter. She returned for them and placed the twin baskets in front of him. “Two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries. Just like you asked for.”

  He smiled thinly.

  She smiled back half a grin of her own. “That it? Maybe a slice of pie? Or a whole one? Maybe two? Maybe—?”

  But she was interrupted by the sound of squealing air brakes coming from outside. She backed away from the table and peeked over her shoulder at the door while sucking in a deep breath.

  “Hope you enjoy crowds,” she said as she left.

  No, he did not particularly enjoy crowds. But he was still hungry.

  He fetched the red ketchup bottle from the chrome holder and shook some out on the waxed paper, then plucked a fry from the closest of the two baskets, dredged it through the pool of ketchup, and stuck the entire french fry in his mouth. He kept watching the front door, waiting to see who’d come through, chewing slowly and deliberately. The fry was crispy and hot, and not at all soggy. The cheeseburger appeared to be just as well made.

  Through the front plate-glass window, he could see the back of a bus that had parked just outside the diner. Travelers began to offload and spill out onto the sidewalk. He kept watch as the main door to the diner pushed open, and the bell started playing a rattling jingle. Road-weary people filed in one by one and took various places in booths or along the counter with the bolt-down stools. Others made for the restrooms in the back, making tiny adjustments in their relative distances as they passed by him. In a matter of minutes, the place was filled nearly to capacity, and Tammy had her hands full going from one patron to the next, passing out menus, forcing smiles, and appearing on the verge of being overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of her task.

  Even though Wolf disliked crowds, he did enjoy watching people—the hustle and the bustle, the simplest of actions, the complex tells that everyone demonstrated unknowingly. A touch of the ear, a scratch of the nose, a furtive glance, or the moving about with hunched shoulders and downwardly cast gazes. From this, he knew that most who’d joined him in the diner were simply like him, shuffling along from one place to the next. Some, perhaps, were off to meet with old friends or distant relatives, most having just enough cash to scrape together to cover bus fare, thinking it would be too much of a luxury to fly—or could not afford a car and gas to get wherever they were going. Others were probably traveling the roads on wired or borrowed funds, hoping that wherever they landed, they could generate enough income to get over the next of life’s endless humps.

  But there was one guy who stuck out from the crowd. One guy in particular. The guy had greasy blond hair, slicked back against his scalp. He was wearing a denim jacket and mirrored sunglasses concealing his eyes. The guy was a predator. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Wolf knew this because it took one to know one.

  The guy took the last stool next to the register, and while pretending to take in the entirety of the diner, the guy was attempting to watch someone else—a single person. And that made Wolf decide to keep a close watch on him. The guy’s selected target was a young woman, no more than a teenage girl, and she was pretty in a lonely kind of way. Wolf began to watch her with interest as well.

  Then, from across the diner, she caught sight of him watching her. She held his steady gaze and did not drop it as she unzipped her brown leather jacket, adjusted the aquamarine blouse beneath, and made her way past the others still jostling for seats.

  Wordlessly, she slid onto the bench directly across from him, splayed her hands on the shiny white Formica tabletop, and sighed the long sigh of someone in serious trouble.

  - 4 -

  GOT GAT?

  “SHALL I POP you here or just kick your teeth in?” said the man dressed in a gray wool suit and black tie.

  But that really wasn’t what he had planned to do. No, Antonio Montez hated the idea of getting blood anywhere on his expensive new suit. He was moving up in the world, and that meant that soon he would never have to get his own hands dirty again. Though, if he didn’t take this guy out like he’d been ordered to do, he’d be the one down on his knees, 9-millimeter SIG-Sauer pressed up hard against the back of his skull, and begging for his life.

  No, can’t have that.

  “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you,” said the man with the gun pointed at his head. The guy was holding his hands up about shoulder height, fingers spread. He had been continuously repeating, “I’ve got a wife. I’ve got kids. Please, don’t…”

  All that whining was really beginning to annoy Montez. He would rather have this matter settled once and for all. But, right now, he had to work through something important first.

  It had been his experience, that when a 9-millimeter copper-jacketed hollow point was used, it oftentimes created a messy blowback. Far too often a stream of blood and brains would come squirting back out through the new hole he’d made, just like a fountain. Don’t want that. So, Montez figured that if he were the one to shoot the guy, he couldn’t be entirely certain whether the splattering blood and bits of brain matter would come splashing back out and land on him. That shit was nearly impossible to wash out of quality wool.

  To prevent the possibility of such a negative outcome, he turned to his partner, the only other guy not presently on his knees in the empty warehouse, and said, “Here, you do it.”

  “No way, man. I don’t get paid enough for that kind of shit.”

  And his younger partner was mostly correct about that. Yeah, the kid didn’t get paid like Montez got paid, but hell, the guy wanted to be in the business, and that meant making a good impression with the guy in charge now, didn’t it?

  “Got to do it, kid.” Montez knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he’d said it anyway. “Otherwise, our employer will be very disappointed in your performance. Trust me, I know. He might even decide that you are not worth the risk and cap you himself. And when he caps you…” Montez stopped and sucked air through his teeth. “It ain’t pretty what gets left behind. That’s a whole different ballgame, pal. Picture running for your life, waiting for that single bullet to drill into your back and take you down. Bam!” He clapped his hands together to emphasize his point. “Now, that’s some really bad shit.”

  The man beside Montez wiped his long hair out of his eyes with his palm and drew a breath. “Okay. Jesus Christ. Just, give it here.”

  Montez unwrapped his fingers from the 9-millimeter automatic and handed it to the kid. Then he shifted so that he was beside the begging Vaughn and crouched down low. “I’ll ask you one last time. Who was it that really screwed this whole thing up?”

  Vaughn shook his head. Bloody drool ran from his lips. “I did. I already told you that.”

  “K,” was all Montez said, though he thought of kicking the guy again just for good measure, since the lie was such an obvious insult, after all. Instead, he said, “Please make a note that I gave you the opportunity to alter your story.”

  Vaughn mut
tered something.

  “What?” Montez asked.

  “Y-you going to let me go?” Vaughn asked, voice shaking.

  Montez didn’t answer. He reached inside his jacket and drew out the fancy new smartphone he’d lifted from Vaughn earlier. He liked this one far better than the piece of shit he’d bought as a burner earlier. Pursing his lips, he dialed a number committed to memory. The phone took about a second and a half to locate a clear channel to the cell tower, and then another second to connect with it and initiate the call, and then another to fully get through the ether to its final destination.

  The phone on the other end rang twice before it was answered.

  “Mr. Vaughn…?” came the response on the phone.

  “No, sir. It’s…um…Montez, sir.”

  There was a pause on the line, then, “Good. Good. Has he confirmed to you who it was yet?”

  “Perhaps,” Montez answered, suddenly wondering if using Vaughn’s phone had been such a good idea.

  “Have you informed him what will happen if he does not?”

  “Not yet, sir. I figure he probably knows what will happen either way. So, I also figured you’d want to listen in about now. I think he is ready to start answering questions, if he ever was gonna start talking. He seems a little more chatty at the moment, given he believes there is a slight possibility for survival, which I assume there is, right?”

  Montez received no answer. Hmmm, maybe not. He switched the phone to speaker mode and held it out at arm’s length. “You got one last chance, Vaughn. So you tell him who it was that let the girl go. And might I remind you that we know all there is to know about your wife. And we know all about your little girl. We got plenty of pictures—plenty. We even know where your little girl goes to school. It’d be all too easy to swing by and pick her up. You know she would go for quite a premium, don’t you? Or—we could just leave her alone. Your choice, pal.”

  “Please…no.” Vaughn’s head pivoted back and forth. “Please. Not them. No, no, no. Y-you’ve got to leave them out of this. I did everything I was told to do. Everything.”