Charlie checked and saw with relief that his skiff was parked on the bank of the river. He noticed what looked like blood on his hands. He looked but found no apparent wounds. There looked like some dried blood on his jeans. Oh well. Mine, he thought.
Charlie had been suffering recently from memory lapses. He wasn’t sure of the cause, but it was probably from being drunk most of the time. He had been through too many blackouts to count. The scary part was that he sometimes drove or fought but had no recollection when he awoke. One time, he stayed drunk for almost a week and ended up in jail. For biting off his cousin’s eyebrow.
Charlie did not end up in jail long over the eyebrow. Another time, Charlie was locked up for ramming a bunch of boats in a torrid incident in the middle of the Naknek River up north. Some gussoks had destroyed his nets on the beach. They had done it out of jealousy, he was sure. They were out on strike for higher prices, but Charlie had continued to fish. He was a scab to those on strike. And twice a day, those fishermen on strike would watch him drive by to deliver his catch to the tender, his boat loaded down with salmon. The fishing was very good with all the boats on the beach.
Some of the fishermen got tired of watching Charlie get rich while they were going broke. They poured battery acid on all of his nets. When Charlie came to the beach he went crazy. He jumped into his main fishing boat, a heavy old wooden thirty-two-footer with a steel skid plate, and rammed as many boats as he could. One of the fishermen retaliated, ramming Charlie’s boat, the Taku, while he was on it, screwing it into the water and sinking it.
Charlie had leaped off the Taku onto the boat of the man who rammed him. In a vicious fight, Charlie wound up on the floor of the boat with a large, sharp knife to his throat. The man’s daughter prevented him from slitting Charlie’s throat. Charlie had been hog-tied and delivered to a tender, where he was placed under arrest by the Coasties. Charlie did not remember anything but waking up in a cell, which seemed to be happening more frequently.
Chief Snow cruised with Toovak in his covered metal skiff. Snow had decided to head upriver to talk with Buck Nelson, and Toovak agreed to give him a lift.
The Togiak River was a mile wide at the mouth but quickly constricted, intensifying its flow. Toovak knew the river well and cruised at top speed. Buck Nelson’s fish camp was not too far. There was a summer fishing lodge another ten miles after that. Fishing or hunting shacks dotted the banks for a ways after the lodge, but then there was just wilderness. The country was nearly unpopulated. They passed a boat—Charlie Johnson heading to town.
Snow met with Buck Nelson at his shack. Toovak stayed with the boat. Snow felt some comfort knowing Toovak was there.
“What do you want?” Nelson spat at Snow. He did not seem to be surprised to see the chief.
“Just making some routine checks. Haven’t been up this way in a while.”
“I don’t believe you, and even if something was going on, I don’t talk to pigs.” Nelson turned to walk away.
“Where were you yesterday?” Snow said, agitated by the attitude. Probably been drinking, the chief thought.
“You don’t hear too good, I guess. Unless you have a warrant, get off my land,” Nelson pushed.
“Bullshit Bob, your partner, is dead. I thought you might want to know. Unless you already stole everything he has.” Snow regretted that as soon as it came out of his mouth. He hated when his mouth got ahead of his brain.
Instead of getting pissed like Snow expected, Buck Nelson started talking like a jailhouse lawyer, all calm and matter-of-fact.
“Everything between Bullshit Bob and me was strictly legal and by the book. Everything was signed and notarized. Bob sold me some things, but it was because he wanted to sell and I was buying. I have all the paperwork.” He sounded like he was giving testimony in court, right down to the contrite expression.
Snow recovered and politely asked Nelson where he was the day before. Nelson told him he had been to Bullshit Bob’s house to get some things yesterday afternoon and who had been in the house. Then he had come upriver and spent the night.
“See anybody up here last night?” Snow asked.
“I’m done talking.” Nelson turned and went into the cabin.
“That went well,” Snow told Toovak sarcastically on the ride back into Togiak. “One curious thing; Buck never asked how Bullshit Bob died.”
“Eee! Holy shit!” Toovak said, eyebrows raised.
Chief Snow thought about Charlie Johnson and Buck Nelson, his two suspects in Bullshit Bob’s death. Buck Nelson seemed more likely. Charlie just didn’t seem right for this one.
Charlie Johnson was just eighteen when he got his fishing permit. It was a drift permit. His father, Cliff Johnson, had given it to him through his mother. Charlie hated Cliff even more for doing it, because it seemed like a paltry inheritance from a man who owned so much. Charlie got an old wooden boat from his father, too—his first boat. It was a green bow picker he named the Taku. The little boat did not draw much water, so he could nose around in the shallow water. He fished where others would not or could not go. He was daring and smart.
Charlie seemed fearless and took chances—well-calculated risks based on instinct and local knowledge. He had a feel for the water, wind and tides. He did not mind angering people and had developed a hatred for white people even though he was part white. What they represented, anyway. He saw them as profiteers, users. They came in the summer and took the fish and money, then left. Charlie embraced his Native heritage.
Charlie bought a new, large boat the next year and again named it the Taku. This boat was his pride and joy. He could do things with the Taku that amazed people who did not know the area as well as he did. Even locals were impressed. He was ruthless when he fished. There were set boundaries called “lines” around the mouth of the Naknek, Egegek, and other rivers in Bristol Bay. These lines were hotly contested fishing grounds. Charlie developed a reputation as someone who would set his net right in front of yours with no hesitation or remorse. That was called “corking” another fisherman, and Charlie was a ruthless corker.
Charlie had built a cabin out near Johnson Hill. It was about ten miles from Naknek. There was a small freshwater creek nearby, where he could nose his boat in at high tide. He liked the spot because it was near the fishing grounds. He took his four-wheeler into town at night to go to the bar.
One night, he went to his father’s bar, the Gin Mill. The bar was hopping on this summer night. The sun stayed up all night and the people did too. There was a fishing closure, so the bar was full of fisherman and workers from the Alaska Packers and Bumblebee Seafood canneries that were both within walking distance.
Most of the hundred or so people in the Gin Mill were men. There were a handful of women there, too, though. The women were highly sought after and occasionally fought over by the men. A woman might be considered average in terms of physical beauty in Anchorage, but supply was thin and demand high. Each woman was surrounded by a gaggle of men attending to every need and word. Even Mattress Mary had a group of would-be suitors.
Snow was in the bar that night, long before he was police chief. Snow enjoyed the Gin Mill. He liked to watch people. The crowd was rowdy as usual, mostly due to the lack of law enforcement. Brawls and cursing spilled into the streets. Snow was only eighteen and too young to drink at the time, but Cliff Johnson had a policy. If you were old enough to work in the bush, you were old enough to drink in his bar.
Several white fishermen from Oregon were plotting at the bar, forming a game plan for Charlie Johnson, who was holding court by the pool table. Charlie, he was brash and cocky. He liked to tell stories of his fishing exploits, especially to the humiliation of gussok fishermen. These three men were hard, strong fishermen, toughened by salt and hard work. Young Charlie had corked one of them. Bold and bulletproof with alcohol, they sought to teach the young Native boy a lesson.
The three men closed in around Charlie, rudely elbowing his audience away. The look in their eye
s and their manner discouraged the others from saying anything. All three wore leather deck slippers and flannel or wool shirts. The ringleader was a man they called Captain Crunch because of his propensity to ram unfriendly boats with his bow during the combat-fishing near the line. Crunch had fists the size of grapefruits.
The three had Charlie in a corner by the pool table. Captain Crunch was the mouthpiece and out front. His big fists were hanging loosely at his sides like a crane’s headache balls. One of three had picked up a pool cue. He motioned people who had come close to watch to stay away.
Crunch admonished Charlie for corking his friend and demanded an apology. Charlie was already pretty savvy for his age. He knew there was no way to avoid this fight. So he figured there was no reason to mince any words—not that he would have anyway.
He responded with a comment about the gussok fishermen not knowing how to fish and their lack of intestinal fortitude.
“You gussoks don’t know how to fish,” Charlie said, which was not the truth at all. These men, though not local, had fished all their lives around Astoria, Oregon. Now they all fished Bristol Bay in the summers. “You don’t fucking belong here. Why don’t you take your fat ass back where you came from.”
Captain Crunch had brawled before and was larger than Charlie. He swung for the body to ensure he would hit something and waded in after the punch. He liked things close so he could use his bulk and strength. Charlie fought back like the wild man he was, but they got him on the floor anyway. At one point Charlie managed to slip on top of Crunch. He bit off the tip of Captain Crunch’s nose. One of the other men cracked Charlie over the shoulder with a pool cue.
Captain Crunch rolled Charlie off him while he screamed, “The half-breed bit me!”
All three put the boots to Charlie, who was half-conscious on the floor, blood streaming from an open cut above his ear. He curled into a fetal position.
Snow moved from the bar and watched the scene. He was fascinated but also sickened by the violence. When Charlie was defenseless on the floor, he found himself hollering and gesturing for them to stop. He got in the midst of them and grabbed Crunch by the arm and said to stop; they were going to kill him. Crunch pushed Snow aside and growled at him, but Snow came back in to try and stop them. Crunch wheeled on Snow as if to punch him but reconsidered. All three men stopped then, apparently satisfied and tired.
Snow saw a Native at the bar and told him to help. The young man raised his eyebrows to the ceiling and said, “Eee! Hjuugh anuk fuck unku Charlie shit!” Which meant God knew what, but he came right down and helped.
Frank N Beans and Snow dragged Charlie Johnson out of his father’s bar. His father had watched the scene but not intervened. He was still thinking about it when Snow stepped in to stop it. He felt relieved. Maybe Charlie will learn something, for Christ’s sake, he thought.
Outside, Charlie came around some. He pushed Snow and Frank away.
“Leave me the fuck alone!”
Charlie hopped on his four-wheeler and tore off. He came back a couple hours later in his Ford pickup. He positioned his truck perpendicular to the front of the bar, gunned the engine, and rammed the bar. He backed up a few feet and smashed into the bar again, wood splinters flying. Cliff Johnson rushed to the window, looked out and cursed.
“Fucking Charlie!”
But he did not go outside. He hollered at one of his workers, Whitie, to stop Charlie. Whitie, pale under his chronic acne and mop of greasy hair, stammered something in response. Cliff handed him the shotgun as the front of the bar crashed, thundering inward a few inches.
Whitie ran outside with the 12-gauge shotgun in his hands. Whitie was skinny and all of 140 pounds of young, gutless white boy. Charlie popped out of the truck and stalked toward Whitie until the gun was pressed against his chest. Young Whitie was shaking with fear.
“DO IT! SHOOT ME! GUSSOK MOTHERFUCKER!” Charlie’s face was swollen horribly. Tears rolled down his face even as he screamed. He whipped the gun out of Whitie’s hands and smacked him with the stock in one smooth motion. Then he poked Whitie viscously with the barrel.
“Don’t point a gun at me unless you mean to use it!”
Charlie looked like he was thinking about shooting the gun. Snow came out of the the bar and called to Charlie, “Don’t do it, Charlie. Whitie’s not worth it.”
“What the fuck do you know about what it is worth to me?” Charlie said, almost a sob.
CHAPTER 8
THE VISIT
Back in Togiak, Snow talked to Frank and his brother Stanley Beans. Both confirmed that Buck Nelson had been to Bullshit Bob’s house that night, but they said they left Bullshit Bob’s shortly after Nelson. They said Charlie Johnson was the only one there after that. The brothers also confessed that everyone had been drinking heavily.
“Guess I need to pay Charlie a visit,” Snow said. He headed to Charlie’s plywood shack on the river.
Charlie Johnson was unlike any man Snow had known. They met some years back around Naknek. Charlie could be charismatic and drew people like moths to a flame. He frightened yet attracted them. Meeting Charlie was like coming face-to-face with a big gray wolf when walking through the alders. You knew you should go the other way, but you really wanted to be friends with the wolf.
Charlie could sense fear just like a wolf, too. And he instilled it in anyone who crossed him. He was wild, tough, and capricious. Snow remembered talking to a Native named Tom at the Gin Mill years back. When Charlie’s name came up, Tom pulled the hair away from his face, exposing a scar above his right eye where his eyebrow should have been.
“That son of a bitch bit my eyebrow off!”
“How? I mean, how the heck does that happen? How does someone bite another guy’s eyebrow off? I can’t even imagine doing that,” Snow said.
“It’s not like you think,” said Tom, taking the drink offer and settling into a fresh rum and coke. “I mean, we did not have a fight or anything. Charlie had just gotten off the river from the damn ramming thing. I was just gonna give him a ride up to his place, ya know. We were in the truck and he grabbed me by the head and bit my eyebrow off, and spit it on the floor of the truck,” Tom said. “He was crazy. I think he was just out-of-his head drunk, in a blackout. I don’t want anything to do with him ever again, and he’s my cousin. Just too freaking crazy, man!”
“What’d you do after? I mean, what do you do after someone bites you?” asked Snow.
“I got the hell out of there. Just got away from him. I went back later and found my eyebrow, but they couldn’t put it back on.”
Despite Charlie becoming violent when drunk, Snow admired him in a strange way. Charlie was a free spirit and a lightning rod. He was legend in the villages for being a wild man as well as a good fisherman and outlaw.
Snow was not looking forward to arresting him again. The last time had been touch and go, but Charlie had agreed to come in without a fight.
Snow went to Charlie’s place to pick him up on an assault charge about a year and a half ago. Toovak agreed to come with him, and they both expected trouble. When they made contact with Charlie at his shack, Charlie had gone wild, screaming and punching the walls but not making a move toward the lawmen. He punched holes in the walls and bloodied his fists. Snow had pepper spray in his left hand and his right hand on his gun. Toovak carried a shotgun.
Like a switch had been flipped, Charlie settled down, and the chief asked him, “You done? Ready to go now?”
Charlie laughed and turned around with his hands behind his back. “Okay, little chief, I will let you arrest me now!”
“Careful.” Toovak handcuffed Charlie.
Snow had never scrapped with Charlie, but that was lucky. Charlie had fought just about everyone else, and Snow had nightmares about Charlie biting him. The chief never really thought much about shooting anyone as part of the job, but that thought had crossed his mind with Charlie. He played the scenarios out as a kind of mental preparation. He would shoot Charlie if Ch
arlie tried to bite him.
Snow banged on Charlie’s door and heard some cursing as it opened.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Snow smelled booze on his breath. “Take it easy, Charlie. Just need to ask you a few simple questions.”
“About what?” Charlie suddenly smiled big and easy, which was his way. His moods went up and down like a cork on the water.
“I think you know. Bullshit Bob’s dead. Found him gutted in his house. The Beans boys said you were there hanging out. Two nights ago.”
“Don’t remember a damn thing. Don’t even know for sure if I was there.”
“What do you remember, Charlie?”
Charlie smiled again. Like many Natives, Charlie did not lie well or easily.
“Little Chief Snow, you think good for a small gussok cop,” he said. There was something about the little chief that Charlie liked. Snow didn’t treat him or other Natives like shit like the other cops. He was respectful. And he was fair.
“Pretty good,” Snow said. “Not trying to trick you. Just trying to figure out what might have happened.”
“I was pretty cooked. I don’t know. I am sure Bob was alive when I left. I am sorry he’s gone. He was a good gussok. He drink booze too much. Too much booze, like the rest of us, but he was good to my cousin Nancy. Treated her well. Always appreciated that,” Charlie said.
Like other Natives out here, Charlie pronounced booze “boosh” and spoke slowly in a sing-song manner.
“I can’t believe he would shoot himself like that,” he slurred.
“What about Buck Nelson?” Snow asked.
“He is a cocksucker. Selling bad hooch all over. And he stole Bullshit Bob’s permits. I should bite his fucking ear off!”
Charlie might just do it, too, Snow thought. He knew for a fact Charlie once bit a deckhand’s lower lip off. It was later re-attached, though not well. It kind of hung there dog-eared.
Bush Blues Page 9