“He’s had a rough day.”
“It says a lot for hard work in the fresh air.”
“I’m not so sure that would strictly define the environs of the dump.”
“Municipal Solid Waste Facility.” Evidently Geo had educated the Doc, too. “To each man, his own paradise.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, since we’re on a subject literati—have you seen the moving finger writes and having writ?”
“I have.”
The Basquo was talking to Janine at the end of the hallway, so Isaac leaned in closer and, speaking sotto voce, looked up at me. “Walter, you know as well as I do that that thumb is probably the result of some local cowboy having dallied up a little too quick at one of this weekend’s team ropings.”
“In February?”
He adjusted his glasses. “Have you forgotten how many indoor arenas we have in the surrounding area?”
I studied my boots and went to one of my recorded responses. “Well, we’re checking all the leads.”
He made an exasperated sound in the back of his mouth. “It was in a cooler with crushed beer cans and melted ice from the IGA.”
“Maybe it hitchhiked there.” I got a smile out of him with that one. “I don’t think we’re being overly zealous in treating this as a possible missing person—or part of a missing person.”
“Walter, this was some roper squeezing his finger off, putting it in the cooler for safekeeping, and then getting so drunk that he either passed out or simply forgot about it. He’s probably woken up this morning and realized he’s missing a digit.”
“Thumb.”
The intensity in his deep-set eyes increased. “And will probably be in here later to consolidate the damage.” He paused and took a breath. “Now, do you want to tell me what sort of criminal conspiracy this is in which you are attempting to involve me?”
I glanced back toward the front desk, pushed off the wall, and draped an arm around Doc Bloomfield’s narrow shoulders to steer him toward a little more privacy. “You’ve been working with the Basquo on his recovery since the knifing?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“How’s he doing?”
The Doc paused. “In what spirit is this question asked?”
“How about physical.”
We’d walked to the end of the hall and were now confronted with the set of double-swinging doors that led to the ICU. I stopped and retrieved the majority of my arm but left a hand on the Doc’s shoulder.
“The initial damage was the penetrating wound six inches to the right of the midline with an extending incision and hemorrhagic effect that included the left perinephric fat and the kidney itself. The organ suffered a ninety-five percent loss in its filtering abilities and was removed, but the other kidney will most likely continue to operate at peak efficiency especially because the young man is in inordinately fine physical condition.”
“Yep, but how’s he doing?”
Isaac propped an elbow on his arm and cupped his chin in his hand. “Well, there was some additional infection that seems to have affected the left oblique muscles, but other than that, he’s fine.” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “But that’s not really the part of him you’re worried about, is it?”
“Not really.”
“He’s exhibiting some psychological neurosis?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it neurosis.”
A smile softened his face. “What would you call it then?”
“Back in the day, Lucian used to refer to it as bullet fever.”
He exhaled a gentle laugh at the thought of my old boss, who had been the previous sheriff of Absaroka County. “And what, exactly, are the symptoms of bullet fever?”
“Numerous—the first being a strong urge to find something else to do for a living, preferably in an occupation where people aren’t trying to slice you, dice you, and julienne fry you.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“Nobody ever said it was a sane line of work, Doc.” I sighed. “He’s a good kid, tough and brave as a summer day—I just think this is the first time he’s ever gotten a good look into the abyss, and he’s maybe brought a little of it back with him.”
“It sounds as if this condition might be familiar to you.”
I nodded and smiled. “Yep, I had a little dose or two.”
The Doc shook his head, mildly scolding. “All right, what is it you’re planning to do?”
“Well, whether he stays or goes I want to make sure he knows he’s all right. In the long run it’s best for him to learn that he’s not bulletproof. I just want to remind him that he might be just a little bullet-resistant.”
“And how are you intending to do that?”
I took a deep breath and tipped my hat back. “Haven’t a clue, but I figure that if I keep him occupied with the thumb it’ll at least hold his interest until I come up with something.”
“Walter, I don’t need to remind you that you are not a professional in dealing with these types of things and that there are people who . . .”
“I know that.”
“Your friend, Dr. Morton, at the VA over in Sheridan?”
“Yep, but that would make it official, and I’m not sure Santiago would be willing to go for that.”
The Doc pulled at his nose, readjusted his glasses with a middle finger, and studied me for a long moment. “What do you want me to do?”
I shrugged. “Nothing illegal, but if you could feign a little ignorance about the nature of the evidence and possibly keep it quiet if anybody comes in with a telling injury . . .”
He pulled the all-knowing clipboard from his chest, flipped a page over, and read. “Mr. Felix Polk of Route 16, Rural Delivery Box 12, appeared here yesterday at approximately 11:22 a.m., wanting to know if anybody had shown up with the end of his thumb because he, and I quote, ‘Wanted to get it back and have it made into a key chain,’ unquote.”
I took a breath. “Well, this might end up being a little harder than I thought, but I’ll think of something.” I started to go but then remembered that I wanted to ask him about Mrs. Dobbs. “Hey, Doc, do you remember Betty Dobbs?”
He thought for only a second. “School nurse and teacher. Retired, isn’t she? Married well, as I recall, but he died two and a half years ago, I think.” He didn’t hesitate in adding, “Salt of the earth. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Ozzie Dobbs apparently wanted to press charges, but I thought that Geo didn’t, so I took the trail of least resistance and went to visit the junkman first. I knocked on the door of his room, but there was no response. I could hear the television, so I waited a second and then swung the door back. Geo was walking around in a hi-here’s-my-ass gown, barefoot, and looking for his clothes. He was still wearing his disreputable hat with the flaps sticking straight out at the sides, so it looked like Geo was clear for takeoff.
“Whatta ya think them nurses did with ma pants?”
Burned them, I thought, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “I think you’re supposed to be in bed, Geo. They have to give you one more going-over before they’ll let you go; probably something to do with the insurance.”
The response was predictable.
“Gaddam insurance.” He stood there in the middle of the room with his fists on his hips. His tan, still holding through the winter, started just above his eyebrows and paused in a deep V at his throat along which there was a substantial scar that appeared to run from ear to ear. The tan then recommenced at his wrists and ventured to his fingertips. I guess they had cleaned him up, with or without his permission, because the rest of him looked like boiled chicken. “Somebody gotta feed Butch and Sundance.”
“What about Duane or Gina?”
His answer was accompanied with a vague gesture. “Went off to Sheridan to go to the show and visit friends.”
“How about Morris?”
“Drinks.”
I thought about how I was supposed to have met Vic an hour
ago, and how my current popularity was plummeting along with the mercury. “Well then, I can take care of that.”
He studied me from the corner of his eye. “Got a bird.”
I walked over and lowered the volume on the television. “I can probably take care of that for you, too.” It was Natalie Wood and some guy I can’t remember singing in West Side Story. I thought it an odd choice for the junkman but pretty good programming since we were coming up on Valentine’s Day.
“Got nary a feather.”
I turned back to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lindy. Got nary a feather.”
“The bird?”
He nodded. “Plucks ’em all off in spite.”
“In spite of what?”
“Daughter-in-law run off; only one that could stand the bird.”
I thought about it. “Geo, didn’t your daughter-in-law leave a while back?”
“Ten year ago, June 12th.” He evidently felt the need to add. “Parrot can live a long time; could be the spite.”
I crossed to the visitor chair and sat in hopes that he’d settle on the bed so we could discuss recent developments. “Geo, I need to talk to you.”
To my relief he came over and predictably beat me to the punch of my visit. “Not making a charge.”
I smiled at him. “I’m glad to hear that.”
He sniffed, probably unused to smelling anything but himself. “Perfect right to.”
“Yes you do, but then Ozzie Junior’ll probably bring up the fact that your gun went off.”
“Accidental.”
I nodded. “I agree, but I just wanted to nip any problem we might have in the bud.” I stretched my leg. “Geo, I’d like to ask what that was all about. Do you and Ozzie have something going on I should know about?”
His attention focused on his feet, which were aligned with the legs of his chair. “Nope.”
“Nothing?”
He pushed his welding cap back, revealing the stunning whiteness of his forehead and a perfect widow’s peak.
“Nope.”
I waited a moment and then stood. “All right then.”
“When are you gonna feed Butch and Sundance and the bird?”
It seemed like an urgent request. “Tonight?”
He nodded. “Dog food’s in the garbage can in the mud-room, birdfeed in the urn on the shelf by the cage. They’s cat food on the back porch for the raccoons.”
“Raccoons.”
He nodded. “Make sure they got water in the heated bowl and stay out of the basement, there’s snakes.”
I took a deep breath. It was turning out to be a long day. “You want me to feed them, too?”
“Nope.”
“Snakes, Geo?”
“Yep.”
“In February.” I stood there looking down at him, noting again that he was composed of thin, drawn muscle that displayed every strand and sinew. “Are those wolves of yours going to try and eat me alive when I go back there?”
The smile faltered a little on his lips, and not for the first time I noticed there was an odd elegance to the man. “Nope.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed him.
The effects of the drops were gone, and I no longer needed a personal chauffeur, so Dog and I drove the eight miles to the dump in the dark alone.
I cut the motor on my truck but left the headlights to shine on the snack bar/municipal solid waste facility office. I cracked the Bullet’s door open, and Dog looked at me expectantly. I looked at the office and could see them waiting, dark eyes flaring in the window. I grabbed my Maglite from the seat, reached in, and clicked off the headlights. “No, I think you better stay in here.” He didn’t look happy, but I closed the door behind me and slowly made my way toward the patched-together shack.
I shined the beam of the big flashlight onto the Plexiglas and into the two sets of glowing eyes. I placed a hand on the aluminum knob but then thought it best to introduce myself from the safety between us, so I put my other hand against the thick, clear plastic and spoke softly. “Okay, if I open this damn door and either one of you makes the slightest sign of aggression, I’m leaving the two of you to starve. You got me?”
I tried to think of the last time I’d been bitten by a dog and could only come up with a nasty little shih tzu that had nipped my elbow in the Busy Bee Café during rodeo weekend two years back. One of the big, lean heads stretched forward. I’m not sure if it was Butch or Sundance, but he licked the clear plastic against my hand. “All right, here we go.”
I pulled the door open, and they continued to sit there, looking at me like hundred-and-twenty-pound bookends.
“Okay. Good dogs, good boys.”
I reached a closed fist toward the one that had licked the Plexiglas and watched as the black-and-white muzzle moved forward for a sniff and then a lick. I rolled my hand over and let the wet tongue lap across my palm. His fanlike tail swept back and forth, and I thought so far so good, which caused me to make a mistake and reach for the other wolf mutt, who up to this point hadn’t made any movement or sound.
The rumble in his chest sounded like the internal combustion of a high-compression motor and just as urgent.
I looked at him. “Hey.”
He backed away just a little and pulled up one side of his muzzle to show me the business end of a canine tooth as he continued to growl.
“Hey.”
He backed away until his butt bumped against the far wall, which really wasn’t far enough. His lip dropped a little, but he stayed there watching me as I ran a hand over the head of the friendlier of the two in hope that if he saw the other dog respond well he might loosen up a bit. I turned my focus marginally to the dog I was petting. “Good dog . . . If historical reference is any good in judging personality, I’m betting you’re Butch.”
He looked up, and I was relatively assured. The other dog was no longer growling and dipped its head as I kept petting the friendlier one. “C’mon, Sundance . . . C’mon, Butch.”
I took the path from the office that led to Geo’s house and headed off at a slow walk past my truck. Butch kept pace at my left as we followed the frozen, hard- pack road—Sundance tagged along behind. I glanced at the truck and could see that my backup was watching and committing every movement to memory. We walked past the chain- link fence; the sign on the other side read STEWART JUNKYARD—NO TRESSPASSING, spelling notwithstanding.
The gate was held in place by a rubber bungee cord but still moved a couple of inches squealing in counterpoint with the wind that was picking up from the mountains. I stopped and held the metal-framed gate in one hand, thankful I was wearing gloves so that my flesh didn’t stick, and ushered the first dog through; the other one stood and looked at me. “C’mon.”
He waited a short moment and then followed, keeping his distance as I looked down the path at the gables of the big house.
Douglas Moomey had built the place in the late 1890s, but after the death of his brother in the Boer War, he was called back to England from a life of drunken remittance to a life of drunken privilege. The only thing he’d left behind were illegitimate children who spoke with a vague British accent and the house. A local cattle rancher bought it and the surrounding property, and it remained in his family until the late forties, at which point Shirley Vandermier, one of the local call girls, acquired it as a result of an heir chasing aces and eights.
There was supposedly an old tunnel that had run from the whorehouse to a livery almost an eighth of a mile away, which allowed the local ranchers and cowboys ingress and, more important, egress in times of emergency—such as when the sheriff might be looking for patrons of the establishment.
As I stood among the random, rusted automobile carcasses that were stacked around it, it was hard to imagine the place in its original glory. The gigantic house squatted on a native moss-rock foundation like the place had grown there. The night clouds raced over the roof like fleeting spirits, and the tendrils of a long dead cottonwood’s sp
lit trunk ran its bony fingers through the clouds. Only the insistent bite of the northwestern wind and subzero temperatures reminded me that it was Valentine’s Day and not Halloween.
There was no paint to peel, so the structure had slowly gone monochromatic from its balustrades and verandas to its shriveled and checked shingles. More than a few of those shingles lay at my feet, most likely victim to Geo’s latest stint as chimney sweep. There was a plume of smoke coming from the blackened bricks, and it looked like there was a light on somewhere in the back of the house; I figured that Gina and Duane must have come back from the movies early.
The dogs had stopped at the base of the stairs to turn and look at me. I gave the entire house one more quick glance. “I’m coming.”
Automobile parts, scrap metal, and large, derelict appliances were scattered on the porch as well as the patchy iced yard. I picked my way around a Ford nine-inch differential, a ’50 Willys Jeepster grille, and the seat from a mid-sixties Impala. The steps were warped and cupped but held as I climbed onto the porch.
“Sheriff’s department.”
I waited but there was no response, so I opened the front door and followed the wolves inside. There was a set of stairs in the entry hall with a stained oriental runner complete with tarnished brass rails on each rise. The carpet had been tracked black, and the worn spots at the center of each tread showed the oak board underneath, the distressed wool threads drifting in the air of the opened door as if the stairwell had been disemboweled.
The green wainscoting had crinkled its stain and pulled away from the surface of the wood like a skinned alligator, and brocaded wallpaper hung in strips from the plaster-and-lath walls. In the partial moonlight of the parlor windows, the human hair that had been mixed with the plaster curlicued from the wall—mixing hair with plaster was a common practice of the period, but it was still a little unsettling.
There was a door under the stairs that must’ve led to the basement. Snakes.
Junk was everywhere—stacks of moldy books, newspapers and magazines, a portable air compressor, a broken ladder, and a floor fan with no blades were just a few of the items within reach. Amazingly, though, the air felt humid.
Junkyard Dogs Page 5