Dead Meat

by William G. Tapply

  He came around from behind his desk and extended his hand. “Will Stack, sir.”

  “I’m Brady Coyne,” I said. “I appreciate your seeing me.”

  He flapped his hand toward a chair. “Have a seat. Tell me what I can do for you.” His voice was higher pitched than I expected, but years of education had worn all the rough edges off his syntax.

  I sat, and he retreated to his desk chair. “This isn’t official business or anything like that,” I said.

  “Yes. Dolores said you were on our side.”

  “I’m a friend of Woody Pauley. I was told that your firm is handling his case.”

  Will Stack struck me as a man who would consider a smile a sign of weakness and who would consider weakness the worst of all traits. He was young, no older than thirty, and very solemn. “Boggs and Kell are handling it, yes. Not me personally.”

  “I was there when the murder took place,” I said. “I’ve talked with the sheriff and the assistant district attorney. They are trying to put together a case against Woody. Fabricate, I should say. I don’t think he committed any crime. I’m convinced this whole thing is trumped up. I don’t know why. Anyhow, I wanted to offer my help.”

  Stack picked up a pencil from his desk and rubbed his forehead with the eraser end absent mindedly. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. Suddenly his gaze focused on me. “Why?” he said.

  “Why do I want to help? Because I think he’s innocent. And because he’s my friend.”

  “What makes you think we need help?”

  I shrugged. “Everyone can use a little help.”

  “Especially Indian lawyers.”

  “I didn’t mean that at all,” I said. “I—”

  “Let me tell you a story, Mr. Coyne,” said Stack. “Several years ago, when I was in law school, some members of my race went to Plymouth, Massachusetts, on Thanksgiving Day. They have ceremonies there, you know. Descendants of the Mayflower. Daughters of the American Revolution. They dress up as they imagine people dressed in 1620. Some people dress up like Indians. So we went there to make a peaceful demonstration. Symbolic. Pretty obvious. Trying to make some points about Indian rights. Many were Mashpees, who, as you may know, have made some substantial land claims in Massachusetts.” He paused and stared at me.

  I nodded. “I’m familiar with the cases,” I said.

  “There were some women dressed like Pilgrims, or whatever they were. White women. One of them came up to me. She was very angry. Clearly we were spoiling her Thanksgiving celebration. Know what she yelled at me?”

  I shook my head.

  “She said, ‘Why don’t all of you go back to where you belong.’ That’s what she said.”

  I shrugged. “All races have their share of ignorant people.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” said Will Stack, “we are competent to handle Mr. Pauley’s case. Indian lawyers can practice the law. We have to pass the same bar exam as white lawyers. So I hope you won’t be too offended if I suggest to you that you should go back to where you belong.”

  I stood up. “Okay,” I said. “Fair enough.” I put my hands on the top of his desk and leaned toward him. “But,” I said, “you better not fuck up Woody’s defense out of some misguided sense of ethnic pride. Where I come from, we take all the help we can get, and we don’t much care if the people who give it to us are green, pink, or purple.”

  Stack stared at me expressionlessly. “Where I come from,” he said calmly, “we have a pretty good idea of who really wants to help. But thanks, anyway.”

  I took a deep breath, decided not to say the next thing that came to my mind, and walked out of Will Stack’s office. Dolores didn’t look up from her paperback as I slammed out of the place.

  The two-minute walk down the street to the restaurant where Bud and I had agreed to meet calmed me down. It was about noon, and the tables and booths were filling up with patrons. It was an interesting mix of guys in work boots, blue jeans, and colored T-shirts, and men and women wearing business suits and lugging briefcases. I stood inside the doorway for a few moments. A skinny woman of indeterminate age wearing a stained white uniform muttered, “Help yourself to a table,” on her way by. I spotted one against the wall and took it.

  I opened the menu that was propped up between the salt and pepper shakers. Standard fare—a variety of hot lunches and sandwiches. The special for the day was “home-style meat loaf.” I wondered what other styles of meat loaf there might be.

  The same skinny waitress appeared at my table. Her name, according to the pin stuck onto her uniform over her left breast, was Vera. She had a pencil poised over her pad and a grimace of concentration on her face. “He’p ya?”

  “How’s the meat loaf today?”

  She shrugged. “Same as most days. Your basic meat loaf. Ain’t fancy.”

  “I’ll have it. What goes with it?”

  “Mashed potato. Green beans. Salad. Coffee. Dessert. The usual.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “You want a beer or something?”

  “No. Bring me some coffee. And tell me. Is there a pay phone here?”

  She jerked her head backward. “There. Outside of the rest rooms.”

  I spotted it, an old-fashioned booth, complete with folding door. Just what I wanted.

  The service was almost instantaneous. The meat loaf was delicious. Vera brought me a wedge of apple pie with a big slab of cheddar cheese on top for dessert, and I lingered over my third cup of good coffee and a couple of Winstons while the restaurant gradually cleared out. Then I went to the phone booth, gave the operator my credit-card numbers, and rang Seelye Smith in Portland.

  His receptionist or clerk or whatever he was—the handsome kid named Kirk—told me that Mr. Smith was unable to come to the phone just then. I told him to say it was Brady Coyne calling long distance and that I’d wait. He hemmed and hawed. I told him I guaranteed Seelye would have his ass if he didn’t put me through right away. He told me to hang on. He called me “sir.”

  “You’ve gotta excuse Kirk, Mr. Coyne,” said Smith when he came on the line. “He takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  “Glad you called,” he said. “Been wanting to talk to you. I’ve done some snooping. Interesting. You know the Indian lawyers who’re trying to buy Raven Lake?”

  “Yes?”

  “Looks like they’re fronting for somebody.”

  “You mean the Indians don’t want the place for themselves?”

  “Right. From there it gets murky. But I can tell you this. It’s out-of-state interests. Private.”

  “And probably not all that legitimate,” I said.

  “Probably not.”

  “And,” I said, “these private, out-of-state, not-that-legitimate interests, they don’t want anybody to know who they are and what they’re up to. That’s why they’ve got the Indians fronting for them.”

  “Exactly.” Smith sighed. “Which so far they’ve been successful at.”

  “So far.”

  “Yeah. But I’m still trying.”

  “Who are the lawyers?”

  “Firm out of Bangor. On the up-and-up, so far as I know. Boggs and Kell.”

  “No shit.”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” I said, and I told him about the murder at Raven Lake and Woody’s arrest and my unproductive visit with Will Stack. Smith interrupted me several times, asking for clarification and details. I could tell that he was a good lawyer.

  When I finished my recitation, Smith said, “Well, of course, it could be coincidence. Matter of fact, if I were a betting man, that’s where I’d put most of my money. Boggs and Kell are one of the big firms. Probably the biggest in Bangor. Still, getting stonewalled like you did by this Stack this morning, maybe there is a connection. What do you make of it, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Only thing is, if the murder is somehow related to this group trying to buy the l
odge—and Boggs and Kell handling the real estate offer and then defending old Woody certainly seems to suggest a relationship—”

  “That,” said Smith, “would be significant.”

  “What do you know about the district attorney who’s prosecuting the case, this Asa Danforth?”

  “Very ambitious young man,” replied Smith promptly. “I knew him when I was working for the state on the original Indian litigation. He was one of those who wanted to fight it down to the wire. Big defeat for him when the state lost. He’s been trying to recoup ever since.”

  “By prosecuting Indians,” I said.

  “Sure. That’s how he saves face. He’s had some success at it, actually. Made something of a name for himself—not to mention some points with the Republicans—by promoting the idea that the Indians are irresponsible, greedy, and lawless and that the state—and, by extension, Asa Danforth himself—was right all along not to cave in to their demands and that the feds blew it. It’s a very popular position hereabouts. Anti-Indian, antifed, is Danforth’s platform, dressed up just a little.”

  “Makes it easy to see why he might want to build a case against Woody.”

  “Yes. Not that it’s good law enforcement, although he hasn’t got that bad of a case, from what you say. At any rate, it sure as hell is good politics.”

  I paused for a moment. “It would be very interesting to find out exactly who wants to buy Raven Lake,” I said.

  “I’m still trying, Mr. Coyne.” He hesitated. “Listen. Don’t feel too bad about the lawyer. Your Mr. Stack, there. He’s just a flunky. Doing what he’s told. I expect that he got the word from Bangor to refuse all comment on the murder case, that’s all. Which isn’t that bad of an idea. The rest was just rude manners. Nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have slapped him with my glove,” I said.

  Seelye Smith and I agreed to keep in touch. I would try to call him again in a few days.

  I disconnected, got the operator back, and called Vern Wheeler in Boston. He answered the phone himself, as I knew he would, since I was one of the few people who had been given access to his private line.

  “How they bitin?” he said.

  “Excellent, Vern. Just like snakes.”

  “We’ve been havin’ some troubles, I hear.”

  “You hear correctly.”

  “Tiny called the other day. Hard to believe, old Woody killin’ a man.”

  “Hell, Vern. Woody didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Well,” drawled Vern after a moment, “I guess that’s a matter of opinion, now, ain’t it?”

  “I know you’re not asking me for a dissertation on the law,” I replied. “It’s a trumped-up case, Vern. Woody was framed, and the DA up here is taking it down the line.”

  “That ain’t quite the way Tiny told it, Brady.”

  “I thought you knew Woody.”

  “You letting your feelings for the man color your view of the facts?”

  “Nope. Something coloring your view, Vern?”

  “Nope. I just figure, they arrest a man, they gotta have something.”

  “Oh, they’ve got something. Enough to arrest him. But not enough to convict him. In my, ah, learned opinion. As an attorney, not a friend.”

  “I do respect your opinion,” was all Vern said.

  “Tiny says he’s about ready to sell the place,” I continued. “He’s fed up with all the trouble, he says. Figures the murder, the disappearance of the other guy, that they’ll ruin business.”

  “Yeah”—Vern sighed—“that’s what he told me, too. You think he’s serious?”

  “I can’t tell. He’s not joking, I can tell you that. Maybe he’s just down. He’ll snap out of it.”

  “Selling the place might not be such a bad idea at that. Though I can’t believe Tiny really means it.”

  “He’s discouraged. He’ll come around.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you’re having that much fun, Brady,” said Vern. “Why don’t you come home?”

  “Tell the truth, it’s not exactly what I bargained for. The fishing’s been pretty decent. But I’ve done a hell of a lot more lawyering than I counted on. Still, I’ve got a feeling Tiny would like me to hang around a while longer.”

  Vern paused, then cleared his throat. “Far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to stay. Tell me. What’ve you found out about these people who want to buy the place?”

  “Talked with Seelye Smith. Checked up on him, too, as promised. Impeccable reputation. I like him. Trust him, too. He says the Indian lawyers are working for an unnamed third party. Out of state. Private. He’s trying to track down who they are and what their game is. It’s the same Indian firm that’s defending Woody, by the way, which may or may not mean something. Anyhow, Smith’s okay. You’re in good hands.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Vern. “Listen, Brady. Why don’t you come home. Tiny can take care of himself.”

  “Well, if I’m costing you money…”

  He laughed. “That’s not it, and you know it.”

  “Think I’ll stay a while and hold Tiny’s hand, then.”

  “That’s fine. Up to you.”

  “I’ll give it a few more days. Mainly because the fishing’s been pretty damn good.”

  “Hey, fish all you want. Drink all my Jack Daniel’s. Enjoy yourself. And don’t worry your head about old Woody.”

  I promised Vern I’d be in touch if anything else happened. I thought of calling the office and checking with the answering service. Then I said the hell with it. This was supposed to be a vacation, not that it was exactly working out that way.

  I returned to my table to wait for Bud Turner to take me back to the lake.

  Twelve

  “YOU’RE LOOKING A BIT glum, my friend,” said Marge that night as she eased herself down beside me on the end of the dock. I had my back against one of the pilings and my knees drawn up to my chin.

  “I am thinking,” I intoned. “I am being contemplative. I am pondering the wonder of it all.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Death and transfiguration. Being and nothingness. War and peace. That sort of thing.”

  “I brought you some medicine.” She tinkled the ice in the glass. I took it, sipped, and sighed.

  I jammed two cigarettes into my mouth, lit them both, and handed one to Marge. She hitched herself close to me, and I could feel her shiver.

  “I’m really sorry about all this,” she murmured. “You came up here for some fishing and relaxing. Now all this.”

  “I went to Greenville with Bud today. Talked to Vern. He suggested I go home.”

  She put her hand on my knee and didn’t speak.

  “I told him I thought I’d hang around a little longer.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “But, see, I can’t do anything. I don’t even especially want to do anything. But here I am. That is what I am trying to contemplate.”

  “You do blather,” she whispered. I turned to look at her. She was staring out across the lake. In profile she looked remarkably like her daughter. I touched her hair, and she turned to face me. Her eyes sparkled in the darkness. I realized she was crying.

  “Hey, look,” I said. “I don’t…”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Shh,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  I shrugged. “If you want to talk…”

  “That’s not what Vern pays you for, Brady.”

  “What the hell. It’s after five. I’m on my own time.”

  She hugged her legs. “Anyway, there’s nothing, really. I mean, you know about Polly. She’s been a perfect angel for the past couple days, by the way.”

  “Since the murder.”

  “Yes. It seems to have put things into some kind of perspective for her.”

  I nodded and didn’t comment. Marge apparently did not suspect Polly’s involvement with the dead Mr. Rolando, and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

  “Then, of
course, there’s my husband,” she said.

  “This I don’t think I want to hear about,” I said quickly.

  “I really think he’s ready to sell the place,” she said. “First he talks about staying open all year. Now he’s ready to sell. Brady, if we left this place, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think I’d go with him. It would be like starting a new marriage. Tiny Wheeler and Raven Lake are all one person. Do you know what I mean?”

  I shrugged. “Look…”

  “No, listen to me. Please. I can’t imagine living with Tiny in some condominium in Sarasota or Phoenix or San Diego or something. When I committed myself to Tiny Wheeler, it was a commitment to a way of life, not just a man. I can’t separate the two. It scares me.”

  “He feels responsible for everything that’s happened. I imagine Vern doesn’t make it any easier for him.”

  “Vern has never made anything easy for Tiny.”

  “Have you told Tiny how you feel?”

  “He knows.”

  We fell silent. I hadn’t heard the loons since I had been out there, a fact that deepened my morose frame of mind. Marge poked me and said, “Gimme another one of them cigarettes.” I did, and we smoked quietly, staring at the shiny purple surface of Raven Lake.

  “You want to go fishing tomorrow?” she said after a while.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll take you. Tiny’s flying out for the day.”

  I hesitated. “You think it’s a good idea?”

  “What, you mean with my husband gone?” She laughed, a genuine laugh that sounded good. “Would it matter? Listen, Counselor. I’m a registered Maine guide, okay? It’s one of the things I do. I do it damn well, matter of fact. I’ll show you some salmon. Deal?”

  I grinned at her in the darkness. “Okay. Deal. Where’s Tiny going?”

  She paused before answering. Finally she said, “I don’t ask, he doesn’t say. It happens now and then. He tells me he’s going to be gone for the day. He and Gib, they fly out after breakfast. They’re back before dusk. They don’t bring back supplies. They don’t take any guests out with them or bring any back in.”

  “And this makes you suspicious.”