by Pete Hautman
“Because I’ve been threatened. So you’re a hunter then? I should take you out sometime. We could go duck hunting, if that’s what you like. Me, I like every kind of hunting.”
Crow looked from the leopard to the bison head to the elephant tusk, thinking that a day in a duck blind with this man would be enough to make him give up hunting forever.
“I’m living here alone now, as David may have mentioned. My wife left me a few months ago.”
“Dave didn’t mention anything. I still don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“It was no big deal, getting the divorce, except it cost me a lot of money. We were married only a year and a half. Just long enough for her to spend a fortune decorating this place. What did you think of the front parlor?” He read Crow’s expression and laughed. “It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?”
“So you’re being threatened by your ex-wife?”
Bellweather frowned. “I don’t believe I said anything like that.”
“You haven’t said anything at all.”
“David warned me you were feisty. Did he ever tell you how he came to represent me?”
“He didn’t even tell me who you were.”
“Oh—of course. We just went over that, didn’t we? Well, when my wife decided to divorce me, I didn’t have a lawyer I liked. The guy I was using was a wimp. So, on a whim, I dialed U-N-H-I-T-C-H.”
“I always wondered what kind of clients he gets off those billboard ads.”
“I drive past David’s outdoor advertising every day on the way to the clinic. It works—what can I say? Have you seen my ads?”
Crow shook his head. Other than their brief meeting at Birdy’s, he’d never heard of Dr. Nelson Bellweather.
“I got the idea from David. Every Sunday. ‘Fed up with dieting? Dial F-A-T-G-O-N-E.’ You wouldn’t believe how many calls I get.”
A light came on. He’d seen the doctor’s ads after all. “You’re the one in the TV Week.”
“That’s me!” said the doctor. “West End Clinic—Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons.”
“You do nose jobs, silicone breasts, things like that?”
“We offer a full range of services. Tomorrow I’m seeing Mrs. Archer Pillsbury-Cargill. We’re going to take a little subcutaneous fat off her hips.”
Crow recalled the printed advertisements. “‘Liposuction our specialty’?”
“That’s right.” Bellweather pursed his lips. “In this business, it pays to specialize.”
Crow swallowed, then wished he hadn’t. Something tasted awful. Better he should have walked into another Amway meeting. How did these people find their way into his life? Were they attracted to him the way a cat is attracted to the one person in the room who hates cats?
The doctor was talking again.
“My brother Nate—you met Nate?”
“More or less.”
Bellweather gave him a quizzical look, then continued. “Nate stayed with me last night and this evening, but he has a regular job, and his wife hasn’t left him yet. That’s why I asked David to track you down, Joe. Did he tell you anything at all?”
“He told me you were looking for a bodyguard. Look, I don’t know what your situation is, and apparently you aren’t interested in telling me. I’m sorry if Dave gave you the wrong impression, but I really don’t think I’m the right person for this job. There are companies that specialize in this sort of thing—”
“I’m not interested in some tough-guy bodybuilder type, Joe. I saw you handle Ricky Murphy. That’s what I want.”
“I was drunk, and so was he.”
“Think how good you’ll be sober.”
“Let me give this one more try. Why do you think you need a bodyguard?”
Bellweather stood up and walked toward the fireplace. He looked up at the bison mount, straight into its flared nostrils. “You saw it. The Murphys. You heard Ricky threaten to kill me.”
Crow shook his head. “Ricky’s just a hothead. Besides, that was weeks ago. If Ricky was really trying to kill you, he’s had plenty of time to do it. Why do you all of a sudden think you need protection?”
“I’ve been gone. After he attacked me in that bar, there were phone calls. I decided to take a vacation. I’ve been staying with a friend in Costa Rica. I just got back the night before last.”
That explained the suntan. “What set him off that night?”
“I have no idea. And I thought, like you said, that whatever it was that caused him to go off on me like that, he’d have calmed down after six weeks, but I was wrong. Last night he made another attempt on my life,” Bellweather said. He added, “It was unsuccessful.”
VI
Now Ricky, he’s got a temper on him, and I got the brains, but the one you got to watch out for is my mom.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON MURPHY
CROW SAT IN THE moose-antler chair. After testing all the furniture, he had found it to be the most comfortable. Bellweather had retired an hour earlier, and the house was dead quiet. He stared dully at the rug, at the grizzly bear’s open mouth. Crow yawned. He could feel himself fading. Less than three hours since he’d walked into this job, and he was already bored comatose.
He was having trouble taking his new employer’s concerns seriously. True, he had seen Ricky attack the doctor at Birdy’s, but that was nearly two months ago. Bellweather claimed that Ricky had taken a shot at him two nights ago as he was driving home from the clinic. It sounded unlikely, though not impossible. Ricky had driven up behind him, the doctor claimed, as he was cruising west on I-394. Right there in rush hour traffic, he’d leaned out the window of his Hummer and started blasting away with a revolver.
Bellweather had gripped an imaginary steering wheel as he told his story, reliving the experience. “If I hadn’t managed to get a truck between us and then get off the freeway, who knows?” He steered to the right, then dropped his hands onto his lap. “He might’ve killed me. He gets in that Hummer of his, has a few drinks, he’ll do anything. He’s crazy, you know.”
Some of Crow’s doubt must have crept onto his face, because Bellweather had insisted on taking him into the attached garage to show him the bullet holes in his car.
“Can I ask you something?” Crow asked. “Why did you paint it pink?” He opened the passenger door. “Jesus, it’s pink inside too.” Pink leather upholstery, pink-wrapped steering wheel, pink sun visor …Even the gearshift—a manual transmission, to his surprise—was topped by a pink knob. It was enough to make him blush.
“I bought it for my wife. She was a Mary Kay distributor when I met her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All custom paint and leather, cost me a fortune, and she hated it. When we split up, she got the Mercedes. You see this hole? This is where the bullet came through.”
Crow put his finger in the hole. “You sure it wasn’t a rock?”
“In the rear window? The slug was buried in the back of the passenger seat. There’s another hole in the trunk lid. I found the bullet rattling around in here.” He lifted a hinged, leather-upholstered lid to reveal a large, empty compartment in place of the back seats.
“I thought these new Jags were four-seaters.”
“I had them pull out the back seats—too small to sit in anyway—and build a storage compartment. Room for my hunting equipment. The trunk in this thing is barely large enough for the spare.”
“And you think it was Ricky shooting at you?”
“How many camouflage Hummers do you think there are in this state?”
“Did you call the police?”
“Sure I did. I gave them Ricky’s name, told them where they could find him. But guess what? Ricky was playing cards all night with Orlan Johnson and a bunch of his buddies. I don’t know why I bothered. What I need is a guy like you, Joe.”
It was just as well. He’d already decided to take the job. He really did need the money. Even if the doctor was only enjoying a paranoid fantasy, he seemed to be able to afford it.
After Bellweather retired, secure in the knowledge that the ever vigilant Joe Crow was keeping him safe from the predations of the Murphy clan, Crow wandered the first floor, inspecting Bellweather’s various possessions and trying to guess what each item had cost. The white living room gave him the creeps. In its own way, it was scarier than Bellweather’s trophy room. True, the office was full of dead animal parts—but in the living room, nothing had ever been alive.
The more he looked around, the more neglected the place looked. Dust balls gathered in the corners, faint gray trails crossed the carpeted floors. The few plants were dead or dying. The place needed a housekeeper. The guy had plenty of money—why didn’t he hire a cleaning service?
A door off the kitchen led downstairs into a finished basement, complete with game room, bar, and workshop. The shop tools all had come from the same store, probably all bought on the same day. The table saw blade still had a label glued to it. All the hand tools were shiny and appeared to be unused. It looked as though Bellweather had bought himself a complete home workshop on a whim, had it installed, forgotten about it.
The billiard table had seen some use, but not much. Crow made a few shots but found the game uninteresting without pockets to shoot for. Like squash, billiards had an aristocratic tang to it that made him uncomfortable. He wandered back upstairs into the kitchen and stared at the floor for a few minutes. Crow was no expert, but this was one beautiful tile job. Every tile was slightly different, each had the sort of character that usually came only with great age and use. Must have cost a fortune. Apparently there was money to be made in the liposuction business.
Behind the kitchen, a set of French doors led into a large room that featured the same white carpeting as the front parlor, but this room had been stripped of its furniture—only a few dents in the carpet and an ugly floor lamp remained. It was too bad, because it had the nicest view in the house. One entire wall was windowed, looking out over a long, snow-covered backyard that led down to the frozen lake, gray and still in the moonless night, crisscrossed by the darker lines of snowmobile trails, dotted with black icehouses. Crow stood staring out past his reflection, imagining how it would look in the summer, with sunlight and boats and warm breezes and jumping fish.
Amanda Murphy had not slept well since the night of Sean’s first heart attack, back in ’74. After his second coronary, three years later, when the Good Lord finally took him, she had thought, even in her grief, that the one good thing was that now he was gone she could get a good night’s sleep, not be clinging fitfully to awareness all night long, listening to him respire, hearing every wheezy breath as though it were his last. But Sean’s death had changed nothing. The awareness that immortality had passed her family by was enough to ruin her sleep every night for the rest of her life. Her dreams became more vivid and disturbing with every birthday. Thank the Good Lord she was pushing seventy-five and would not have too many more nights of lying awake alone in bed. She hoped she would go before any of her three children.
Amanda sat up in bed and looked out the window of her room. The sky was low and dark, her view of the woods a study in tangled charcoal against the paler gray of snow-covered earth. Winters were the worst. The nights were so long. She could see the three Talking Lake Ranch snowmobiles lined up outside the lodge, and the old Ford pickup truck with the plow. Ricky’s Hummer was gone. Now where would that boy be, middle of the night? Out chasing some waitress, no doubt. She wasn’t going to think about it. Whatever he did, the Good Lord would forgive him. Boys will be boys. She felt for her slippers, wiggled her toes into their fuzzy interior, and shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen, to heat a cup of cider. Maybe have a shot of Jim Beam with it, which would put her down for an hour or two, at least. Get her closer to the dawn.
George, her elder son, was sitting at the kitchen table in his plaid flannel nightshirt, eating Skippy peanut butter straight from the jar. He looked up as she entered, loaded up his tablespoon, inserted it into his mouth. The thick smell of peanut butter hung in the air.
“You’re gonna get fat,” Amanda said. She would have preferred to have the kitchen to herself. With George there, she would have to skip the Jim Beam. George had this idea that old women shouldn’t drink. Not that he could stop her, but there would be a scene. Hot cider would have to do.
“’M already fad,” mumbled George.
Amanda opened the refrigerator and took out a plastic jug of apple cider, filled a mug, and put it in the microwave for two minutes. She distrusted microwave ovens on general principles, but George’s wife—thank the Good Lord she was finally gone—had bought one, and Amanda now found herself using it daily. While her cider was heating, she watched her peanut-butter-eating son. George was right; he was getting fat. Strong, healthy, and only forty-nine years old, but definitely carrying a few extra pounds around the middle. Not rail thin and nail hard like his daddy. Still, it wasn’t like him to be eating straight peanut butter at three A.M. George usually slept like a bear. Something was bothering him.
The microwave dinged. Amanda took her steaming mug and sat down across from him. She blew across the hot surface of the cider, took a cautious sip. It was very hot, but it smelled wonderful. George screwed the top back onto the peanut butter jar. She watched his cheeks writhe as he worked his tongue around in his mouth, cleaning his teeth. He was a good-looking boy, she decided. Fat as a prize hog, but strong, and he had his father’s eyes.
“Trouble sleepin’?” he asked.
Amanda snorted. She always had trouble sleeping, as he well knew. She had complained about it every single morning for the past two decades.
“I ain’t the only one sitting here in the middle of the God-blest night,” she snapped.
Her words set him back a few inches. It still amazed her, the effect she could have on her boys. Ninety-four pounds to his three hundred, and she could still knock him off his chair with a few sharp words.
“Sorry, Mandy,” he said. He sounded like a boy again. Only difference was, over the past four decades the title Mommy had evolved into Mandy. “Ricky’s took off. I’m worried he’s gonna get himself in trouble. Nelly Bell is back, you know.”
“Ricky told me.”
“I was hoping he’d just disappear.”
“He’s an evil man.”
“I know, Mandy, but he’s a long ways away. He won’t bother us again. We oughta just forget about him.”
“He’s laid a taint on our family. Who will punish him? Who will do the Good Lord’s work?”
George shook his head. “It better not be Ricky. I don’t know how many times old Orlan will be able to cover for him. Besides, it’s not going to make a goddamn bit of difference to Shawn. What’s done is done.”
Amanda pressed her lips together so hard she could feel them buzz. “The doctor laid a taint. Ricky is a good son.”
“He’s a goddamn fool,” George said.
She grabbed the spoon out of George’s hand and whacked him on the forehead.
“Ow! Mandy, that hurt!”
“I won’t have language like that in my kitchen, George Washington Murphy. You can’t sleep, that’s fine by me but I’ll be buttered and toasted if you think I’m going to sit here, three o’clock in the God-blest morning, and listen to your cussing!”
George leaned back, pressing his hand against his forehead.
“I’m gonna have a big lump, right in the middle of my forehead.”
“Boy, you’re gonna have more’n that if you don’t learn to talk better.” Now she was all het up. She stood and got the bottle of Jim Beam out of the cupboard next to the sink, poured two fingers into a water glass, brought it to the table, took an angry sip. “Don’t you say a word,” she said.
George looked at the glass of whiskey, gave his head a slow shake, and opened the peanut butter jar.
Crow jerked his head up and popped his eyelids open. He was sitting at the kitchen counter. Had he been asleep? He blinked; his eyes felt stiff and dry. His watch re
ad 3:47. Something had startled him—the creak of tires on cold snow. He stood and listened. A thrumming, the low sound of a large engine. A snowplow? It sounded close, as if it was right outside. Crow walked quickly to one of the front windows, peered past the edge of the curtain. A Hummer with a camouflage paint job sat parked in the driveway, idling. He could see a man in the driver’s seat, Ricky Murphy, staring fixedly at the door. Crow felt under his jacket for his gun, snug in its worn shoulder holster. The familiar grip felt good in his palm. The smooth texture of duct tape. He looked again through the window. Ricky was still sitting there, not doing anything yet, just looking.
What did he think he was going to do? Crow watched for a minute. Ricky lifted something to his mouth, tipped his head back. Drinking a beer. Crow considered his options. He could simply wait and see what happened. Or he could call the cops, let them deal with it. That would be the smart thing to do.
He moved away from the window, walked back through the house to the kitchen, picked up the phone. His hand hovered over the keypad. What would happen if he called the cops? Not much. If they showed up while Ricky was still there, what would they do? Give him a ticket for the open can of beer? It didn’t seem sufficient. Would they act on Bellweather’s earlier complaint? Probably not, seeing as Ricky had a solid alibi, vouched for by the chief of the Big River police. He put down the phone and let himself out through the back door. The deep snow immediately filled his shoes. He circled the house, trudging through knee-deep snow, and approached the drive, shielded by a low hedge. The faint silhouette of Ricky’s hat shadowed the frosted rear window of the convertible top. Hoping his attention would remain on the front door, Crow climbed over the snowbank and approached the Hummer from the rear. He crept up to the back bumper, came around the driver’s side. Taking a slow, deep breath, he jerked the door open, grabbed Ricky’s collar, and pulled him out of the Hummer.
“Hey!” Ricky hit the ground with his shoulder. The Hummer lurched forward. Ricky rolled, grabbed for the revolver in his belt holster. Crow kicked as the revolver cleared the holster, hitting him in the elbow. The gun flew from Ricky’s hand, skidded across the icy driveway. Crow ran for the gun, scooped it up, and turned it on Ricky. It weighed about twice as much as his little Taurus.