Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  Parris was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. “Oh yeah—on another subject. Those motorcycle thugs you tangled with. The one that was in a coma, what’s his name…”

  “Pie Eye.”

  “Yeah. Pie Eye was released from the hospital. Fat one’s already cut loose.” Parris waited for a protest, but Moon seemed oddly unperturbed by this news. “District attorney had a long talk with BoBo Harper, owner of the Mountain Man. BoBo refused to file charges. Said his insurance would cover the damages.”

  This had a funny smell about it. “That was extremely tolerant of him.”

  Parris squinted blue eyes at his Ute friend. “I been doing some checking on the motorcycle gang. There’s rumors of drug peddling, some probable assaults in other jurisdictions. Bottom line is this—these bozos have a reputation for getting very nasty with folks who cross them. I expect they communicated this fact to BoBo. And he decided to leave well enough alone.”

  The injured man got to his feet slowly, clapped the black Stetson on his head. “Sounds like a challenging law enforcement problem.”

  “It is. And I am dealing with it.”

  “You need any help, pardner, don’t give me a call.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MORE HEARTBURN

  AT MIDAFTERNOON, THE MOUNTAIN MAN BAR & GRILLE WAS AS expected. Cool, dark, dirty. An environment well suited for the growth of bacteria and fungi. Aside from the waitress and a sour smell of stale beer that clung to the dank atmosphere, the cavernous interior seemed to be empty.

  Charlene, busy filling the cash register tray with rolls of shiny dimes and quarters, heard the door chime “ding” to announce a potential customer. She looked up from her duties. “Well, I don’t hardly believe it—never thought I’d see you here again.” She patted her fluffy, butter-yellow hair. “I mean, not that I mind or nothin’.”

  Charlie Moon, walking slowly to avoid jarring the cracked rib, seated himself backward on a bar stool, looked at an assortment of new furniture that clashed with the tables and chairs that had remained undamaged from the knock-down-drag-out brawl.

  Charlene leaned across the bar. “So how you doin’?”

  “Better.” He rotated to face the waitress.

  She cringed. The big Indian had a puffed-up lip; his left eye was swollen almost shut. “Honey, you look just terrible.”

  He grunted.

  “So what brings ya in, sweetie?”

  “Must be your pretty smile.”

  She leaned on the bar, flashed him the gummy grin. “I like a man who can look me right in the eye and lie like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Okay. It’s only partly your smile. Mainly, it’s them big blue eyes.”

  “Now that’s more like it.” She fluttered the glued-on lashes. “So tell mama what you want.” Just name it, big boy.

  He frowned at the chalked menu behind the bar. “Something to drink.”

  She pouted. “Is that all?”

  “But no lemonade. I’ll have an ice-cold Pepsi-Cola.”

  Even beat-up, he ain’t so bad-looking. “The boss is in the kitchen today. Think you could go for a Elkburger and chili?”

  Moon grinned; it hurt his mouth. “If you hold a gun to my head.”

  She giggled. “You are such a scamp.”

  MANFULLY, CHARLIE Moon finished his meal. And wondered whether it would finish him. He paid his bill, gave the waitress a twenty-dollar tip that would be added to the expense account. The tribal investigator fully expected this to be a worthwhile investment. Judging by Charlene’s wide-eyed response, he would not be disappointed.

  She stuffed the likeness of Andrew Jackson into her starched blouse. “Well, sweetie-pie, you sure know how to please a hard-working woman.”

  He hesitated.

  “Oh, don’t be bashful, honey. I know what you want.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. You want to know what I know about Billy Smoke and what happened on the night he got hisself killed. Who did he talk to while he was in here. Did he drink a lotta booze. Did he have any argymints with the other customers. Did I see anything strange—anything I forgot to tell the reg’lar cops. Am I right?”

  He nodded.

  “So go on and ask your questions.”

  “Ahh…you’ve already asked ’em pretty well.”

  In an effort to concentrate, she fixed her gaze on an unwashed shot glass. “Billy was quiet when he was sober, but he was the kinda drinker who gets a loose tongue after a couple a beers under his belt. You know the kind. Laughs a lot. Back-slapper. Real friendly-Freddy. I remember he talked to some a the other customers that night.”

  “Which customers? Remember any names?”

  She shook her head. “Few days later, local cops asked Sheila and me to make a list of ever’body we could remember who was here that night. But we couldn’t be sure. There’s a few regulars, but we get a lot of transient business. You know. Truckers. Salesmen. Cowboys on the bum.”

  “Sheila?”

  Charlene nodded. “Sheila used to be the extra night waitress—she ain’t employed here anymore. Married a dental hygienist, moved to Montana, I think. Or maybe one a them Dakotas.” She shivered. “I don’t remember for sure, but it was some cold place.”

  “Those bikers I had trouble with—were they here that night?”

  “Those hooligans? Well, they’re kinda regulars.” Charlene closed her eyes, tried to call up the faded memory. “Might’ve been. But I just honestly cain’t say.” She cracked the lids. “But that reminds me—one of them uglies came in late last night. Had a message for you.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “Said they’d be in touch.”

  Well, that’s just dandy. “Guy who left the message—was it the big one?”

  “Nope. It was Yazzoo. He’s the one with the eye patch who bailed out when the fight started. There is about a dozen of ’em. They fight and drink a lot. Use vulgar language. Never get a bath unless they fall in the creek. And all of ’em has probably seen the inside of a jailhouse.” She shrugged. “Just run a the mill customers.”

  “Do they deal drugs?”

  There was a long silence before she responded. “Mr. Moon, you already used up that twenty-dollar tip.”

  “Few minutes ago it was Charlie.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  He reached for his wallet. I’ll charge it as an expense.

  She raised a hand to protest. “No. I don’t want any more a your money. I got to work here. And there ain’t generally no big cowboys or Indians around to protect me.”

  “Thanks. I guess that’s answer enough.”

  “Well, you guess wrong…Charlie.” She made a cross-eyed focus on a passing fly, snatched it in her hand. “Fact is, I don’t know how those crazies make their money. And I don’t want to know. I just want to stay healthy.”

  At that moment, the owner emerged from the kitchen. BoBo Harper was an even six feet, heavy shoulders, walked like a man used to throwing his weight around. He glanced at the Ute customer. “So you’re the guy who tangled with them bikers.”

  The Ute admitted to this folly.

  “You guys sure trashed my place.” BoBo turned to the waitress. “The economy around here is in the toilet. Business is lousy.”

  Having heard this a thousand times, Charlene nodded absently.

  He glared at Moon. “You know what the problem is?”

  The customer looked at the chili bowl. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Sure you do—it’s location.” BoBo spat on the floor, rubbed a soiled apron across his mouth. “Hardly anybody passes this place anymore. The tourists and truckers, they’re mostly taking the bypass. And another thing.” He pointed accusingly at the customer. “The damn chain restaurants. Hamburgers, fried chicken, pizza joints—that’s where they’re all going.”

  “What you need,” the Ute said, “is a business consultant.”

  “Consultant—you kidding me? I can’t even afford Char
lene.”

  “That is a problem.” Moon got up. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  CHARLIE MOON emerged into the warmth of bright sunshine. This should have made him feel better, but the greasy meal had settled in his gut like five pounds of overripe catfish bait. Acidic digestive fluids rose in his esophagus, singed his throat. He turned, looked back at the coonskin-capped figure atop the porch roof. The Mountain Man’s chiseled face was also twisted in pain. He must’ve eaten his last meal here when Charlene was just a pup. But it was not a total loss. Charlie Moon admitted that he was no longer hungry, and probably wouldn’t be for a day or two. Eating at this place had a way of putting a man off his feed.

  He cranked up the F-150, kicked up some gravel until the tires grabbed the asphalt, headed west toward the Columbine. By the time he had ascended onto the high prairie, Charlie Moon had forgotten about his troubles. The blue mountains appeared on the horizon—his mountains—and the Ute’s spirits soared with the misty peaks. All in all, it had been a good day. And I’ll be on the Columbine in an hour. Home, by the grace of God! Sitting on my front porch, rocking in my rocking chair, sipping a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. Watching time and the river ripple by.

  He passed a Greyhound-sized RV with Alabama plates. Turned on the dashboard radio. Listened to the energetic twang of a bluegrass banjo, the mournful wail of a steel guitar. He mouthed the words: Get outta the way, Old Dan Tucker. Yes sir, the small troubles of this day are behind me. Nothing bad can touch me now.

  Something touched his boot.

  What was that? Probably something rolling around on the floor. Flashlight, maybe.

  He drove another quarter mile.

  There it was again. Bumping against his ankle. Harder this time.

  He slowed. Looked down at it.

  It looked back at him.

  THE DRIVER of the Alabama RV frowned. “My, my,” Marvin Pitkin said from the corner of his mouth, “would you look at that!”

  Marge Pitkin, his able helpmeet, looked up from her Reader’s Digest article, “Alaska—America’s Last Frontier.” “Lookit what?”

  He pointed. “That there guy just ran his pickup right off the road.” Marvin lifted his foot off the accelerator. “I better go see if he’s all right.”

  “No,” his wife snapped. “It’s just some drunk. Let him sleep it off.”

  Ignoring her protests, he pulled over. Marvin listened to the RV’s diesel engine idle, studied the pickup parked in the sage. The old truck looked undamaged, and puffs of exhaust from the tail pipe proved that the engine was still running. He could see the driver’s head and shoulders. The fellow wasn’t moving, and he was sitting straight up. But he wasn’t making any signal that he needed help. Maybe Marge was right. Just some fool drunk run off into the brush. Leave him alone and eventually he’ll sober up. Mess with him and maybe I get a beer bottle busted over my head. But I can’t just drive off and do nothing at all. Maybe the poor guy has had a stroke or something. He squinted at the F-150 through his bifocals. “Marge, honey, get a holda that cell phone.”

  She reached for an enormous carpetbag of a purse. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “If that fella is hurt or sick or somthin’, I’m gonna call for an ambulance.” Phone in hand, he got out of the RV and headed across the brushy ground toward the pickup.

  Marge stuck her head out of the window. “Marvin, you better stay away from there. I just got a bad feelin’…”

  “Calm down, honey. I’ll be fine.” When he was within a few yards of the vehicle, Marvin thought he heard the driver say something. Sounded like, Don’t come any closer. The good Samaritan paused. “Hey—you okay?”

  No response.

  “If you want, I can call for some help.”

  Stony silence from the pickup.

  “Mister, are you hurt or something?”

  The reply from the F-150 was slow and precise. “Call Granite Creek PD. Ask the dispatcher to send the chief of police out here. But don’t come any closer.”

  The prairie wind whipping past Marvin Pitkin’s ears prevented him from hearing all the instructions. What he heard was this: “Call…Granite Creek PD…dispatcher to send…don’t…any closer.” The tourist backed away a few steps and wondered, What in blue blazes is going on here anyway?

  THE DISPATCHER interrupted a routine report of a citizen’s lost wallet to take the Nine-One-One. Clara Tavishuts identified herself as affiliated with the Granite Creek Police Department, asked how she might be of assistance. She was swamped by a flood of words from the concerned citizen. “Yes, sir. I understand. Please identify yourself. And just in case we’re disconnected, please give me your telephone number.” She made neatly printed notes on her duty pad, jotting down the phrases arriving over the telephone line:

  Ford pickup…veered off road…engine running…man in truck told me to keep away.

  “Sir, is there any sign of fire or other hazard?”

  There was not.

  “Does the occupant appear to be injured?”

  Not as far as he could tell.

  “Is the occupant armed?”

  Not as far as he could tell.

  “Can you give me the license plate number on the subject’s vehicle?”

  He could and did.

  She wrote it down, asked for and got a fairly precise location. “Sir, could you stay on site while I dispatch officers to the scene?”

  He could and would. But he did not intend to go near that pickup again. Something weird was going on out there.

  After Clara had dispatched a pair of GCPD officers to the scene, she forwarded the license number to the state police computer for an ID.

  LIFE IN this world is never sweeter than when it is about to end. This being so, Charlie Moon had one overriding goal—to stay alive. The Ute’s tactics were simple. He prayed to God for help. And remained extremely still. Even his breathing was barely perceptible. Moreover, he assured himself that if the enormous rattlesnake scooting around on the floorboard struck at him, it would be at a location well below the knee. And even a big diamondback like this one would not be able to penetrate the tough cowhide boots under his denims. Or could it? Moon tried to recall how thick the walls of the Ropers were. Eighth of an inch? Under the grim circumstances, this dimension seemed paper-thin. He sought other avenues of reassurance. Eventually, Mr. Togoa-vi would slither under the seat. Maybe even behind it. Then I’ll be outta the door faster than you can say—

  He heard the distant wail of a siren. The tourist—bless his sweet soul—had called the police. Charlie Moon closed his eyes, imagined the chief of police arriving. Scott Parris was a resourceful man who always knew just what to do. When Scott understood the situation, he would call for a helicopter. Bring in that Forest Service expert who handled all kinds of snakes. He could picture the reptile wizard wielding a long pole, a loop of transparent nylon cord on the end—snagging the snake, yanking it from the cab.

  Moon heard the squad car slow to a stop, fat tires crunching on roadside gravel, two car doors opening, then slamming. Scott had brought someone with him. Thank you, God. Things were looking up.

  The Ute opened his eyes. Looked down. Supported by a massive, muscular body, the rattler’s head floated over the edge of the seat. Beady eyes locked with Moon’s, a forked tongue flicked around, scenting his fear. In a moment, the serpent was on the seat beside him, head poised over his crotch. Oh, God. Things can’t get any worse than this. The optimist heard a pair of familiar voices. Officer Knox. Officer Slocum.

  Things can always get worse.

  DESPITE THE impediment of an artificial leg, Eddie “Rocks” Knox was two paces ahead of his chubby sidekick. “Hey, Piggy—that looks like Charlie Moon’s old bucket a bolts.”

  “And that looks like Charlie’s black hat,” Officer Slocum said. “Wonder what’s happened to him now? Maybe some of them bikers’ tough buddies has caught up with him—shot him dead.”

  “Nah. It’ll be a blowout on a front tire,” Knox opin
ed. “Or maybe his steering column busted.”

  Slocum found a flaw in this line of reasoning. “Then why’s he still in the truck?”

  “Could be he’s broke his back. Or he’s impaled on the steering column.” The morbid possibilities were endless. This was what made police work so interesting. Knox snickered. “Or maybe he’s parked out there with a sportin’ woman.”

  The plump officer thought this doubtful, and said so.

  As they came near the pickup, Knox called out. “Hey, Charlie—what’n hell you doin’ out here in the sagebrush?”

  The officers heard an unintelligible response from the Ute.

  “He’s not moving,” Slocum said. “Can’t even turn his head. I expect he’s paralyzed or something.”

  “He sounds drunk to me,” Knox said this with an old-maidish air of disapproval. “Imagine. After all these years of sobriety, ol’ Charlie’s back on the bottle.” He leaned to look in the open window at the driver. “What’s wrong with—”

  “Get back.” Moon said this almost without moving his lips.

  Now ‘Rocks’ Knox was not a man to take orders. Not from his own chief of police. Not from the president of these fifty United States. Certainly not from some oversized Ute Indian who wasn’t even a real cop anymore. He leaned over to get a better look inside the pickup. “Charlie, we come all the way out here to—” His normally pink face turned the color of dirty chalk. Officer Knox, who had lost his leg in a face-to-face shoot-out with a Mexican bandito, had never once backed down. Until now. He was two yards away from the pickup in one eighth of a second.

  Officer Slocum stuttered. “Wha-wha-what is it, Rocks?”

  The one-legged man was, for a moment, speechless. He sucked in a deep breath, pointed at the pickup. “Charlie—he’s got a great big rattlesnake in his lap.”

  Slocum stared in incomprehension. “Why?”

  “Damned if I know, Piggy. Maybe it’s some kinda pet.”

  They heard Moon again, still speaking softly. “Stay away. And don’t make any loud noises.”