Another problem developed as I got deeper into the second box. In the notes Benjamin had journaled in the very beginning of his career, he had referred to clients and others by their names. Something must have happened to prompt him to begin utilizing roles to refer to those he journaled about. Client, judge, prosecutor, opposing counsel were the most common monikers he used. The problem was that if his journal notes prompted my interest in the matter he was discussing, I needed to closely look at the legal documents from that time period to find the facts that coincided. This slowed my progress, not as much as my original approach of perusing every document but noticeably.
Mid-afternoon, I rewarded myself for my persistence by attempting to call PJ. The cellular signal was strong enough to complete the call, but it kept breaking up. We spent more time repeating what we had said because the other person hadn’t heard it than we did conversing. After several minutes of growing frustration, I told her I would go outside and attempt to find a spot with a stronger signal. I would drive into town if necessary. She said not to bother because she was on her way to pick up Angela and take her shopping. I promised to try again the next day.
The remainder of the day was nearly as frustrating. I felt like I was mired up to my knees in mud. I just couldn’t seem to make any real progress. The last thing I did before surrendering to eye strain was move the entire remaining pile of unopened boxes to a position out of my view when seated at the desk. They seemed like a baleful creature constantly taunting me. At least behind me I wasn’t constantly looking at their mocking presence.
The following morning I worked on my project for a couple of hours and then drove into Vanderbilt in an effort to find a stronger cell signal. I was rewarded with four bars in a parking lot near I-75. I reached PJ, but she was busy at work and could only talk for a couple of minutes. I was disappointed but understood. I called Marge to check on the progress of negotiations with the insurance company. She said that things were going fine — although very slowly. She sounded tired, and even though her words were positive, I sensed that she was holding something back. I prodded her a little but got nothing additional.
Driving through town, I noticed a low slung log structure sitting at the back of a pothole-infested dirt parking lot. A buck pole, constructed from retired utility poles set at distances that could be spanned by horizontal poles attached at the top, delineated one side of the parking lot. They must kill a lot of deer around here. Or it was in place merely as reinforcement for the name, Buck Pole Bar. What the hell, it’s lunchtime, I might as well stop.
Upon entry, I was immediately assaulted by vision pollution. Something — mounted trophies of whitetail deer, pronghorn sheep, moose, elk, and a couple of creatures I didn’t recognize — covered every square inch of the walls. A stuffed black bear in a menacing upright stance occupied one corner. Any wall space not occupied by large mammals was covered by stuffed fish or smaller mammals. As a good measure, any opening large enough to accommodate it contained a flyer for some local event. Even the smoke-stained ceiling was almost totally obscured by sporting paraphernalia hanging from it. Even during its tackiest phase, Cap’s Place looked elegant by these standards.
Two men dressed in camouflage clothing made of a random pattern of browns and greens designed for bow hunters were seated at one end of the bar focused on what looked like a topographical map. Other than the bartender, standing with his back to me at the other end of the bar, the remainder of the place was empty. No one seemed to take notice of me as I made my way to the far end of the bar and hopped up on a stool a couple from where the bartender stood. As I settled onto the stool, the bartender noticed my arrival and turned toward me. He was a short stocky man in his seventies with a head of wild salt and pepper hair escaping from under a dirty baseball cap with the word Ford embroidered on it. He sported several days’ growth of beard. Red and black hunting pants and a black and orange flannel shirt completed his ensemble. I’m no fashion expert, but I didn’t feel that the patterns were working.
The bartender said, “Hi, friend. Didn’t hear you come in. What’ll you have?” His voice had the low scratchy tone of a heavy smoker.
I quickly assessed my surroundings and opted to forgo asking for my usual Landshark. Glancing at the four taps providing limited choices, I answered, “How about a Labatt Blue.” I couldn’t remember the last time I had a Canadian beer. Although, with the mergers and acquisitions of breweries the past few years, I wasn’t certain you could technically call Labatt a Canadian.
“Pint or mug?”
“Let’s go with a mug.”
As he retrieved a mug, about the size of a small pitcher, from the chiller and filled it, I noticed for the first time that his left hand was missing. I had to admire the way he opened the tap, tilted the mug until it was nearly full to minimize the head, and closed the tap all with his right hand. As he set the beer in front of me, he asked, “Gonna eat? Like to see a menu?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a look.”
He turned and pulled a well-worn single sheet paper menu from a stack on the back bar counter and placed it in front of me. Judging by the stains on it, I guessed that ketchup was a popular condiment in this establishment. As I looked at the menu, the bartender walked to the other end of the bar to converse with the two map readers. A couple of minutes later, he made his way back to me and asked, “What can I get you?”
“Cheeseburger and fries.” Without either Marge, Dana, or PJ to supervise me, I was going to live it up and return to the staples that constituted my diet before they began tending to my health.
The bartender nodded before saying, “My name’s Clarence, but everybody calls me Gunny.” Judging by his nickname and age, I guessed he had served as a marine in the Vietnam War era. He wiped his hand on his pant leg and extended it as he added, “What’s your’s?”
I shook his hand as I replied, “Jack. Pleased to meet you, Gunny.” His handshake was firm, and his hand was rough like a man who worked outdoors with his hands, or in his case, his hand.
“So, Jack, what brings you into town? Getting ready for bow season?”
“No. My father-in-law, well, ex-father-in-law, passed away, and I’m here going through some of his things.” Not liking the sound of my own statement, I added, “It was his request that I go through his papers. He was afraid it would be too difficult for his daughter.”
Gunny cocked his head slightly to one side and said, “Sounds like you guys got along okay. Both of my exes’ fathers thought I was an ass.” While he was talking, he scratched a couple of words on an order pad he had pinned to the bar with the stump of his left wrist. He ripped the sheet off and turned toward the back of the building, which I presumed was the kitchen, and said, “I’ll get Eddie started on your lunch.”
As Gunny returned from the kitchen, one of the map readers raised his hand and rotated it in a circle in the universal bar language of “we’ll have another round.” Gunny deftly retrieved two bottles of beer from the cooler, popped the caps off with an opener attached under the bar, and set them in front of the two guys. I couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he accomplished with one hand what most people would take for granted doing with two.
Coming back to the spot in front of me, Gunny said, “So, who was your father-in-law, Jack?” Nothing subtle about this guy. I’m a stranger in his bar, and he wants to know my story.
“Benjamin Whitt. His place is a few miles east.”
“The lawyer. I know his place. Big. Nice place.” He paused and rubbed his forehead with his stump, asking, “Does, Andy Bradley still take care of that place?”
This guy must know everything about everyone around here. Small town bartender. Gotta love ’em. “Yeah, Andy still takes care of it.”
“I didn’t really know the lawyer. He didn’t come in here much. In fact, in the ten years I’ve owned the place, I don’t think I’ve seen him in here more than once or twice.” Gesturing around the room, Gunny added, “Probably not exactly his type of pl
ace.” Pausing only to take a breath, he asked, “So, what do you do for a living, Jack? You a lawyer, too?”
Rather than go into my life story, I replied, “Bar owner. I own a bar in Florida.”
“No shit.” Just then a sharp bell rang once. “I’ll get your cheeseburger, and we can swap stories.”
During the next thirty minutes, I ate my lunch while Gunny and I bantered back and forth the travails of being a bar owner. He told me that he had worked in the pulpwood industry from the time he returned from his twenty-year stint in the Marine Corps until the accident that took his left hand, fifteen years ago. He bought the bar with what savings he had and the sympathy of a local banker. He didn’t ask about my background, and I didn’t offer any details. When I finished my beer, Gunny offered to buy me another, but I told him I needed to get back to Benjamin’s. I paid my check, shook hands with Gunny again, and responded to his prompting with a promise to stop in again.
CHAPTER NINE
The two men sat in the pickup truck and watched the rental car. The first man lowered his binoculars and said, “Looks like he’s on his cell. Must have come here to get a stronger signal. If we had another team, we could have sent them in to take a look around while he’s gone, but we don’t dare go and take a chance of him coming right back and catching us in there.”
The second man replied, “Yeah. But you could drop me off at the gate. I could walk in, and you could hang out in the area on the paved road and call me if he comes back. I could hide in the woods until he’s back inside and walk back to the gate where you could pick me up.”
The first replied, “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe we can move this little escapade along.”
The second man said, “What, you don’t appreciate our little wilderness adventure?” He pulled his cell phone out. “I’ll give the client a call and see if he has any other ideas to move this along.” After a short conversation on the phone, he said, “The client says it’s fine to see what we can observe but to refrain from any chance of contact. He’s working on another approach to solving the problem and our direct intervention may not be necessary. We’re to watch and wait.”
The first man grumbled, “Great. Just sit around in this wilderness and watch the leaves fall.”
His partner replied, “Quit your bitching. They’re all billable hours. Now let’s take a run out there while he’s in town and see what we can learn. At least maybe we can determine if he’s alone.”
CHAPTER TEN
When I left the Buck Pole, I wanted to drive around and explore, there was a herd of wild elk somewhere in the area, but I forced myself to return to the lodge. As I drove, I started to question the objective of my task. The legal work Benjamin had done in the early years of his career seemed to be pretty mundane property and contract law. His notes seemed to focus more on the personalities he came into contact with than they did on his personal actions. I was beginning to wonder if all of the medicine he had been taking had affected his mind and he’d sent me on one huge wild-goose chase. By the time I arrived at the lodge, I was so focused on my thoughts that I turned the key the wrong direction when I tried to unlock the door and locked it. Momentarily confused about how I could lock it if it was already locked, I decided I must have forgotten to lock it when I left. I noticed a couple of small clots of dirt on the floor just inside the door that must have come off my shoes when I returned from my walk down the driveway yesterday.
I returned to my efforts at plowing through the materials in the office, but by mid-afternoon my eyes felt like they were going to start crossing. It was a very pleasant autumn afternoon with the temperatures in the low sixties. I grabbed a light jacket from the closet and set out to find the walking trails I remembered from previous visits. I walked down the driveway to the small cottage overlooking the trout pond. I stopped for a couple of minutes and reminisced about happier times with Katharine in that cottage. We did have fun. Some of it even involved admiring the amazing natural setting without morphing into sex. A wave of nostalgia swept over me. I trudged on before allowing myself to sink too far into the often misleading warmth generated by memories.
I followed the trail leading from the cottage deeper into the towering trees. About fifteen minutes into my walk, I came around a curve in the trail and stopped short. Ten yards ahead the trees thinned on one side of the trail as it ran along the edge of a clearing containing a stand of old apple trees. I had no idea what kind of apples they were, but the trees were loaded. The wind the other night must have caused many of the ripe apples to fall. Several deer were enjoying the bounty, chomping on the fallen apples. The more discriminating ones would strain as high as they could reach from all fours and then casually stand on their hind legs to reach higher and pick apples from the trees. One deer actually walked from one tree to another on its hind legs, a distance of about twenty feet. I stood still and watched. I wanted to take my phone from my pocket and take a picture but was afraid the movement would spook them. A breeze kicked up behind me, and it must have taken my scent to them. A buck on the edge of the clearing raised his head, snorted, and with his white tail in the straight-up alert position, bounded in the opposite direction. Within seconds all of the others had followed. I had to admire their survival instincts.
As I walked farther, the breeze seemed to be increasing. A dark bank of clouds was now visible through the openings between trees. I had the distinct impression that a storm was rolling in. Having no idea where the trail led, I decided the smartest tactic was to turn around and retrace my route. At least I knew that would lead me back to the lodge. I was a few minutes into my return journey when it started to sprinkle rain. I picked up my pace. A few minutes later, it was pouring rain and I was jogging. I reached the cottage overlooking the pond and thought I would seek shelter inside, but it was locked. I was now soaked. I was running as fast as I could on the loose footing of the crushed stone parking area when I reached the lodge. I burst through the door to the lodge and nearly fell on the slate floor of the entryway. I regained my balance and shed the soaking wet jacket, pants, and shoes. A hot shower was in order.
***
I had just gotten out of the shower and was toweling off when my cell phone demanded my attention with its annoying chirp. I didn’t recognize the number calling but did recognize the area code as mid-Michigan. I answered and was stunned to hear the smooth melodious tones of Governor Armstrong. “Hi, Jack. It’s Bob Armstrong calling. I didn’t get a chance to talk with you at Ben’s funeral. Wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I know it meant a great deal to Ben that he got a chance to see you before he passed. He spoke of you often. How are you doing?”
It took me a moment to process the situation. The guy who didn’t even give me a nod of the head when he saw me in person at Benjamin’s home was now calling to check on my well being? I stammered as I replied, “I’m . . . I’m doing fine . . . fine, I guess.”
“Good. Good. I understand that Ben roped you into assembling materials for a biography of his legal career.” He paused, and I chose not to fill the void in the conversation. Obviously, he had been told the biography story by Turner Kennedy. Now, I wasn’t only surprised by the call, I was leery of its motives. After the silence had drug on painfully long, the governor said, “Are you still there, Jack?”
“Yes, Governor, I’m still here. You are breaking up a bit, though. Not the best cell connection.” Actually, the connection was unusually good for the lodge, but it seemed like a good barrier to a lengthy conversation.
“Ah, that’s right, you’re up at Ben’s lodge, aren’t you? Cell service can be spotty around there at times.” I hadn’t told Turner Kennedy where I was going, so the governor must have learned that little tidbit from Katharine. He had been doing his research. Again, I out-waited him. He continued, “So, how is the project going?”
I really didn’t want to talk with him, but being rude — ruder than I was already being — didn’t seem like a good strategy either. I said, “Oh, I don’t
know if the project is really ever going to go anywhere. Benjamin made notes throughout the years, but there is no real connection between his notes and the legal matters he was involved in. The notes are mostly his personal reflections on the people he interacted with over the years. I really don’t think there is adequate material for an author to do much with. I’m going to give it a little more effort and then reevaluate the whole thing. Benjamin was a bright guy, but he may not have been accurate when he thought his memoirs were the material of a book.” I knew I was rambling, but I couldn’t come up with anything more succinct on the spur of the moment.
What sounded like a contrived chuckle preceded his response. “You are certainly correct that Ben was not lacking in his assessment of his self-worth. He was a good friend of mine, so I don’t mean to speak ill of him, but he could be a bit conceited at times.” An interesting statement from a lifelong politician.
Attempting to wrap the conversation up, I said, “I’m going to give it one more push, but my guess is that I’m not going to find enough material to go any further. I appreciate you checking on me, though.”
“As I mentioned, Ben always spoke very highly of you. Even after your divorce from Katharine. As his close friend, I just want to be of any assistance to you that I can. I will admit that the illness and the medications took a toll on Ben’s mental faculties. I saw that as I visited him. In many ways it doesn’t surprise me that he has you on an impossible mission. Just know that I’m here to help in any way I can.” A short pause and another forced laugh were followed by him adding, “Of course, I’ll bet I garnered my share of barbs in Ben’s memoirs?”
Loyal Be Jack Page 6