This was the type of collar biologists place on tranquilized animals so that their movements can be more easily followed. A drop of blood stained the leather near an identification number. I bagged it and then searched around some more, eventually finding a red plastic ear tag. MONTANA GRIZZLY BEAR was printed on it. Whoever was stalking grizzlies must have managed to obtain their radio collar frequencies. The unfairness of the hunt made my blood boil.
“Who has the list of frequencies for radio-collared bears on the rez, and where are they kept?” I asked.
“I do, and they’re in my office,” Matthew replied evenly.
Though I tried to maintain a neutral expression, my stomach began to tighten. “Then can you tell me how many of the bears that were tagged are now missing?”
Running responded with one of his shrugs. “It’s hard to say.”
My stomach contracted a little more. “And why is that?”
“Lots of things can happen. Transmitter batteries give out. Radio collars get knocked off. Sometimes bears head into Glacier National Park and out of range. Just because you’ve found a radio collar doesn’t mean that bears are being targeted and tracked in that manner. Some of these grizzlies could have wandered into snares all on their own.”
By now, my stomach had turned into a raging inferno. “Right. And I suppose a bear just happened to pick up a rock and beat the living crap out of this transmitter, while he was at it.”
Running didn’t speak for a minute, but kept his head angled toward the ground. “Okay. Look, there was a break-in at my office a while back.”
“Why in the hell didn’t you mention that before?” I nearly shouted.
“Nothing was missing and I figured it was just the work of some rowdy kids.”
“When did this happen?” I asked, my mind beginning to reel. Running knew as well as I did that the numbers could have simply been copied.
“Over a year ago,” he nonchalantly responded, but his eyes clouded over.
I should have figured. He was protecting his own, and now the grizzlies were being picked off one by one.
“Look, I’d know if anyone on the rez was responsible for this,” Matthew insisted.
“And do you want to tell me how? Would your totem spirit tip you off?”
“I have a string of informants.” Running’s voice dropped and his eyes grew hard. “Listen, Porter. Protecting these grizzlies is as important to me as it is to you.”
I truly wanted to believe the man. The problem was, I didn’t dare.
Running dropped me back at Sally’s and we agreed to stay in touch. Right now, I had to hurry off to a bagels and lox breakfast. I headed south out of the rez toward Willow Creek.
I hadn’t anticipated that Rory’s directions would take me past the Lungren compound. Even more of a surprise was the vehicle that I spotted coming from its access road. I checked my rearview mirror just to make sure that I wasn’t seeing things. Yep. A lime-green Jeep Cherokee with a “Look Busy! Jesus Is Coming!” bumper sticker pulled out. I watched as Doc Hutchins drove north toward the Blackfeet rez. Hmm. What had he been doing at Nearly Paradise? I doubted the good doctor was buying a fake Indian headdress.
I continued on, eventually catching sight of the billboard I’d been told to look for. PLEASE NEUTER YOUR PETS, WEIRD FRIENDS AND RELATIVES! I then turned onto a gravel road. There was nothing to indicate anyone lived back here, and I began to wonder if Calhoun was some sort of practical joker. So far, I saw only old missile silos, each surrounded by a chain-link fence, their nuclear warheads slumbering beneath concrete pads.
I was beginning to rhyme the name Calhoun with words like buffoon when a gated entry finally appeared off to my left. I drove up, pressed the monitor, and smiled sweetly for the security camera. My Ford was granted access and I proceeded in, curious as to why a guy selling hot tubs would need high-tech protection. Soon after, a house that looked like Tony Soprano’s wet dream came into view.
The two-story extravaganza boasted a tall picture window above the front door. Displayed behind it was a schmaltzy chandelier. I parked and strolled up a walkway lined with a dozen nude statues on either side. My finger hit the buzzer, which played “That’s Amore.” I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Frank and Dean, along with the rest of the Rat Pack, waiting on the other side.
Rory opened the door to greet me, and I nearly didn’t recognize him without his coonskin cap. A few thin wisps of hair had been combed across his otherwise bald pate, and blue-tinted granny glasses did their best to camouflage his bloodshot eyes.
“Hey, Big Apple! Terrific! You found the place! I never know if someone’s gonna make it here, or if I’ll have to dig their bones out of a ditch a coupla months from now.”
Call me perverse, but I was beginning to wonder if that might not be the general idea.
“Come on in! Whadda ya standin’ outside for? I’ve got breakfast waiting in here.”
I walked in to find an interior reminiscent of one of those garish banquet halls on Long Island. In fact, I was certain I’d seen the identical decor at Joey Manzarella’s Mediterranean Palace. Rory’s McMansion was close to being the Palace’s exact duplicate, right down to its color scheme of turquoise-blue and bullfighter-red. Every piece of furniture was covered in crushed velvet.
“I didn’t get you up too early, did I?”
Rory looked temporarily baffled. “Huh? Whadda ya talkin’ about?”
I nodded at the purple silk pajamas and matching robe that covered his diminutive body.
“Hey, if it’s good enough for Hef, it’s good enough for me. Besides, it’s not like I’m in a rush to go anywhere. What am I gonna do? Slap on a lumberjack shirt and head into town for a friggin’ milkshake?”
I had to agree.
“Enough small talk. Let’s go eat.”
Rory led me into the dining room, where the table was loaded with enough chow to feed a small crowd at the Second Avenue Deli.
“Don’t be shy. Dig in!”
What the hell. I loaded my plate.
But Rory’s mind was on something other than sturgeon and lox. “So, fill me in. Where do you go to eat Italian when you’re back in the Big Apple?”
I almost hated to tell him that Original Ray’s Pizza was as gourmet as I ever got.
“Whadda ya, kiddin’ me? You’ve never been to Umberto’s Clam House, or Café Roma for espresso and cannolis?”
I lied and said yes to keep him happy.
“Ha! What a sucker! That’s nothing but tourist crap. Personally, I always preferred to go more upscale myself. You know, like Il Mulino or Rao’s. Even better is Arthur Avenue in the Bronx for the real thing. Jeez, what I wouldn’t give for a mouthful.”
Rory looked so morose that he seemed to shrink inside his pajamas.
“Then what’s stopping you? Why don’t you go back for a visit?”
Rory began to fidget. “Like I told you before, I’m a businessman. I can’t just take off and let everything go to hell.”
Hmm. Let’s see. It was ten-thirty on a Wednesday morning and Rory was still at home lounging around in his pajamas. Either he was lying, or I was in the wrong line of business.
“So where is this store of yours, anyway?”
Rory piled a thick layer of lox on an onion bagel and shoved it into his mouth. “Screw that. All I deal in is mail order.”
“Then where’s your factory? Or do you construct the hot tubs here?”
“Who can be bothered with that crap? I order ’em wholesale from a company in Guam.”
“What?”
“Yeah. It’s the American way.”
But I was in for an even bigger surprise as Cherry Jubilee unexpectedly sauntered into the room, attired in a fake fur midriff top and hip-hugger acid-washed jeans. The leather fringe on her pants ran down both legs and swayed in rhythm with her hips, while her hair surpassed its Rocky Mountain high of the other night and was climbing toward Everest. But it was her face that caught my interest. Either Rocky R
accoon was doing her makeup these days, or Cherry Jubilee was sporting two prominent black eyes.
“Hey there, Whambo. What do you say?” she sneered, as if I were the one with the bad eye job.
“Nice set of headlights you’ve got there,” I countered. “Did they have a sale on black eyeliner? Or is that the handiwork of your boyfriend?”
I thought I’d hit it on the mark, as Cherry’s peepers began to dissolve into two muddy puddles.
“No, Kyle didn’t do this. It was Little Queenie, his bitch of a stepmother!” Cherry angrily spat, twisting her necklace so hard that I feared she might decapitate herself. “Now how am I going to perform at Big Bertha’s?”
“You could always do your act as the Lone Ranger,” Rory helpfully suggested.
“Oh, shut the hell up!” she snapped.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” I ventured.
I must have been living right. Cherry grabbed a bottle of Scotch, poured herself a hefty drink, and downed it.
“I was given an ultimatum by the Queen Bee to vacate the premises. It seems I’m not good enough to associate with a bunch of down-and-out losers who get off on playing with gas masks and sucking Cheez Whiz straight outta the can.”
“I take it you didn’t leave without a fight.”
“Damn straight! I kicked that bitch’s ass but good.”
Maybe so, but Honey Lungren had certainly gotten in her licks. “Where was Kyle while all this was going on?”
“Who the hell knows.” A pitiful sob clung to Cherry’s voice. She grabbed the napkin off Rory’s lap and blew her nose in it. “He took off yesterday right before this happened, and I haven’t heard from him since. And all this time, I thought he was my hero!”
“Here, you’ll feel better after you have a bagel with a schmear.” Rory consoled and held a heavily slathered slice to her mouth.
“Will ya get that thing out of my face?” Cherry irritably slapped his hand away. “Packing fat on my hips isn’t gonna help!”
It suddenly struck me that these two seemed awfully intimate—rather like an old married couple.
“How do both of you know each other, anyway?”
They exchanged a glance.
“From the bar,” Rory replied a little too quickly.
Cherry chose to remain silent, having become inordinately fixated on her navel.
“You must know lots of guys from the bar, Cherry. What made you decide to come here in a pinch?”
She looked at me and smirked. “I got a thing for Rory’s coonskin cap. It’s got a nice big tail on it.”
I just bet it did.
“Okay, girls! Now you’re embarrassing me. There’ll be no discussion of my physical attributes first thing in the morning. What say we play pass the peace pipe over some coffee and Danish? I had it sent all the way from Greenburg’s Deli.”
Cherry shot me her rendition of the evil eye. Gazing into their depths was like looking down a couple of blocked-up sewers. I knew the best thing to do to make her crazy was not to leave.
“Sure, coffee would be great. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, yeah. There’s one for guests up the stairs and at the end of the hall.”
Their voices drifted skyward along with me.
“What the hell is she doing at your place, anyway?” Cherry complained.
“It gets lonely out here all by myself. Next time, call ahead when you plan to get the crap beat outta you.”
These two were as good as a Marx Brothers routine. That kind of relationship took time, practice, and lots of personal history.
As I reached the top of the steps, I realized that no house tour had been offered yet. Probably just an oversight on Rory’s part. That being the case, he wouldn’t mind if I took a quick look-see on my own. After all, he was busy—and I was curious.
I stuck my head into the first doorway on the left. Room number one contained a king-sized bed with a mirror directly above on the ceiling. Either Calhoun liked to look at himself in bed, or all those tips at the bar were buying him some action. I stepped inside to investigate further.
Sitting on the bureau was a photo of Rory sporting a black fedora. Looming in the background was the Brooklyn Bridge. He must have been happy as hell about something; Calhoun was smiling like a lunatic. Maybe it had to do with the clothes he was wearing: a sharkskin suit rather than a tie-dyed shirt and jeans. Dangling from his right hand was a hammer, while his left arm was slung across the shoulders of someone I assumed to be a friend. Unfortunately, I’d never know for sure. The guy’s head had been cut from the photo. This was both the allure and the drawback when it came to digging into a stranger’s personal life. Rory had just made the leap from wacky to freaky.
I opened a drawer and methodically began to rummage through. Sometimes even I can’t believe the things that I do. But what better way to learn about someone quickly? Rory had a predilection for silk underwear. While unusual, it wasn’t something I could hold against him. Though it did make me feel deficient in my marked-down Kmart briefs.
There was no time to examine every single drawer, especially since Rory’s private bathroom was beckoning to me. It seemed the logical commode to use, being that I was already here. Slipping in, I closed the door behind me.
The most revealing things about a person can sometimes be discovered through the items they keep in their refrigerator and medicine cabinet. My own stash clearly showed me to be an inveterate hoarder who rarely throws anything away. That’s why my fridge holds food that’s unidentifiable—due to the fact that it’s green and furry.
As for my medicine cabinet, the FDA would have a field day. I’ve kept every unfinished prescription drug since 1976, probably making me responsible for the emergence of at least one super virus. So I’m always curious to see what other people keep on their shelves. It was time to dig a little deeper into Rory’s psyche.
I opened the medicine cabinet. The guy was a neat freak. Every bottle, can and jar was neatly lined up, with all the labels facing out. Of course, that made my job a whole lot easier.
Let’s see. On the bottom there was a can of shaving cream, some deodorant, a bottle of aspirin and a tube of Sensodyne for Rory’s sensitive choppers. The middle shelf held Old Spice aftershave, disposable razors, and talcum powder. It’s the very top ledge where most of the interesting items are usually placed—the drug vials.
At first glance, Rory appeared to be quite the little pill popper. There was Bactrin, penicillin, and Zocor, along with acetaminophen, Tenormin, Valium, and Cozaar. Oddly, different names were on the vials. The most recent prescriptions had been filled in Choteau for Rory Calhoun, while others came from a pharmacy in Phoenix for a Rudy Tomasso. The oldest of the lot were for Benny Gugliani from a drugstore in Bay Ridge, New York.
Holy tamale! I knew that name from somewhere. Come on, come on, I goaded my memory, cursing myself for continually forgetting to take my gingko biloba. I hadn’t heard it on Entertainment Tonight—which meant that Gugliani wasn’t an actor, a network anchor, or a dot-com millionaire. Either Calhoun liked to swipe the prescription drugs of his guests, or he had a full-fledged Sybil complex. The other possibility was that he was shucking identities as easily as neckties.
I studied the plastic vial as though it were a crystal ball, hoping it would provide the answer. Finally I went back into the bedroom, where I took another gander at Rory’s photo.
That was it! I remembered seeing the name in the newspapers in conjunction with a notorious case about four years ago. Gugliani was better known as Benny the Bopper, due to his penchant for knocking his victims over the head with a hammer. He’d turned government witness against the mob and was later placed in the federal witness protection program. His name must have been changed to Rudy Tomasso, after which it had somehow morphed into Rory Calhoun.
Well, whadda ya know? So much for the Guam hot tub scam; the question appeared to be, what was Benny the Bopper really doing these days to be making money? I grabb
ed the vial of Valium and went back downstairs to find out.
Rory and Cherry were still sniping at each other as though I hadn’t been gone at all.
“Hey, Bopper. You got any cheese Danish there?” I casually inquired as I walked into the room.
“Yeah, sure. Help yourself,” he said as Cherry continued to kvetch.
Then both stopped dead, as if on cue, and turned their heads to look at me.
“What did you say?” he warily asked.
“I hate to break up your Love Connection, but look what I found upstairs.” I shook the vial of Valium at him.
Benny pounced, like a cat that had been baited with catnip. “For chrissakes! What the hell do ya think you’re doing? I invite you over here for a nice breakfast and this is how you repay me? The feds are gonna kick my butt if they think I’m running around telling everyone who I am!”
Cherry added her two cents. “I told you there was something about her that I didn’t like. You should learn to trust my womanly instincts.”
I threw her a disgusted look. So far, her womanly instincts had successfully landed her a gig dirty dancing on top of a bar, and had helped to get her face slapped.
I turned my attention back to Benny. “I am a fed, remember? Now how about clueing me in as to what’s going on?”
Benny thrust his face pugnaciously near mine, transforming from a hairless Chihuahua into a pit bull terrier. “Why the hell should I?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll call my friends at the FBI and find out anyway. I’ll also tell them that you’ve violated terms by keeping unlicensed weapons in your house. Oh yeah. And that you’re dealing in black market pharmaceuticals,” I conned, shaking the vial of Valium at him.
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t deal in any pharmaceuticals!” Benny howled. “Whadda ya trying to do? Get me thrown into prison?”
A Killing Season Page 14