Big Hungry: A Novel

by John Clausen

  Darrell Johnson squeezed in next to Guthrie at the bar. “Can I buy ya another barley-pop?” he asked, his North Dakota Norwegian accent sounding like a trailer for the movie, Fargo. He waved to Jimmy Nolen and pointed to Guthrie’s beer.

  “Don’t see why not, Darrell. By the way, nice job on that flyer.”

  “Hey, jeez…I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. That must have been some of them other fellas. Ya know?”

  “Sure, Darrell. I must be confused. Thanks for the beer.”

  “So ya thought that flyer was okay then, eh?”

  “Probably not Pulitzer material…but it did have a kind of Zorro-like flair. Hey…maybe you guys ought to get some swords or something…or some capes and a couple speedy horses. Add a little romance. I could help you out with the horses. Can’t claim much speed, but they’re good for night riding.”

  “I ain’t ridin’ no horses at night…I mean, even if I was one of them River Rat boys, which I ain’t. Well, jeez, I gotta take off. Workday tomorrow, ya know.”

  Darrell scurried away from Guthrie and left the bar without a backward glance. Guthrie allowed himself a quick smile and ordered another Schlitz.

  Chapter 20

  Eugene Hornsby had almost no idea what he should do about the Harlen Ackerman shooting. He’d telephoned the Wallace County Sheriff’s Office for help and was waiting for somebody to get back to him. He was a pretty good cop when it came to drunks on the road or vandalism or even the occasional domestic violence case. But he knew he was out of his league as a homicide detective, which is exactly what he’d have to be if Ackerman didn’t pull through.

  The good news was that Doc Brown had looked in on Ackerman and said he seemed to be improving, although he still wasn’t conscious. The bad news was that the whole town seemed to be ready to blame Ben Mooney…and they expected Eugene to make an arrest soon. Arresting Ben Mooney was probably going to involve some kind of a scrap, especially if Mooney already knew he was a suspect. There was also the fact that Hornsby had very little evidence connecting Ben to the shooting. To make it even more difficult, Mooney had not been seen in town for several days. Finding him in his own element would not be easy.

  The best-case scenario would be that Ackerman recovered and told Eugene who shot him, and then the suspect surrendered without a fight. Not that the deputy was afraid of a fight…he’d been in plenty of minor skirmishes. Mostly, he wanted to avoid the possibility of having to shoot someone. To him, that seemed worse than taking a bullet himself.

  Further muddying the waters were the red “Dam the River and Die” posters that had begun appearing around the Tulleyville area. It was completely obvious to everyone that the River Rats group was behind the posters…and some were even beginning to wonder if the group had something to do with the Ackerman shooting. Of course, anyone who knew the group’s members – and Eugene had easily figured out who they were within minutes of reading Guthrie’s kidnapping story – would know that pulling off an assassination attempt was far beyond the gang’s organizational abilities. The successful poster campaign was about as much as they could handle. In fact, Eugene considered it a stunning success for a group as mentally challenged as the River Rats. The mere fact that they would tolerate the presence of Eugene’s brother Droop in their midst spoke volumes. The additional fact that Droop was fairly high on the gang’s food chain really gave him pause. Of course, none of these River Rat facts were generally known in town. Most people knew who they were but pretty much ignored them as some harmless fools not to be taken any more seriously than a summer league bowling team.

  While Deputy Hornsby sat in his modest office pondering his options and considering his next move, Droop crashed through the door.

  “He’s here, Gene! He’s here! Come on, I’ll show you!”

  “Show me what? Who’s here? Stand still a second and tell me what’s going on.”

  Droop bounced from one foot to the other, motioning for his brother to follow him. “Ben Mooney…the motherfucker’s right down the street. Hurry up…he ain’t gonna stay there all day.”

  “Where is he?” Eugene asked, grabbing his hat and heading for the door. He knew he didn’t really have any evidence that would justify arresting Mooney, but he figured he’d better get to wherever Droop was taking him just in case any of the townspeople worked up enough nerve to tackle Mooney.

  Mooney was sitting on the steps outside the Tulleyville Grill when Eugene arrived. Droop pointed at Mooney from behind his brother and said, “See, there he is…bigger than shit. Grab him now, Gene…don’t let him get away.”

  Mooney stared briefly at Droop, then looked at the deputy.

  “You lookin’ for me, Eugene?”

  “We need to have a talk. Got a couple questions need answering.”

  “A talk?” screamed Droop. “Grab the motherfucker and put him in jail.”

  Eugene looked wearily at his brother. “Go home, Droop. This is none of your business. Get out of here right now.”

  Droop sputtered briefly but left when saw how Mooney was looking at him.

  “What’s on your mind, deputy?”

  “I need a look at your rifle…that old 30/30 you carry. Got it now?”

  “In the truck. Help yourself.”

  Eugene got up and walked to Mooney’s beat-up Ford truck. The gun was in a window rack gleaming with gun oil. He pulled it out and smelled the action, then carried it back to where Mooney was sitting.

  “What I do this time?” Mooney asked as Eugene sat down with the rifle in his lap.

  “Old Harlen Ackerman got shot out to Number Three. Looked like a 30/30 was the weapon.”

  “He dead?”

  “Nope. Didn’t hit the vitals. Bullet went clean through.”

  “You think I’d miss like that?”

  “Don’t think one way or the other…just a good idea to do a ballistics test on that old gun. Eliminate you as a suspect if I can. Lotta folks got you tried and convicted already.”

  “Who?”

  “Just folks…not important. What I want you to do is leave me the rifle and then lay low out of town for a while. Don’t want anybody getting brave and coming after you. Lot of people liked old Harlen a lot.”

  “I liked him, too…didn’t really know him.”

  “So, I can count on you staying out of town for a little while? Just ‘til I get a better handle on this whole thing…and try not to mangle anybody if you can help it.”

  “Gonna need that gun…or one like it. Gotta put some meat on the table.”

  “Sorry about that, Ben, but it’ll take a while to go through that testing. Have to send it to a lab in Minot or maybe even Minneapolis. Takes time. Guess you’re going to eat beef for a while. You’ll survive.”

  Mooney didn’t speak, which Eugene took as a good sign. He figured if a psychopath takes time to think, there’s a possibility he won’t fly off the handle right away. Either way, the deputy was poised to defend himself, and he had no intention of giving the rifle back anytime soon. There was a good chance he was holding a murder weapon…or at least an attempted murder weapon.

  Finally, Mooney grunted darkly and got up. “Bring it back when you’re done,” he told Eugene. Then he walked to his truck and climbed in. Droop, who had been hiding behind the truck, backed away from the truck when it started and went scurrying to Eugene.

  “How come you didn’t arrest him? He was right there.”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up, Droop. Get yourself elected mayor or something. Then I’ll answer your stupid questions. Now get outa here before I arrest you for being a dumb-ass and embarrassing the family.”

  Droop stumbled off in the direction of Nolen’s Bar, where he spent the next two hours describing in vivid and completely fictional detail how his brother – his flesh and blood – had disarmed the dangerous lunatic Ben Mooney. By the end of the day, Droop would be blissfully passed out in a back booth drooling on his shirt.

  Hornsby, who was developing a pounding headache, walk
ed back to his office, shut the door, and closed the mini-blinds. It was times like this that made him think longingly of fixing tractors and putting together machinery at Ackerman’s dealership. The old guy had been a good employer who always paid on time and didn’t ride his help too hard. Eugene was sorry that the old man had been shot and felt miserable at the thought that the person who did it might get away because Eugene’s detecting skills weren’t up to the task.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Then he grabbed the phone to call the Wallace County Sheriff’s Office to arrange the ballistics test on Mooney’s rifle. Just as he started dialing, the door burst open. Pooch Eye Ziegler came through the door followed by Charlie Taylor.

  “Listen to this, Eugene. Old Charlie here seen it too. Go ahead, Charlie, tell him what you seen down on the river.”

  Eugene hung up the phone and looked at Taylor. “What you see, Charlie?”

  “I’m afraid I saw that dead woman that Pooch was talkin’ about. Snagged on a big branch in the middle of the river in that wide spot down past Jorgenson’s place…just after those shallows.”

  “You sure it was a dead body, Charlie? Not just some trash in the river?”

  “Well, I don’t have much experience when it comes to dead bodies, but it sure looked like a swelled-up body. Kids saw it too. We were fishin’ for walleyes down there and we all got a good look.”

  “You think it’s still there?”

  “Nah, I waded out a little ways, but it floated away before I could get to it. Tell you the truth, I’m glad…not something the kids need to see up close.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. Maybe I can get a mile or two ahead of the damned thing and snag it. You got time to help, Pooch?”

  “Hell, yeah. Time to reel the old gal in.”

  Pooch Eye was boiling over with anticipation. Some members of the Nolen’s crowd were becoming skeptical. Having his story backed up by somebody with Charlie Taylor’s honorable – and sober – reputation was a huge boost to his barroom credibility.

  Eugene and Pooch Eye got in the department’s SUV and headed for the river. Before they left, Eugene locked up Mooney’s rifle in the office gun cabinet.

  They parked the SUV on a small bridge about four miles downstream from where Charlie Taylor and his kids had seen the body. Eugene had brought along an old hammock made of cotton cords and now attached it to a hundred-foot piece of plastic rope he kept in his emergency kit.

  He saw Pooch Eye looking at the contraption.

  “If we find your lady friend, she’s probably pretty ripe by now. Might not go to pieces if it’s in the hammock.”

  “Good thinkin’, Eugene. It’d really suck to lose the noggin or something.” Actually, Pooch Eye was thinking about what a great story it would be if the head actually did fall off…or an arm or leg. He could drink free for weeks on a story like that.

  To ensure the best chance of retrieving the body, Eugene asked Pooch Eye to handle the rope from the top of the bridge while he crouched down on the shore next to the bridge pilings. His plan was to jump out into the river and grab the floater and then attach the rope sling. They were watching upstream, but positioned on the downstream side of the bridge. Eugene didn’t want the body to get tangled up under the bridge, so he was going to attach the sling after the body went under the bridge and then let it float down the river while he scrambled up the bridge to help Pooch with the rope.

  They had been in position for about 45 minutes without seeing their target.

  “You think maybe the damn thing beat us to this bridge, Gene?”

  “Don’t know. Let’s give it another half hour or so. I’d sure like to get this done.”

  “Me, too, but this shit’s about as much fun as watchin’ grass grow. Shoulda brought some beer.”

  “Concentrate, Pooch. Just a few more minutes and we’ll call it quits and find something more exciting for you to do.”

  The words were barely out of Hornsby’s mouth when the two men heard a loud gunshot. The wood on the bridge rail near Pooch Eye’s hand exploded in splinters. Pooch Eye released the rope and dropped to the bridge planking as a second shot hit the mud bank close to where Eugene had been standing. The deputy drew his revolver and squatted down by the bridge.

  “You okay, Pooch?”

  “Scared the shit outa me.”

  Another shot thumped into the bridgework near Hornsby, followed by another that hit near Pooch Eye.

  “Over by that willow tree, Gene. I seen something moving over there.”

  The deputy fired his revolver into the treetops above the place Pooch Eye had indicated.

  “Damn, Gene…shoot lower.”

  Hornsby fired again at about the same height. The loud rifle fire had stopped and the river seemed strangely quiet. Then both men heard rustling in the foliage on the far side of the river. Eugene immediately ran toward the spot where Pooch Eye had seen the movement. There was no one there, but after looking around carefully, he found two spent 30/30 cartridges. He ran back to the SUV and got a plastic bag. Using his pen, he picked up the cartridge casings and dropped them into the bag. He spent another 30 minutes looking around the scene. He found nothing else that he considered worthwhile evidence.

  On the way back to town, Pooch Eye was uncharacteristically silent. Eugene figured that he was rehearsing the stories he’d soon be telling at Nolen’s Bar. He toyed for a while with the idea of telling Pooch Eye not to tell anyone what happened, but changed his mind for humanitarian reasons. Pooch would probably explode if he couldn’t tell his drinking buddies. Also, Eugene didn’t see any reason why it should be under wraps. Maybe a little impromptu public relations would shake something loose.

  When they pulled up in front of the deputy’s office, he noticed that the front door was slightly ajar.

  Knowing that he’d shut and locked the door, Hornsby told Pooch Eye to stay in the truck. Then he drew his pistol and quietly approached the office door. Slowly and silently pushing the door open, Hornsby saw no one in the office. He checked the bathroom quickly, then holstered his gun and checked around. The only thing damaged was the gun cabinet door, which hung open.

  Hornsby walked outside and bumped into Pooch Eye, who had been staring through the open door at the damaged gun cabinet.

  “Looks like somebody needed a rifle, huh, Gene. What’s missing?”

  “Mooney’s 30/30 and a box of shells.”

  “Jesus, you mean we were standing in the open with Ben Mooney shootin’ at us with a deer rifle? How come we ain’t dead?”

  “My thoughts exactly. Unless he was shooting warning shots – and I don’t know why he’d be doing that. This whole thing stinks.”

  “It sure does…and it’s startin’ to piss me off.”

  “Pooch, you look like a man who could use a drink or two. Let’s go over to Nolen’s. I’m gonna have a coke and buy you a dozen beers.”

  Chapter 21

  Claire Norgard was sitting on the porch at Jerry Guthrie’s house staring at the postcard in her hand. Jerry had invited her to go riding at his place. She’d arrived early, as was her habit as a journalist, and had decided to bring up his mail for him. As was also her habit as a journalist, she had snooped ever so slightly through his mail.

  The postcard had stopped her cold. “Dear Jerry,” it read. “Congratulations on your impending fatherhood and marriage. Trust you to get the order of those two things messed up. But, hey, she’s a swell (no pun intended) gal and we really enjoyed her company when she was here, but it was time for her to go home. Hope she enjoyed the trip, even though it wasn’t first class. Give her our regards. You’re a lucky man. Don’t blow it (pun definitely intended).” It was signed “Rick and Pablo.”

  Guthrie pulled into the driveway so she stuffed the postcard into the stack of mail and set the pile down beside her on the porch. Teddy, who had been lounging at her feet, jumped up and began whirling around at the sight of his master.

  “Sorry I’m late…I see that Teddy didn’t ri
p you to shreds. He must sense that you’re harmless.”

  “I think he knows I’m not here to make a move on your chickens.”

  “You want something to eat before we go?”

  “I’m good. Let’s hit the trail.”

  The two of them went out to the shack Jerry used as a tack room and pulled out saddles and bridles. Two of his horses – the short bay and the stocky pinto – came eagerly to the gate. The rest hung back, hoping to avoid any form of work.

  “These two always want to go. I’ll put you up on Trixie,” Guthrie said, pointing at the pinto. “She’s a little on the grouchy side, but you can do anything off her.”