Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  These days he was the one man Osborne was always happy to have in the boat. He could pull answers from places where few thought to go.

  Osborne hung up the pay phone and turned towards the bar where Lew sat gulping her glass of water. Clammy in his wet clothes, he envied her: she looked quite dry and comfortable. Her ample khaki-clad hips spread with authority over the high bar chair. Above the open collar of her fishing shirt, her round face was relaxed, friendly, and, Osborne noticed as he took the bar stool beside her, surprisingly weathered. Did she fish year round?

  “I have to wait for Roger to get here with the ambulance,” she said, pushing the other glass of water his way, “shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  As he seated himself beside her, Osborne wondered if her job ever got really dangerous. He couldn’t imagine crime in the northwoods beyond off-trail snowmobiling and drunken drivers. And, of course, the random body in the Prairie River.

  She was the mother of three grown children who had gone through school with his own, and he had been as taken aback as anyone when the Loon Lake News announced her appointment to the force, the first woman police officer in the history of Loon Lake. He and his buddies at McDonald’s had chewed on that for days. Mary Lee and her friends, who had never given a thought to full-time employment, were sure she had made a mistake giving up her “proper job” as a secretary at the paper mill. No one ever expected Lewellyn Ferris to be promoted to Chief.

  Yet here she was a short seven years later. But then, Lew had always been a little different.

  She was built like a linebacker. And walked like one, too. Well, maybe that was putting it a little harshly. She had broad shoulders, and she walked standing tall, shoulders back, tummy in, arms loose. She walked like an athlete. Osborne had to admit he found Lew Ferris more than a little intimidating. He could see why secretarial work didn’t appeal to her.

  The dancers must have been on break when Lew and Osborne first walked in because suddenly music started up again in a room off to the back of the bar. The crowd around the bar cleared, and most of the men drifted back to tables. From the corner of his eye, Osborne could see the small stage. Uneasy over what might happen next, he hoped Lew’s deputy, Roger, would rescue them soon.

  “So, Doc, how come Ray Pradt keeps such close tabs on you?” Lew lowered her voice. With the jukebox turned off and the music coming from the next room, they no longer had to shout to be heard.

  “He’s my neighber …”

  “Ray Pradt is your neighbor?” she interrupted. “You gotta be kidding. I thought that guy lived in a shack—in the woods—with the rest of the wildlife.”

  “No-o,” said Osborne, smiling gently. “Ray’s a good friend. He bought the lot next to mine three years ago. Out on Loon Lake. I take it you know him?”

  “Of course I know Ray,” she said, “better than I’d like to—may I say.” She raised her glass and gave him one of those looks. Ray did not appear to be one of her favorite people.

  Osborne could think of a dozen reasons why. He knew that over the years Ray had had more than his share of run-ins with local authorities. But the expression on Lew’s face made Osborne worry he had done the wrong thing, asking Ray to bring him dry clothing. Quickly, he explained his friend’s concern over his hat.

  “He was so upset, he didn’t even notice when I said that I was out here or that we found a body in the river,” said Osborne. “Now that’s not Ray. Under normal circumstances, he doesn’t miss a detail. Know what I mean? And he knows darn well, I never come near this place. Something’s going on …”

  “It’s TV,” said Lew. “He’s a nervous wreck over appearing on ESPN.” She gave a big grin. “I would be, too. As far as Thunder Bay goes, he stops by almost every day, right around four in the afternoon. I’ll bet it never occurs to that guy that respectable people don’t like to come here.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Osborne, feeling a surge of loyalty to his friend, “he’s got a good business reason for stopping by. And he doesn’t drink when he’s here. He’s recovering, too, y’know.”

  “Not from everything,” she snapped.

  Then Lew softened her tone, “I know, Doc. I’m just giving you a hard time. But the man can be a trial, y’know? He doesn’t always make my job easy.”

  Osborne had a good idea of what she meant. He also thought it might be a good idea to drop the subject. God forbid she should think that he participated in any of Ray’s legally marginal activities.

  They were both right about Ray and Thunder Bay. It was a terrific place for him to pick up a guiding job when he needed it. All it took was a couple hours around the bar telling war stories. Then, four, five rounds of draft Michelobs later, and he could set his fee triple to quadruple what he’d charge the locals. Osborne knew this because Ray never hesitated to brag of his unique marketing technique to his prosperous neighbor. He’d had weekends he’d cleared over a thousand bucks in tips from “da boys from da cities” he’d met up there.

  Aware that a dancer had jumped onto the stage in the darkened room off to his left, Osborne checked his watch. Just how long would it take that deputy to get out here? Meanwhile, as if oblivious to the activity in the other room, Lew asked for a refill of her water.

  “How’s that bridge I made for you?” asked Osborne, thankful for a noncontroversial topic of mutual interest.

  “Fine, Doc.” With that Lew reached into her mouth and whipped out the small piece of plastic, metal, and teeth. “See? Not a bent wire, nothing broken. You did good work, and that office hasn’t been the same since you retired.” She stuck it back in her mouth and smiled easily enough. It seemed she wasn’t too annoyed with him over fact Ray Pradt was heading their way.

  Osborne looked past her right shoulder. He could see several clusters of men sitting at tables near the stage. A few were paying attention to the young woman who had strolled out and was moving lazily to the dance music. As best Osborne could tell in the dim light, she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit.

  He continued to watch the dancer from the corner of his eye. She seemed to have a friendly banter going on with the men at one of the tables and was casually pulling down the top of her swimsuit to reveal a set of pasties on her abundant breasts. Osborne answered a polite question from Lew, becoming more anxious by the moment, just sure that someone he knew would walk in.

  “Isn’t this stuff,” he jerked his head toward the dancer, “against the law?”

  Lew looked back and studied the woman who was now down to a G-string and bare-breasted, bobbing and weaving in front of a table of men. “So long as they don’t violate Code 2116B, they’re fine,” she said matter-of-factly. “We haven’t had any problems up here in, oh, six months or so. Tourist season is nearly over, and they don’t want to risk getting shut down during peak season. Now, if this was late January and some of the Chicago snowmobile boys were laying down some big bucks, it might get pretty raunchy. That’s when we step in.”

  Osborne watched the woman open her legs and semi-straddle one of the customers, her breasts deliberately sweeping his face. “That’s not raunchy?”

  Again Lew studied the action. “A little raunchy but that’s table-dancing. She’s wearing her G-string.” Lew turned away, but Osborne watched for another few beats of the music.

  “What would you say if one of your daughters did that?” asked Osborne, looking for a chatty way to fill the time and relieve his anxiety. He didn’t really care if young women he didn’t know danced naked or not.

  Lew let his question hang in the air for a few seconds. She set her glass of water down on the counter quite precisely and crossed her arms. “One did, Doc. Suzanne.”

  “Oh.” Osborne felt a slow flush move from his neck, up past his ears to his cheeks. Now, why on earth did you have to say that, you dumkof! he cursed himself silently.

  “That’s okay,” said Lew, spotting his embarrassment and reaching over to give his hand with a friendly, forgiving tap. She had a brisk way
about her, and it was clear she was ready to resolve this little issue and put it behind them as quick as possible. She slipped a small napkin under her water glass and leaned forward, her arms folded on the bar.

  “Yep, Suzanne had a rough streak for a while there.” Her tone was very chatty. Apparently, she didn’t mind talking about it, which made Osborne feel a little better. “I don’t know if you remember, but she married one of those Walker boys right out of high school, had twins four months later, a divorce six months after that and no money. Nineteen years old, no money, two kids, no future, right?”

  Osborne nodded. “Those Walker boys” were three wiry little toughs who’d terrorized high school shop teachers, brandishing hammers when informed they weren’t allowed to work on their cars during class time, and grew up to be weekly regulars in bar brawls. They were the kind of guys for whom he did full-mouth bridge work, including removing seriously decayed teeth and all paid for by welfare, only to have them die in drunk driving accidents—or brawls—a few months later. All that good dentistry right down the drain. Marriage to one of those jerks was worse than no future.

  “The mill offered her a job, but she couldn’t make enough to cover day care. Then, she heard what the Thunder Bay girls were making and ended up getting an offer she couldn’t refuse. She worked the six to eleven shift, I watched the kids, and the money she made she saved. And she made good money. But she was a dancer, she was only a dancer,” Lew said pointedly.

  She lowered her voice, “I know people think the women who dance here are all hookers, but if they are, it’s strictly on their own. The management does not allow it on the premises. That’s what keeps Thunder Bay from becoming a real dive. The minute you let that other stuff happen, you’ve got problems with the mob, with law enforcement, with hysterical wives. You get an element you can’t control. I’ve been doing this job for seven years now. I know what goes on.

  “Suzanne worked here about a year, and the money made it possible for her get out of town and back to school. She met a nice guy down in Milwaukee, and she’s married and doing just great now. She’s a CPA—makes fifty-two thousand a year.” Lew beamed.

  Then she paused, took a slow sip from her can, and chuckled. “You never know, you know. Suzanne was my little one who played the Madonna in the Christmas play in third grade.”

  “I remember,” said Osborne—and he sure did. “She got the part instead of my daughter Mallory—we certainly had the weeping and gnashing of teeth in our house over that. But Suzanne did a very nice job.” Truth was, he knew Mallory never did understand how she’d lost out to Suzanne. Nor did her mother.

  Osborne took a big gulp of his water. Life was so strange, he thought, here was a woman whose daughter got off to rotten start but seems to have put together a decent life. Meanwhile, his Mallory, who didn’t get to play the Virgin Mary, got everything else. The expensive degree from Radcliffe, the big wedding to the investment banker and the estate in Lake Forest. Mallory. The one who slurs her words on the rare occasion that she calls, and Osborne knows it isn’t a problem with the phone line.

  Lew had looked over at him and said, “We do the best we can as parents and then just hope for the rest, you know?”

  Just as he opened his mouth to comment, Lew suddenly signalled with her fingers to be quiet. Turning quickly to his right, Osborne discovered why. One of his least favorite people in all of Loon Lake had advanced on them with the demented zeal of the dead drunk.

  five

  George Zolonsky of Sugar Camp was voted annually, by the McDonald’s coffee crowd, most likely to die with the greatest number of DWI’s to his name. Somehow, he stayed alive in spite of his allegiance to Wisconsin’s leading export: beer. George was also a very bright man, an excellent deer hunter, and a talented ceramic tile layer. That’s how Osborne first met him.

  Mary Lee had thumbed women’s magazines for years in preparation for the house they built on Loon Lake. For the kitchen and both bathrooms, she had insisted on ceramic tile. Only one man could do the job, and that was George. It was, however, a job that took months longer than estimated as George maintained an erratic schedule determined entirely by his drinking regimen.

  When he was on the job, he was superb. He altered her kitchen design scheme to develop a truly stunning pattern of black and white tiles, which was showcased in the Milwaukee Journal newspaper. The publicity thrilled Mary Lee and lent her a status among her friends that no one could eclipse.

  Osborne had noticed something interesting about George as he worked: not unlike dentistry, the expert tile layer worked with adhesives and tools demanding precision in time and movement, as well as the same delicate touch and brute strength required for work on the human jaw. Osborne had admired the quickness of the man’s hands and his attitude of perfection. Once, a pattern had gone awry, only to be discovered after the grout had set like iron. Osborne had given George some of his old dental instruments to pry the tiny offending tiles from their wrongful spots.

  For a short time, George had joined both Ray and Osborne and several of their peers in the room behind the door with the coffeepot. But George didn’t really want to stay on the wagon and his stint with AA lasted only a few weeks. That was nearly two years ago. Osborne hadn’t seen him in months.

  “Hey, Doc, howthehellareyah!” hooted George, swaying at the bar with a beer bottle in his hand. A cigarette drooped out of one corner of his mouth, and he wore his Levi’s just a touch too low over his bow legs. A young woman in tight Levi cutoff’s and a tank top leaned against his right side, which Osborne figured was all that was keeping him upright.

  The tragedy of George was that besides being talented, he was a fine-looking man. Lanky, cowboy-like in his style, he had prominent cheekbones under slightly bulbous eyes and straight sandy hair that gave him a rugged outdoors appeal. But he had his demons, and tonight Osborne did not want to hear about them.

  Nor did Lew from the look she gave Osborne. Still, they were stuck waiting for Roger. Her eyes said she’d put up with George if he would. Osborne resigned himself.

  “Fine, George, how’s business.”

  “Pretty damn good! Got a new one goin.’ “ The whole bar could hear him.

  “Really. What’s that?” Years in the Northwoods had trained Osborne in dealing with his fellow man, drunk or sober, in ways that afforded all parties some semblance of dignity.

  “Transport-sh.”

  “No kidding. Trucking, huh?”

  “Yep. Got the contract shipping new boats outta the Milwaukee port. They bring ‘em in on the boat from the Orient or wherever, and I truck ‘em up here. Good money, Doc.”

  “Glad to hear it, George.”

  “George?” The young woman standing beside George cracked her gum loudly and wailed, “Ya gotta take me home now, George. Look, the bar is closing.” She was right, the bartender was flicking lights to signal closing time.

  “That’s jus ‘cause Miz Ferris Chief of Police is here,” drawled George sloppily.

  “That may be, George,” said Lew firmly. “And I’d like to see your friend driving tonight, not you.” George stood weaving in front of Lew, his eyes challenging.

  “I’m not asking you, George. I’m telling you,” said Lew. Her eyes drilled right back at him. Osborne watched the two of them. He knew better than to intervene. This was Lew’s job and none of his business. Suddenly, as if something else had crossed his mind, George looked away from Lew.

  “Screw it,” he reached into his pocket for his keys and tossed them at the girl. They started to exit, just as Ray Pradt’s six foot six frame appeared in the entrance.

  “Hey, you!” he said to George, who kept on going out the door without acknowleging Ray’s presence, even though he had to bump him slightly as he swayed past. “Where are my boats? You’re two weeks late. George—?”

  “Let him go, Ray,” said Lew from the bar. “He’s worthless tonight.”

  Ray had stopped to watch George go by. He looked at Lew and Osborne and t
he rest of the crowd at the bar, “Now doesn’t that guy remind you of a mosquito?” he asked the group. “Bug-eyed and re-e-al annoying.” He looked back at the door George had just exited and shook his head. Ray had a habit of making up his own jokes. Most were duds, he scored on occasion, and this time, in Osborne’s opinion, he did okay. At least no one booed.

  Osborne could tell that Ray was upset. Usually, he spotted his neighbor’s belt buckle first. Thirty-six years of being close to the tallest person in Oneida County had taken its toll on six foot six Ray Pradt: he walked a loopy walk with his shoulders slightly drooped and his pelvis thrust so far foward that Osborne once told him his lower torso rolled into a room a full hour ahead of the rest of his body. “That, my friend, makes your hat—pride and joy though it may be—anticlimactic,” the good dentist had said.

  Not tonight, he was tense. He strode quickly to the bar and thrust the dry shirt and pants at Osborne.

  “What a wise act,” he said with disgust, again glancing back at the door that had swung closed after George. “I found out yesterday these boats we’ve been waiting on for the Walleye Classic are being trucked up here by that goombah. Whaddya say we’ll be lucky if they make it?”

  Lew’s dark eyes leveled with Ray’s. “You better stay on top of that guy, Ray. He’s got more action than he can handle these days. I had to book another husband overnight two weeks ago. I got a call he was out looking for George with a 30.06 in his front seat. Loaded. Poor guy. That was one night I had the wrong man in the cell.” She shook her head.

  “Word is,” said Ray, “ol’ George has something going with the wife of the chef at the Rainbow Inn.”

  “Something like that,” said Lew, careful not to say too much. “Too bad, too. They’ve turned that place into a nice restaurant, and they’ve got three little kids.”

  “Are you serious? He’s still at it?” Osborne leaned forward in his chair. George was a legend when it came to women. Ten years earlier, he had run off with the wife of a dentist Osborne knew in Rhinelander. That escapade was followed by stories of two or three more women. “I don’t see what women find attractive in that guy,” said Osborne. He looked at Lew, “Do you?”