By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2

by Charles Wendt

  “And they have the scale to offer your client a better interest rate if they were so inclined Mr. Turner, yet here you are. My guess is they were so unimpressed with your master plan to build a major resort in a nowhere town that you didn’t get pass their lobby.” Johann was certain Larry Turner hadn’t been to banks in the district as Larry had been directed by Kenny Martin to use this bank and Marcelo’s boys were keeping a quiet eye on him.

  Larry leaned back with knitted eyebrows, arms across his chest, “Are you saying you’re backing out?”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Turner. I do believe your project has potential. But you aren’t from Westburg originally, and may not be appreciating the motives of all the local constituencies.” My project has great potential to rally the working man’s vote and sweep me into office, thought Johann.

  “What government is against jobs and tax revenues?” asked Larry with a twisted grin and raised eyebrows.

  “Not one, Mr. Turner. But you will find they are for other things as well, and not willing to give those things up for the jobs and taxes you promise,” he said glancing down at his Rolex watch. “We will talk after the council meeting. Our financial support for your proposal is conditional upon their terms of approval.”

  Larry rose to roll up the tattered site plan. Johann didn’t want to give the respect of rising in kind, but as the tiny red clay dust fell from the paper he pushed his chair back to avoid his gray trousers being soiled. As soon as Larry had left, Johann went to the office’s small closet and found a hand broom to tend to his desk.

  It didn’t do the job, so he went into his office bathroom to dampen a paper towel. A few quick wipes and things were much better. Nipped in the bud as it were, before it could spread. That was how he rolled. Decisive and quick. Yeah, nip things in the bud.

  After throwing away the paper towel, he locked the door. Almost 4 pm. Outside on the streets below he could see the evening rush hour starting a little bit early since it was Friday. He opened the bottom desk drawer and put the disposable cell phone on his desk. Paying cash, Johann picked up a few to have on hand every time he had to drive into the district for a board meeting. Most convenience stores around the city carried “burners”. The clock on his computer, which he had learned to think of over the years as the “official time” showed a minute past. Then another. And then another.

  Johann began to think that maybe he had failed to hook her. Or had pressed too hard with the deep throating. Finally, at seven minutes after four, it rang. He swiped it up, but then caught himself. Counting the rings, he pushed the accept call button on the sixth.

  “Yes?” he said firmly. Not super firmly. Teenage girls were fragile.

  “Uh, hi Mr. Grunfeld. It’s Holly. You said I should call you about my pictures?”

  He paused, drawing it out just enough to become uncomfortable. People outside their comfort zone did stupid things.

  “Mr. Grunfeld?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, Holly. It seems my client has changed products.”

  “Oh. Does that mean it’s not going to work out then?”

  Her voice had fallen, the nervous tone giving way to disappointment. He waited again before speaking, letting her wrestle with some despair before rescuing her.

  “No. It means we have to take pictures again. The new product is chocolate instead of hard candy. But there is competition. They think they want a model older than you. You should wear more makeup. Try and look more grown up. I think you can do it. There’s a good chance they will pick you. But if word gets out they might have lots of girls contacting them, and then you won’t have a chance. But if you do get it, you could pay for all your activity fees through graduation.”

  “What do I need to do?” Holly asked eagerly.

  “Come tomorrow, the same place. But made-up this time. We’ll shoot you with the new product.”

  “I have a game in the morning. I can’t miss it without getting in trouble.”

  “Even better. I must attend the Hunt Memorial Service tomorrow. After your game, get yourself put together. Then, come up to the fixture. I will drive you over to town from there so you stay nice instead of riding your bike. Afterward, I will drive you back or wherever you want to go.”

  Her voice hesitated.

  “I can also give you another $100 sitting fee. You are doing professional modeling work.” It seemed to be the right amount of hook money. Enough to be real and meaningful to a young teen. But it went fast and had them coming back.

  Holly agreed. They set a firm time that worked, and he abruptly hung up afterward.

  It had been a quick decision that carried some risk to pick her up in a public space, but it did keep the fiction going that things were on the up and up instead of sneaking about in secrecy. The memorial service would have many people of all ages including students, hunt folks and their families. No one would know everyone and it was a large event. As a patron, he was expected to be there; his wife donated to them but was too sick to honor the invitation herself. It would be easy to blend in and not attract too much attention.

  Best of all, it made her more dependent upon him for transportation back to school. This would make it harder for her to leave until she had done his bidding in the studio. It was so much more rewarding manipulating the teen girls than the simple builders.

  He didn’t really have more to do at the office, but didn’t leave for the weekend. All his affairs were in order. Both the bank’s and Marcelo’s. The staff on the floor below would describe him as hard working, detail oriented and meticulous. In reality, he’d rather look at banking records than face up to going home.

  Larry Turner climbed up onto the running board to get into his dark blue jacked-up pickup truck and threw the rolled site plan onto the dirty vinyl seat. In truth, his tired joints were making it hard to scramble up into the cab raised by 35 inch tires. But it also saved him steps by allowing him to drive deep into construction sites not accessible by conventional automobiles. He also liked the shiny chrome of the grill guard, even though he never drove over trees and such.

  He started it up and headed home to his small Georgian cottage. His truck took up the entire driveway. He’d relocated to it from the big city a few years back when he and his wife finally called it quits when their two sons were grown and established. And despite giving it three years or so, Larry felt he still hadn’t hit his stride in the new community. Thus far, that big score development continued to allude him despite a town he felt would be ripe for it. New roads, rail connections and the high cost of living in the district made a commute to the capital of the free world doable from here. There were large tracks of undeveloped land out here. But Westburg politics were funny. Up until now, all he’d managed was some renovations of historical buildings downtown and a couple of new homes on large estates.

  At least this time, he felt he was close. A large client in the district had approached him through an attorney to explore the project. They were looking for a local front man, to guard against locals aggressively raising prices when they realized they were dealing with a large outfit. In truth, Larry didn’t really know who he was dealing with. And, in short, he didn’t care. He was paid to build. They came across as both serious and committed. Larry had been meeting their representative regularly for months. Every time he asked the lawyer, Kenny Martin, for funds to do site surveys, pay architect fees or pay local attorneys to start making draft permit applications, the man had whipped out a checkbook on the spot. He’d even talked him into some “good faith money” to handle unexpected contingencies on a short term basis.

  Although they seemed to have plenty of money, they’d also explained that some portion of local financing would help make the project appear as more organic to the town vs. slick outsiders from the big city coming in and taking over. They felt that would help with getting the project a greenlight from the city board. Larry didn’t like Johann, but he was locally connected. That was key for success. And when this thing went through and he ma
de a killing, he could spend his retirement drinking Kalik beer and eating fried conch sandwiches in the Bahamas. Then he could forget all about the Johann’s of the world. And for that matter, the Kenny Martins. He could be lonely there just as well as here and the climate was so much better.

  After pulling into his driveway, he grabbed his cell phone and laptop bag. The plan could stay on the front seat. He really should send a text to the architect about a couple of last minute changes so he could have fresh plans printed for the meeting Monday night. But his fat fingers made him hate banging out messages on the tiny keypad. He’d call in the morning instead. There were very few changes and plenty of time.

  The home’s lot was tiny, less than an eighth of an acre, with some overgrown crape-myrtle bushes and a lawn that could use a swipe with a weed whacker. It was only a two bedroom, and didn’t have central air. But it was attractive in its bricks and black slate roof and the miniscule backyard was enclosed with a wooden privacy fence.

  Larry grabbed a beer from the fridge to postpone deciding what to do for dinner and went out to the brick patio just large enough for his grill and a cafe style table. Next to the magnolia tree was a wide hammock supported by a rusty frame of tube steal. He lay down and started up the tablet computer. His wireless router provided a strong signal in the backyard, especially with the house’s backdoor open.

  He didn’t care about bugs getting in the house through the kitchen door, and decided he wasn’t hungry enough to make himself a burger or call-in a pizza. Neighbors could be heard moving about the surrounding yards talking with each other, but he had no interest in engaging them in conversation despite often being lonely. Johann had made it clear that a big project score hinged on the city council meeting Monday. Which meant it all came down to a swing vote from a man that Larry didn’t know much about: Justin Harper. So Larry would use the night, likely once again never making it inside before falling asleep, to learn everything he could to adjust the tone of his proposal.

  CHAPTER—6

  Kelton Jager stood with Azrael in the parking area of the fixture, trying to be non-intrusive and stay out of the way that Saturday morning. He marveled at the beautiful open countryside, and thought how gorgeous it must be in fall when the leaves changed color and the days were cooler. He felt badly underdressed amongst the hunt’s patrons, gentlemen and ladies both, in their tweed sport coats and tan riding breeches. Many also brought dogs. Jack Russell terriers were popular and one old lady held the leash for a couple of corgis’. Azrael didn’t blend in any better than Kelton did. But Kelton looked about anyway, trying to catch a glimpse of Abriella’s long auburn hair so he could get his backpack from her car and be on his way. He wasn’t the only person to stick out. A skinny guy in a gray vest looked more like a banker than a country gentleman, and a kennel worker looked tired in his dirty jeans from the morning chores. A heavy-set man in a crumpled suit and shades loitered with his hands in his pockets. Like him, these outliers tried to hang in the crowd’s rear.

  Only one horse was present, a faithful plug of a paint-draft cross, patiently standing tacked up by the memorial garden’s gate. The brown of his coat glowed golden in the midmorning sunlight and the white was spotless. His mane was braided. The breeze carried the scent of conditioning oils from the saddle leather. A pair of backward facing riding boots were tied into the stirrups with black ribbons. The horse’s holder enthusiastically shook hands with an animated elderly couple. Their laughter penetrated the gathering crowd murmurs.

  Wreaths adorned the garden’s front fence, and ahead the gate on the ground were a dozen or so gleaming new monuments fresh from the stone man’s workshop. Some were small and simple, just a large river stone with an engraved name. A couple of others were larger marble tablets, and people made a point to filter on past and touch them. A priest stood opposite the horse, sweating in his black habit and looking anxious to get started although no one else seemed that concerned or had much to say to him. He was merely hired ceremonial help than the true leader of the flock.

  People were still arriving, and the parking lot reflected a wider range of vehicles than Kelton would have initially thought. Certainly present were a number of luxury sedans, and high-end sport utility vehicles. But in equal number were what Kelton would refer to as “beaters” that would have been at home on an army base, such as an Oldsmobile in faded weathered silver and a beat up and rusting Ford Ranger pickup. Abriella’s retired police car wasn’t among them. Most had a sticker in a window or on a bumper of the hunt logo of the fox jumping a star. Some arrivals carried boxes of drinks or refreshments into the club house and steady foot traffic went up and down its steps for either the restrooms or an early morning beer. No one expressed any shyness or reservations about sporting open containers, although not all were partaking. A young girl shyly put a simple program into his hands before hurrying on to the next attendees.

  It looked to be half a sheet of printer paper, with the star and fox of the hunt’s logo on it. He saw a typical agenda of opening remarks, a prayer followed by a song, and then concluding with refreshments at the club house. Kelton shoved it into his pocket for tonight’s campfire if he needed one. He stretched his back by rocking his hips side to side. His back felt naked without his pack and gun.

  Helmut’s couch had proved comfortable enough in the small apartment over the horse stalls. It hadn’t taken long with Azrael’s help to track down the loose horse who had seemed ready for breakfast and coming home to the herd. That exercise had put Helmut and Jose way behind for the day and Kelton, lingering anyway for Abriella’s return, helped them out. Unfortunately, getting busy with that allowed Abriella to slip away to home with his pack. Helmut hadn’t been ungrateful for his labors, allowing him to get a shower and feeding him dinner. He’d even had an old can of dogfood leftover from his own companion that had passed away. They’d shared some old military talk with Helmut’s German Cavalry photos and adventures in school at Heidelberg, but it had been a long day of chores and morning came early. However, another full night’s sleep had put the bug behind him and he was feeling good again.

  Kelton was about to go look for Abriella elsewhere when he saw groups of girls arriving from the bridle path leading back down to the school, a couple of them carrying stones added to the collection at the garden gate. It was the third group in which he noticed her, flanked by Vicky and Elizabeth while Kate lagged a bit behind them. The brassy vibrating tone of the fox horn brought his attention again toward the new monuments in front of the gate.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!” greeted a tall elderly man in a top hat. Although his hair was gray and skin weathered, he stood tall and square with a voice that still boomed in a commanding tone. The onlookers stopped fidgeting and the ranks filled in as later arrivers pressed in to the large arc of people about the garden’s entrance.

  He introduced himself as Gregory Bartholomew, Master of the Westburg Hunt. Gregory welcomed everyone and thanked them for coming to celebrate the lives of fellow creatures which make for a richer world. He slowly read a list of names of departed animals, which proved to be considerable, and paused with each to allow for memories and reflected moments in the minds of the attendees. The clergyman said a prayer, and after the crowd muttered “amen” led everyone in singing the hymn “All Creatures Great and Small.” Upon seeing the practitioners using the program, Kelton fished it from his pocket and turned it over for the words.

  Then Gregory started to recite a poem. The words weren’t on the program, but everyone clearly knew the words, and immediately joined in as one booming voice.

  “Foxes, Friends, Horses and Hounds

  They all pass on and enter the ground

  And from them new life abounds

  Be it Fox, Friend, Horse or Hound.”

  The old master thanked the crowd for coming and people started to quickly move to the clubhouse steps. Working against the crowd, two kennel men came forward dragging a wagon to move the new monuments into the grounds of the garden
with overseeing family trying tactfully but assertively to express their wishes on placement. Kelton scanned about for Abriella, seeing the banker man moving toward a large black Ford Excursion with heavily tented windows instead of joining the procession moving inside. A young blond girl coming up the trail went directly over to him, and he held the door as she climbed in the passenger side. As he closed the vehicle’s door, Kelton and him locked eyes for a moment. Then the man walked hastily to the other side to get in and drive away.

  Finally, Kelton caught a glimpse of Abriella’s red hair and he made strides in her direction. Her friends intercepted him on the clubhouse steps and greeted him warmly as she went along with the crowd to slip inside. With Azrael heeling by his feet, he couldn’t readily push by people to catch up with her.

  “How did you ladies do on your quiz?” asked Kelton.

  “It was awesome. Mrs. Grant even came by our table at dinner last night to say how proud she was,” proclaimed Elizabeth.

  “And she let me have two desserts,” blurted in Kate.

  Social conventions kept them moving forward as the last of the crowd pressed the steps and a couple moments later they were all inside. Upon the walls were hunt scene prints and old regalia, but mostly it was a banquet hall of folding tables and chairs decorated with paper table covers. It was bustling, but the venue absorbed the crowd well and no one cared about the dogs. Kelton was frustrated at first, anxious to make haste and be on his way. But then he reminded himself that Azrael seemed happy and there was no place they had to be. So he relaxed, found a glass of punch, and feigned interest in a short video that Vicky played to him on her phone. She had spliced together segments of several of her favorite rock songs to footage of her and her friends riding their horses.

  Johann drove, annoyed, that the drab dressed man with the dog had took note of him helping Holly into his vehicle. The guy looked like a drifter and he had never seen him before so hopefully he would move along and be no trouble. Johann told himself to snap out of it and stop worrying. That was a problem he could address at a different time. What was important at that moment was to get the hook into Holly.