Deadly Detail (7 page)
“Sure you want to go inside?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been curious. You will protect me? I mean, you are still carrying your gun?”
“Not much protection against Jody, but come on in. The club is a little scary but it actually is legal.”
Angie stopped just inside the door and stared. Romey was on the stage, wearing very little more than a smile, and making suggestive gyrations around a fire pole. The stage was ringed with shouting admirers, most waving bills to be stuffed into the few strings Romey was wearing. I scanned the bar, saw no familiar backs, so turned a sharp right to the dark corner table, and Jody beat me to it. She was carrying a paper grocery bag.
“Here’s your glasses, handsome. Cash on delivery, of course, and no more assignments. I was mauled worse than when the sourdoughs come in from the creeks.”
“Thanks a bunch, Jody. I really appreciate this.” I handed her three twenties which went straight into her garter.
“And I appreciate this.” She meant the cash. “Care to buy me a thirty-dollar bottle?”
“Some other time, okay? I’m with a friend.”
“I thought you came in with that sweet pea who’s cowering by the door. If she’s looking for work, I’ll bet Satch could use her.” She didn’t catch the double entendre of
use
.
“Thanks again, Jody. Always a pleasure doing business with a pro.” She didn’t catch the implications of
pro
either. I left Jody adjusting the bills in her garter, caught Angie’s elbow, and steered her outside.
“My God, I didn’t realize men are so desperate. Alex, you didn’t, you
couldn’t
.”
“Of course not. I told you she tried to glom onto me and I had to brush her off. Ever try to clean molasses out of velvet?”
“So, what’s in the bag? If it’s souvenir lingerie, I’ll kill you on the spot.”
“What I have here, my doubting and possibly jealous Thomasina, might be the evidence that’s going to break the case. Now, how about barbecued ribs at the Wagon Wheel?”
“Lead on, my stalwart and sterling-charactered protector.”
Cellophane was in place on both doors. I drove fast into town, crossing the Lacey Street Bridge, then circled a block and came back to the river at Wendell Street. We were not being followed. I decided to give paranoia the night off.
***
The Wagon Wheel is a long low structure with appropriate bits of memorabilia from the horse-drawn era hung on rough-hewn log walls. Its two claims to fame are superb pork ribs slow barbecued over a birch wood fire, and Steve Hahn playing an electric organ that can make you cry, laugh, or sing at his command.
We were ensconced at a table in a dark corner beside the dance floor, enjoying both the ribs and the music. We’d started with rum and Coke, and when the ribs were delivered, we didn’t bother to change. The atmosphere was too rugged for wine, and the rum too good.
Maybe thirty couples occupied tables that were scattered around the edge of the dance floor, most of them gnawing ribs, all of them seemed to be enjoying themselves. The thing is, you can’t be stuffy or formal because you have to eat the ribs with your hands, and are going to get barbecue sauce on your fingers and your cheeks. You keep mopping cheeks and licking fingers, but you still have to laugh at yourselves. A perky little waitress in a cowgirl outfit kept us supplied with towelettes and kept the rum and Coke flowing.
“Kinda gives new meaning to
informal dining
, doesn’t it?” Angie asked.
“I think it gets back to the basic human condition. Ever see the movie
Tom Jones
?”
“Yep, and I know the scene you mean. They’re gnawing on bones, grease to the elbows, and it was the sexiest scene that’s ever been filmed.” She reached across the table with a towelette and took a swipe at my cheek.
“Trying to keep me from getting too sexy?”
“No, that was the maternal instinct. Ever watched a two-year-old eating cereal?”
A few couples had finished dining and moved to the dance floor. I noticed a familiar back, and when he turned, it was Freddy, wrapped around a fragile-looking redhead. They were half tripping, half gliding, and headed our way.
“Look out, Angie, I think that couple is about to join us.”
“Quick, finish that last rib and clean yourself up. This could be embarrassing.”
“Yeah, well you’ve got a dab of sauce on your nose, but it’s kind of cute, and I’m too polite to mention it.”
We dived in, finished the last ribs. Leaving even one bite was not an option, and we both applied towelettes. We made it just in time; Freddy spotted us and dragged the redhead over.
“Hi, Alex, this is Jeannine. She just got off the jet from Arkansas this afternoon. She’s the new schoolteacher for Stevens Village and I’m teaching her some survival skills.”
“Hi, Freddy, hi, Jeannine. This is Angie, born and raised on the Kuskokwim, and she’s just been giving me a few pointers. Care to join us?”
Jeannine peeled herself loose and sank into a chair. I got the distinct impression that her first priority was surviving Freddy. Freddy grabbed the other chair, just a little too close to Angie, and rubbed shoulders with her while he sat. Angie adjusted her chair a couple of inches my way.
“Where in Arkansas?” I asked.
“Fort Smith, and it is pretty different. Ever been to Arkansas?”
I nodded. “Yep. I was in Fort Smith on New Year’s Day once. Comfortable in shirtsleeves and fall-colored leaves still on the trees. You are so right, this is very different, and it’s going to get a lot more different in the next few weeks.”
Freddy flagged down our waitress and ordered two gin and tonics, so apparently he intended to stay a while. I pointed to the two glasses Angie and I had nearly emptied. The waitress nodded and went to fetch a round.
Angie was shaking her head, and reached to squeeze Jeannine’s hand. “Arkansas to Stevens Village? What have they told you?”
“Well, it’s a one-room school with eight grades, but only twelve students. What else do I need to know?”
I jumped in. “One thing you need to know is the school is heated with a wood stove, and your contract better specify that someone in the village will cut the wood and light the fire every morning. Where are you going to stay?”
“I have my own room in the storekeeper’s house. His wife does the cooking, so it will be like boarding.”
“That’s appropriate. Six of the kids belong to them, but having your own room may mean you’re only sharing with the girls. Anyhow, they’re good people.”
“Freddy has just been telling me that I need to wear a wedding ring, and he’s volunteered to pretend to be my husband.” Jeannine looked up at Angie, then me. She was hoping we’d contradict that bit of advice, and I was sorry to disappoint her.
“Well, the wedding ring is a must. If you show up as single, the men in the village will not understand why you don’t pick one of them. You’ll be the most beautiful girl they’ve ever seen, so the competition could get ugly and the women won’t like it much, either. You pretend to have a husband and talk about him all the time. A single woman who wants to stay that way simply won’t make sense to them.”
Jeannine blushed, but I hadn’t intended a compliment; I was telling her the unvarnished truth. “You’re scaring me. Am I really in for an ordeal?”
Angie took over. “That depends on your attitude. If you came for an adventure, you’ll love it. Watching the Yukon freeze up, stop, and become a highway is fascinating. I promise you, if you make it to spring breakup, you’ll never want to leave. The power and grandeur of the Yukon waking up in the spring might be the most exciting thing on the planet. If you just came here for the money, you’re in trouble.”
Jeannine seemed to be considering. She picked up a fresh towelette and shredded it, stacking the strips on my plate of bones. “I’ve read Robert Service and Jack London, and all of that, and I’ve always dreamed of coming to Alaska, but they
are
paying me over twice what I was earning in Arkansas.”
Freddy piped up. “They darn sure should, and believe me, you’re going to earn every penny of it.”
Angie stood and reached for Jeannine’s hand. “Come on, you and I need to powder our noses.” She led Jeannine past the dance floor toward the facilities.
Freddy leaned back and got comfortable. “Well, you old dog, where have you been hiding Angie, and how much am I bid not to tell Celeste about her?”
“Sorry, not up for blackmail. Why do you think I care what you tell Celeste?” I thought Freddy frowned when I said
blackmail,
but it was his idea.
“You think I’m blind? I’m surprised the two of you haven’t got it on right on the counter.”
“Okay, I guess I did notice Celeste, but Angie’s my sister-in-law, and our relationship is as pure as the driven snow. Tell you what. I’ll buy the next round, just on general principles, and you keep your mouth shut to save me some explaining. Fair enough?” He nodded. The waitress appeared and dealt out the drinks. I dropped a twenty and a five on her tray. The five was a tip, and it did earn me a half smile, but the poor kid appeared almost too tired to smile. She squared her shoulders and dove back into the fray.
Freddy sampled his drink. “Sister-in-law, huh? Funny, I disremember you having a brother.”
“Don’t get too technical, I’m telling you the truth. In the Yupik Eskimo Nation where her husband and I worked together, we were called
Eelooks
, partners to the death. You don’t have to share genes to be brothers. It was my partner, Angie’s husband, who was killed when that pickup exploded at the Rendezvous Club.”
“Aw, Jeeze, Alex, I’m really sorry.” Freddy did look stricken and subdued. Either there was more human compassion in him than I had supposed, or else the gin had finally caught up with him.
The ladies seemed to be taking a long time in the powder room. Freddy and I sipped politely for a while, then just gave up and finished our drinks. I waved down the waitress again and she brought two more. That time I dropped a ten and a five on her tray and she smiled again.
“So, you’re flying Jeannine out to Stevens in the morning?”
“Yep, got to get my new wife properly settled.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a despicable scumbag?”
“Oh yeah, the subject comes up now and then, but it’s worth it. Look, I’m not going to rape the girl. I just happen to know how lonely she’ll be in a couple of months. Hey, giving her a shoulder to cry on is practically a public service.”
Angie and Jeannine threaded their way back across the dance floor. Jeannine seemed to be taller and happier than when they left. Angie sat down, but Jeannine stood by her chair.
“Freddy, would you take me back to the hotel, please? I’m really jet-lagged and tomorrow’s a big day.” She didn’t wait for an answer, she turned and started for the door. Freddy scowled, drained his drink, and got up. Then he reached for Jeannine’s untouched glass and carried it with him, sipping as he went.
“Good Lord, Angie, what did you tell that girl?”
“Oh, I just mentioned the birds and the bees, Alaskan style. She may have a new idea about who’s boss, and she does know to call me if she gets lonely. Just the usual girl talk. Alex, do you think Freddy is a friend of yours?”
“Well, he used to be, but after tonight I’m not so sure.”
“Damn, men are so blind. He can’t blame you for Jeannine’s rescue, I mean in general.”
“Aw, come on, Angie. I’ve known Freddy for fifteen years. We flew together when we were trying to figure out which end of the airplane goes first.”
Angie shook her head, obviously disgusted with me, and downed half her drink. The ice was almost melted. She wrinkled her nose and reached for my glass. “Alex, all I can tell you is to just look in his eyes sometime. Did you bring me here to dance, or to argue?”
We danced. Swede was on a nostalgia kick. We did foxtrots from the Fifties, the Swing a couple of times, even some disco. The mood was just right for us. If you’re dancing for fun, not trying to smother your partner or using the dance as foreplay, you give your partner some room and go with the music.
The waitress brought fresh drinks. I tipped her again, we danced again, and again. Around two, Swede played his theme song.
The theme song, of course, is “Wagon Wheels.” I hope you know that song, and if not, your parents and grandparents do.
Wagon wheels, wagon wheels, keep on a turnin’ wagon wheels.…
It evokes endless prairies, loneliness, but bravery and determination. That song has always struck me as appropriate for Fairbanks because if there weren’t people with more bravery, guts, and determination than good sense, Fairbanks wouldn’t exist.
Wagon wheels, carry me ho-oo-ome,
then, very softly,
wagon wheels, carry me home.
Swede shut down the organ.
House lights came up full and people scrambled out as if the lights were a cold shower. We sank down at the table and drained our glasses.
“Want to take me back to the hotel, Alex? I may be catching jet lag.”
“Nonsense, the party is just starting. Help me stand up and I’ll show you some real music and dancing.”
Come what may, time and the hour run through the roughest night
. We gave up trying to appease hangovers with decaffeinated coffee at the Maranatha, and I braved the morning sunlight in search of a phone. No telephone in the room, of course, no doubt because it might disturb our meditation. I found a pay phone in the lobby and fed it quarters until Trooper Tim came on the line.
Tim is the special trooper who serves the villages around Bethel so he’s a steady charter customer. He’s also a very good friend.
“Alex, when are you coming home? My hair’s turning gray.”
“What, you want me to pick up some hair dye in Fairbanks?”
“No, I want you to come back to work. Vickie has been sending me out with Pat.”
“Hey, Pat’s a fine pilot. One of these days he’ll be driving the jet when you go into Anchorage.”
“Yeah, the sooner the better. You know that sand spit where we land across the river from Sheldon Point?”
“So?”
“So, Pat and I landed there yesterday and we were both terrified.”
“Tim, Pat is a good pilot, what can I tell you?”
“Maybe he is, but I wish he wouldn’t turn pale when I show him where to land. What’s up?”
“If I send you a couple of drinking glasses counter-to-counter can you get them fingerprinted and cross checked?”
“If it will bring you home sooner. Prints belong to Saddam Hussein?”
“I have no idea, but I need to know. The glasses will be on the next jet.” The phone dinged for more quarters, but I was tapped out. It went dead, so I hung it up.
Angie was hovering by the coffee shop door. “Alex, I’m hurting, and I should go to work in a few hours.”
“Want to hit the Model Café for some real coffee?”
“That would help, and a Bloody Mary wouldn’t be bad either.”
“Check and cheque. The coffee shop at the Traveler’s Inn.”
We drove across town, and I was pleased to note there were no dents in the Buick. When you wake up with a fuzzy memory of the night before, there’s always some concern for the car. Venturing out on the highway in that condition would be tantamount to suicide or murder, but a few blocks in town are usually survivable. Not smart, just survivable. Most cars in Fairbanks have a crumpled fender or two, and no one seems to mind.
“How much rum did we drink last night?” Angie did look a little pale, which was alarming, considering her ancestry.
“I never count while the party is raging. It spoils the mystique, you know. Maybe six before they closed the Wagon Wheel Club. After that I have no idea.”
“We went to the Squadron Club so we could park at the hotel. You were driving mostly in the right lane and gave me a lecture about the drunk drivers on the road. Traveling with you certainly is educational. I’m amazed at how many occupations are open to women in this town.”
We parked at the Traveler’s, had Bloody Marys and a pot of real coffee, and the world did settle down. Normally I want nothing to do with vodka, but on the morning after, when it’s suitably mixed with tomato juice and Tabasco, it is prescribed by nine out of ten drunks.
Angie had returned to her normal hue and was even getting some sparkle back in her eyes. “Orders of the day?”
“I need to nip out to the airport. I want to get Jody’s underwear on the morning flight. Then, I guess I’ll stop by Interior and pick up my paycheck in case you want to lead me astray again tonight. Can I drop you at the station? It
is
your car.”
“No thanks, and I’m never touching alcohol again. Take me back to the room for two hours repair work and I’ll grab a cab to the station.”
“Your slightest whim is my edict. Do you need help standing up?”
***
I stopped at the strip mall on the way to the airport and scrounged a cardboard box and a pile of Styrofoam peanuts to pack the glasses. The airline obliged with the morning jet, but it doesn’t go to Bethel. Jets from Fairbanks to Bethel go by way of Anchorage, and with only two flights per day to Bethel, the glasses would arrive on the evening plane. I can’t complain about that schedule because it is good for the charter business, including my current residency in Fairbanks. Sending the glasses counter-to-counter costs a few extra bucks, but it’s the fastest way. I delivered the package to the ticket counter in Fairbanks. Tim could pick it up at the ticket counter in Bethel two minutes after the jet landed.
Celeste was bright and bubbly. “Hi, Alex. I have your check here. Does this mean you’re leaving our fair city?” She brought an envelope to the counter and splayed her left hand out on the Formica, no wedding or engagement rings.
“Probably soon, but never know when I’ll be back. You know how the charter business is. Maybe next trip I can give you a call?”
“Sure, you can do that. My phone number’s on the envelope.” I was returning her smile when Freddy came out of his office.
“Hi, Alex, what the hell happened to you? Run over by a truck?”
“Sort of, a brewery wagon.” Celeste was listening so I added, “It gets lonely on long nights away from home.”
Her smile definitely turned to smug and she went back to her desk. Freddy was leaning on the counter again. He gave me an I-told-you-so smirk.
“I thought you had a charter to Stevens Village this morning.”
“Eleven o’clock. My passenger has to do some shopping.”
“Sure I can’t help you out with the trip?”
“No thanks, you’ve already helped more than enough with that one, but you did say you’re driving a Cessna 310?”
“Yeah, Bushmaster’s executive choice.”
“Perfect. I need a charter tonight. You know how the charter business is. If you have a pilot and a plane standing by, then you’re losing money, but if a customer calls and you don’t have a plane available, they’ll call someone else and you still lose out.”
“This isn’t a job for the Otter?”
“No, four executives from British Petroleum. Evening meeting in Valdez, stand by an hour and bring them back. They’ll appreciate a fast comfortable trip in the 310.”
“Sure, Vicki will like that. Our normal charter rate for the 310 is three hundred per hour, but you probably can negotiate a wholesale price.”
“No need. I’ll charge BP three-fifty. Be here at five o’clock?”
“Can do.”
“And Alex, see if you can shave and finish sobering up in the meantime?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” I slunk back to the rental. It struck me that the Otter wasn’t being loaded, and from the steady stream of flight tickets I’d seen in Celeste’s file, that must be unusual.
***
By four-thirty I was looking pretty good, had the 310 cleaned out and fueled. I’d left a note in the room for Angie, but was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to party. I figured she was safe at the Maranatha under a name that even her mother had probably forgotten. I taxied the 310 up to the flight line at Interior, but waited in the airplane. Somehow I didn’t want to bump into Celeste just then, and I wondered why. I was remarkably single, or would be if or when Angie and I got out from under the cloud, and there was no romantic attachment there. Connie had made it quite clear that we were not an item, although we did seem to be seeing each other exclusively. Still, maybe that was masochism on my part.
The Otter was still parked, and apparently hadn’t been out all day, so they must have caught up with the pipeline demand. At five to five, Freddy came out escorting four suits. He introduced them so fast that I didn’t catch any names. Freddy handed me the office key and I pocketed it; clearly I’d be back long after the office closed. Passengers settled down in the back seats, strapped themselves in and immediately opened briefcases. I called the tower for permission to taxi.
The flight from Fairbanks to Valdez is almost straight south, two hundred sixty miles, which is why Freddy wanted the 310. I trimmed us out at ten thousand feet, indicating a hundred seventy knots, which equals one hundred ninety-three statute miles per hour. We were an hour and a half from tarmac to tarmac, and that was all my passengers cared about. I hope I never get that jaded. Our route took us between Mt. Deborah and Mt. Hayes in the Alaska Range, across the Glennallen Flats with Mt. Denali and its buttresses clearly visible on the right, then into the Chugach Mountains and finally screaming down into Prince William Sound.
I don’t know any more spectacular flight on the planet, and my passengers were back there shuffling papers. Prior to the 1964 earthquake, I would have gone into town with them, but after the tidal wave wiped out the old town I wasn’t much interested, and these were not types I cared to cultivate. I stayed with the airplane while they took a taxi into town.
I strolled, stretched my legs, marveled at the jagged rock mountains with snow halfway down, then went back to the plane and took a nap. The copilot seat slides back and reclines, so it was more comfortable than the cot at the Maranatha.
Taxi lights wiped across the cabin and woke me. I slammed the seat upright, slapped my cheeks, rubbed my eyes, and jumped out to hold the door. My passengers seemed to be fumbling out of the taxi and had a little trouble climbing the steps onto the wing. As each one passed, I was treated to fumes reminiscent of the previous night. I checked that they did manage to get their belts buckled. One was already snoring, and the others had their eyes closed.
My watch said eleven-thirty, so Freddy’s hour of standby was off by five hundred percent, but that was fine with me. Standby time is at half charter rate and half pay for the pilot, but if you’re sound asleep, the more the better. I snapped on the master switch to light the panel before I closed and locked the door, which turned out the interior lights. It was darker than a lawyer’s heart, so an overcast must have moved in. I cranked engines, turned on taxi lights, and we rumbled to the end of the runway facing east. That made our departure over flats, then water.
The engines passed their checks individually, and those Lycoming gasoline burners made a healthy growl. I set flaps, released brakes, and when we broke ground, snapped off the landing lights. The lights of town fell behind us, and only the soft glow of instruments lit the universe. We ran up to five thousand feet, well above the local mountains, at ninety miles per and eighty percent power, and turned north.
At ten thousand I set up a cruise and tuned in the non-directional beacon at Glennallen. Flying on instruments is probably the most relaxing thing you can do. It’s like playing the world’s slowest video game. Tiny corrections of rudder keep the needle centered, once in a while a little pressure on the yoke maintains altitude, and you just sit back and let the airplane do its thing. Alcohol fumes in the cabin were approaching an explosive level, so I opened the cabin vent and turned the heater up a notch.
When we passed over Glennallen, I tuned the automatic direction finder radio to 660 kilohertz, which is KFAR radio on Farmer’s Loop Road in Fairbanks. That ten-thousand-watt beacon has been guiding aircraft over the pole since the 1940s, and it’s a clear channel so there are no false readings. When the VOR came alive we were sixty miles out with a heading of three hundred fifty degrees to Fairbanks, solidly over the Tanana. I reduced power, drifted down. Fairbanks Radio reported a five-thousand-foot ceiling and twenty miles visibility. They were right on in both cases. I parked at the passenger terminal and opened the door.
The sudden light and cold air threw my passengers into a tizzy, and I had some sympathy for them. They struggled for dignity, adjusted their neckties, buttoned jackets, and retrieved briefcases. I climbed down ahead of them and met each at the stair, making sure their feet hit the steps, and that each had his case. Once again, my passengers turned toward the restroom and I taxied down to the general aviation area.
At Interior some light flickered inside, maybe one of the offices with the door not quite closed. I spotted a car in the lot, but it was parked in shadow, possibly hidden on purpose. The rented Buick wasn’t in the lot because I had left it in the tie-down space when I moved the 310. That saves your spot and can be important if you’re coming home late. I went right on by Interior, moved the Buick ahead one length, and tied down the plane.
The lot suddenly seemed too well lit, but I slipped from plane to plane until I could see the parking lot behind Interior. Two cars that I didn’t recognize were parked in shadow. The flickering light was coming from Reginald’s office, the door not quite closed, and at least two or three people were moving around in there. I sneaked back to the Buick and headed for town with the office key still in my pocket. Whatever was going on in the office after midnight seemed like something I needed to check into, but opening the office door might be a quick way to get shot. I told myself I wasn’t being a coward. I just preferred a more oblique approach.
The hotel room was dark. I slipped in, closed the door silently, and tiptoed for the bathroom. Angie was breathing softly, apparently sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I closed the bathroom door before turning on the light, performed ablutions quietly and turned off the light before I opened the door. I was halfway to my bed when Angie snapped on her reading light.
“Hi, Alex. Do you always sneak in so quietly?”
“Shhh, don’t wake Angie. The poor girl’s exhausted.”
“You got that right. So what daring adventure kept you out half the night?”
“Not much of anything. I hauled some executives to Valdez, brought back some drunks, but something is going on at Interior. Someone is burning midnight oil.”
“You didn’t creep through the night and beard them in their den?”
“No, I slunk home, tail between my legs, but I do have a key to the office. I’ll sneak back when the coast is much clearer.”
“My hero. Good night, Alex.” She snapped off her light.