Short Money (11 page)

“What about the rest of them?”

Berdette said, “That what you’re doing back here? You got something going with those boys?”

“Not with them,” Crow replied.

Berdette nodded. “They been trouble ever since George took over from his daddy. Actually, his daddy was trouble too. What do you want to know, Joe?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

Berdette’s eyes went into a distant stare. “Well, now,” he said, “that ain’t much. I see George and Ricky and their mama at Saint Luke’s every Sunday, but that’s about it. They pretty much keep to themselves, except when Ricky gets a few under his belt.”

“You remember the last time I was in here?”

“Not likely to forget.”

“You remember that guy Ricky clobbered?”

“Sure I do. Doctor something, from the cities.”

“You know why Ricky went after him that way?”

Berdette shook his head. “I don’t never wonder why Ricky does what he does, some of the shit he does.”

“Fucker!”

Startled, Crow looked down the bar at Harley Pike, who had lifted his glare from his beer glass and fixed it on some invisible object floating above the bar, a few inches in front of his face. “Goddamn motherfucker,” Harley snarled.

Berdette said, “You need another one, H.?”

Harley blinked and looked back at his glass—which was now empty—his vision forgotten for the moment. He fingered the small pile of coins on the bar, pushed forward three quarters and an assortment of smaller change. Berdette refilled Harley’s glass, letting the beer flow down its side, bringing the amber fluid right up to the rim, a no-foam, no-bullshit beer. He took the coins, rang them into the register. Harley clasped his battered hands around his beer glass and fixed his moist eyes on the fullness of it.

Berdette added an unwanted splash of hot coffee to Crow’s cup. “H. gets testy when he’s on empty.”

“Testy when he’s full too,” Crow said.

“Couple more beers, he’ll mellow out just fine. I oughta kick him out of here, but I don’t know what he’d do with himself. Puss’ll be out to pick him up pretty soon. She knows how to handle H. when he’s got a bellyful. Anyways, he’s mostly mouth these days. Not like that Ricky Murphy—who knows why he does what he does?”

“So you haven’t heard anything, like the doctor did something to make Ricky mad? Or something different going on with the Murphys?”

Berdette shook his head. “Far as I know it’s been just business as usual. George is still sellin’ them canned hunts a his. It’s got to where you want to shoot a rhinoceros or some damn thing, George’ll go out and find one for you, if you got the loot. You ever been out to their place?”

“Never had reason to.”

“You know, they got close to four thousand acres out there. Mostly river bottom and coulee, but it’s a hell of a chunk of land. Damn shame what they do with it, but I guess they got a right. I hear they even got a real live tiger for sale. Forty thousand bucks, you can go shoot yourself a tiger. Hell, for forty thousand bucks I’d let you shoot Arlene.”

Arlene heard her name and looked up from her newspaper.

Berdette told her, “Never mind, sugar.” He lowered his voice. “I’d let her go for twenty in the off-season.”

“He’s really got a tiger out there?” Crow asked.

“Wouldn’ surprise me he had a tyrannosaurus.”

“So who lives out there now?”

“Just the three of ’em—George, Ricky, and Amanda. And George’s kid. George’s wife took off on him a few years back, but the kid still lives with George. A course, the daughter, Hillary, she married your old boss Orlan. I ain’t telling you nothing you don’t know. They still live in that big yellow house up on Front Street.”

“What kind of a guy is George?”

Berdette grunted. “You never met him? He’s a big guy, sort of goofy looking. But don’t be surprised if you like him.”

“Y’wanna fight?”

Crow turned his head and looked at Harley Pike, who had climbed off his stool and was standing a few feet away, bowed legs spread, fists clenched white, eyes red and half closed.

“You think yer tough?” Harley demanded.

Crow, keeping his face carefully neutral, said, “No, Harley, I’m not tough.”

Harley stood his ground, feet anchored to the floor, the top half of his body swaying as if he were standing in a small boat on a choppy lake.

“You wanna fight?” he said again, advancing a step, projecting an aroma of alcohol and dental decay.

Crow shook his head, breathing shallowly. “No, thanks, Harley. No fight left in me today.”

“Cuz I’ll fightcha, goddammit. Punch yer lights out.” He lowered his brow and glared.

Crow nodded. “I know. You want a beer, Harley?”

Harley’s expression softened. “You buyin’?” he asked suspiciously.

“Sure. You want to get the man a beer, Berdette?”

Berdette was already pouring.

Crow waited for Harley to get settled with his replenished glass, then slid off his stool and laid three dollars on the bar. “Thanks, Berdette.”

“I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“I would if I could, Berdette, but the truth is, I’m as much in the dark as old Harley there. I just haven’t got a clue.”

George Murphy didn’t think his little pair of deuces was going to cut it. Orlan was probably sitting on jacks or better. Murphy sighed and considered calling the bet anyway. For one dollar, he could afford to see what his brother-in-law had that was worth a double raise. And so what if he lost? If Orlan was willing to put up with Hillary, the least George could do in return would be to drop a few bucks at the card table.

Still, he hated to lose. Especially to a guy like Orlan. Even a dollar. Even fifty cents.

Another strategy occurred to him. He could raise another dollar, maybe bluff his way into a pot. Better yet, he could raise it up two dollars. The limit was supposed to be one, but what the hell? It would give Orlan something to think about. George fished in his pile of change, counting out quarters. He heard the door that led into the house open and close. A shadow fell across his arm. George turned his head and looked into his son’s face.

“Dad?”

George felt a pang in his chest, an oleo of irritation, tenderness, disgust, and love. The boy looked so soft and vulnerable. He smelled like chicken soup. His nose ran and his eyes watered. George looked around the lodge, a room sixty feet long and thirty feet wide. The single ridge beam, thirty inches in circumference, had come from a white pine that he and Ricky had taken down to make room for the lodge. A fire crackled in the fireplace at one end, a potbellied wood stove stood near the entrance. At the far end of the room, his Bengal tiger lay in an orange-black-and-white pile, watching the cardplayers through slitted eyes. The five picture windows looked out over the river valley, a spectacular panorama to which he had long since grown accustomed. This was his favorite room, the hub of Talking Lake Ranch. During the fall, when the urge to hunt was strong, there would be five or six hunting parties on any given day, Mandy would be bustling around the lodge making sandwiches and drinks, George and Ricky would be taking one group after another out to hunt. During peak season he’d have outside guides bringing in clients, and sometimes he’d have to hire a few of the locals to help out.

He didn’t have much time for the kid when he was busy like that. Maybe that was why the boy had done what he’d done. Maybe it was his own fault.

Now, except for Orlan and the three off-season duck hunters from Sioux Falls, the big room was empty—the other three tables held only a few old hunting magazines and the duck hunters’ cased shotguns. Mandy was nowhere in sight. He wished she hadn’t walked into Shawn’s room that day. He wished she hadn’t told Ricky, hadn’t got him all excited. He wished he could forget about it, put it out of his mind. Now that he had time, maybe he could get to know his kid a little better, take him out to shoot a deer or something. The kid was getting big, maybe big enough to handle the 30.06. He put a hand on Shawn’s shoulder and squeezed affectionately. Shawn winced and twisted away. George gaped at his son, embarrassed—he had hardly touched him.

“Grandy said I got to talk to you,” Shawn said, rubbing his shoulder.

Orlan Johnson, the belly of his two-tone uniform pressing against the edge of the card table, sipped a vodka tonic and drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for George to make his move. The other men, all nursing their Budweisers, watched, bored, waiting for the next deal. They had shot and paid for twenty-four mallards and eight woodies that morning. The hunting was over for the day, the fireplace was putting out the Btu’s, and everybody felt a little sleepy.

“Not now, Shawn,” George said. “Your daddy’s about to clean these fellas’ clocks. You can pull up a chair and watch if you want.” He slid a handful of quarters toward the center of the table and watched Orlan’s lower lip slide out and down.

“Thought it was a dollar limit,” Orlan complained.

George raised his eyebrows. “Can’t handle my action, Orlan?” He heard Shawn dragging a chair from one of the other tables, felt him settle at his elbow.

Orlan sighed and examined his cards intently. He snorted and threw them into the pot. “Christ, you’re lucky,” he said. “What did you have?”

George grinned and threw his cards away, facedown. Let him wonder.

The outside door opened, and Ricky stepped into the lodge. An invisible whirlwind of icy air filled the room. Ricky closed the door, and the cold air settled, pooling around their feet. George swept in the pile of change. Orlan Johnson shuffled, getting ready to deal the next hand. Ricky took off his cowboy hat, shook off a few flakes of snow.

“Colder’n a Fargo whore out there,” he said. “Hey, Orlan. How you doin’?” He replaced his hat on his head, then nodded to the three duck hunters, whom he hadn’t met.

“You want in?” Orlan asked, holding up the deck of cards.

Ricky shook his head and turned to George. “I was just up on the north quarter, checking out the fences. Saw Number One crossing the creek just above the coulee.”

George said, “No kidding? I haven’t caught sight of that monster since September. How’s the old boy looking?”

“Not so good. He was walking sort of funny. I tried to follow him, but he took off on me, and I didn’t want to spook him any worse than he was. He’s sick.”

George’s face fell. He had been growing Number One for fifteen years. He said, “How sick?”

“He don’t look good at all. He’s kind of hunched up, like he’s got a problem in his gut. You think we should run a special on him?”

George’s jaw pulsed. The cardplayers were all looking at him nervously. Screw them, he thought. Fifteen years he’d had Number One, an elk so big, so fast, and so smart it had survived three guided hunts over the past two years. George had been getting a couple hundred a day in guide fees just to give hunters a chance at Number One, plus another thirty thousand if they bagged him. So far, no one had even come close. Number One somehow knew when he was being hunted, got himself down in the bottoms, down in the bogs, where nobody could get a shot at him. You could bugle all day and not get a rise out of him. So far, every hunter who had pursued the big bull had been forced to settle for a lesser trophy.

And now he was sick; maybe dying. If somebody was going to bag him, they’d have to do it pretty damn quick. A shadow of mourning swept over him. He’d had that damn elk longer than he’d had his only son. George turned to look at Shawn, but the boy had disappeared.

Of all wild beasts, a boy is the most difficult to manage.

—PLATO

T
HE PRIVATE ROAD LEADING
into Talking Lake Ranch wound a treacherous, rutted, sloping path through maple woods, a tangled gray-and-white winter landscape that gave the eye nothing distinct on which to focus. Bellweather’s Jaguar, surefooted on pavement, skittered uncertainly down the icy track. Half a mile in, Crow began to think that he had turned down the wrong road. He slowed to a crawl and looked for a place to turn around, but the woods rose steeply on his right and dropped into a shallow ravine on his left, and the road was barely as wide as his car. He stopped and shifted into reverse. The rear wheels spun and the back of the car slid sideways, nearly dropping off the edge of the elongated ice rink he was using for a road.

“How come I let you talk me into this?” he said to himself. He continued down the hill in first gear. Minutes later, he arrived at a gate made from wooden poles. A metal sign on the gate read
TALKING LAKE RANCH—MEMBERS ONLY
. The hasp was secured by a large, round padlock. The driveway, however, did not pass through the gate but rather made a jog around it. Apparently, getting out of a vehicle to open the gate was too much trouble—especially in the winter—so the Murphys and their visitors simply drove around it in their 4 x 4s. Crow followed the short detour, wincing as the low-slung Jag bottomed out twice on the ridged path.

Two hundred yards past the gate, a long, sprawling complex of mismatched buildings emerged from the woods. The largest structure, a log building about the size of four triple garages placed end to end, began with a prominent stone chimney, topped by a ragged plume of wood smoke, and ended in a short covered walkway leading to a fawn-colored clapboard house, two story, matching patterned curtains in all the windows. The Murphy residence, he guessed. Beyond the house, a series of three identical low metal-sided barns filled a clearing in the woods.

The entrance to the log building, a pair of oversize double doors, was marked by a carved wooden sign:
THE LODGE
.

Three 4 x 4s and two snowmobiles clustered near the entrance. Crow looked for, but did not see, Ricky’s Hummer. Good. He parked the Jaguar alongside a black Toyota 4-Runner and shut down the engine.

The silence inside the car pressed against his ears. Good ideas, he reflected, do not always travel well. He climbed out into the crisp winter air and pushed his ungloved hands deep down in his pockets. The muffled sound of dogs barking came from within, or behind, one of the metal-sided barns. The only other sound was the faint hiss and creak of wind on frozen gray branches.