A Far Gone Night (16 page)

“
Leavin
’ so soon?” she asked, smiling. Nice smile.

“Places to go, people to see,” I said.

“I wish you boys would stay. We could catch up, Thomas,” she said, lightly punching my shoulder.
“Old times at
Shlop’s
.
Remember the time Bob and Ray tried to mess with you?”

“I do,” I said. “Maybe we’ll catch you later. You swing by The Grain where I tend to spend my money these days.”

 
“I’ll do that!”

“We really do need to get going,
Bunza
. We have irritated Mr.
Hornung
and worn out our welcome. Check
ya
later,” I said, patting her shoulder and turning away.

“Okay,” she replied. “Maybe we could get together down in
Rockbluff
. You could come see me at
Shlop’s
and I could show you some holds.”

“Be still my heart,” I said.

“You talk funny, Thomas.”

Moon and I left. I felt a sense of trepidation and urgency to split, not believing
Hornung
would be able to resist calling for some reinforcements, and I was right. As we stepped out into the cold night air, we noticed three big men, all Indians, hanging around Moon’s Packard. One was sitting on the hood, heels resting on the front bumper. Another, a very tall man with a shaved head that was steaming in the cold night air was thumping the barrel of a baseball bat in the palm of his hand. The third was picking his nose. Honest.

Moon muttered something and took off across the parking lot. I matched him stride for stride. Three more men, our initial greeters, burst forth behind us from the front door of the Pony Club. Two of them had baseball bats. Do they manufacture them on the
rez
? I had no idea hardball was so attractive to the thug class.

“Get off the car!” Moon shouted as we came up to the Packard.

The man laughed. Another man produced a tire iron and smashed the windshield and Moon became agitated. And then something came loose in me and I rushed toward the Packard, Moon on my left.

I stopped suddenly and spun around, facing the men closing in on us from the club. They didn’t expect it. They stopped. I looked around and saw Moon catch the man in mid-air, the one who had been sitting on the Packard’s hood, and who had launched himself at my companion. Moon head-butted Skywalker and threw him into the tall man with the shaved head and they both went down and began scrambling to regain their feet.

Overall, it was a wonderful fight.
Six of them, some with baseball bats, and then me and Moon.
The odds were with us. I felt the composure and confidence that comes when I am about to do something at which I excel. And, for his part, Lunatic was fighting for family. We had a good shot, especially since I suspected these guys were three-for-a-penny pussycats.

Moon had quickly dropped the guy who had shattered the Packard’s windshield, taking away the tire iron and laying out the guy with a blow to the side of the head. He had another, the tall dude, in a headlock, delivering hefty uppercuts to the face. His other adversary, bloody forehead from where Moon had butted him, baseball bat in hand yet now tentative, was circling Moon and Moon’s headlock victim, looking for an opening. I would have taken him on but my hands were full as the three security guys from earlier strode my way, looking confident.
Strength in numbers.

Their leader, the taller, older guy, stepped up close to me, taking a martial arts stance,
then
going into a spin to deliver a kick, but his speed lacked, um, well,
speed
. He had beginner’s speed, which isn’t really
speed
. So I stepped forward as he went into his move, closing in on him when his back rotated away from me. When he came around and actually kicked, I was too close for him to be effective. I grabbed his kicking leg with my hands on his ankle while stepping down hard on his anchor foot, pinning it to the pavement. And then I shoved his kicking leg as high and as hard as I could.

Three distinct, wet, popping sounds of ligaments and tendons tearing in the groin were accompanied by screams from the attacker. He went down, legs akimbo, hands clutching his groin, which had to be on fire.

The other two jumped me then, and it was time to go all elbows and knees. I accepted their blows, some significant, as the cost of doing business in a world beset with sorrows and heartache. I believe I gave a good bit better than I got.

They soon abandoned the fight, retreating quickly, each grabbing their burning-groin companion by an arm and dragging him back toward the Pony Club. I turned to Moon just as I heard him grunt in pain. Two of his attackers were down, moaning and struggling to get to their feet, but the shaved-head giant had gotten loose from Moon, found a bat, and had struck Moon in his left arm, above the elbow. That arm was hanging a little loose at his side. And now Lunatic was being circled by that man, a man who felt he was going to win.

I trotted over to Moon’s side and engaged the batboy’s eye contact.

He said, “One down, one to go,” and grinned; then, waving the bat around, he came for me. I caught his first pass and ripped the bat out of his hands. He looked stunned, noticed the second group slinking back to the Pony Club, observed his two friends on the ground,
then
took off running.

I could have let him go, but he didn’t have any mementos from our introduction, so I crouched and slung the bat hard, spinning, at his legs. The bat skimmed along the pavement and caught up to him, taking him down there in the parking lot.

I ran up, recovered the bat and, tossing it behind me, moved in on the guy. He started to get up but I kicked at his knee, dropping him. I considered a head shot, noticing for the first time that his bare skull had several tattoos on it, something like eagle claws and beaks. I fought off the urge to punish, so I went to work on his ribs, breaking some. I am an effective body puncher, I’ll admit, and there are so many ribs to hit.

Then I dragged him with one hand, cursing, to his feet, and kicked him in the butt, sending him limping and lurching forward, a stumbling giant, toward the Pony Club. Moon’s other assailants struggled along after him. I started back toward Moon, picking up the bat. I looked at the barrel. It was an Ichiro model.
Diversity on the
rez
.
I broke it over my knee and tossed the pieces away and went to Moon.

He was holding his left arm with his right, gritting his teeth. His pallor was evident.

I said, “You have a pale face.”

“Shameful,” he replied, “and I also have a broken arm. Let’s get out of here before a war party shows up.”

“Can you drive?”

“No one but me drives my car. I will steer, you will shift,” he said.

“Okay.” I glanced again at the departing thugs.

“Let’s
go
, Thomas,” Moon said, striding over to the Packard, opening the door and sitting behind the wheel. He looked over his shoulder toward the front door of the Pony Club. No one was there now. They had all gone inside.

It was a cold drive with the wind coming through a few broken places in the windshield, and difficult to see through all the cracked glass. But the night was clear and that helped, and after a long time on lonely roads, I pulled up to the Emergency Room entrance at
Rockbluff
Regional. It was nearly 3 AM.

An X-ray revealed that Lunatic Mooning had a broken
humerus
, non-displaced.
The doctor on call, Dr. Brandenburg, who still had pimples, put Moon in a blue sling and told him, “No mobility for two weeks, sir.”
A follow-up visit to check progress was scheduled, at which time specific exercises would be given to increase range of motion. Dr. Brandenburg, who looked like a vegan addicted to running long distances, also gave Lunatic pain pills. Then he looked at me. “Let’s take a look at that eyebrow.”

What eyebrow?
I declined and we left. We shared driving skills again for the short ride back to The Grain. It was fun shifting gears, something my father allowed me to do one time when I was a little kid.
One time.

“I’ll sleep in my office,” he said as we pulled up at The Grain.

I dropped him off, got in my truck, and headed home, hesitating a little, slowing down as I passed the
Rockbluff
Motel and the parked, blue 4Runner. Then I gunned it and left
Rockbluff
behind, already planning my next trip, solo, to the
Chalaka
rez
.

I was looking forward to helping Mr. Ted
Hornung
through a remedial course in following instructions. I hadn’t decided yet if I’d kill him.

I
didn’t sleep much.
Too many questions rolling around in my head about the murder of Cindy Stalking Wolf.
And side issues. What was it with Stephen
Doltch
and his trips to the
Chalaka
rez
, the Pony Club, and the casino?
Bunza
indicated he was in trouble with his gambling, which was his business; that is, unless it had something to do with the body in the river. What was the connection, if any?

And I thought our confrontation with Ted
Hornung
would have intimidated most people into being candid with us. But even after slapping him around and breaking his arm, he didn’t seem afraid, just angry, and, obviously, he ignored our threats about pushing his emergency buzzer after we left. It didn’t take long for his thugs to come after us.

Given those circumstances, it dawned on me that he was probably lying about not being involved in underage prostitution and, if that was the case, he had to know who Cindy Stalking Wolf was. The man’s conservative appearance and businesslike demeanor indicated the impressive confidence that comes from money. I had heard from impeccable sources that money can buy power, but I have found that to be a particularly cynical observation that is also absolutely true.

These were some of the thoughts tumbling around in my head all night. I’d doze a bit, aided by Gotcha’s soft snoring on her
tuffet
on the floor at the foot of the bed, and then I’d wake up with another question. And I came to the conclusion, around 5:30 in the morning, that I needed more information about those who might be responsible for Cindy’s murder and the
Jarlssons
’ disappearance. And I might need to continue snooping more effectively, especially with Moon banged up and only partially outstanding in any kind of tussle, as
Bunza
would call brawls. I needed to know more. It can be helpful sometimes to research those one plans to kill, but I remember times when I was okay with knowing nothing about my targets.

I was hungry when I got up. So I put on my glasses, glad they hadn’t been knocked off, never mind lost, in the rumble last night. I let Gotcha out and in and fed and medicated her and watched her go jump up in her favorite recliner, push the top part back to stretch out the chair,
then
stretch out herself. She didn’t seem to be angry with me for not feeding her the day before, especially after I doubled her rations this morning. A day without meds wouldn’t hurt her, either. I was glad Gunther had installed her doggy door just for situations like yesterday. Sometimes I surprise myself by planning ahead.

I showered, letting hot-hot water play on my back and chest where I’d been punched and kicked. Out of the shower, I toweled off and slipped on skivvies and checked myself in the mirror. My face was a little puffy, and a black eye was building. My right eyebrow was hanging a little loosely, so I got out my box of
Bandaids
, pushed the brow back into place, and applied three butterfly patches. I needed stitches, but I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, the eyebrow would adhere over time if I kept bandages in place. In addition to everything else, my lower lip was just a little swollen, and my ear looked okay with the dried blood washed off in the shower.

At no time did I remember a punch in the mouth; but then, there were a lot of punches thrown, most of those from my scuffle mates wild and ineffective. My teeth were all in place, undamaged, and I was glad about that, because I didn’t want anything to mitigate eating. I was ravenous and my stomach was growling. I decided not to shave, mainly because my right hand was fat and stiff and sore.

I fixed myself eight sausage patties and six of the whole wheat pancakes Jan Timmons had prepared and frozen for me. It was Saturday mid-morning and a new day and I needed calories. When the sausages and pancakes had been nuked and the pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup, I ate my breakfast, gave half a sausage to Gotcha, who had hopped down from her chair and given me her “You never feed me” look, and drank my coffee with Baileys. And then a second cup, taken in standing up out on the deck, where a clear, cold day revealed the Whitetail River Valley below, and beyond that, faint in the rising mist, the Mississippi River Valley. I went back inside after a quick prayer, thanking God we hadn’t been killed, and for the progress in finding out who killed Cindy Stalking Wolf and
disappeared
the
Jarlssons
. My coffee cup was empty.

After tidying up, I used the blasted cell phone to call Harmon at the Sheriff’s Office. He picked up right away, said hello, and asked what he could do for me.
Caller I.D.
His voice had an edge of stress to it, and his words were abrupt, as if I had interrupted something important.

“Harmon, I was just wondering if there’s anything new on the Cindy Stalking Wolf case, or if you’ve been able to find anything on the
Jarlssons
yet.”

“Christ, Thomas, maybe if you wouldn’t harass me with stupid questions I could get more done. You know damn well if I heard anything I’d call you. I always do every time you stumble onto an accident that turns out to be murder. Jesus!”

“Have you had your caffeine yet?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s with the attitude?”

I heard a deep sigh.
“Sorry, Thomas.
I’m just a little on edge. No progress and
I’m
starting to get pissed, and frankly, worried about the
Jarlssons
. It’s been ten days. I have a bad feeling about this. It’s out of character to act the way Prentice did with you,
then
disappear.
Out of character.”

I decided to push a little. “Is
Doltch
doing okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“He just seems a little more uptight than usual, at least with me,” I said.

“What do you know about Stephen?”

I decided I might as well go for broke. “I heard he had some issues with gambling.”

“At the
Chalaka
Casino?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that? Never mind. Obviously you’ve been up there recently, you and Moon, which explains his broken arm. I just left The Grain. He was close-mouthed about the blue sling. Who’s your source about Stephen?”

“That’s confidential.”

“You piss me off, Thomas. Just keep messing around in these investigations and you could bite off more than you can chew, even given your big mouth.”

“Harmon, let’s just change the subject. So, how’s your new deputy working out?
The cute one, Deputy
Altemier
?”

It was silent on the Sheriff’s end of the conversation. Then Harmon said, “Have a nice day, Thomas,” and hung up.
Loudly.

Well, shoot, if some people didn’t have emotions, wouldn’t it be a boring world?

I got on the internet to check emails. There was one from Ernie. It read, “Good trip back to snow-free central Georgia. Thanks for the hospitality. Good to catch up in person. I’ll be scanning the on-line
Des Moines Chronicle
for your next adventure. You and I both know it’s going to happen. We pray for your safety. Jan wants to know how’s Liv Olson
doing?
Have you called her yet? And so on.
Blessings, brother!”

The email was dated early this morning. They must have just gotten in.

I responded to Ernie and Jan with, “Everything swell” and signed off.

I checked two other emails and deleted them, then visited my favorite sites to find out the Hawkeyes had defeated Clemson in basketball, the Red Sox were looking to trade for pitching at the meetings in December, and there was corruption in politics.

After my internet activities, I sat down and read some from the Old Testament and happened randomly onto Psalm 68 which read, in part, that we should thank God for our salvation and escapes from death, a clear signal to proceed into troubled waters, or Indian reservations. Then I prayed for myself because, even though I can handle conflict pretty well, I also know when there just might be more than I am up to, and recognize the need to call in air power. It was 9:45 when I looked up and decided to drop by one of
Rockbluff
County’s better venues for information.

I dressed up a little (clean white shirt under a navy sweater) and left the house and drove over to the Whistling Birch Golf and Country Club.

Even though I was wearing blue jeans, the
maître ’d
allowed me into the dining room, where brunch was being served. Walter is flexible with me ever since the events of last year; in fact, for a stuffy and formal man, I think he likes me. He personally led me into the area set aside for brunch and I thanked him.

Brunch at the Whistling Birch Golf and Country Club does not consist of a buffet line. No, it is a time to be seated and waited upon. If you want seconds on anything, the waitress will get it for you on a clean plate. And so on.

Grace, my favorite waitress, greeted me and offered to take me to a table for one, but I saw the person I wanted to talk to, and so declined her offer. She smiled and walked away to assist someone else.

The room was redolent with the fragrance of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, and other intoxicating smells I could not identify, but longed for. I searched the room and saw
Jurgen
Clontz
at a table for two, by himself. He looked at me and I raised my eyebrows, even though my right one objected. He beckoned me forward with his left hand.

“May I?” I asked as I put my hand on the back of the vacant chair at
Clontz’s
table.

“Please,” he said. “May I order something for you?” He snapped his fingers and a waitress
appeared,
one of the three African-American females in the county, an attractive young woman with elaborate braids in her hair and a full figure stuffed into her white blouse.

“Our friend would like to order,
Karisma
, and please put it on my tab. Thomas, what will it be?”

“I’d like a double. I mean a double Diet Coke, or Pepsi, either one,” I said.

“A double Diet Coke okay?”
Karisma
asked.

“Okay,
sir
!”
Jurgen
said.

Karisma’s
head dropped a couple of degrees. “Double Diet Coke okay, sir?” she asked, a smile returning to her face.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Karisma
left and
Jurgen
Clontz
looked at me, dabbing at his mouth with the linen napkin. The remnants of toast, Eggs Benedict, and cottage cheese with chives remained on his plate.
Jurgen
is not a friend, although he is one of the people who participated in saving my life a while back—that is, he was able to discover that the person being sent to kill me was a woman, which gave us a serious advantage in crime prevention.

I had uncovered during the course of my snooping back then that he was involved in a fraudulent scheme to secure the highest bid for the
Soderstrom
Farms that eventually went for forty-four million bucks. And change.
Jurgen
is a land glutton. The license plate on his Jaguar reads “MY LAND.” He owns thousands of acres of Iowa land, some in Wisconsin, and quite a bit in Illinois. He wants to own America and won’t stop until he has it—it’s a hunger that cannot be satisfied. Sort of like me and sausage.

Anyway, there was no way to prove he was involved in the fraudulent scheme, just
a
he- said-she said kind of thing, but he had the dignity to withdraw his offer and slip out of the arms of the enforcers of the law. It was a close call, and Sheriff Payne decided not to push it since
Clontz
had used his considerable resources to provide us with a heads-up regarding the woman who wanted to put me at room temperature. Although she wasn’t the first woman who wanted me dead, she was the first professional to attempt to separate my body from my soul.