A Far Gone Night (19 page)

“Don’t start with that.”

“Just teasing.
Anyway, why don’t you buy me dinner tonight? We could meet at The Grain and harass Moon about his broken arm.”

I was tempted, but then I realized I couldn’t accept. I thought of Liv Olson. I said, “Thanks, Suzanne. But I don’t think so. Besides, no one harasses Lunatic Mooning. Trust me on that one.”

“Are you messing with me?” She reached down and tugged at the bottom of her short shorts. When she leaned forward, she kept her eyes on me and I let mine slip to the remarkable cleavage her tank top offered. When I looked back, she grinned.

“I am not messing with you,” I said, “but I’m flattered that you asked. What do you want from me? Just ask. Maybe I can tell you what you want to know without going to the trouble and expense of taking you out to dinner.”

“You are a rude and inhospitable man,” she said, then flounced off to her workout.

So now I had two beautiful women mad at me. I shrugged my shoulders and finished my thirty minutes and 350 calories from the elliptical. That nullified about twenty percent of a Whopper, I think. I stepped down and pulled my towel from the handle. And there was Suzanne again.

“Sorry I snapped at you,” she smiled.
“My bad.
It’s okay. Maybe I’ll see you at The Grain later. Now, I have a question for you.
About working out.
Since you’re knowledgeable about the body, what might I do to build up my chest?”

“Nothing,” I said, glancing down. “I think it’s already happened.”

“You are
such
a nice man,” she said, smiling.

“No, I’m not,” I replied, “but sometimes I say nice things.” Suzanne went back to her workout and I watched her go, admiring from the back her choice of workout attire.

I draped my towel around my neck, and walked over to a row of coat hooks along a wall next to the counter where one could purchase protein powder, energy drinks, muscle magazines, and high-protein candy bars. The DVD selection was next to the cash register. I took my sweatshirt off a hook and shrugged it on, reached into the pocket for my keys.

Just then Mike
Mulehoff
came into his gym. He had a funny look on his face, as if I were amusing him by working out, or he had just heard an entertaining joke. But neither was the case.

“Why didn’t you guys invite me on your trip up to the
rez
?”

“Well,” I said, “I didn’t think we’d need any help to just ask a few questions.”

“And that worked out how?” he asked.

“Not so good, obviously.
Too bad about Moon’s broken arm.”

“And it looks like you might have walked into a door,” he said, eying my face.

“Actually, the door jumped out at me, just as I was getting ready to go into an authentic
Anishinabe
souvenir earring shop.”

Mike smiled. “He’s more upset about the Packard being trashed than his busted arm. So, now that Lunatic’s on the injured-and-unable-to-perform list, next time you head north, give me a call.”

“Unless it’s a school night.”

“Unless it’s a school night,” he replied, laughing. “Therefore I wouldn’t suggest any more fact-finding expeditions other than Friday or Saturday nights. So what did you find out? Moon wasn’t too forthcoming. He did say you guys have a lead on some guy named Marty Rodman.”

“Just how good a lead it is remains to be
seen.
I doubt much will come of it.”

“You think he killed Moon’s niece? Or ordered it?” he asked.

“Who said the girl was killed? Where did you hear that?”

“Small town, close friends,” Mike said.

“Of course,” I said, “that.”

“Well, I’ve got some papers to grade,” he said, turning away. He turned back quickly and said, “Did I mention that I have a Bible study in my home on Wednesday nights?”

“No, I never knew, but thanks for the heads up,” I said as he headed for his little office. Mike has been trying to get me to come to that Bible study for more than a year now, and someday I’ll actually go. Honest.

I
took a long shower, leisurely shampoo, and a close shave after I got home from the gym at six-fifteen. And then, after slipping into blue jeans, hiking boots, and a heavy sweater, I headed for The Grain. My workout had left me cleansed.
And hungry.
And I was ready for some serious food. I could hear the siren song of a brace of Loony Burgers.

On my way over to The Grain o’ Truth, I began to have second thoughts about turning down Suzanne. No need to be rude to her, which I guess I was, implying she wanted something from me.

Moon’s place was quiet, subdued. I nodded at a few regulars who nodded back. Moon was behind the bar and it was good to see him at work. I approached him as he was handing over a tray with a pitcher and three glasses to a new waitress, a little thing with bootblack hair and a hank of it hanging over her face.
Fashionable and annoying.
She looked tired and drained even though she was probably in her 20s.

“Misty, meet Thomas O’Shea, my friend,” Moon said. The girl gave a little curtsy and a small smile and nodded. Then, with Rachel Bergman beside her, she took away the tray and headed across the room to a booth occupied by three gray-haired women.

“New employee,” he said. Moon hires females with backgrounds of abuse, alcohol, and drugs, and works with them to help get them back on their feet. They usually respond to his offer and, with Rachel’s supervision, turn out pretty well, moving on most of the time to better lives, strengthened.

“Good kid,” he said. “Now, what can I do for you, Thomas? You look hungry.”

“I
am
hungry. Just finished working out.
Pumping iron.
You should try it.” Moon never works out that I know of. He’s one of those rarities with great genes and a body that benefits from hard work. He wrestles with kegs and wholesale food deliveries and who knows what else, plus hustling pitchers and stacking chairs at the end of the day, and occasionally escorting out the door some obstreperous customer.

“My Zumba instructor forbids it.
Now, as to your order?”

I ordered two Loony Burgers and a pair of Three Philosophers and asked Moon to join me. To my surprise, he accepted, acknowledging that it was time for his dinner break, which is usually taken standing up while filling orders. He asked Rachel to take over behind the bar and she smiled and agreed.

She said, “I wish
I
could have dinner with Thomas” and gave me a wink. I like it when women wink at me. Sometimes Rachel pats me on the butt in passing. I like it when women pat me on the butt.

Moon brought my order and I took a booth near the back that afforded a good view of the bar and the front door. Someone had played Andy Williams’ rendition of “Moon River,” the song that launched his career independent of The Williams Brothers, Iowans all. My guess was one of the gray-haired ladies had approached the Wurlitzer.

I waited for Moon before starting in on my food. He appeared quickly with a thick sub packed with meat and cheese. I silently blessed our meal and we began eating, focusing on the food. Halfway through my second Loony Burger, Moon looked at me and said, “Your eyebrow is off center. Makes you look quizzical.”

“Liv said it makes me look stupid.”

“You looked that way before.”

“True, but I
am
quizzical. I’m quizzical about a lot of things, but I’m going to eventually be
unquizzical
when I get some damn answers about Cindy’s murder.”

“Me, too.”

“We’re going to have to make things happen. Stir things up.”

He nodded.
“Which we did, but not enough.
Let’s go back.”

“Let’s.”

Nothing more was said for the rest of our meal. No need, both of us worn out from our extensive verbal exchange. We finished and got up, I
bussed
the dirty dishes and glasses, and Moon headed behind the bar and back to work. I decided to hang out for a while and just enjoy the genuine ambiance of a subdued Monday night.

So I shot a few games of pool, picked up a few friendly bucks from a retired farmer in for the evening, stuffed my winnings into the TIPS jar by the flip-top counter, and played some tunes on the big, antique Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner. Then I ordered another Three Philosophers and just lounged at the bar for a while.

And then Suzanne
Highsmith
waltzed through the front door. She stumbled, slipped off her short fur jacket and tried to hang it on the coat tree by the door. She missed the hook on her first two tries, succeeded on the third, and ambled over to the bar, smiling crookedly. She plopped onto the barstool next to me, exhaled loudly, blew a kiss at Moon, and ordered a dirty martini.

“I
jus
’ love those
drinkies
,” she said. “And how are you tonight, big boy?”

“Fine,” I said. “Are you okay, Suzanne?”

“I am seriously
sherenpipidus
.
Sherendoofusis
.
Sheren
something.”
Her head dropped and lolled from side to side.

“Serendipitous?” I asked. Moon brought her dirty martini.

She slumped a little and pointed a finger gun at me, dropping the thumb.
“
Tha’s
it, Tommy.
Now, I have a confession to make.”

“Do I look like a priest?” I asked.

She exploded into laughter that tapered off to giggling sprinkled with snorts. Rachel passed us, trailing Misty.
And patted me on the butt while shaking her head at Suzanne’s antics.

“
Tha’s
funny, Tommy.
You, a priest?
Might as well be, though, since you won’t sleep with me.”
Before I could say anything, she continued, “Anyway, my ’
fession
is about to come out. My God, it’s hot in here.” She tugged at her sweater, pulling at the neck then letting it go.

“Your confession better not be about business,” I said. Her eyes were a little swimmy and her smile just a bit on the naughty side. I wondered how much she’d drunk before she found Moon’s place.
And where she’d loaded up on ‘
drinkies
.’

“It is not about business, at least, not about
business
business
.” The naughty smile became naughtier.

“What then? I love other people’s confessions.”

She lowered her voice. “I am not wearing any frilly underthings.”

I leaned forward and said, “Neither am I.”

She smiled and said, “I am not wearing
any
underthings.”

“And why is that?” I asked. “Didn’t pack enough for your stay in
Rockbluff
?”

“No, it’s because I didn’t want anything to slow you down after you take me back to the motel.” She sat back, folded her arms beneath her breasts, nudged them up a tad,
then
leaned with her elbows on the bar. Moon found something to do.

I said, “Did you drive yourself over here?
From where?”

“I was out at The Wishful Birch place.”

“You mean The Whispering Birch Golf & Country Club?”

“At the bar.
And I drove myself there and I drove myself here, although I did leave a couple of
smudgies
on some other cars badly parked out there.”

“I’ll take you back to your room.” I put money on the bar and a few singles in the TIPS jar.

“Indeed,” she said, and I came around and helped her to her feet and led her out of The Grain, grabbing her coat and slipping it over her shoulders. Several older men gave me a smile and
a thumbs
up.

It was frigid outside. In the truck, Suzanne tried to bridge the gap between me and her side of the cabin, scooching and twisting around the console until her head was on my shoulder and her right hand rested on my right thigh.

I drove slowly, thinking my way through the situation, endeavoring to take the high moral road and not take advantage, then telling myself that Suzanne was a grownup woman of great allure that wanted me to sleep with her, then telling myself that I needed to be true to Liv, then telling myself that maybe nothing would ever come from my relationship with Liv. And then I thought all those thoughts again.
Twice more.
Three times.
I asked myself what would Dietrich Bonhoeffer
do?
I did not ask myself what
would Kobe Bryant
do.

By then, I was pulling up in front of the
Rockbluff
Motel and Suzanne was asleep on my shoulder, her mouth open,
a
little thread of drool leading from her lovely, full lower lip to her chin. I eased her to a sitting position while I started to get out and go around and help her down.

She woke when I maneuvered her upright in her passenger’s seat.

“Oh my God, I must have fallen
ashleep
!” she muttered loudly. “How
embarrashing
is
that
?”

“Don’t worry about it, Suzanne.” I quickly slid out of the truck and went around to her door. I opened the door and took her hand. She kind of slithered backward and out, her body like a liquid. I grabbed her purse.

I supported her as we walked to door number 38, which was locked.
Of course.
I fished her key out of her purse and tilted her against me as I worked the key and opened the door.

Inside, she went slack as she passed out again, so I carried her into the bedroom, dumped her fur coat onto a chair, pulled the covers back from her bed, and gently deposited her there. I slipped off her shoes, put a pillow under her head, and pulled the covers up to her chin, congratulating myself for not peeking at her body. She began
snoring,
effectively snuffing out any impure thoughts I might have had regarding my next step. Years ago I would have awakened her with kisses and then spent the night. Now that I am a nearly-completed candidate for sainthood, I did the right thing, aided by the twin realities of advanced age and
experiences
with weird women half a bubble off.

Once I was sure she was asleep, I walked through the entire suite, checking to make sure no one was lurking around to cause trouble. I looked behind doors, in the shower stall, under the bed and sofa. Then I turned out all the lights except a night light in her bathroom and a small table lamp in the living room. I left the door to the bedroom open a little so there would be enough light from the lamp for Suzanne to see when she woke up. I tossed her key on the coffee table and left, making sure the door locked behind me.

That was Monday night. On Tuesday, she was nowhere to be found. I worked out at
Mulehoff’s
, lower body day, and mostly stayed home, except for a side trip to the library to study satellite photographs of the area around
Chalaka
. I called Liv Olson and, when she didn’t pick up, I left a message for her to call. I figured she was grading papers.

On Wednesday I worked out and later dropped in on Mike
Mulehoff’s
Men’s Bible Study. He and Gabby have a beautiful stone house that they renovated and upgraded. It’s on a quiet side street at the end of a cul-de-sac. When he opened the door, he did not look surprised. He invited me in and led me to a book-lined study where I said hello to Gunther Schmidt,
Arvid
Pendergast
, Harmon Payne, and another man I did not recognize. He got up and came across the room and said, “I’m David Elmendorf, Thomas” and we shook hands.

“He’s Doctor Elmendorf, family practice,” Mike said. Then we all shook hands and took seats. Shortly after, Gabby, Mike’s wife, came in with a tray of heavy hors d’oeuvres, setting them on a side table. Mike took drink orders, offering beer, cokes, hot chocolate, and water.
Arvid
asked which beers he had, and Mike said he had Heineken. We all voted for Heineken except for Harmon, who went with hot chocolate “In case my pager goes off and duty calls.”