Badger Games (17 page)

Inside, when the coffee was made and some Miles Davis was playing on the stereo system, Helen and Frank went to arrange the bedding. Paulie suggested to Joe that they go up into the tower. Joe settled on the one chair and looked out, while Paulie squatted nearby. They had not turned on a light, so they were able to see the stars.

“I'm not normally a nosy person,” Paulie said, after a moment, “but I'm a little anxious for my cousin. He's not used to company, as I'm sure you've noticed. He can get a little overfriendly, maybe, almost like a …” He hesitated.

“A puppy?” Joe said, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.

Paulie didn't reply, just looked out into the darkness. Joe could barely make out his face. Paulie looked down at his cup between his knees. After a moment, he said, “So you and your friend, Bradovich … I guess you set up this data bank on a mainframe, what—”

“How was Kosovo, Franko?” Joe cut in quietly.

Paulie sighed. “I was afraid you were here about that,” he said. His voice was soft and gloomy.

“Well, at least I'm not here about Frank's dope,” Joe said. “I'm working for a Colonel Tucker. Know him?”

“I may have heard of him,” Paulie said. “What does he want with me?”

“He just wants to know what happened.”

“Is that all?” Paulie said, the bitterness evident in his voice. “I don't know what I could tell him. I haven't really come to grips with it. I'm not sure I want to.”

“How long have you been here?” Joe asked.

“Since last spring,” Paulie said. “I guess I convinced myself that nobody would be coming, that nobody knew who I was, what I'd seen.”

“The colonel's not the type to just forget,” Joe said. “I don't know what he wants to know, to tell you the truth. I'm just a finder. I tell him I found you, he takes it from there. I guess he'll want to see you.”

Paulie didn't reply. He gazed out at the darkness. Finally, he said, “What if you don't tell him? That you found me. I mean, until an hour or so ago, you hadn't.”

“Ah,” Joe said. “That could happen, I suppose. But if ‘Franko' isn't found by me, I'd guess that he'd send someone else. In fact, there is someone else.”

Paulie looked at him. “Who?”

“I don't know,” Joe said. He told him what he'd heard.

Paulie was alarmed. “A big guy? Kind of loud?” Then he said, “I have no idea who that could be, do you? I mean, why would the colonel send another man without your knowledge, when you've barely gotten here?”

Joe had to agree it didn't make much sense. He admitted that he didn't think the other guy was sent by the colonel.

Paulie said, “Listen, I can't offer you any money … I don't have any. But if the DEA comes in here … I mean, look, you know what would happen, with Frank. I know you like Frank.”

“Frank can take care of himself,” Joe said. “I'm sure he's got some kind of plan, for when the narcs come around. He's pretty sophisticated, with his fences and cameras.”

“Yeah,” Paulie conceded, “Frank'll be all right. But … look, what's all this to you? Isn't there something … ?”

Joe took thought. “Who owns all this land?” He gestured out the window.

“Who owns … you mean this property? I do. Well, me and Frank. We inherited it, from our gramp—grandfather.”

Joe smiled and spread his hands. “Well, there you are.”

Paulie knitted his brow. “Ah,” he said then. “You're interested in land. Yes, you said as much, earlier.” He nodded, several times. “Yes, I see. Well, anything's possible, of course. But what about this other guy?”

Joe said, “That's another thing. Maybe it's nothing, just some old pal of Frank's.”

“I don't think so. Look, can you come back to my camp? We need to talk this over.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “Let's talk. What about Helen?”

“She can entertain Frank,” Paulie said. “I've never seen Frank so interested in a girl before.”

Joe thought he'd detected a hint of an emphasis on “girl.” “Why not?” he said.

They clambered down out of the tower. Helen and Frank were looking at some flowers and Frank was enthusing about them. Joe took Helen aside.

“Bingo,” he said. “He wants me to go back to his camp. I think he's got plenty to tell. He doesn't want us to expose him to the colonel.”

“What am I supposed to do,” Helen said, “hang out here with lover boy?”

“You'll be all right,” Joe said. “Just don't get too intimate.”

Helen grimaced. “Well, at least after hours of soaking, he's clean. You be careful. Paulie may not be too stable. Are you armed?”

“I was in a hot tub, remember?” Joe said. “Of course I'm not armed. But don't worry, it'll be all right.”

C
lark was a lady-killer. Tall, well built, handsome, with the tight auburn curls that the babes loved. At twenty-five he had the world by the tail. He was also the night bartender at Smokey's Corner and was thinking positively. The old man had stayed a little late, for him, until after six, drinking too much, shooting the shit with old buddies who stopped in. Which meant that he wouldn't be back. He'd go home and settle in before the TV and fall asleep. About ten, he'd wake up and call the bar to say he was going to bed and was everything all right? And if the crowd was as nonexistent as Clark figured, he'd be out of here himself by midnight, easy. Maybe even eleven.

The after-work crowd was long gone. The only sports on the tube tonight was wrestling. There wasn't that much interest in wrestling in Butte. Please, please, Clark prayed, don't let a bunch of goddamn bikers or late-quitting construction workers come in and settle down for a night of boozing. It was a weeknight, not many people out and about. It looked very much like he'd be out of here in time to drop by Nancy's pad—she'd let him in because it wouldn't be too late for her to get her “beauty sleep.” And they'd be porking on the couch by midnight. He was almost positive that he'd timed
her period right: she should be just about due, but not for a day or two. A good Catholic girl, she hated condoms and wouldn't use the pill, so it was the rhythm method or take a hike. And if she didn't let him in, he had some other numbers he could call.

In fact, things went even better than he'd hoped. Nobody even asked to see what was on the tube. Nobody came in but a few regulars for a quick shot and a beer, and still nobody came in, and Smokey called before ten. He sounded like hell, just woke up. He was going to bed. No way he could come over to check the receipts, no reason. He had full trust in Clark, who, like all of Smokey's boys, was not so dumb as to think it might be all right to skim off a canny old crook like Smokey.

“Kinda slow tonight?” Smokey inquired.

“A fuckin' morgue,” Clark said. “Hasn't been anybody in for damn near an hour. Okay if I shut her down early?”

“Give her 'til 'leven,” Smokey said. “It's prob'ly the same all over town. If Pat & Mike's shuts down early, and the Racetrack, and the Helsinki, there'll be guys running all over town looking for a drink.”

“The M&M's always open,” Clark pointed out. He was amazed that the old man gave a shit about the convenience of Butte's drunks. Lord knows, at least a half dozen other bars up and down the hill would be open until two
A.M
.

“Well, give her 'til 'leven,” Smokey said. “If you ain't got no business, lock her down. I'll see ya tamorra. And be sure the cases are all stocked before you leave.”

“They're already stocked, boss. I finished half'nour ago. I was just gonna put the chairs up and sweep.” In fact, Clark had already put the chairs up on the tables and even the stools onto the bar. He'd done damn near everything, in fact, except turn out the damned sign. After the boss finally hung up he started to count the till.

And then the door banged open. Wouldn't you know it? Clark saw that it was the big guy who had been in the night before. “We're about closed,” he called out.

“Aw, it's early,” the guy said. He yanked a stool off the bar and sat on it heavily, as if he meant to stay. “Gimme a shot a that … lessee,” he said, scanning the back bar. “You don't have no sliv'vitz. No? All right, make it the Stoli. Make it a fuckin' double, Jack. Er, pard. That's what you say around here, ain't it?”

He hauled out a fistful of bills and dropped some fifties on the bar and on the floor. He bent down to pick up the fallen bills, one hand covering those on the bar. When he straightened up Clark was holding the Stolichnaya and a double shot glass and making a face. “What's the prob, Bob?” the guy said.

“Aw, hell,” Clark said. “I just counted the till. I ain't got change for that. Here, I'll pour you one on the house.”

“Well, shit, pard, I'm gonna need more than one,” the guy said. He fumbled in his pocket again and found a ten.

“There's other bars up the hill,” Clark said. He poured the shot glass full. “There, drink that up.”

The guy picked up the shot glass and emptied it in one quick jolt. “Ah, yes,” he said and drew in his breath gratefully. “Another.” He shoved the glass forward.

Clark shook his head. “Sorry, pal.”

“Hey,” the guy said, leaning forward. His eyes were watery and he wasn't focusing well. He probably shouldn't be served, Clark thought. But the guy concentrated now and said, in a low, ominous tone, “I'm try'na be nice, pard. Just a customer. I can pay.” He shoved the ten forward.

Clark glanced up at the clock. He had plenty of time. This guy wouldn't need much. The only thing was, he feared, the longer he stayed open, the more likely that someone else would come in. But—he sighed—it was probably less time-consuming to give
this bird his shot, or two, and get rid of him that way—avoid a hassle. So he smiled and shrugged and poured another. “On the house,” he said.

“I like that,” the guy said, with a grin. “Price is right.” He tossed the shot down. “Another,” he said.

Clark sighed again. “Tell you what,” he said, “there's … what?” He held up the bottle and shook it. “A good half a bottle here. I'll sell you the rest for ten bucks.” He pushed the bottle over.

The guy grabbed the bottle and poured himself another shot, slopping it over the top. He eased the glass aside and leaned his big head down to suck up the spilled vodka from the bar with a slurp. Clark was tempted to crack the oaf over the head with the bottle. Instead, he patiently said, “Go ahead, take the bottle.” He waved toward the door.

The guy picked up the shot glass and tossed down the vodka. “Wow,” he said and gave a little shudder. “I just wanta ask a question,” he went on when he'd regained his composure. “Pour me another one, my hands are a little shaky.”

Clark poured another. This time the guy let it sit.

“I was in here last night and I ask you about a guy named Franko Bradovic. Only, I find out he goes by Frank Ob'ravich. 'Member?” When Clark nodded, the guy went on, “You said you din't know him. But I seen the way you said it, you did know him. Then I seen you look down the bar”—the guy cast a glance down the empty bar in demonstration—“and there was this old fart standin' down there and he gave a little sign, with his head. But I seen it.”

The guy paused and drank down the shot of vodka and gestured for another. Clark complied. Again, the man let it sit.

“So, you do know Franko. I was gonna come back, but I thought … well, what the fuck does it matter what I thought? Anyways, I'm back. So tell me about Franko.” He folded his arms on the bar and looked at Clark.

Clark considered briefly, then said, “You're a friend of Frank's?” The guy didn't look like any friend, but Clark didn't know Frank all that well. This guy was younger than Frank though probably not by too much, and kind of rough but wearing what looked like a cashmere turtleneck and a fine dark leather coat. Obviously he wasn't a bum. Maybe someone Frank had met in California. What the heck, Oberavich could look after himself, Clark thought. Still, there was a rule: if anything funny happened with Frank and Smokey found out he'd told the guy…. But how could Smokey find that out? The important thing, he decided, was to get this yahoo out of here before someone else came in.

“Me'n Franko go way back,” the guy said.

“Are we talking about the same guy?” Clark said. “What does this Franko look like?”

“Jesus,” the guy said with a sigh. He propped his head between his hands, his elbows on the bar. He groaned and held his head tightly. When he looked up he seemed less drunk, obviously concentrating mightily. “I'm just askin' 'bout a ol' buddy,” he said. “You wanta know, he's about thirty-five, medium height”—he held his hand out at his side at about a foot less than his own six feet and a few inches—“dark hair, a mustache. Not a bad-looking fella, if he'd lighten up, once.”

“Nah,” Clark said, shaking his head. “Frank Oberavich I know is, oh, not quite thirty, blond—dishwater blond, you know? He's skinny, 'bout five-six or -seven. Wears glasses, or used to. Different guy entirely. Here, here's your bottle, pard.” He pushed the Stolichnaya forward.

The guy sat back with a puzzled look. He reached out absently and picked up the full shot glass and drank it off. This time he didn't shudder, just looked thoughtful. “No shit,” he said, finally. He looked at Clark closely. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Clark said.

The guy thought for a second, then said, “Well, where's this fucker live?”

“Out in the boonies,” Clark said. “North of here. He's got a place way back in the hills. I couldn't begin to tell you how to get there. It's way up French Forque, somewhere.”

The guy looked confused now. “You got his number?”