Bluetick Revenge (4 page)

“Jesus Christ,” she shot back, “I don’t need you to judge me. I can get that from the feds.” I started back to the living
room. “I’ve been doped up for seven years,” she added, “so give me a break.”

“All right,” I said, “forget I mentioned it. Let me show you around.” I gave her a tour of my home, showed how the kitchen
was organized, taught her how to work the remote, then led her upstairs to the guest bedroom and let her dump her belongings.
“There’s a bathroom in there,” I said. “If you need anything, let me know.” I left her there and went to my study on the main
floor.

I hadn’t held a salaried job since leaving the practice of law, but I kept busy. I did investigative work for my former law
partners and most anyone else who could pay me. I worked out every day, spent time at my brother’s gym in Denver, read lots
of philosophy in an attempt to make some sense of this thing we call life, and sometimes showed up at a karate class taught
by my best friend, an unemployed astrophysicist named Scott McCutcheon.

I sat at my desk and pondered what to do. The Anvil incident concerned me because word would be out that Karlynn was still
in the area and keeping company with a man matching my description. We were lucky it hadn’t happened in Nederland. Once they
knew I lived up here, it wouldn’t be hard to find me.

I picked up the phone and dialed Matt. A woman answered and told me he was in a meeting. I asked her to interrupt. My need
to speak with him was not urgent, but I abhor phone tag. After thirty seconds of elevator music, Matt came on the line.

“We need to revisit the money issue,” I deadpanned.

“A deal is a deal,” he shot back. “You’re stuck with her. The two of you having fun?”

“Yeah, she’s a laugh a minute,” I said. “I pull you away from something important?”

“No, what can I do for you?”

“After helping Ms. Slade buy lingerie this afternoon,” I said, “I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman named Anvil. Anvil
is an acquaintance of Mr. Bugg, and he told us Mr. Bugg is most unhappy with Ms. Slade. He also indicated Mr. Bugg has put
a five-thousand-dollar bounty on the head of the gentleman responsible for stealing his canine companion. I’m paraphrasing,
of course, but I thought it might be prudent to ask you for copies of any documents in your possession pertaining to Anvil
or Bugg or the Sons of Satan.”

“You done?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Because that was entertaining. If you’ve got more, I want to hear it. It beats the hell out of going over tax returns with
the IRS.”

“I’m afraid that was it,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “The answer to your question is that prior to finalizing an agreement on behalf of Ms. Slade, I insisted—as
any competent attorney would-that the feds provide me with sufficient documentation to convince me they had a case against
her. I’ll have a courier deliver copies to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” I said.

“Friday, then.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I don’t know how much it will help,” he said. “Most of the reports I have pertain only to Karlynn and the prostitution operation.
You can’t show them to her, by the way. That would contaminate her testimony. She has to testify from her own personal knowledge.
The feds don’t want some slick half-Jewish defense lawyer arguing she was just parroting what she’d read in their files.”
It was a rare example of Matt making an attempt at humor. Self-deprecating humor in this instance. His father was Jewish and
his mother a Baptist from Alabama. Or as Matt likes to say, he’s half Elijah, half Kawiiga. Elijah, for those who don’t know,
was a Jewish prophet, and Kawliga was a wooden Indian made famous by Hank Williams.

“I understand,” I said.

“Hey, before I hang up, what kind of shape is Anvil in?”

“It didn’t come to that,” I said. “Anvil’s cards weren’t very good. He decided to fold and play another day.”

“You take care,” he said.

“Roger that,” I said.

It wasn’t quite time for dinner, so I picked up a book I’d been reading, leaned back in my chair, and put my feet up on the
desk. Presently I was working my way through
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
, by Robert Pirsig. I’d read it many times before, but it’s a wonderful examination of philosophy and well worth rereading
every few years. Philosophy had interested me since college, and I had even tried graduate school for a year. Later, when
I left the practice of law, one of my goals was to study the entire history of philosophy from pre-Socratic Greece right up
to the twentieth century. I attained that goal, though by the time I got up to American pragmatism I had forgotten what distinguished
the stoics from the epicureans. That’s one of the dangers of studying philosophy. You’re never quite done.

I heard water running and assumed Karlynn was taking a shower. Sometime after five she and Prince wandered into my office.
She wore a new pair of jeans and what sure as hell looked like one of my size 44 white cotton T-shirts. Her hair looked a
little less stringy, and I could see how she might make it into the “good-looking” category with a little bit of effort. “I’m
bored,” she said.

“My job is to protect you, not entertain you.”

“Whatcha reading?” she asked as if I’d said nothing. I held up the book so she could see its title.

“I didn’t know you were into bikes,” she said.

“It’s not about bikes,” I said. “It’s about values.”

“Oh.”

“If you see one you like,” I said, “feel free.” Two of the walls in my study are lined with books, mostly books on philosophy
and some fiction by authors such as Edward Abbey and Thomas McGuane. She glanced at a few of the titles, then scanned the
rest of the office. It’s only about two hundred square feet, but it’s more than adequate. I’d furnished it with a mahogany
desk and added color by creating a cactus garden atop the matching credenza against the south window.

“You must like bears,” she said. The other walls boasted several paintings of grizzly bears, including an original by Robert
Bate-man that I had purchased after one particularly profitable year during my legal career.

“Bears are cool,” I said. “In my next life I want to be a grizzly. I want to live on the Alaskan coast and eat salmon and
berries all day.”

“Is that you?” she asked, pointing to a framed black-and-white photo of young Pepper in full boxing regalia. It was clear
she was going to continue to make conversation, so I put the book down.

“That’s me,” I said. She moved closer to the photo. Beneath the photos on a small silver band, was an inscription: “Capt.
Pepper Keane-Heavyweight Champion MCB Camp Lejeune for 1984. An officer AND a lawyer-who’d have thunk it?”

“Most heavyweights are taller,” she said. That definitely should’ve been strike three, but I’d heard it so many times that
I’d become more or less immune to it. She wasn’t going away, so I removed my feet from my desk and stood up.

“I guess we should feed the dogs and make some dinner,” I said. She followed me to the kitchen. I let Buck and Wheat in, then
handed her a large metal mixing bowl and told her where the dog chow was. “I’ve been feeding him in the basement,” I said,
“so he won’t fight with my dogs.” While she was doing that, I ushered Buck and Wheat into the garage and fed them. Then I
returned to the kitchen and started boiling water for spaghetti.

She returned from the basement and stood against the counter while I chopped tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and garlic. “Joe
Frazier is only five-ten,” I said. “And Tyson isn’t even six feet.” She didn’t respond. I melted some butter in a frying pan
and slid the vegetables into it.

“You one of those men who like to cook?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “I’m one of those men who like to eat.” Then I opened a jar of Ragu and poured it into a large pot. I dumped
some cabernet into it, then squeezed a little lemon juice into the mixture, and finished by sprinkling in some ground cinnamon
and clove. “Pepper’s secret recipe,” I said.

After dinner we watched TV. I sat in my recliner. She and Prince sat on the couch, with Buck and Wheat on a rug near the fireplace.
As best I can recall, we watched a medical drama, a legal drama, and snippets of
Scooby-Doo
during commercials. I like
Scooby-Doo
. At ten-thirty, after the sports news, I stood and announced, “I think it’s time for me to hit the hay.”

“Do you want some company?” she asked.

T
HE SADDEST THING
was not that she had been willing to sleep with me after knowing me twelve hours, though that was sad. It was not that I
had stayed up until one a.m. attempting to convince her I was not rejecting her, though that was sad, too. The saddest thing
was that I had been tempted. I had a wonderful woman in my life, but I had been tempted to sleep with Karlynn Slade. Why?
For the novelty of it? Simply because I was a man? Or was I subconsciously mad at Jayne because she’d opted to spend nine
months teaching in the People’s Republic of China? I would let those questions percolate.

Despite my lack of sleep, I woke before she did. By seven I was sipping coffee at the long oak dining table and reading the
Rocky Mountain News
. The dogs had already been out, and all three now lay beside me on the hardwood floor. The paper reminded me it was Thanksgiving,
and I gave thanks I’d had the good sense not to sleep with Karlynn Slade.

Not that there was anything wrong with her body. That was fine, but there was a lot wrong with her mind. I’d spent more than
two hours trying to explain that to her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I had said. I saw the hurt in her eyes as soon
as I’d said it, and knew it was just a matter of time until the tears began to flow.

“Aren’t you attracted to me?” she asked from her seat on the couch. A dangerous question under the best circumstances. A potentially
lethal question when asked by a recovering meth addict coming off a relationship with the leader of a sadistic biker gang.

“You’re very attractive,” I said, “but I’m being paid to protect you.”

“So?”

“I can’t do that if my judgment is clouded.”

“I could rock your world,” she said.

“It’s not hard to do,” I replied.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Another dangerous question.

“No,” I said patiently, “I don’t think I’m better than you.” I paused to consider my words. “I think we are two very different
people. And I think you’re vulnerable right now because you’re under tremendous pressure. You’ve just spent thirty days in
a treatment program and your body is still adjusting to being drug free. Your husband wants you dead and the feds are threatening
you with prison unless you testify against him and give up the only life you’ve ever known. You’re scared, and I don’t blame
you. It’s natural to want to latch on to someone else under those circumstances.”

Then the tears came. I walked over to the couch, sat down beside her, and held her hands. “I’m not a bad person,” she sobbed.

“I know that,” I said. “I knew that as soon as I saw you with Prince.” She looked down at him and continued crying.

“My life is such a mess,” she said. I walked to the bathroom and carried back a box of tissues. She took a few and wiped her
eyes.

“How old are you?” I asked. “Thirty? Thirty-two? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

It had gone on like that for several hours. During that time we talked about everything from her codependency to my career
as a Marine Corps JAG. She seemed to enjoy listening to my anecdotes and tales of my travels. Alaska particularly fascinated
her as I recounted an adventure that had taken Scott and me from the rainy coastal areas in the south to the barren tundra
of the North Slope, where my seventy-year-old mother still works as a nurse for the U.S. Public Health Service. She thought
I was joking when I told her there is a Mexican restaurant in Barrow, three hundred miles above the Arctic Circle. I think
it’s called North of the Border.

Today was a new day. She was a redhead now. She came downstairs sometime after eight wearing a pair of my gym shorts, another
one of my T-shirts, and a scowl. This vision inspired me to start singing the theme song from
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. “Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing date and suddenly make it all seem—”

She glared at me, and I interpreted that to mean she did not appreciate my humor or my singing, so I stopped.

After enjoying her first cigarette of the day in my unheated garage, she poured herself some coffee and joined me at the table.
“I never used to drink this shit until I went into treatment,” she said.

“Coffee’s a comparatively harmless addiction,” I said. I had finished the paper, except the crossword puzzle, and slid the
rest of the paper over to her. I needed an eight-letter word for “coward” and couldn’t think of one.

“Is today Thanksgiving?” she asked.

“Sure is,” I said.

“We should do something special.”

“I promised a nephew I’d have Thanksgiving dinner with him,” I said.

“Am I going?” she asked.

“I guess so,” I said.

“You don’t sound too excited,” she said.

“It’s not you,” I said. “Nancy’s kind of nighty.” Last year she’d insisted on making a goose for Thanksgiving, and it had
been the stringiest fowl I’d ever sampled.

“Who’s Nancy?”

“My nephew’s mom.”

“Your sister? Or your sister-in-law?”

“Neither, she was married to my cousin.”

She looked puzzled. “Then he’s not really your nephew,” she said. “He’s your second cousin.”

“I know,” I said, “but I call him my nephew because he’s only fourteen.”

“So Nancy was married to your cousin?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re divorced?”

“My cousin’s dead,” I said.

“Oh.” I told her the short version. My cousin, Hal Keane, had been a high school chemistry teacher, a football coach, and
a reserve officer with the Denver Police Department. He had died four years ago in a gun battle with a couple of punks he’d
caught pistol-whipping a Nigerian immigrant. My brother and I had been close to Hal during our youth, when we had lived within
a few miles of each other, but we’d drifted apart as we’d grown older and fashioned our own lives. I didn’t even know he’d
been a police officer until after his death.