Dead Frenzy (12 page)

She tipped her head in thought. “It would be better if that UPS manager didn’t know who you were but maybe that’s just as well. Retired dentist turned biker, that works.”

“How about
widowed
retired dentist turns biker to pick up chicks.”

“You won’t be the first, Doc,” said Lew. “Seriously, I think this will work. Now I need to get back to the office.”

She started down the stairs, then stopped, “One more thing, Doc. See the Harley-Davidson dealer later today if you can. He’s expecting you and he’ll have everything that you’ll need—boots, chaps, a jacket, a helmet, goggles…. ”

“Whoa, now wait a minute—”

“Safety first, Doc. It’s risky, riding a bike this size. If you go down, you do not want road rash.”

“Okay, okay. One last question, Lew. If the DEA knows so much about Patty Boy, why don’t they just arrest him?”

“Because if they time it right, they hope to make one of the biggest Ecstasy busts ever in the Midwest. Raises and promotions, Doc. Doesn’t matter which side of the law you’re on, it’s always about the same thing: profits.”

The dental files sat in a neat pile on the kitchen table. Waving his hand toward them as Lew headed for the back door, Osborne said, “Well, darn, I guess my looking into the Schultz murder case is moot? That’s too bad. Just before you came, I pulled my dental records for Jack and his family; I even had the victim as a patient.”

Lew paused. “I doubt if you’ll have time, Doc. But I’ll ask Marlene to pull that file for you.”

From his kitchen window, Osborne watched and listened as Lew roared off on the motorcycle. She made it look easy.

Expecting Ray to walk over from his place any moment, Osborne waited out in his yard, throwing the ball to Mike and thinking. Peter Fonda, huh. He made a mental note to check out
Easy Rider.
It had been years since he’d seen that movie.

Peter Fonda … fly-fishing and motorcycles … Osborne wasn’t sure if he should feel flattered or frightened … or both.

Again
and again Osborne snapped the heavy rubber band holding the accordion folder shut as he stared out the window of the Loon Lake District Library. His gaze was fixed on the entrance to the Kankelfitz Best Western Motel across the street, where nothing changed no matter how hard he looked at it.

Not even a car drove down the street between the motel and the library. He checked his watch for the seventeenth time. Dammit. He should have known better.

What had possessed him to rely on Ray to show up on time in the first place? Anyone who ever had dealings with the razzbonya knew the man was accountable to only one schedule: “Raytime.”

It was a word coined by the McDonald’s crowd, a word that could be uttered with a chuckle or a curse, a word that referred to a schedule outlined not by the hands of a clock but by any opportunity to chat. Could be one of the good nuns out for her morning walk was happy to entertain one of his cleaner dumb jokes. Could be he decided to stop for gossip and a bag of fresh shiitake mushrooms at Hank’s Citgo. It was no accident that Raytime rhymed with “waste time.”

Osborne covered his eyes with his hands. He gave up. Moments like these were when he understood why Lew was always reluctant to count on Ray. You could never be certain he would be where he said he’d be, do what he said he’d do. Ray meant well but he never met a straight line he didn’t have the urge to bend, twist, or snap.

Still, Osborne absolved himself of total stupidity; this morning’s arrangement had seemed free of hazard for the simple reason that Ray’s future as a celebrity was at stake. Osborne couldn’t imagine him running late for fame. So what had gone wrong?

Osborne snapped the rubber band again.

“Sshh!” whispered a young woman from across the room where she was trying to read a magazine. She threw him a dirty look.

Just forty-five minutes earlier, he and Ray had parted, heading in opposite directions but with the clearly stated objective of meeting on the steps of the library, across the street from where Osborne’s car was parked,
no later than noon.
That would allow plenty of time for Ray to drop Osborne at Erin’s home, then take the car to the airport to meet his client, whose plane was due at twelve-thirty.

According to Ray, his client was going to provide a car for the remainder of the assignment as he was to be her driver/protector for the week. All that was needed this morning was for Ray to arrive in a decent vehicle, make a good first impression, and return to town with Osborne’s car.

Upon agreeing to that plan, Ray had ambled off, intending to intercept Bert and Harold in the Best Western parking lot. That gave Osborne just enough time to walk four blocks east to Lew’s office in the Loon Lake Court House, where he hoped to pick up the Schultz file.

So far so good. Lew was on the phone when he got there but she had pulled the file and set it on Marlene’s desk. Marlene, in turn, handed the file to Osborne, who then hurried back four blocks to the library, where he had been sitting now for over thirty minutes.

So much for plans. It was now twelve-seventeen and still no Ray. The airport was only eight minutes out of town but this was pushing it. And Erin, who was expecting Osborne for lunch, did not need the frustration of a no-show father on top of a no-show husband.

Frustration mounting by the second, Osborne stood up and tried to peer around the curtains to see farther down the street, nearly putting his eye out on a decorative rod as he did so. Darn, the car was right where he had left it. He had the keys so he knew Ray couldn’t leave without him.

“Yo, Doc.”

Osborne whirled around. “Dammit, Ray!”

“I know, I know.” Ray raised both hands and feinted as if to ward off blows. Osborne knew he had deliberately snuck in the back way to surprise him, too—which did not add to his happiness.

“Better hurry, Doc, or we’ll be late.” Osborne rolled his eyes.

Out the library doors, down the stairs, and across the street they ran, Osborne handing over the car keys as they approached the car.

“Too late to drop you off, I guess, huh?” said Ray, yanking the door open and throwing his body inside. He shoved the driver’s seat back, way back. Osborne looked over at his friend. Had Ray planned this little maneuver?

“I’ll call Erin from the airport,” said Osborne. Reaching back from the passenger seat, he set the large brown accordion file on the back seat. “I’ll get a cup of coffee in the restaurant while you talk to your people, how’s that.”

Ray waited for a red light. “Hey, don’t you want to hear about old Bert?”

“I would love to hear about old Bert,” said Osborne, “but you know darn well I promised Erin I’d be over there for soup and a sandwich—so you better have a good reason for running so late.”

“You won’t believe it,” said Ray, checking to his left before making a right turn on red. “Yours truly … saved the day…. No one was in that RV when I knocked on the door. Now … had I stopped there…. ”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I did not. I checked with Pam at the front desk, cute girl, used to date her sister. She said the boys had parked it there over an hour ago, left the keys with her, and walked off in the direction of the phone company. So I said to myself … what … would … you do in Loon Lake at eleven in the morning?”

“I wish you had asked
Pam
who owns the RV—”

“I did that, I’ll get there, Doc, hold your horses, will ya? One of the pros fishing the tournament owns it, a guy named Bruce Duffy out of Lansing, Michigan. He flew in last night and stayed at the Kankelfitz. Okay?”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Osborne didn’t mention that he was sure Lew would have the same information from DMV records by late afternoon if not sooner. “Go on, sorry I interrupted.”

“So, like I said, I asked myself … what … would … you do in Loon Lake at eleven in the morning?”

“And—?” Osborne knew it was futile to hurry the man along but he was in the mood to try. Either that or beat him to death.

“Pancakes.” Ray gave Osborne a knowing look. “Can’t beat the Pub’s pancakes.”

“That’s true.” Osborne knew he sounded like a one-man Baptist choir.

“So I took myself over to there and sure enough doncha know those two jabones were up to their ears in maple syrup. And fritters—they had corn fritters, too.”

“Ray, I know the breakfast menu at the Pub. Can we skip to the action? Were they surprised to see you?”

“Maybe, couldn’t tell. I told ‘em you told me they might be around. Next thing, though, I shook ‘em up a little. ‘Hey, big Bert,’ I said, ‘I hear you boys are lookin’ to plant some fisheroonies!’“

“You said that.” Osborne looked out the window again. He was too old for this. This and motorcycles. Jeez.

“Yep, and did those two look unhappy.”

“For God’s sake, Ray.”

“C’mon, I told ‘em I was just kidding. Then I told them that you told me they were working for one of the pros in the tournament and that’s when I asked who that was and they told me what I just told you—the Duffy guy.

“He’s a big deal, Doc. Won the Bass Classic two years ago and was Angler of the Year a while back, too. Looks to me like he’s putting a lotta pressure on the boys. He wants the top prize.”

“Ray, why on earth would a professional fisherman of that stature hook up with a couple of dumyaks like Bert and Harold?”

“I asked that question … kind of. Actually, what I said was I envied Bert the gig because he must be making some re-e-e-ally good dough on it. And if there’s a pro tournament up here
next
year, I said I’d sure as hell appreciate it if he would put me in touch with the right people. That’s one list I’d like to have my name on! And I mean that, Doc. Technically speaking, as an ‘amateur co-angler,’ which is what he calls himself, all those two have to do is help the guy scout good fishing holes during the qualifying rounds.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“Y’know Bert did time in the pen…. ”

“No, you never told me that,” said Osborne.

“I’m sure I told you that.” Ray looked at Osborne in surprise.

“Okay, I forgot—but finish the story, we’re almost there.”

“That night I met Bert on Trout Lake when his ATV broke down and I gave him a ride? Maybe I didn’t mention that I had a little altercation with the game warden as we drove off the ice.”

Of course he didn’t; that’s why Osborne hadn’t heard this part of the story.

“My fishing license had expired and my truck was … full of sweet air because Bert and I had just shared one. In fact, the only good news was I hadn’t had any luck that night; otherwise I’d ‘a’ been in the hoosegow with the warden eating my catch. So ol’ Bert had a front row seat for my moment of distress. After the warden read me the riot act and we were driving into town, Bert volunteered that he’d done some time back in the eighties for growing weed on his mom’s property up in Mercer. So this morning when I asked him how he connected with this professional bass fisherman, all he said was—and I quote—’a friend from the old days’ put him in touch.

“It was the look he gave me when he said it that reminded me he did time in Marion. Now”—Ray raised a hand as if to block an argument—”you can say I’m leaping to conclusions but intuition tells me that’s what he meant, okay?”

Osborne nodded. He believed.

While intuition was one talent of Ray’s that no one sneered at, he also entered the Pub fully informed. Before asking for advice on Brenda Anderle earlier that morning, Osborne had filled Ray in on the encounter at Birch Lake, every detail from Bert’s dirty pants right down to the traveling fish fry held hostage in the RV’s livewells.

“It adds up,” said Osborne. “Your intuition plus three dozen expertly aerated smallmouths in an expensive RV parked in the middle of nowhere. All that
and
a first prize purse of a million bucks? Works for me,” said Osborne.

“Doc, get your numbers right. First Prize is actually a measly half a million bucks. The purse goes up
another
five hundred thousand dollars if the winner is fishing in one of five Ranger Boats with Mercury motors that are awarded by lottery on opening day,” said Ray. “I’d say the million dollars is a long shot even for the pros. But it’s still one mother of a fishing tournament. I can see why someone would try to cheat.”

Osborne checked his watch: four minutes to the airport.

“Little more to the story, Doc. I think Bert’s working a scam on that pro. He has no idea what he’s doing. I doubt he’s fished more ‘n two or three times in his life and Harold’s no better.

“No wonder they were happy to see me. The minute I sat down for a cup of coffee, they had those fishing maps spread out all across the table and not a clue for the hot spots in any one of those five lakes. They’re not gonna help Duffy win a half-million bucks, he’ll be lucky if he’s not excommunicated. And you want to know how I know?”

Osborne waited. Three minutes to the airport.

“They actually asked me to show them my honey holes for big bass.”

Osborne looked over at Ray: “Are you
serious?”

“Just like that.”

Ray slowed behind an elderly woman in the car ahead. Oncoming traffic was too heavy to pass. Neither of them said a word, well aware they knew exactly what the other was thinking: An experienced, dedicated fisherman does not tell anyone, ever, the location of his best fishing holes. Nor would anyone who ever fished for any length of time expect him to. Not even blood relatives expect to share such sacred information.

Osborne caught the look on Ray’s face. “Oh no, you showed them, didn’t you.”

“Yep, and I made it simple so Lew can put Roger on this one. But … one thing I need you to make very clear to Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris …
this is not entrapment.
These boys have a choice.”

Ray knew and Osborne knew that the last thing Ray needed was to be perceived as being on the right side of the game wardens. In one fell swoop, his reputation would be skewered. Never again would he get a good tip on fishing private water (water belonging to someone other than the tipster, of course).

Ray turned the car onto Airport Road. “That sunken island on Cranberry Lake?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I showed ‘em on the map where it is. And I gave them a strategy. I said, ‘Look, don’t even try to guarantee finding big fish for the guy, he’s a pro, he should be able to do that. What he needs from you is a good haul of decent-sized smallmouth that’ll add up to a healthy qualifying weight limit. Make that your goal. No red flags that way, either.’“

“So you did not encourage them to plant fish.”

“Hell, no. My suggestion was simply that they put some minnow bait down in there to draw fish. Of course, given those boys are pretty dim candles, I had to explain that fish have a lateral smell organ, which means they will find those minnows. Who doesn’t know that? If baiting with a bucket of minnows is against the rules of the tournament, that’s their worry. I don’t know if it is or not. On the other hand…. ”

Again Osborne waited.

“Knowing they didn’t have a clue as to how to get bait out there, I suggested they use leech traps … my leech traps.”

“The ones behind your trailer?”

“Yep, I gave them directions to my place, told them they could use however many they want—but I need ‘em back when they’re done.”

“You think they’ll forget the bait and put those smallmouths from the livewells in the traps?”

“You betcha. The minute those traps disappear from my place? That’s the signal for Roger to stake out the island. All he’ll need is binoculars and the phone number for the tournament officials. I heartily suggest, however, he better be damn sure they’re putting big fish down there before he calls.”

Ray pulled Osborne’s car onto Airport Road. “I hate to see Bert shoot himself in the foot with this. He’s not that bad a guy. He even … offered … to do me a favor in return…. ” The sudden change in cadence signaled something Osborne should have been expecting: Ray’s punch line.