High Hunt (15 page)

“Yeah,” I said shortly. Again I knew I could trust him. “Jack knows about it, too,” I added.

He whistled. “Son of a bitch! This could get a little intense. And the way that Larkin broad is throwin' her ass at him, Lou's likely to get a piece of her before too long, too. You know, Dan, this has the makings of a real fun trip.”

“You know it, buddy,” I said. “We may have to haul that Jarhead son of a bitch out of the woods in a sack.”

“He's pure trouble. I wish to hell he was out of this little hunt.”

“You and me both,” I agreed. “Mike, you're not screwing anybody's wife, are you? I don't think my nerves could take any more of this crap.”

He laughed. “Betty would castrate me,” he said. “You got no more worries.”

“God”—I chuckled—“what a relief.” I looked on into the living room. Monica was really snuggling up to old Lou, and he was lapping it up. “We'd better get McKlearey away from her before he throws the blocks to her right there on the couch,” I said. “She doesn't know what she's messing with, I don't think. Or maybe she does—anyway, she can diddle with King Kong for all of me, but I'd rather not have Stan watching.”

“Right,” he said. “I'll get him to help me with Jack. You want us to put him in your car?”

“Yeah,” I said, “you'd better. Here are the keys. Why don't you drive him on over and take McKlearey and Sloane with you? I'll bring Marg along in Jack's car when the girls get her
straightened out. Then I can run you guys back here. That ought to break up the action a little.”

“We can hope,” Mike said and went to get McKlearey and Cal.

This whole damned thing was getting wormier and wormier. We'd be damn lucky if
any
of us got out of the woods alive. I went on back to the bedroom to see how the girls were doing with Margaret.

B
Y
the next Saturday we were all getting things pretty well in shape. I had decided that I could find enough clothing in my duffle bag to keep me warm and dry in the woods. All I needed was a good warm jacket and a red hat. There was no trick to locating those.

It took a little more scrounging, but I found a guy—a GI out at the Fort, I think—who sold me a whole bucketful of .30-06 military ammunition at five cents a round. I suspect that he'd stolen it, but I didn't ask.

That morning I took my guns to the police range and began the tedious business of sighting in the rifle. It was cool and cloudy, with no wind—a perfect day for shooting. I finally got it honed into a good tight group about an inch high at two hundred yards and decided that would do it. Then I went over to the pistol range and pumped a few through that old single action .45. I came to the conclusion that if I ever had to shoot anything with it, I'd better be pretty damn close.

I was supposed to pick up Clydine about three thirty, but I still had plenty of time, so I swung on by Stan's place on the way back from the range. I knew he was having a real bad time, and he needed all the support he could get. Monica was making life miserable for him, if her behavior at the party was any indication. For some reason this hunt had become a major issue between them. I figured that if he could just win this one, it might change the whole picture.

“How's it going, old buddy?” I asked with false cheerfulness when he answered the door. The place was still uncomfortably neat.

“Not too well,” he said with a gloomy face. “Sometimes I think this was all a mistake.”

“Oh, come on now,” I said. “You've just got the pre-season jitters.”

“No. Monica isn't really very happy about my going. She said some pretty nasty things about you and the others when we got home Wednesday.”

“I'll bet,” I said. “Wednesday night was kind of a bummer anyway. Don't let it shake you—her being against it, I mean.”

“Still,” he said dubiously, “it's the first really serious disagreement we've ever had. I don't know if it's worth it.” She just about had him on the ropes. I was goddamned if I'd let her win now.

“Look, Stan,” I said, “no woman has ever been that excited about her man's wanting to hunt and fish. It's in the blood—you know, basic functions, cave-keeping and bringing home the meat. Modern women have got us cave-broken, and they hate to see us reverting. But a man needs to bust out now and then. Give him a chance to get dirty and smelly and unhousebroke. It's good for the soul. Deep down, women really don't mind all that much. Oh, they put up a fight, but they don't really mind. It puts things back in perspective for them.” It was crackpot anthropology, but he bought it. I kind of thought he would. He wanted to win this one, too.

“Are you sure?” he asked, wanting to believe.

“Of course,” I told him, “you're dealing with primitive instincts, Stan. Monica doesn't even know why she's fighting it. You can be damn sure, though, that she really wants you to stand up to her. She's
testing
you, that's all.”
That
ought to throw some reverse English on the ball.

“Maybe you're right,” he said.

“Sure,” I told him, “that's what hunting is really all about. God knows we don't need the meat. You can buy better meat a helluva lot cheaper at the supermarket. Deer meat is going to average about five dollars a pound—that's for something that tastes like rancid mutton.” I was laying it on pretty thick, and he was buying every bit of it. He really wanted to go, and convincing him wasn't all that hard.

“You get that rifle you were going to borrow?” I asked him, wanting to change the subject before he caught me up a tree.
I'd planted enough, though, I thought. At least he wouldn't roll over and play dead for her.

“Yes,” he said, “I picked it up this morning. It belongs to a fellow at the school, but he had a heart attack and can't hunt anymore. He said that if I like the way it shoots on this trip, he'll sell it to me.”

He fetched the gun, and I looked it over. It was one of those Remington pumps in .30-06 caliber, scope-mounted and with a sissy-pad on the butt. I felt my shoulder gingerly. Maybe a recoil pad
would
be a good investment if a man planned to do a lot of shooting.

“Good-looking piece,” I said. “You sighted it in yet?”

“The fellow said that it was right on at two hundred yards.”

“Probably wouldn't hurt to poke a few through it just to make sure,” I told him. “Sometimes they get knocked around a little and won't hit where you're aiming. I'll give you a fistful of military rounds so you can make sure.” I told him where the police range was, but he already knew. So I showed him how to adjust the sights, gave him about fifteen rounds and took off. I didn't want to be around if Monica came back. He'd told me she'd been gone since early that morning on some kind of errand, and he didn't expect her back until evening, but I didn't want to take any chances. I might just have trouble being civil to her.

I wanted to swing on by Sloane's pawnshop to see how things were shaping up with the other guys, so I buzzed right on over there. My ears were still ringing and I could have used a beer, but I figured that could wait.

Sloane was in the place alone when I got there.

“Hey, Dan,” he said, “how'd it shoot?”

“Dead on at two hundred,” I said.

“Good deal. Say, you hear about Betty?”

“What? No. What's up?”

“That damned kidney of hers went sour again. Mike had to put her in the hospital again last night.”

“Oh, no,” I said, “that's a damned shame.”

“Yeah. I'm afraid Mike won't be able to go with us, poor bastard. He wouldn't dare leave now.”

“Christ, Cal,” I said, “that'll wash out the whole deal then, won't it?” I felt sick.

“No, I don't think so,” Sloane said. “I called Miller this morning as soon as I heard about it. He wasn't any too happy, but he'll still take us. It's too late for him to get another party.”

“It's still a damn shame,” I said. “Poor Betty was just getting back on her feet from last spring, and Mike's really been counting on this trip. I was looking forward to getting out with him.”

“It's a lousy break,” Sloane said. “It's a good thing we included Larkin in. Miller wouldn't have held still for just four guys.”

“I had to give Stan a shot of high life just a little while ago,” I said. “His wife's giving him a whole bunch of crap about the trip.”

“She's a real bitch, isn't she?”

“They'd have been ahead to have drowned her and raised a puppy,” I agreed.

“She was really out to raise hell last Wednesday,” Sloane said. “Hey, could you use a blast? I've got a jug in the back, and it's about time for my early afternoon vitamin shot.”

“Oh, I guess I could choke some down,” I said. “Might take some of the sting out of my shoulder.”

“That old aught-six steps back pretty hard, doesn't it?” he said, leading me into the back room.

“You know she's there when you touch 'er off,” I agreed.

He took a fifth of good bourbon down from one of the shelves. “I stick it up high,” he said, “so Claudia doesn't find it. She's sudden death on drinking on the job. I wouldn't want to get fired.” He giggled.

“Hadn't you better sit where you can keep an eye out front?” I asked.

“What the hell for? On the fourth of the month the GI's are fat city—rollin' in money. Everybody's already redeemed last month's pawns, and nobody looks for pawnshop bargains on Saturday afternoon. Their neighbors might see them and think they were hurting for money. Here.” He passed me the jug.

I took a long pull. “Good whiskey,” I said as soon as I got my breath.

“Fair,” he agreed, taking a drink. “Oh, hey. I wanted to show you the pistol I'm taking along.” He rummaged around and came up with a .357 Ruger, frontier style.

“Christ, Sloane,” I said, “isn't that a little beefy?”

“It shoots .38 special as well,” he said. “I'll probably take those.”

“It's got a good helf to it,” I said, holding the pistol.

“Got a holster too,” he said, pulling a fancy Western-type cartridge belt and holster out of one of his bins.

“Man,” I said, “Pancho Villa rides again. We're going to
go into the woods with more armament than a light infantry platoon.”

“Jack's got that Army .45 auto, and McKlearey's taking a Smith and Wesson .38 Military and Police,” he said.

“I don't know if Stan's got a handgun,” I said. “When you get right down to it, they're not really necessary.” I wanted to say something more about that, but I figured it was too late now.

“It just kind of goes with the trip,” Sloane said, almost apologetically. “If it's the kind of thing you only do once, you might as well go all the way.”

“Sure, Cal,” I said, looking at my watch. “Say, I've got to run.”

“O.K. Here, have one for the road.” He handed me the jug again. I took another belt, and we walked on back out into the shop again.

“Keep in touch,” he said.

“Right.” I waved and went on out to the street. Goddamn Sloane was just a big kid. I began to understand Claudia even a little better now. God knows he needed somebody to take care of him.

I dropped the guns and clothes off at the trailer and buzzed on out to the Patio for a few beers. I still had a couple hours before I was supposed to pick up Clydine. It was still cloudy, but no rain. It was the kind of day that's always made me feel good. Even the news about Betty hadn't been able to change that. I parked the car and went inside whistling.

McKlearey was there at the pinball machine—as usual—still standing at attention. He saw me before I could back out.

“Hey, Danny,” he said, “come have a beer.” I hate having people I don't like call me Danny. My day went sour right about then.

“Sure,” I said. I followed him to the bar and ordered a draft.

“Hey, old buddy,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder with a false joviality that stuck out like a sore thumb. “How you fixed for cash money?”

“Oh,” I said cautiously, “I've still got a couple bucks.”

“Can you see your way clear to loan me five till payday?”

I couldn't think up an excuse in a hurry. I reached for my wallet before I even stopped to think. You get that reflex in the Army, I don't know why.

“I get paid on Wednesday,” he said, watching me, “and I'll get it right back to you then.”

I pulled out a five and handed it to him.

“Got to pick up some stuff, Lou,” I said. “I don't think I'd better cut it any tighter.”

“Sure,” he said, “that's OK. This'll get me by. I'll be sure to get it right back to you on Wednesday.”

“No sweat, Lou,” I said.

“No,” he said, “a guy ought to stay on top of his obligations.”

There was five bucks down the tube.

“You hear about Carter's wife?” he asked, settling back down at the bar.

“Yeah,” I said, “I just stopped by the pawnshop. Sloane told me.”

“Damn shame,” he said indifferently. “Oh, well, there's enough of us to make the trip OK.” He seemed almost glad that Mike wasn't going. He was a rotten son of a bitch.

“Sure,” I said, “we'll be able to swing it.”

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” he said. “You was lucky to catch me. I just had a real high-class broad in the sack at my place.”

“Oh?” I had a picture of what he'd call a “high-class broad.”

“Yeah. I only met her a few days ago, but it don't take a guy long to make out if he knows the score. You know her, but I ain't gonna tell you who she is. Nice set of jugs on her and a real wild ass.”

McKlearey was about as subtle as a brick. What in hell was Monica up to? If she wanted a little strange stuff, she sure as hell could have done better than this creep.

McKlearey chuckled obscenely. “You should have seen it, Danny boy. She comes to my fuckin' pad about ten this morning, see. Some dumb routine about something she'd ‘misplaced' at a party we was both at, and had I seen it. At first I thought she was tryin to say I'd stole it, see, so I was a little hot about it—you know, cut her right off. Well, she hung around and hung around, smilin' and givin' me the glad eye and stickin' her tits out at me, see, so I ask her if she wants a beer, see. She says she don't mind, and we have a beer and start to get friendly.”

I could just picture Monica gagging down a beer at ten in the morning.

“Well, I make my move, see,” he went on, “and all of a sudden she gets cold feet, see. Comes on with this ‘I don't know what you
think
I came here for, but it certainly wasn't
that
!'” He mimicked her voice fairly well. “But I know women, see, and she was just pantin' for it. I figure she wanted it rough, see—them high-class broads always like it like that—so I says, ‘Come here, you bitch,' and I yanks off her clothes and throws her on the bed, and I poke it to her, right up to the hilt. At first she kind of half-ass tries to fight me off, but pretty soon she gets with it, see. Wild piece of tail, man!” He chuckled again and ordered another beer.

I began to hope he'd get hit by a truck before we ever went into the woods. This was going to be a bum trip, and now I was out five bucks. I told him I had to run, and I took off. The whole business with Monica had me a little confused though. Why McKlearey, for Chrissake?

I asked Clydine about it that evening at my place, explaining the situation and describing the people and what had happened.

“Now, why in God's name would she want to have anything to do with that creepy Jarhead?” I asked her.