Night Music (38 page)

“We need shelter for the night, Earl.”

“What do you have?”

“What do you think?”

Wallace squinted past him at the figure in the passenger seat.

“Who's that with you?”

Tendell didn't bother looking back.

“One of King Solomon's men. I got Conlon, Marks, and Riber, too.”

“You tell Solomon's man to stay where he was?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he didn't listen.”

Tendell heard gravel and snow crunching beneath feet as Blum joined them. He exchanged a look with Wallace. It said all that needed to be said about Blum.

“How you doing?” asked Blum.

“Just fine,” said Wallace.

He stared at Blum, who was stamping theatrically in the falling snow, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Tendell was sure that the Colt was gripped in one of them.

“You got something wrong with your feet?” Wallace asked.

“I'm cold, is all.”

“Then you should have stayed in the car.”

“We got a problem here?” said Blum, looking from Wallace to Tendell.

“Jesus,” said Tendell. “No, we got no problem, right, Earl?”

Wallace appeared inclined to disagree, but common sense prevailed. He eased the hammers down on both barrels of the shotgun, and cradled the weapon in his arms.

“The usual fee,” he said. “One case.”

Tendell heard Blum draw in a breath as if to speak, but he'd had enough of him by that point. He turned and raised the index finger of his right hand in warning. Blum didn't like it, but he held his tongue.

“One case,” Tendell agreed.

“You'll have to move the tractor,” said Wallace. “Otherwise, the barn's empty. I got stew on the stove, and bread to soak. Coffee's brewing, too.”

“That's hospitable of you, Earl.”

Wallace glared at Blum.

“Damn Christian, even,” he said, then retreated back into his cottage.

Tendell let Riber supervise the storage of the Cadillacs and instructed him to bring in a case of whisky as Wallace's payment. He didn't want to leave Blum alone with Wallace. Who knew what Blum might say? Wallace was both proud and ornery, and even the promise of a case of liquor might not be enough to assure them of a place to stay for the night if he felt slighted in any way.

Wallace's house was divided into two rooms: a kitchen and living area, with a fire burning at one end and a small bedroom at the other. Even with the fire, the main room was icy. They'd have to sleep on the floor, although Wallace could be relied upon for some cushions, and maybe a rug or spare blanket. Nevertheless, Riber was right: a cold night they'd have of it, make no mistake.

Blum took in his spare surroundings: a rough-hewn oak table, a quartet of chairs, three of which showed few signs of use, and a pair of overstuffed armchairs by the fire. The floor was stone, with animal skins covering most of it. No pictures adorned the walls, and the only books on the single shelf were a Bible and some Sears Roebuck catalogs. Blum made no comment on any of it. Instead he asked politely if it was okay to sit. Wallace gave his assent, and Blum pulled one of the dining chairs to the side of the fire. He warmed his hands and did not speak for a time.

With the cars safely stored away, the other three men joined them, Riber carrying Wallace's case of liquor. Wallace opened it on the table and checked that the seals were intact before taking the box outside and storing it safely away in one of his outbuildings.

Conlon had a bottle in his coat pocket. He raised it questioningly to Tendell. “You can take it out of my share,” said Conlon.

“No, I'll cover it,” said Tendell.

Cups were found. Tendell accepted only a splash. Blum declined, barely shifting his attention from the fire. Wallace returned from his errand, but did not partake. Tendell struggled to recall ever seeing the old man imbibe. The other four raised their cups to one another and drank. Tendell helped Wallace to find bowls for the stew and some spoons.

“Does King Solomon's man have a name?” Wallace asked my grandfather quietly.

“Blum,” said Tendell.

“Motke Blum?”

“The same. You heard of him?”

“Lots of people have heard of him. He's no good.”

Tendell didn't bother arguing. Wallace went outside to relieve himself, as though the confirmation of Motke Blum's identity had raised the unconquerable desire to piss on something.

•  •  •

Wallace placed the pot of stew on the table. It was mainly vegetables and potatoes, with gray meat of some kind dotted throughout. The bread was freshly baked, though, and still warm to the touch.

“What's the meat?” asked Blum.

“Squirrel mostly,” said Wallace. “Some beef chuck, too, but not so much that you'd notice. Can't guarantee it's kosher, though.”

He spoke seriously. He'd been paid, and saw no reason to be impolite, whatever he privately thought of King Solomon's man.

Blum shrugged. The stew was hot, and he was cold. They ate by the fire, Wallace and Tendell taking the armchairs. The talk was general, and mostly local gossip: tales of errant husbands and shrewish wives, of births and deaths, of those who were thriving, and those who had fallen on hard times. No direct mention was made of Wallace's own illegal activities, but he did tell them that the prohis had been through the area just a week earlier and found nothing.

“They have a lead?” asked Tendell.

“Fishing,” said Wallace. “I hear they got themselves a grid. They keep a big map on the wall over in Houlton, and they pick a square, search it, then mark it off.”

“A map, you say?” said Tendell.

“Up there for all to see, if they have a mind to look.”

“Which some folks will.”

“I believe so.”

“And those kind of folks might be inclined to keep their ears open as well as their eyes.”

“Be fools not to.”

Tendell smiled. “With all those eyes and ears open, it'd be a shock if the prohis found anything on one of those searches.”

“That it would be,” agreed Wallace.

Half the bottle was gone. Riber's chin was already on his chest, and he was snoring softly. Conlon and Marks weren't far behind him. Blum was drinking coffee from a tin cup, the fire reflected in his eyes. The snow continued to fall.

“What do you reckon on the snow?” asked Tendell.

Wallace raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though he could see through it to the heavens above.

“It's down for the night, but not beyond,” he said. “Come daylight, you should be all right. I'll clear the trail, and tow you if need be. The main roads are your own concern.”

“I'm grateful to you.”

Wallace stood. “I'll be going to my bed. There's bacon in the morning for those who want it, porridge for the rest. Throw some more logs on the fire, keep it lit.”

He looked at Blum.

“There is one more thing,” he said. “I'll be wanting an extra bottle from you.”

Blum tore his attention from the fire. “You've been paid as agreed,” he said.

“It's not for me. You'll leave it outside, by the fence.”

Blum frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“It's a full moon tonight, though you can't see it,” said Wallace, “and there's life in the woods. A bottle will send it on its way.”

“I'll see to it,” said Tendell.

“The fuck you will,” said Blum. “What nonsense is this?”

“Superstitions,” said Tendell. “Old lore. Doesn't matter. It'll be taken care of. You don't need to worry yourself with it.”

Blum pointed beyond the walls, to where the barn stood.

“That's King Solomon's whisky,” he said. “Dan Carroll may be transporting this shipment, but the King's money paid for it. I've kept quiet while you handed over a case to this man, because it's coming out of your share, just like the bottle that was opened, but I won't stand by and see another bottle dumped into the woods because of a fairy story.”

“I told you,” said Tendell. “I'll take care of it. I'll take the hit.”

“No,” said Wallace. Belligerence had now crept into his tone. He indicated Blum with a flick of his chin. “He must do it. If this is King Solomon's whisky, and he is King Solomon's man, then it comes from the King's share, and the King's man must make the payment.”

“Come on, Earl . . .” said Tendell.

“No! If he won't pay, then you can all get the hell out of my house and off my land. Those cars can't stay here unless payment is made.”

“This is a fucking joke,” said Blum.

“It's no joke,” said Wallace. “You make the choice. You pay the woods, or you go.”

Blum shook his head in disbelief. He rose from his chair and began buttoning his coat. Suddenly his right hand lashed out and caught Wallace a heavy blow to the belly. Before anyone could react, Blum had landed another punch to the side of the old man's head, knocking him to the floor, and then proceeded to kick him where he lay. Tendell was the first to reach Blum and push him away. Blum stumbled over a chair, but kept his feet. He was about to turn on Tendell, but Riber, who had been woken by the argument, blocked his way.

Tendell examined Wallace. He was bleeding from the mouth, but he was conscious.

“You okay, Earl?”

Wallace muttered something, but Tendell couldn't understand it. He looked up at Blum to remonstrate with him and saw that the Colt was back in his hand. Those dead eyes were now bright with rage. Riber was unarmed and had raised his arms, but he did so while looking over his shoulder at Tendell for guidance.

“You know who I am?” said Blum. “I am Mordecai Blum. I am King Solomon's man. When I speak, he speaks. When you lay a hand on me, you lay a hand on the King. You understand?”

“What the fuck?” said Conlon.

Tendell saw him move toward his coat, beneath which lay his gun. Tendell shook his head, and Conlon stopped.

“You shut up,” said Blum. “You just shut your fucking mouth.”

“All this over a bottle?” asked Marks.

“No,” said Blum. “All this on a point of principle. This is King Solomon's liquor. It stays in the barn, and not a bottle more is touched until it's unloaded in Boston.”

Wallace mumbled again. His eyes fluttered.

“Help me get him to a chair,” said Tendell to Marks. “We need to watch over him, and keep him warm. He may have a concussion or something. And you”—he directed his gaze once again to Blum—“put the gun away. I told you already: there's no need for it here. Jesus, he's just an old man.”

Marks assisted Tendell in getting Wallace into a chair. They put a blanket over him, and Conlon found a clean towel, dampened it, and used it to wipe away the blood. Wallace's upper lip was split, and one tooth had sheared off at the gum. They found it on the floor. Tendell threw it into the fire.

Conlon, Riber, and Marks stood in one corner, watching Blum. It was clear that, given the chance, they would inflict damage on him. Blum had lowered the gun, but he still held it in his hand.

“What's done is done,” said Tendell, although it pained him to say it. “You three, get some sleep. Blum, for the last time, put the fucking gun away. You see anyone else here waving a gun?”

Blum had calmed down, and the anger was gone from him. He put the gun back in the holster beneath his arm and took the chair beside Wallace.

“I did not mean to hurt him so badly,” he said. “But it is the King's liquor.”

“Next time, just take a fucking deep breath and walk away.”

Blum wiped his right hand across his mouth, smearing his face with some of Wallace's blood.

“What did he mean about the woods?” asked Blum.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“It's an old bootlegger's myth,” said Tendell. “At the full moon, you leave a bottle for Razorshins.”

“Razorshins? What is Razorshins?”

“What does it matter?”

“I'm curious.”

“Now you're curious? Fuck you. Go to sleep.”

Tendell went into Wallace's bedroom and found some cushions, pillows, and spare blankets. He distributed them to his men, keeping one pillow for himself, then lay down on a bearskin rug with his coat over him. He saw Blum pour himself another cup of coffee. He closed his eyes.

Tendell was not a superstitious man—he was not even particularly religious—but he understood the necessity of being tolerant of the convictions of others, especially when those individuals were doing one a favor, even if it did come at the cost of a little booze. He knew that those who lived and worked in the North Woods had their own mythologies. They did not harm gray jays because they believed them to be the reincarnated spirits of deceased woodsmen, and white owls were regarded as omens of ill luck, to the extent that there were woodsmen who avoided the areas in which they dwelt. Tendell had also spent time with men who claimed to have glimpsed the Wendigo, the Indian spirit, although such tales invariably involved dark references to cannibalism and were less to be believed than tolerated.

Razorshins was not new to Tendell, for men of his acquaintance claimed that their fathers and grandfathers had long paid obeisance to it, leaving out jugs of moonshine once a month so that it wouldn't interfere with their stills. During the previous century, a handful of scalpings and mutilations in the region, blamed on rogue natives, were later secretly ascribed to Razorshins. Nobody had ever seen the creature, so no one could say for sure, but Tendell knew of Maine moonshiners, men who were no fools, who swore that they had left out jugs and came back in the morning to find them empty or gone, and unfamiliar tracks in the vicinity: almost skeletal, they said, the feet strangely narrow, with six toes and, some said, a kind of spine or spike at the heel.

Tendell opened his eyes. Blum was still seated by the fire, sipping coffee. Beside him, Wallace moaned in his sleep. The old man would live, but they'd never be welcome on his land again, no matter how much liquor they offered. Blum had pissed on that patch for sure.