Tailed (8 page)

chapter 11

I
f you've never driven around the center of the country, it is quite remarkable how geography shapes land use. Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Michigan are largely a succession of red barns, silos, crops, Bob Evans restaurants, and an increasing number of cheese curd outlets. I didn't know what a cheese curd was, and wasn't sure I wanted to.

But almost as soon as you pass Omaha,
Green Acres
is replaced by
Bonanza
. Crops give way to cattle—twelve hours of cattle if you drive straight through to Denver. It is the wellspring of Big Macs. Unless you stray near the Great Lakes, that is, in which case you're likely to encounter oases of industry instead.

My destination was firmly in
Green Acres
territory as I meandered north into Michigan's Lower Peninsula, to a town with the unlikely name of Vargo. I had spoken with a man named Vargas. That's right, Vargas of Vargo. Once I told him Nicholas was calling in a favor, he became very quiet, and in a heavy Spanish accent gave me directions to my destination.

What kind of place was Nicholas sending me to? I dared not wonder. I was imagining a remote trailer park, or some Bates Motel look-alike. I only had a name: “Look for the sign that says
SHELLY'S.”

It was late in the day and I had been driving all night, taking back roads and hiding out. The setting sun an orange coal on the horizon, farmlands and white farmhouses glowing cerise on either side. Despite my predicament, I was enjoying the sizzling summer air rushing around me in the Lincoln, the convertible top down.

A stand of stalwart sycamores lined the top of the next rise; old trees were a certain indicator in that landscape that a house lay ahead. The only trees not cleared in farm country are those where crops aren't planted. Sure enough, built into the side of an embankment was a sprawling gray compound of wood structures with low, slanted roofs. Planted in the ground at the driveway entrance was a wagon wheel, and hanging from a post above it was the sign:
SHELLY'S STREUSEL STOP.

I piloted the Lincoln down the drive and ground to a halt in a cloud of dust.
Streusel?
Or did they mean
strudel
? Whichever confection, it smelled like pies baking.

Well, of all the places I imagined for a safe house, a streusel stand was way down the list. For one, I'm not what you'd call a dessert person—I idly wondered whether the FBI dossier on me included that epicurean Garth factoid or not.

The screen door to the shop was surrounded by scattered antique agricultural hardware, like two-man saws, threshers, sod busters, and barrels. Across from the entrance was another set of buildings that looked like wooden coach houses. Between was the empty dirt parking lot.

The screen door wouldn't budge. That's when I noticed a sign hanging on the other side that said
CLOSED—COME AGAIN
!

I stepped back to look for another entrance and nearly tripped over a dog standing next to me. It was a yellow dog with a white chest, about knee high. Tail wagging slowly, the dog seemed to be averting its glance almost apologetically.

“You wouldn't be Vargas, would you?” I reached down to pet the mutt's head.

There was a flash of white teeth. Had my reflexes been slower, my hand would have been Alpo. The dog smiled, resuming its unassuming composure. Great. Was this what I had to look forward to when Angie and I returned from the breeder?

“That's Wilco.” A swarthy man in a baker's cap, cheek dusted with flour, was hanging out of a side window. “I am Vargas. You must be Garth.”

“How did you know my name?” I hadn't mentioned it when I phoned.

“Nicholas called. Wait there.” He disappeared, adding: “And don't pet the dog.”

I watched as Wilco sauntered away, looking for someone else to eat.

The screen door opened, but it wasn't Vargas who appeared. Instead, it was an attractive, middle-aged woman in a yellow print dress that looked like it had been made by hand from a pattern. Her black hair was stacked high, country style, and she smoothed her dress on her hips as she stepped off the porch and approached me.

“Are you Shelly?” We shook hands.

“Heavens, no. Shelly is a dog.” She looked me up and down, from my running shoes up the chinos, white oxford shirt and sport coat, finally stopping at my unruly blond hair.

“I thought his name was Wilco.” Self-consciously, I tried to tame my hair.

“Not that dog, another one.”

I kept smiling. “A pastry shop named after a dog?”

“C'mon in, I'll show you.”

I followed her print dress through the screen door to an entryway, where tucked in the corner sat a dusty horse wagon. Resting on a blanket on the cracked leather upholstery was a collie looking intently out the window as if she sensed the barn was on fire. The dog sat very still. Too still. A placard around her neck read:
SHELLY.

“That's Shelly. People come from miles around to see her, and get their streusel.” The dog remained steadfast. Deadfast, to be exact. She was stuffed.
Now, this is my kind of dog
.

“Stupid question: what is streusel?”

“Pie, with, like, a crumb topping. Michigan favorite. Shelly died in 1938. Was a local hero several times over. She saved some kids from drowning when they fell through the ice on Green Pond, alerted the police once when Dillinger was hiding out in a person's barn, and could predict rain. She wasn't real busy during the Dust Bowl days. My name is Amber. I own this place.”

Amber was still sizing me up, and I wasn't sure why. Perhaps she was wondering what I'd done to need hiding out. Maybe she was trying to tell if I was violent. Then again, she had a twinkle in her eye that made me wonder if she didn't take a liking to me as a man.

“Nice place it is, too. Is Vargas your…?” Husband? Boyfriend?

“Gosh, he's just my partner here at the streusel shop. Whodathunk that a wetback baker would be so good at making blueberry streusel? C'mon in.”

We stepped from the porch into a dimly lit dining room.

“We have a full menu. Lunch and dinner. About half our business now is mail order streusel. That ad in the
New Yorker
really paid off.”

“Let me ask you something else. What exactly is a cheese curd?”

“They're yummy. Itty bits of cheese the size of your little finger.”

“What kind of cheese is it?”

“They come in all flavors.”

“Gouda, Swiss, Jarlsburg, Emmenthaler, cheddar…?”

“No, more like smoked, bacon, jalapeño…”

“Surely it must be some specific type of cheese?”

Through the swinging kitchen doors came Vargas, wearing an apron. A stout man with a big white grin and black crew cut, he was decked out in Boy Scout shorts and had a rolling gait. One of his large hands reached out and grasped mine.

“I am Vargas.”

I knew that. But he seemed to like saying it so I didn't complain. “Thanks for having me on such short notice.”

“I owe a debt to Nicholas.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head in reverence. “He was very kind to me, when it was not required.”

Amber looked me up and down. Maybe my fly was open. “Want something hot to drink?”

“Only if—”

“Yes, Amber, let us have coffee,” Vargas interjected. “Please, Garth, have a seat.”

Amber sauntered into the kitchen while Vargas and I slid into a rough-hewn booth that I hoped wouldn't result in an ill-placed splinter.

“Nicholas is your brother, yes?” Vargas's gaze was leveled seriously, his meaty hands folded on the table before me. “You are lucky to have such a brother.”

“I suppose I am, at times. Should I ask how you know him?”

“Do not ask, I will tell what there is. I stole paintings for a living, Goyas a specialty, on spec. But that clever brother of yours tracked me down. For help to recover the paintings, I did not go to prison, and he even gave me a percentage of the bounty from the insurers on the art. I used that money to come here, with Amber. He caught her, too. She was my courier, my assistant. This is her hometown. She knew of this place, where the dog lived, where an old farm couple sold streusel on the side but had died. It was time to retire anyway, before our luck ran out. Streusel are about as good as anything else in this world to sell. We like it here.”

“What's not to like about streusel?”

“I am also a scoutmaster.”

“The shorts gave it away.” I actually felt better knowing he and Amber were criminals. If they were straight, there was the chance they would turn me in. Even if he was a scout.

Amber returned, setting down a tray with three steaming mugs, a sugar bowl, cream, and a bottle of Tia Maria. She sidled in next to me. Close.

“So I have told Garth of our adventure with Nicholas. Now, we need to know a little about your situation. Not everything, just some details. It will help us to hide you. I will ask questions, you tell me yes or no. Yes?”

“OK.”

Amber's foot brushed my shoe and I shifted my feet. She poured the coffee, then held out the creamer.

“Cream and sugar?” She eyed me sidelong, lashes batting.

Was I imagining it or was she flirting?

Vargas held out one hand and pointed to a finger on the other. “Have you escaped from prison?”

“No.”

There was Amber's foot again. I stayed put. Maybe she thought she was bumping the leg of the table.

“That is good. Very good. Are the people who want you the good guys or bad guys?” He pointed at the next finger.

“Good guys, I guess.”

Now her knee was touching mine. I couldn't move over as I was at the edge of the booth. I grabbed the bottle of Tia Maria and dumped a hefty shot into my coffee.

“Excellent. Much better than the Cosa Nostra. State police?”

“Probably.”

“Ah, not just state police. Feds?”

“Them, too.”

“I see, I see. Did you kill a cop?”

“I didn't kill anybody. Look, I'm only a suspect.” Now Amber's hand was on my thigh. So it was safe to say she'd been checking me out as a man in the parking lot. But I still wasn't sure what her relationship with Vargas was. Were they “partners” or
“partners”
? Vargas's large brown hands looked very strong. As suited to kneading pie dough as to strangling a perceived interloper.

“A suspect.” He closed his ten little Indians into fists on the table, gazing thoughtfully at the wall. “Ah, yesss!”

“Vargas, doncha know who he is?” She gave my thigh a little squeeze under the table.

“Hmm?” Vargas looked startled.

“Gosh, but I recognize him now. He's that guy from Chicago. Discovered that football player who was dead.”

“Hmm?” Vargas looked startled again.

“I saw him on TV. Remember?”

“I only watch
lucha
on TV.”

“Well get your head outta the sand. There was this murder, in Chicago, of a football player. He was killed with a stuffed bear.”

“Is this true?” Vargas eyed me.

“Yes. And there have been two more murders, of other big-game hunters I've met. But whoever is killing them has succeeded in making the authorities think I did it. I'm being framed.” I put my hand on Amber's, stopping its advance up my leg. I followed that with a little nudge from my elbow, a signal to cease. She smiled impishly.

“You are sure you did not kill them?”

“I have never killed anybody.” OK, there was that thing a few years back with the carnies, but I didn't actually kill anybody, not technically. “And I have a home, and a wife, and a Russian.”

“A wife?” Amber said playfully. “There's no ring.”

“A Russian?” Vargas added. This detail both fixated and eluded him—I only blurted it out as evidence of my stable home life in an attempt to thwart Amber's advances.

“Angie and I have been together twenty years, and we have Otto, our helper.”

Vargas put a heavy hand on my forearm and nodded. “Very good. Believe me, killing only leads to more killing. They know this car you drive?”

“Most likely.” I was now thumb wrestling with Amber under the table.

“We must hide your car immediately. The local pigs come here for our cinnamon apple streusel. And at all hours.”

“Great.” I half stood, making clear my intention to escape the booth.

Amber rose and let me out, a playful spark in her eye as she smoothed that yellow dress around her figure.

I wanted to hide the Lincoln and she wanted to hide the salami.

Fortunately, Amber had to go to town to pick up a shipment of baking supplies, so I managed to avoid her for a while after that first encounter. As a heady blue twilight descended on Shelly's Streusel Stop, Vargas made us some Mexican pizzas: a tortilla topped with bean paste, cheese, peppers, onions, chorizo, and another tortilla. While they were baking, he led me into his apartment upstairs, where he cracked open a couple Dos Equis and flicked on the tube. He began pecking at the buttons on the oversized remote with his thick finger.

“You like
lucha libre
?”

“
Lucha libre?
”

“Wrestling.”

“You mean like WWE?”

“Bah. That is not wrestling.
Lucha libre
is real wrestling!”

An image popped onto the screen of a sweaty man in a glittery black mask strangling another sweaty man in a green glittery mask. In the same wrestling ring, a different masked man flew at another competitor, knocking him flat.

Of course. Mexican wrestling.

“In Mexico, it is very popular with a long tradition.” Vargas raised his chin to indicate the nobility of the sport. “They say it is very ancient, from the Aztecs. Like in Mexico, the wrestlers were an elite society of soldiers, with many hidden rites, and were revered above all others. It was said when they wore their masks they could project their souls.”