The Alpine Decoy (27 page)

“What’s wrong with the regular mail? Did Rich Tallfirs sit on your postal box, too?”

“He’s there now with my boom box, listening to the only FM station between here and Anchorage.” Having gotten some of his way, Adam was now inclined to become jocular. I asked him if he had scrapped his plan to stop off in Alpine on the way south. He wasn’t sure. It was a real mess dealing with the airlines. As of right now, he was booked on a flight from Fairbanks via Seattle to San Francisco. If he had a layover, the price would go way up. Maybe it’d be better if he waited until August to come to Alpine. That, he reminded me, had been his original plan.

Naturally, I was disappointed. Was Adam choosing Tom over me? Or San Francisco over Alpine? I recalled Carla’s comment about small-town dullness and decided that maybe after the better part of a year in Fairbanks, Adam needed a good stiff dose of a big, bustling metropolis. He certainly wouldn’t get that in Tuba City. Our conversation continued on less controversial lines than money, clothes, boom boxes, and Tom Cavanaugh. By the time we hung up, I was feeling proud of my son, pleased with our ability to communicate, cheered by the bond he was forging with
both Tom and Ben. I was also feeling poor, but at least I was used to that.

I was making inroads on my oven when Carla and Libby returned. They came up the walk like a pair of conspirators, whispering and giggling. I let them in and offered cold beer before the interrogation began. Carla accepted, but Libby asked for bottled water, if I had any.

I did, and brought out three glasses. I joined Carla in having a beer, which tasted surprisingly good after my exertions with the lawn furniture and the oven.

“Well?” I asked, settling into my favorite armchair. “Did Marlow Whipp offer you a line of coke?”

Carla giggled some more, that ear-rattling sound that always made me grit my teeth. “Vida is losing it! How in the world could she think some dud like old Marlow could be peddling crack? Tell her, Libby.”

Libby sat forward on the sofa, shaking her head. “I was terribly coy. I went in and strolled around and didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally Marlow asked if I needed any help. I said, ‘Yeah. What did he have in mind?’ I sort of wiggled my eyebrows.” Libby demonstrated, while Carla giggled anew. “Marlow looked embarrassed. I think he thought I meant something sexual.”

“Gack! Gack!”
Opening her mouth wide, Carla made thrusting movements with her index finger. I was beginning to think my bright idea was pretty dim.

Acknowledging Carla’s clowning with a smile, Libby resumed her account: “I decided I’d get more specific. I noted that Marlow carried beer and wine and cigarettes. That was great, I told him, but tame. Didn’t he have something a little stronger?”

“How did he look when you said that?” I inquired, ignoring Carla who now had her finger in her mouth, pulling down her jaw, and making an idiot noise. I trusted that she was imitating Marlow Whipp. At least I hoped so. It was unsettling to think that she was merely being herself.

Libby considered my question briefly, but carefully. “Puzzled, really. Then he said he did, but it wasn’t ready. I got sort of excited, figuring I was on the right track. But he pointed to that espresso machine and told me he still didn’t know how to operate it. Or the steamer that had just
arrived yesterday.” Libby looked aggravated; Carla rolled her eyes.

I was disappointed. “Was that it?” I asked.

Libby gave a quick shake of her head. “I made one last try. I acted indignant, said I’d heard that he sold more than what was out front. I got out my wallet, showing him a fifty. He couldn’t tell it was the only money I had.”

Carla was squirming around on the sofa next to Libby. “Now we get to the good part,” she murmured in an aside.

“Marlow looked interested,” Libby continued. “At least I
thought
he did. He just stood there though, so I told him I wanted good stuff, nothing that was cut with cheap crap. Marlow seemed worried or maybe confused. He said it was all cut the same, in mint condition. What was I talking about? I said, ‘You tell me, and we’ll see if we can do business.’ Marlow said to give him a name. That threw me. Did he mean a contact or a password or a drug? I’ve heard drugs called all kinds of things, but I don’t pay much attention. It’s all poison as far as I’m concerned. I took a wild guess and said, ‘Grass.’ Marlow said he didn’t know that one. I believed him.” Libby tucked her feet under her bottom and sighed. “I blanked. I couldn’t think of anything but crack and pot. I had a feeling that if I asked for coke, he’d have offered me diet or regular.”

The room fell silent, except for Carla’s twitching around on the sofa. The Burlington-Northern freight whistled as it passed slowly through town. The train rarely stopped in Alpine these days.

“He’s either very cagey or else he’s not dealing drugs after all,” I finally concluded. “I wonder why he perked up when he saw the money? What did he mean about a name?”

Libby had no idea. It struck her as an odd question, too. I turned to Carla. “Did you get a chance to do anything?”

“Well, sure!” Carla bounced a couple of times for emphasis. “While Libby was inside, I went around back. There’s a storage room attached, but you can only get at it through the store. No windows, either. But he has a Dumpster between the store and the alley. I went through it as well as I could. I didn’t have much time, and I had to keep watching for Libby to leave.”

“And?” Silly me, I was being hopeful.

Carla’s enthusiasm finally dwindled. “I didn’t find much. Old cartons, pop cans, rotten produce, newspapers. What you’d expect, I guess.”

I suppose I was expecting small plastic bags, hypodermic syringes, and roach clips. I said as much. Carla shook her head, the long black hair sailing around her shoulders.

“Not a sign of that stuff. I told you everything I saw—mostly cartons and newspapers. I don’t think he sells many copies of
The Times
and
P-I
. Maybe everybody around here would rather read
The Advocate.”

If Carla thought to cheer me, she was wrong. Instead, I was discouraged that so few people read a daily newspaper. It wasn’t a good omen for weeklies.

But something she had said did pique my interest. “Cartons? From what? Marlow can’t have tons of stuff shipped to the store because he doesn’t have much turnover.”

Shoving the long hair off her face, Carla turned pensive. “Gee—I don’t know…. I didn’t pay much attention. He’d mashed them down, to fit into the Dumpster. I don’t mean there were zillions, or anything—just quite a few. You know, a couple dozen or so.”

That still seemed like too many for Marlow Whipp’s atrophied business. The Dumpster would be emptied every Tuesday. In five days, Marlow Whipp had received two dozen cartons of what? I couldn’t think of a single item in his store that would move that fast, except dairy products, pop, beer, and cigarettes. As far as I knew, only the cigarettes would be shipped in a cardboard box.

I praised Carla and Libby for their covert operation. They finished their drinks, then decided it was time to leave.

“No hot dates tonight?” I inquired at the door.

Carla grew sorrowful. “Peyts is on emergency call the rest of the weekend.”

I turned to Libby. “You’ve got the weekend off. Don’t tell me you and Carla are going to sit around and watch videos.”

Libby grinned. “I’ve got four whole days off, in fact. No videos for me, at least not tonight.” She pointed to her
watch. “Come on, Carla, it’s after five. You’re the one who wants to stop at the Grocery Basket on the way home.”

“I have to eat,” Carla pouted, following Libby out to the car. “’Bye, Emma. See you Monday.”

I went back into the house, determined to finish cleaning the blasted oven. I got only as far as the dining area when I heard the frantic rapping at the front door. It was Carla. She’d forgotten her sunglasses.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed as fervently as if she’d lost the family jewels. “I thought I might have dropped them in the Dumpster!” Whirling around, she headed for the door.

“Carla!” I called after her. She stopped on the threshold. I beckoned her to come a step closer. “Who’s the guy? Libby’s guy, I mean.” Over Carla’s shoulder, I could see Libby sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda. There was no way she could hear us.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Carla chided. “It’s not a secret. I thought you knew.” Carla put her sunglasses on, took them off, wiped the lenses with the tail of her cotton shirt, and replaced them on her nose. “She’s going with Shane Campbell. They’ve been dating for months.”

“And you thought I was crazy!” Vida huffed as we climbed up Sixth Street from her house to Marlow Whipp’s store. It was after six, and Marlow had closed at five. “Cartons! Carla! The girl can’t even count properly! She probably saw two! Dog food, I’ll bet!”

“You’re tall and I’m not. Carta’s shorter than both of us. I would have brought Milo along if he hadn’t gone off with Honoria.” We cut down the alley, a dirt track lined with garbage cans, tricycles, garden implements, and an occasional cat. Blackberry vines grew helter-skelter over sagging fences. Morning glory wound around clothesline poles and trellises. There were nettles, too, and great clumps of weeds that threatened to choke out the ferns. We were a mere block away from Vida’s neat bungalow and only two from the Campbells’ handsome home, yet the neighborhood changed drastically between Tyee and Spruce Streets. It was probably because the houses were not only old but small, and too close to the high school. Parking had long been a problem in the area. If Alpine had a slum, this was
it. Fortunately, the blight covered no more than three blocks.

“And Shane!” Vida’s voice rang out on the quiet May evening. “Are he and Libby getting married? Is that what Wendy and Cyndi have been hinting? How did they meet? Oh, I know—in Seattle. But
how?
Did she get herself transferred up here to be near him? It
must
be serious.”

It was pointless to try to hush Vida. Her voice sounded like a trumpet, and over the fences, I saw at least a couple of heads turn in our direction. But we had almost reached the rear of Marlow’s store, and Vida grew silent.

The lid of the Dumpster was heavy, but we managed. I marveled that Carla had opened it on her own.

“We should have brought Roger,” Vida mumbled, holding onto her straw gardening hat as she leaned into the Dumpster. “We could have lifted him in here.”

And left him there
was the evil thought that flashed through my mind. Dismissing such cruel notions, I concentrated on the task at hand. “Well? How many cartons? Two? Or two dozen?”

Vida harrumphed. “Carla’s right, for once. There are quite a few. You’re right, too. Cigarettes. Wrigley’s gum. More cigarettes.”

I could see into the Dumpster, but I couldn’t reach as far as Vida. She was bending way over, and I tried not to think about the target her rear end was providing for any of her local detractors. “What’s that?” I asked, motioning at a flat piece of cardboard on her left. “‘Death Something-or-Other.’ It doesn’t sound like groceries to me.”

“‘Death Row/Interscope,’” Vida replied promptly. “Goodness, how gruesome! It can’t be canned goods. Whatever happened to the Jolly Green Giant? Here, a box marked ‘Tommy Boy.’ ‘Jive.’ Hmmmm …” Vida continued to rummage. “‘Atlantic,’” she called from deeper yet in the Dumpster. “‘Warner Brothers.’ It seems these are recording companies. Since when,” she demanded, straightening up and resettling her hat on her head, “does Marlow Whipp sell records?”

I felt as mystified as Vida looked. “I didn’t see any records—or tapes or CDs—when I was in the store the other day. Surely he’d have a big display. Especially with
that many.” I pointed to the Dumpster that contained the empty cartons. “Can you tell if the boxes held tapes or what?”

Vida shot me a scathing look. “Oh, good heavens! What’s wrong with a regular record? Long-play or forty-five or seventy-eight? What’s all this nonsense about teeny-weeny discs and tapes that come unwound like so many snakes all over the place? Roger is starting to listen to music, and his room looks like a ticker-tape parade!” Catching herself in a rare criticism of her grandson, Vida looked chagrined. “It’s not his fault, of course. I’m sure the companies make those tapes so that they can’t be reused, and the poor children have to buy more. Roger is the victim of a Madison Avenue marketing ploy.”

Roger as victim of anything short of a Scud missile struck me as unlikely. This, however, was not the time to argue the point. Indeed, it never was with Vida. “Kids don’t buy records anymore,” I pointed out. “Tapes and CDs—that’s it. But Marlow would have them prominently displayed. Maybe even some promotional material.”

Foregoing my assistance, Vida closed the Dumpster. “He might be just starting,” she suggested. “Like the espresso machine. Marlow’s such a dunce he probably hasn’t figured out how to sell music, either.”

A couple of eight year olds came roaring down the alley on small dirt bikes. They paid no attention to us, but we couldn’t count on that kind of indifference from adults. I suggested we leave. Vida concurred. She asked if I’d had dinner. Fearing yet another reprise of the casserole, I lied and said I had.

“That’s too bad,” she lamented as we trudged back down the alley. “I thought we might drive down to the Venison Inn and have supper together. We could mull.”

Taken aback, I allowed that I hadn’t eaten much. “I could have something light and keep you company,” I offered, sounding uncommonly meek.

Vida paused to examine her soiled gardening clothes. “I should change,” she muttered.

I was still wearing the old clothes I’d had on while doing my Saturday chores. “It’s Alpine. It’s us. Nobody will

But Vida cared. She would not “go downtown” looking like a slavey, as she put it. “We’ll change, and I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes,” she said, checking her small jeweled watch. “Seven, straight up.”

I agreed. My car was parked on Tyee Street in front of her house. It needed washing, and I felt guilty. The Jag was my only material pride and joy. I’d neglected it for the sake of my oven, which was low on my list of personal priorities. It served me right that during my absence someone had etched
FUCK YOU
on the hood.