The next morning there were the usual awkwardnesses, inevitable in such situations. The parties realize that they’ve experienced an unanticipated intimacy with someone they don’t really know. It was surely more awkward for Oberavich. Two strangers had waltzed into his life and he had fallen into perhaps a too familiar easiness with them, unusual behavior for him. He couldn’t be sure how much he had said. But he didn’t think he had said anything too revealing. If it had just been the grass, he thought, but there had been all that wine. He had more than a slight hangover.
As it worked out, the three people were quite agreeable to one another, and the awkwardness soon dissipated. Oberavich, with Helen’s assistance, cooked up an enormous breakfast of bacon and eggs, with plenty of coffee and toast. They fell on it like famished dogs, and it was only in the eating of it that they recalled that they had polished off all the leftover spaghetti before bed. But that didn’t stop them from mopping their plates clean.
After that, however, it became apparent that Oberavich was eager to get on with his normal routine. Joe and Helen politely refused his invitations to linger, and they left after pitching in to help him clean up. Helen and Joe drove away promising to come back soon and declining a generous offer of a grocery sack of the excellent grass. Nobody had as much as mentioned Paulie.
Nothing may have been said to Oberavich, but it was the major topic between Joe and Helen as they sped back to Butte. Joe was sure there was something worth pursuing here. He recalled very well the things that Oberavich had said. He had drunk very little wine, leaving the greater quantity to Oberavich and Helen.
“There were several things about Paulie that were too good to ignore,” Joe said.
“Evocative, you mean?” Helen said. She was driving, as usual.
“Exactly. That stuff about poppies, opium, and then Yugoslavia, and the fact that the description fit. Paulie could be our guy. Maybe, for who knows what reason, Paulie used a version of his cousin’s name while he was in Kosovo. He probably entered the country on his own passport, as Paul Oberavich. That’s why they didn’t catch it.”
“Not that they tumbled to Frank Oberavich, for that matter,” Helen pointed out. “We should get the colonel to check both names out.”
“The next, obvious question,” Joe said, “is, Where do we go from here? Where is Paulie, assuming he’s the guy we’re after? We’ve got to be gentle with Frank. He’s a little skittery.”
“A little! I kept cringing every time you brought up the subject of buying land.”
“I didn’t think I even mentioned it,” Joe said. “Did I? Was it obvious?”
Helen said it was obvious to her that he coveted Oberavich’s property, but Frank might not have noticed. “He was bombed,” she said. “Anyway, you didn’t push it, thank heaven.”
“It’s true, though,” Joe said. “I’d love to get a foothold back in there on the Forkee.”
Helen thought it would take some doing. Joe agreed. It was obviously a delicate issue. But he thought it could be done.
“How?” Helen asked.
“You,” Joe said. “He’s got the hots for you.”
“Oh, bull,” Helen said. “The guy’s probably gay,” and she cited Carmen’s hint. “He didn’t display it, but he’s probably one of those deeply closeted guys, afraid of his attraction to men. If anything, he’s probably got the hots for you. He was hanging on your every word.”
“I thought you said he didn’t notice my hints about buying land? No, no, there were no vibes. Hey, I’ve been around gay guys,” he said. “I know when I’m being hit on. Frank is just one of those guys who are so leery of attachments of any kind that they find it much more congenial to be a hermit. There are plenty of guys like that. But that doesn’t mean that he wasn’t attracted to you. I saw the way his eyes followed you around the room. He pitched almost all of his talk at you.”
“I wonder why it is that men so hastily reject the idea that another man could be gay and might be interested in them?” Helen observed. “Is it some fear of homosexuality in themselves?”
Joe scoffed and reiterated his belief that Frank was interested in her. She didn’t like where this was heading.
“What are you suggesting?” she demanded. “I should seduce him? So you can have a place in the bush?”
“Hey, I’m not pimping you,” Joe said. “You don’t have to go to bed with the guy…. But if the attraction is there, why ignore it? Every guy is in a more agreeable mood when a woman he likes is being nice. It’s an angle, that’s all.”
Helen’s glance was severe enough to convince him that it was a topic that had better be dropped.
In Butte, while Helen took a shower Joe went down the street to an outdoor phone booth with a pocketful of quarters, to check in with Tucker. But for some reason, once they were connected, Joe didn’t report their success to the colonel. He merely suggested that the Lucani use their contacts to check out Oberavich as a variant name for Franko. He said nothing about their meeting with Frank, or about Paulie. A check on the name would do for their purpose. Other than that, he told the colonel, they had just gotten started in Butte. The colonel seemed satisfied, even pleased.
In the afternoon, Joe checked in with Carmen Tomarich. He was curious about the property across the creek from Oberavich, he said. He told her he’d met Frank, who wasn’t his old buddy, but they’d gotten along quite well. Frank had mentioned something about plans to develop property up that way. She said she hadn’t heard anything about that, but she’d check it out.
“Are you thinking of building?” she asked. “I’ve got loads of good building sites, private and picturesque, but much more convenient than clear out on the Forkee—accessible roads year-round, with power, wells already drilled, sites laid out.”
Sure, he was interested, he told her. He meant it. But he told her that the inaccessibility was part of the attraction. If there was one such place like Frank’s, perhaps there were more. You just had to look. Montana was a huge place. As for commercial power, Frank got along without it. In fact, Joe pointed out, Frank’s system was probably less likely to fail than the power company’s.
Carmen was skeptical. “To me, power is something you get when you plug into the wall. He probably didn’t tell you about all the days in the winter when the sun doesn’t shine.”
Joe assured her that he had. But, he conceded, he wasn’t as obsessed with self-reliance as Frank was. “I like good groceries,” he said.
“Well, I’m glad you guys got along,” Carmen said. “I’m just sorry Frank didn’t turn out to be your long lost pard. But it’s funny, last night I bumped into my friend Trudy at Gamer’s restaurant? And she says when she called around for me, to find out where Frank was? Well, somebody else is looking for him, too.”
“No kidding?” Joe said. “Coincidence, I guess. But then, Frank is pretty reclusive. Probably a bill collector.”
“It didn’t sound like it. Some guy like you, an old acquaintance. Trudy said her friend, the guy who knows Frank, said when she asked that Frank must be getting popular in his old age, somebody else was asking about him.”
“Maybe it’s his high school reunion organizer,” Joe said. He didn’t want to seem too interested. After all, his ostensible reason for finding Frank had gone bust. Unless, it occurred to him, there was another Frank Oberavich in town. “Or maybe there is more than one Frank Oberavich,” he said.
“There’s plenty of Oberaviches,” Carmen said, “but no other Frank, that I know of. There’s Gary, Vic, Jim, and, let’s see … Bill.”
“How about Paul?” Joe asked.
Carmen didn’t think so. “Who’s Paul?”
“I was just thinking,” Joe said, “my pal used to talk about a cousin, or maybe it was an uncle, named Paul. But now that you mention it, there are a lot of possibilities, aren’t there? Frank never said he was from Butte, just from Montana. I imagine the Oberaviches have spread out to other cities. Oh well, this is getting to be too much trouble. Heck with it.”
“Sorry it didn’t work out,” Carmen said. “But you might want to call Gary. His wife, Selma, is one of those whatchacallems, always tracking down ancestors and relatives. If there is another Frank on the planet, or a cousin Paul, Selma would know where. I’ve got her number.” She looked it up and gave it to Joe. “When do you want to look at some of these other properties?” she asked.
“I’m beat today,” Joe said. “We’re going to do some sightseeing, go to the mining museum, that sort of thing. I’ll give you a call in the next few days.”
There was no Paul Oberavich listed in the phone book. After a few moments of thought, he dialed the number Carmen had given him for Gary and Selma. A woman’s recorded voice on an answering machine said that Gary and Selma were unable to come to the phone, but if this was Publishers Clearing House calling to tell them they’d won a million dollars, leave a message. Or anyone else, the voice added.
Ah well, it was good to be patient, Joe thought, hanging up. He’d give it a try later. But now he felt the old urge to dig. He considered making contact with someone from the mob. If Frank was dealing marijuana, no doubt the local mob could at least give him an angle on him. They might even know Paulie. It might be worthwhile to make some tentative inquiries.
An answering machine in Chicago told him to leave a message. He gave the number of the phone booth and said he’d return in fifteen minutes. That would allow his contact on the other end to make some contacts of his own, and it would also relieve him of the necessity of waiting around the phone booth, which was located on a street corner near a bank.
He took a little stroll around town, just to get some fresh air. To his horror he almost encountered the one person in Butte he didn’t want to see: Cathleen Yoder, better known as Cateyo. She was a nurse at St. James Hospital. She was walking down the street toward him, some two hundred feet away. He looked for a handy store entry, but nothing was available. He had just about decided to brave it out and was preparing an eager grin, when she turned into the entrance of the power company, a look of concentration on her pretty face. He exhaled in relief. She hadn’t noticed him. He turned about and walked back to the phone booth, where he huddled with his back to the door, pretending to look up a number in the book until the phone rang.
“Joe,” his contact said. “Whattaya doin’ in Montana? Last I heard, you was in jail, or the hospital. You all right?”
“I’m fine, Deke,” Joe said. “Just hangin’ out, coolin’ it. I’d appreciate it, though, if you didn’t spread the news.”
“Hey, you know me, Joe. What can I do you for?”
Joe asked for the names of some contacts in the area. Deke told him that the only guy he knew about who was connected out that way was a Smokey Stover, who ran a bar. Deke could find the number if he wanted it. Joe said that was all right—he wasn’t planning to be in town more than an hour or two, so maybe it wasn’t worth calling the guy.
Deke was a good friend. Joe knew he wouldn’t broadcast the news about his whereabouts, unless somebody important asked him. That was about the best Joe could hope for. He also learned that there wasn’t any particular interest in him, as far as Deke knew. That was good. Deke didn’t mention DiEbola, or Mitch, or any of the other people with whom Joe normally did business. Good.
Joe hung up and took off, keeping an eye peeled for a blond who might be out and about, relieved that the mob had little concern with him, despite his problems with them. Presumably, DiEbola had squared him with the mob, reinstated him, so to speak. He felt considerably easier, even more confident and somehow more … what? Connected. He realized that for some time, without thinking about it, his world had become more constricted, less connected.
He strolled down to a bar on Park Street and had a beer, asking the barkeep if he knew this Smokey Stover. “Ask Smokey who told Father Nick he stole the wine,” the guy said. He gave directions. Joe left and walked another four blocks down the hill to a place called Smokey’s Corner. It was an old-fashioned neighborhood joint—smoky, reeking of beer, not very well lit, with pool tables, a pressed-tin ceiling, a long oak bar with a brass footrail, and a high, ornate, beveled-mirror back bar. An older man with a bit of a paunch and smoking a corncob pipe stood at the end of the bar, talking to the bartender, a young, muscular fellow. The older one looked at Joe with baby blue eyes under a polished bald dome. He smiled at Joe and made a rueful grimace that was evidently an attempt at an ingratiating smile.
“I’ll be goddamn,” he said. “You don’t know me, but I’m Bernie Stover.” He held out a big, calloused hand. “And you’re Joe Service. I knew your boss. Sorry to hear about his passing. I guess you guys made up, eh? Let me buy you a drink.”
He signaled the bartender and had a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s poured, with beer chasers. He tossed his back, saying, “Here’s to Humphrey—may he be safe in heaven while the devil’s busy in Butte.”
Joe said, “Here,” and took a sip of the whiskey. He wasn’t fond of whiskey.
“What can I do for you?” Stover asked.
“Just stopping by, Bernie,” Joe said. “So you knew the Fat Man? He was … well, he was all right. Things went a little sour for him, finally. That’s all. But you’re looking all right. I met a guy, said ask you who told Father Nick you stole the wine.”
“Jim Tracy, that rotten bastard.” Stover laughed.
They chatted like this for several minutes, establishing carefully who they were and making it clear that there was no animosity, no issues between them. But at long last, Joe asked about Frank Oberavich.
“Weirdo” was Stover’s opinion, and it was plain that he didn’t have much use for him. “He grows a little weed, I hear. I don’t mess with that shit, you know? It’s a pain in the ass. The cops are too freaky when it comes to even a little of that.”
“Weed?” Joe didn’t know much about the trade. “What’s all the beef about weed?”
“It’s the entry drug, the cops say, where the kids start. Anything with kids is poison. Anymore, the cops get so much of their funding from the drug program that it’s all they think about. What do you want to know about him? Christ, don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting into that shit.” He puffed his pipe, emitting little clouds of not very aromatic smoke.
No, no, Joe assured him. He’d never had those kinds of interests. He was just looking for some property to build on.
Stover hastened to assure him that he’d had nothing to do with Joe’s place getting trashed, down in the Ruby. This was surely a lie, but Joe had never gotten the full story from DiEbola. It had to have been Stover or his men who’d done the job. Some of them, of course, had perished in the process. It was a topic worth avoiding. But Joe was glad to plant the notion that he was looking for property.
Stover knew the Oberaviches, all of them. A couple of different families, he said they were. Frank was wacko, but the others were okay. Gary, for instance, he was a straight hand. Worked for the railroad. He didn’t know what his relationship with Frank might be, but he thought they were uncle and nephew. Paulie? Never heard of any Paul Oberavich. The only Paulie he could think of was Paulie Martinelli. Nice guy, a professor or something. He might be a friend of Frank’s, although Paulie was a bit older. Stover didn’t know him well. If he had to guess, he’d say Paulie was at Montana State, over in Bozeman.
Joe listened to all this with an air of casual interest. Finally, he said, “You know, Bernie, I’m glad I came in here. I want you to know, as far as I’m concerned, all that stuff with Humphrey and those other guys—I don’t even know who they were!—to me, it’s all history. You know what I’m saying? That was Humphrey. He’s gone. I got no beef with you. Okay?”
Bernie shrugged and drew on his pipe. “Okay with me, Joe,” he said. They shook hands again.
“I’m retired, Bernie,” Joe said. “I’m not doing any business around here. All I’m interested in is my own peace and quiet.” He looked Bernie in the eye.
The old man didn’t try to evade his gaze. He held Joe’s gaze for a significant moment, then nodded as he scoured out his pipe. He stuck it in the pocket of his baggy old suit coat and fished out a fresh one, also a corncob. “Peace and quiet is all we got around here,” he said, as he reloaded and lit up. “If a guy keeps his own peace. It wasn’t so quiet when you were around before. I’m not saying that was your fault, I’m just saying it.”
Joe started to retort, but swallowed his irritation. “That was Humphrey,” he said. “He’s dead, God rest him. I’m just asking if there’s any reason I shouldn’t relax. Nobody been around, asking about me?”
Bernie shook his head.
“Good. Now what about this Oberavich? He in any kind of trouble? What I mean is, if I did any business with him—I mean legit business, buying property, maybe—it’s not going to attract someone’s attention? I just ask, ’cause if he’s some kind of high-profile outlaw or something, the feds will be keeping an eye on him. Right? And they’ll notice me. And Bernie”—he laid his hand quietly on the older man’s arm—“I’m not just making noise here. I don’t want any notice.”
Bernie nodded. “I hear you, son. The only thing I can tell you is the guy is known to the local cops. That means he’s also known to the feds. But as far as I know he’s a pretty clean operator. I said something earlier about not wanting to have anything to do with him. That’s true, as far as it goes. But the fact is, he never approached me. I don’t know how he operates, where he sells his stuff. Maybe he’s smart and sells it out of state. But if it was me, I wouldn’t go near him. If you don’t want to be noticed.”
That was a fair enough warning, Joe thought. “Nobody else interested in him? Other than cops?”
Bernie puffed his pipe. This one smelled a little better; perhaps it was newer, cleaner. “There was a guy, maybe a week ago. I wouldn’ve give it a thought, but you put me in mind of it. I didn’t talk to him. But I was here. Nobody I knew. He didn’t push it, just asked the bartender if he knew him. The answer was no. He left.”
“You think he was connected?”
Bernie puffed. “He was connected to somebody, I’d say. He didn’t drop any names and my man didn’t ask any questions. Like I say, I don’t want no part of that business. If I gave it any thought at all, I think I took it as some outside operation, maybe just checking the competition out.”
Joe asked what the guy looked like. Bernie described him as big, young, a wise guy.
That was good enough for Joe. He thanked Bernie for the drink and left. He knew that word would now be relayed to the rest of the mob that Joe Service was back in town. Joe didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t think there were any consequences to be feared, especially since he didn’t plan to hang around town. But it wasn’t ideal, he knew. He thought he’d probably made a mistake in initiating contact. Still, he’d made his point with Bernie; they understood each other.
On his way back to the hotel, thinking about whether he ought to call the colonel and ask if he had another man on this beat, he almost walked directly in front of a car sitting at a light and being driven by Cateyo. Horrified, he saw her first and turned away, down another block. She hadn’t seen him, he was sure, but this was twice in a matter of an hour. This town was too small, he realized. He hurried back to the hotel.
He didn’t mention Cateyo to Helen, but he told her about the guy who was looking for Frank. “We ought to blow,” he said. “Helena would be safer. It’s only thirty or forty minutes from French Forque.” Helen agreed.
Joe hauled their bags to the parking lot while she handled the bill. He was confronted with two large chunks of carved wood, all but filling the back of the Durango. Helen came out to find him tying the statues, or totems, onto the top of the vehicle.
“Oh no,” she said. “Those are my chain-saw sculptures. They go inside.” Joe insisted there wasn’t room for bags and sculptures, but Helen won. There was room for both.
“What are they supposed to be?” Joe said.
“What do you mean? It’s an owl and a bear. I think they’re really neat. Don’t you like them?”
Joe leaned over the seat for another long look. He sat back with a sigh. To him a statue was carved out of marble or cast in bronze. It wasn’t hacked out of a bull pine with a Stihl chain saw. “If that’s art,” he started to say, then shut his mouth. Instead he asked Helen what her thoughts were on the unknown snooper.
Helen suggested that it could well be a federal investigator, from an agency unknown to the colonel. “If your friend Smokey says Frank is growing grass,” she pointed out, “he’s bound to attract federal attention. The colonel can’t know about all the investigations going on, can he? Maybe we should ask him.”
Joe wasn’t so sure. “Bernie’s description didn’t sound like a professional snoop,” he said. “It could be just an old friend of Frank’s. Bernie seemed to think the guy was connected, but he didn’t recognize him.”
Helen didn’t understand. Joe explained that the man’s manner must have led Bernie to think that he was not a cop but another bent guy. It could be a subtle thing, he said, but people in the life usually recognize their fellows.
“The life?” Helen said.
“The Street, the Biz, bent,” Joe said, impatiently.
“Do I seem to be ‘in the life’?” Helen asked.
“No, of course not,” Joe said. “That’s one of the things I like about you. I try to avoid that, too. It’s a dead giveaway. It’s like I walk into Smokey’s and even if I didn’t already know, I can see right away that Smokey’s into it. The squares, the straights, they don’t know. What do they know? They’re out buying chain-saw statues. Of course,” he hastened on, “it’s not always obvious. You can make mistakes. And it’s hard to know about yourself, how you come across to others, I mean. Do I seem different to you?”
“Oh yeah,” she said with a smile. “I like the outlaw in you, Joe.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant it. But as they were approaching the exit to French Forque, he said, “Maybe we ought to drop in on Frank.”
“Do you think?”
“Yeah, I do.”
A half hour later they pulled up at the gate. Joe got out and looked around. It was a fine fall afternoon. Warm enough in the sun, but there was a briskness in the air. The windmills were spinning busily over the ridge. A posse of long-tailed magpies swooped across the field, lighting in a scraggly cluster of crab apples. Joe looked at the pile of rocks. No sign of the dogs. Helen got out and stood next to him. After some thirty seconds, a voice called out, “Joe! Helen! Come on back.”
Frank was clearly delighted to see them. They apologized for dropping in on him, saying they were headed for Helena and couldn’t resist another quick visit. They’d only stop for a few minutes. But Frank would have none of that.
“Oh, heck, no,” he insisted, “stay over. I was hoping you’d be back. I got to thinking about it—we should have gone down to the hot springs last night.”
Helen was certainly agreeable. It took them an hour to prepare a picnic, pack it into a couple of backpacks, and set off for the Forkee. It was not an arduous trek but it was much farther than the half mile Frank had promised, though Joe reckoned later that if they’d walked directly there it would have saved at least a quarter of an hour. Instead, they wandered across the meadow and down into a small hidden hollow, with the dogs racing ahead, chasing magpies. Frank pointed out an old site where a miner or an early settler had built a log cabin, now long gone except for a jumble of rotted logs, some of which were still marked by the white clay chinking.
Eventually they came to a small creek, easily jumpable, and walked down a path through a twisted gulch, descending to the Forkee. At last they were there, by the sand and gravel banks of the stream, perhaps twenty yards wide here. In places, the river undercut towering cliffs on the other side, which soared straight up at least three hundred feet.
“There’s usually lots of swallows,” Frank said, “but they’ve gone for the season.”
“Where’s the springs?” Helen asked, looking around, disappointed. There were wisps of steam here and there, obviously some thermal springs, but no sign of a pool, such as they’d enjoyed up on Garland Butte.
“They’re all around you,” Frank declared. He was watching her expectantly. “See? These little tubs?” He pointed out where the creek they’d been following flowed in a shallow sheet across the wet sand to the river. Here and there were small depressions in the sand that looked natural, at first, but when examined proved to have been scooped out by human hands and lined with smooth rocks.
He shucked off his clothes unabashedly and stepped into one. Joe and Helen looked on while he scooped his “tub” out with his hands and settled down into the clear water. “See?” he cried. “Try it! You can let in more cold water, if you want”—he pried out a rock to let in some of the cold stream water—“or you can let it fill up with the hot.” He replaced the rock. The tub soon filled.
In a moment, Helen had slipped out of her clothing and was digging out her own tub. Joe noticed that Frank’s eyes were fixed on her lithe form. He got undressed himself and found his own tub nearby.
“Oh, fabulous!” Helen cried. She set about fashioning her tub to suit her, deepening it, setting the rocks just so. Soon enough she was submerged but for her head.
Frank had gotten out and distributed cold beer from the backpacks and rolled spliffs of his marijuana. They all lay back, inhaling deeply and staring into the pure blue sky above the awesome cliffs.
There were a lot of these little hot springs about, Frank told them, but these were the most convenient to the river; plus it was such a great place to just lie and soak and stare at the sky, especially when the stars came out. In fact, although the sun was below the cliffs it was still pretty light out, but already they could see a few of the brighter stars.
After a while, as it grew darker, Frank got up and slipped on a sweater and his shorts and moccasins, to gather firewood. He made a good-sized fire and passed around the sandwiches and cookies. From time to time, Joe or Helen would emerge and wrap themselves in towels or their clothing, to sit by the fire. But they would soon be back in the tubs, trying each other’s and experimenting with new ones. Eventually, however, when it was quite dark and the sky was ablaze with stars, it was too cold even by the fire, and they lay basking in their tubs and drawing languidly on the endless spliffs.
They talked about the stars, Greek gods, Indian myths, and other soon-forgotten things. Then they fell silent. The fire died to coals. And soon, to the amazement of Joe and Helen, they were visited by ghostly deer, at least three does and a couple of yearlings that wandered among them, actually stepping over them, to lick at the rocks. The deer seemed all but oblivious to their presence. Frank whispered that they were after the mineral deposits on the rocks.
They lost track of time. At last, Frank dragged himself out and built up the fire. He had dressed and picked up their litter. Joe and Helen took the hint and got up themselves. They felt wiped out. They had no idea how much time had passed—several hours, a couple?
Suddenly another man stepped out of the dark. He was dressed in khaki pants and a sweater, with a jacket over it.
“Paulie!” Frank said. He introduced Joe and Helen. This was his cousin, he said. Paul had a camp about a mile upstream, they learned. He’d heard their voices and smelled the smoke. Not the grass, but the fire, he said. They all laughed, except for Paulie. He seemed relaxed, but somber.
“I also saw the dogs,” Paulie told Frank. “I told them to go home.”
They sat around the fire, chatting. Joe let Helen recount their cover story. It concluded with their abandoning the casual search for Franko Bradovich and heading for Helena.
When the fire had been put out and the backpacks hoisted onto Frank’s and Joe’s backs, the revelers felt more up to the hike home. Paulie said he would come back to the house with them, “for a cup of coffee.” Frank had provided flashlights. He and Helen went ahead and Joe and Paulie trailed after.
“What kind of research were you doing with your friend?” Paulie asked as they climbed up the gully to the meadow.
Joe said something evasive about “nature stuff,” but Paulie persisted. What kind of nature stuff? He was interested, he said. He’d done quite a bit of research of one sort or another himself.
Joe said that he hadn’t done any research; he was just helping put it in order, doing the “computer stuff.”
“Compiling a data bank?” Paulie said. “What kind of material was it? Geological? Field studies on animals? Birds?”
“Mostly data on birds,” Joe said. He hoped he didn’t sound too stupid.
“Habitat?” Paulie persisted. “Migration?”
“Oh, it was technical stuff,” Joe improvised. “Measurements, numbers of one sort or another.”
“Ah, I’ve done some of that,” Paulie said. “Who was this for? Who had compiled the data?”
“Gee, I can’t really recall,” Joe said. “There were several groups that provided the information. I didn’t pay too much attention. It was all over my head.”
They had gained the meadow and were strolling more comfortably now. Frank’s and Helen’s lights were swinging along far ahead of them. They could even see the lights of the house.
“So, did you organize it by families, species, subspecies?” Paulie asked. “You know, Fringillidae, Gruiformes, that sort of thing?”
“That’s it,” Joe said. Mercifully, Paulie dropped the topic.
When they reached the yard, Paulie stopped to look at Helen’s Durango. “Are those Detroit plates?” he asked. Joe said they were and told the story about picking up the vehicle in Detroit. He said they’d relicense the car when they found a place to settle.
Inside, when the coffee was made and some Miles Davis was playing on the stereo system, Helen and Frank went to arrange the bedding. Paulie suggested to Joe that they go up into the tower. Joe settled on the one chair and looked out, while Paulie squatted nearby. They had not turned on a light, so they were able to see the stars.
“I’m not normally a nosy person,” Paulie said, after a moment, “but I’m a little anxious for my cousin. He’s not used to company, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. He can get a little overfriendly, maybe, almost like a …” He hesitated.
“A puppy?” Joe said, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.
Paulie didn’t reply, just looked out into the darkness. Joe could barely make out his face. Paulie looked down at his cup between his knees. After a moment, he said, “So you and your friend, Bradovich … I guess you set up this data bank on a mainframe, what—”
“How was Kosovo, Franko?” Joe cut in quietly.
Paulie sighed. “I was afraid you were here about that,” he said. His voice was soft and gloomy.
“Well, at least I’m not here about Frank’s dope,” Joe said. “I’m working for a Colonel Tucker. Know him?”
“I may have heard of him,” Paulie said. “What does he want with me?”
“He just wants to know what happened.”
“Is that all?” Paulie said, the bitterness evident in his voice. “I don’t know what I could tell him. I haven’t really come to grips with it. I’m not sure I want to.”
“How long have you been here?” Joe asked.
“Since last spring,” Paulie said. “I guess I convinced myself that nobody would be coming, that nobody knew who I was, what I’d seen.”
“The colonel’s not the type to just forget,” Joe said. “I don’t know what he wants to know, to tell you the truth. I’m just a finder. I tell him I found you, he takes it from there. I guess he’ll want to see you.”
Paulie didn’t reply. He gazed out at the darkness. Finally, he said, “What if you don’t tell him? That you found me. I mean, until an hour or so ago, you hadn’t.”
“Ah,” Joe said. “That could happen, I suppose. But if ‘Franko’ isn’t found by me, I’d guess that he’d send someone else. In fact, there is someone else.”
Paulie looked at him. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” Joe said. He told him what he’d heard.
Paulie was alarmed. “A big guy? Kind of loud?” Then he said, “I have no idea who that could be, do you? I mean, why would the colonel send another man without your knowledge, when you’ve barely gotten here?”
Joe had to agree it didn’t make much sense. He admitted that he didn’t think the other guy was sent by the colonel.
Paulie said, “Listen, I can’t offer you any money … I don’t have any. But if the DEA comes in here … I mean, look, you know what would happen, with Frank. I know you like Frank.”
“Frank can take care of himself,” Joe said. “I’m sure he’s got some kind of plan, for when the narcs come around. He’s pretty sophisticated, with his fences and cameras.”
“Yeah,” Paulie conceded, “Frank’ll be all right. But … look, what’s all this to you? Isn’t there something … ?”
Joe took thought. “Who owns all this land?” He gestured out the window.
“Who owns … you mean this property? I do. Well, me and Frank. We inherited it, from our gramp—grandfather.”
Joe smiled and spread his hands. “Well, there you are.”
Paulie knitted his brow. “Ah,” he said then. “You’re interested in land. Yes, you said as much, earlier.” He nodded, several times. “Yes, I see. Well, anything’s possible, of course. But what about this other guy?”
Joe said, “That’s another thing. Maybe it’s nothing, just some old pal of Frank’s.”
“I don’t think so. Look, can you come back to my camp? We need to talk this over.”
“Sure,” Joe said. “Let’s talk. What about Helen?”
“She can entertain Frank,” Paulie said. “I’ve never seen Frank so interested in a girl before.”
Joe thought he’d detected a hint of an emphasis on “girl.” “Why not?” he said.
They clambered down out of the tower. Helen and Frank were looking at some flowers and Frank was enthusing about them. Joe took Helen aside.
“Bingo,” he said. “He wants me to go back to his camp. I think he’s got plenty to tell. He doesn’t want us to expose him to the colonel.”
“What am I supposed to do,” Helen said, “hang out here with lover boy?”
“You’ll be all right,” Joe said. “Just don’t get too intimate.”
Helen grimaced. “Well, at least after hours of soaking, he’s clean. You be careful. Paulie may not be too stable. Are you armed?”
“I was in a hot tub, remember?” Joe said. “Of course I’m not armed. But don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”