AT SUNSET, WALKER LEANED ON a broom, a pile of mouse droppings and dust at his feet. Over the weekend he’d located a single bed (outgrown by Art’s nephew), a set of silverware donated by Vera, and a card table and two chairs from the thrift store. He’d chinked the cracks between the logs with mud and straw. The cabin was taking shape. No hot water, but he’d shower at Jo’s. No washing machine, but hers could handle an extra load once in a while. He’d buy a small fridge that fit under the counter in Show Low this week. He swept the dirt onto a piece of cardboard and opened the door to toss it, just as a tan Pathfinder splashed across the creek. Company already.
“Merk!”
A blast of cold wind blew his cellmate inside.
They hugged, slapped backs, tap danced, stepped back and came together, poked ribs.
“You got any glasses?” Pat said, waving a bottle of Jim Beam.
Walker set out two jelly jars and Pat poured. They clinked rims. Walker threw a log into the wood stove and they huddled next to the heat, warming their bellies and backs, and caught up, Pat reporting prison gossip, Walker filling Pat in on his deal with Keith.
“About the money,” Walker said. “It just didn’t work out, man.”
Pat stepped over to the north-facing window. “Nice view.”
“Bastard tried to kill me,” Walker said. He closed the damper, glanced sideways at Pat and nice and slow, said to his back, “I figure you and him might have pre-planned that.”
Pat faced him. “You and me are partners, buddy.”
“How many partners you got?”
“Only one. Only you.”
The cabin was as tight as their jail cell, with one difference—the entire free world waited outside an unbarred door. Pat poked the bottle under his armpit and they took off for the bar.
Jo was on her perch, talking to a man Walker hadn’t seen before, an administrative type wearing a suit. She borrowed his pen and wrote something on a napkin. The man slipped the information between the pages of a thin, black notebook.
Owen bought everyone a drink.
“Except for him,” he said, pointing at Walker.
Walker winked at Jo, who didn’t notice, and ordered a couple of beers.
“Don’t pay Owen no mind,” Walker said, steering Pat to a table. “It was his ranch I sold to Keith.”
Owen came over, already drunk, told Pat he was keeping company with the biggest thief in the county, maybe the entire state, called Walker a slimy bastard, and drifted back to the bar.
“I hear you gave him all the money,” Pat said. He raised his beer, took a drink. “I figure you owe me something.”
“Like hell.”
“I set us up. You fucked up.”
“You gave me a name.”
“That led to $880,000.00.”
Jo laughed with the stranger.
“I happen to know your mother left you a shitload of money,” Pat said.
“Whoa,” Walker said. “Not true. Twenty grand, that’s it.”
He took out his wallet and opened it just enough to show one end of a cashier’s check for $20,216.00.
“Bullshit,” Pat said. “Your sister told me about your gambling granddad, about the money he’d socked away, and that your mother never told a soul.”
Gambling granddad? Mother’s father was a preacher, so poor he couldn’t replace his coat buttons. Dad’s father was a lean, mean rancher, raised on pinto beans and stringy beef. If there’d been any money in the family, Mother would have put up bail the last time he got arrested, bought back the two sections of the ranch he’d sold just north of the store, and made sure he drove a spiffy truck.
Owen yelled across the room. “I surveyed your property today. You’ll get what you deserve! Serves you right for taking advantage of a helpless old man!”
“Let’s go,” Walker said, shoving his chair back. “Los Olmos is an hour south. The Hole in the Wall is open until two. They got a band.”
He stopped by Jo’s stool and squeezed in between her and the man, laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be late tonight,” he said. “Introduce me.”
“Walker, this is Gerald. Gerald Murray.”
Driving south, Walker filled Pat in on the hunters’ lodge. They didn’t have zoning laws in Alibi Creek and he could build what he wanted any way he wanted. He didn’t know how to cook, but he could flip burgers and tell the difference between medium and rare, and Jo could roast a leg of lamb and whip up a few cakes and pies. The season would run from late August through November. Over the winter they’d kick back in their recliners and rest up. Out-of-state hunters had the big bucks. The only bad part would be waking up at three a.m. to get ’em fed and out the door long before sunup. Hell, he’d stay up all night. Breakfast would be served in a big kitchen with men dishing bacon and eggs on their plates, drinking OJ. Bowls of energy bars, candy bars, and cheese crackers would be available to stuff into their camo vest pockets. There’d be a separate refrigerator just for beer.
Pat grunted. Must be the adjustment of getting out. Walker asked about his plans and Pat said, “We had plans. You fucked them up.”
“Hey, I tried. You go on up to the UP and live up there. That part of the country ain’t for me.”
Pat stared straight ahead.
“Look,” Walker said. “I’d take you in as a partner on the hunting lodge if you want to stick around. What’s wrong, man? Your mouth usually runs looser than a woman’s at the beauty shop.”
At the Hole in the Wall, the three-man band played classic country. During the break Walker bought the musicians a beer. Pat loosened up some, but not enough to launch into the bullshit he’d told in prison that got Walker laughing so hard his stomach ached. Walker tapped his foot to the music. Two gals at the next table smiled.
“I’m serious, man, about going partners,” Walker said. “That little brunette sitting across from the blond has her eye on you. Ask her to dance.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“The girl or lodge?”
“Both.”
The blond met up with her date and Walker sat back as Pat and the brunette danced to a Patsy Cline song. The lead singer played the guitar like a pro and sang with his eyes closed, dragging a tune out longer than a string of TV commercials. After a couple more dances, the girl led Pat outside.
Walker wandered over to the pool tables and listened to the balls clink, sink, and rebound to the cheers and moans of the players. He knew some of the guys, but games were a drag and he sat down again, put his feet up on Pat’s chair and emptied his beer. Life was good—twenty grand in his wallet, a plan, a woman—his woman, Jo. He was as close to peaceful as he’d known. A little buzz vibrated in his right ear. He tilted his head. When everything seemed perfect, except for one little thing, that little thing usually turned out to be a big problem. He listened closely. The problem was Pat. Pat the Rat.
The rodent showed up at closing time, just before last call, all cocky, and said, “Let’s split.”
Walker stuffed a ten in the band’s tip can and followed the rat outside.