Spring on the high plains was a magic act. Now you see it. Now you don’t. Today, spring was back again, and this time it had brought summer with it.
Last night, Thumps DreadfulWater had made the mistake of watching a round-table discussion on global warming.
The usual suspects.
A university professor in a gold and green tunic dress (made of recycled plastic, according to the caption) argued that the melting ice caps and rising ocean levels would create cataclysmic weather events, which would overwhelm social and political orders around the world.
An older man, who had been melted down and poured into a business suit, suggested that higher temperatures could have the benefit of opening new areas for the exploration of much-needed natural resources. He had figures on the amount of oil and gas that would be available as the ice at the poles retreated, figures he tossed into the audience like treats from a float. Thumps was pretty sure the man had made the numbers up on the spot.
Still, they were impressive.
A husband-and-wife team, who worked with farmers in Shanxi Province in northern China, where droughts were destroying entire communities. Global warming, they argued, was not an academic subject or a business strategy. It was a human crisis of massive proportions. Crops wilting. Animals dying. Children starving. The time for talking was over.
Except it wasn’t.
The show droned on for an hour, and, in the end, the only agreement that the participants came to was to continue the discussion.
In part two.
Which was set to air the following week. Where they would say the same things and come to the same conclusions.
Thumps stood on the porch and tried to recall what Moses Blood had said about global warming. Something about gophers in a cardboard box. The more gophers you put in the box, the hotter it would get. That wasn’t quite right, but it was the general idea.
And with humanity closing in on the nine billion mark, only the hopelessly optimistic or politicians from Florida or Texas would think that the planet was somehow going to get cooler.
In the meantime, breakfast.
AL’S WAS SANDWICHED in between the Fjord Bakery and Sam’s Laundromat. It had been a vacant alley, until Alvera Couteau bought it from the city for a dollar and turned the space into a café that served the best breakfast in the mountain west.
The café was long and skinny with a run of scruffy, red Naugahyde stools bellied up to a lime-green counter, and a row of plywood booths jammed against the wall for any tourists who might wander in.
Not that many did.
First, Al’s was hard to find. There was no sign to mark the spot, just a turtle shell that Preston Wagamese had glued next to the door, with the word “Food” written on it.
Second, the café wasn’t particularly inviting. The place was dim, the light from the window by the grill filtered through a thin film of grease, the air thick and moist, with hash brown highlights and a sausage finish.
Thumps got to the café just as Al was opening the door.
“Come back in fifteen minutes.”
“You open at seven.” Thumps held out his watch. “It’s seven.”
“Okay, early bird. You get to exercise Lucy.” Al reached under the counter and came up with a long piece of orange string on the end of a stick. “Make sure you make her sweat.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Sheriff such as yourself should be able to figure that out.”
“Deputy sheriff.” Thumps found his favourite stool and sat down. “Temporary deputy sheriff.”
The cat appeared out of nowhere, jumped on the counter, sat down next to the salt and pepper shakers.
“Her impression of an Egyptian figurine,” said Al. “Don’t know how many times I’ve told her not to do that.”
“Pretty sure a cat on the counter is a health-code violation.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” said Al. “Read her her rights. Slap the cuffs on. Night in jail might do her some good.”
Thumps flicked the stick. Lucy was off the counter in a flash, hit the end of the string like a ten-pound bass on a two-pound line.
“Mind you,” said Al, “I do like a strong-willed woman.”
Lucy let go the string, waited for it to move, and then pounced on it again.
“She’s wiped out the café’s mouse population, and now she’s bored.” Al set a cup in front of Thumps. “How’s Duke holding up?”
“Okay.”
“Funeral was only a month ago,” said Al. “A month ain’t okay.”
Alzheimer’s. The disease had come on gradually. Macy had been staying at her sister’s in Missoula. She’d been seeing a specialist when she died. Suddenly and unexpectedly. Duke had rushed over, but he was too late to do anything except make arrangements for her body.
“Stas and Rawat said they went by the office to pay their respects.” Al wiped at a spot on the napkin dispenser. “Left a bottle of vodka and flowers. I hear that even Morris Dumbo stepped up. A dozen chocolate-coated doughnuts? And a sympathy card?”
“That was Fancy’s doing.”
“Boys said Duke wasn’t there.”
“He’s taking time off.”
“You seen him since he got back?”
“Going to stop by later today.”
“Sitting on grief can be dangerous,” said Al. “Empty house. Long nights. Loaded gun.”
“That’s not Duke.”
“Death changes people,” said Al.
Thumps pushed his coffee cup forward.
“You want coffee?”
“I do.”
“Think I should give you preferential treatment? Because you’re sheriff and all.”
“A hungry temporary deputy sheriff,” said Thumps. “Who would like to be fed.”
“You want to hear about Wutty’s new idea or do you want to eat your breakfast in peace?”
“Door number two.”
“As deputy sheriff,” said Al, “you’re obliged to keep up on current events.”
“The usual,” said Thumps. “Extra salsa.”
“And Wutty is generally a current event.”
Wutty Youngbeaver was more properly a continuing event. Sometimes a successful event. More often a disaster. But neither success nor failure dampened the man’s enthusiasms.
“He still taking tourists across Red Tail Lake in his Little Otter?”
“Had to give that up,” said Al.
“He drown someone?”
“Nope. Had to sell it. Insurance costs. Evidently, an amphibious van is not a good risk.”
“Grill hot yet?”
“Rush, rush, rush.” Al ambled back toward the front. “Whatever happened to comradery and companionship?”
Thumps cupped his mug, imagined that it was filled with coffee.
“Thumps, my man.”
Wutty Youngbeaver had come into the café when Thumps wasn’t looking. With Russell Plunkett and Jimmy Monroe in tow.
Wutty ambled down the line of stools, whacked Thumps on the shoulders, began massaging his neck. “This is your lucky day.”
Thumps couldn’t recall exactly how many lucky days he had had with Wutty. Certainly more than his fair share.
Wutty sat down on the stool beside Thumps. “What do you know about the U.S. Open?”
“Not talking tennis,” said Russell.
“Talking golf,” said Jimmy.
Al arrived with the coffee pot. “Now there’s a game in need of extinction.”
“Sport of kings,” said Wutty.
“That’s horse racing,” said Jimmy.
“Breakfast of Champions,” said Russell.
“That’s Wheaties,” said Wutty. “Pay attention. There’s going to be a qualifying round for the U.S. Open right here in Chinook.”
Thumps opened his eyes.
“PGA normally uses the Missoula Country Club,” said Wutty, “but it’s being renovated, so they’re going to hold it at Shadow Ranch.”
“A qualifying round?”
“That’s right,” said Wutty. “And guess who’s going to qualify for the big show?”
“That’s baseball,” said Jimmy.
Thumps knew better than to ask. “You?”
Wutty smiled, nodded his head as though he were trying to snap it off at the neck.
Thumps hid his smile behind the cup. “You know, you can’t just sign up to play. You have to be a professional golfer or have a USGA Handicap Index not exceeding 1.4.”
Wutty gripped an imaginary club, took an imaginary swing. “Index of 1.0.”
“Probably don’t want to encourage him,” Al shouted from the grill.
“You’re a scratch golfer?”
Wutty threw his arms around Jimmy and Russell. “What you’re looking at,” he said, “is Team Wutty.”
“We’re getting T-shirts made,” said Russell.
“Red with gold lettering,” said Jimmy.
“Sponsorship,” said Wutty. “And there’s still opportunity.”
Thumps could see Al coming his way with breakfast.
“And you know what they say about opportunity,” said Wutty. “It only knocks once.”
Al slid the plate in front of Thumps. “Doesn’t mean you have to open the door.”
“Al’s is the official café of Team Wutty,” said Wutty.
“I paid for a couple boxes of balls,” said Al. “Moment of weakness.”
“So, can I sign you up?”
Thumps worked his fork into the eggs. Perfect. “
I think what Thumps is trying to say,” said Al, “is that as an officer of the law, he can’t show favouritism.”
Thumps cut the sausage into pieces.
“Understood,” said Wutty. “I’ve got my clubs. Rocky is letting me use the facilities.”
Thumps stopped his fork in mid-air. “Rocky?”
“You know. Vernon Rockland. The big man. I got free use of the golf course. So, I’m all set.”
Thumps put the sausage in his mouth. “Good luck.”
“All I need is a caddy.”
“Rocky said you used to play golf,” said Jimmy. “Said you were pretty good.”
“Not as good as me,” said Wutty. “But caddies aren’t supposed to be as good as the player.”
“Me and Jimmy volunteered,” said Russell, “but we don’t know the rules of the game.”
“I get through the qualifying round, make the cut at the Open, and I’m in the money. At least forty, fifty thousand.”
Thumps put his fork to one side. “Do you know how hard it is to make it all the way through qualifying? Do you know how hard it is to make the cut at the Open?”
Wutty smiled. “Caddies get ten percent. Seeing as we’re friends, I’ll cut you in for twelve.”
Russell looked at his watch. “Got to get going.”
“Breakfast at Shadow Ranch,” said Jimmy. “Part of the sponsorship. Then it’s on the course for a practice round.”
“Shot two under, the other day,” said Russell.
“Knock, knock,” said Wutty. “Knock, knock.”
Al waited until the boys were all the way out the door. “Okay,” she said. “Coast is clear.”
“You could have warned me.”
“If you had come in at your regular time,” said Al, “you would have missed them altogether.”
“He hasn’t got a prayer in hell.”
“But you got to admire his enthusiasm.” Al topped up Thumps’s cup. “You really going to go by Duke’s?”
Thumps nodded.
“If you wait until after I close, I’ll go with you.”
“Probably should go alone.”
“So the two of you can watch a little baseball, talk a little football?”
“I can do grief counselling.”
“Man doesn’t need grief counselling,” said Al. “Man needs a friend who will sit with him in the dark. I’d tell you to hold him, but you guys get all wiggly about that sort of stuff.”
“Probably take him out and feed him.”
“ ’Cause nothing says I love you,” said Al, “like a cheeseburger and a beer.”
Thumps pushed off the stool. “I was thinking of pizza.”
“Close enough,” said Al. “Close enough.”