The first thing Thumps did when he got to the hospital was find a bathroom. Yes, he had been wearing gloves when he rummaged around in the day pack. Yes, dog slobber wasn’t going to kill him. It probably wouldn’t even make him sick. But just remembering the slimy, pus-like feel of the drool made the hair at the back of his neck quiver.
He washed his hands twice. Then he went down the hall to emergency.
Gina Tucci looked as though she had pulled a double shift. There were bags under her eyes and a slump to her shoulders that suggested that everything below her neck had gone to sleep.
“Morning, Gina.”
“DreadfulWater.” Gina looked up, tried a smile, failed. “You injured?”
“Nope.”
“Sick?”
“Exciting night?”
Gina faked a yawn. “Think ‘breaking news’ on Fox.”
“The Siftons brought in a Mr. Brown. Multiple injuries. Took a nasty fall out at Ironstone River Estates.”
“You know,” said Gina, “I still can’t tell those two apart.”
“One has red hair,” said Thumps.
“Funny,” said Gina.
“Where’d you put Brown?”
Gina pursed her lips. “Didn’t put him anywhere. Came in on a gurney. The boys took him to triage. I went to get his vitals and personal information . . .”
“Such as insurance.”
“Place isn’t a charity.” Gina leaned forward on the counter. “But when I got there, he was gone.”
“Gone? He check himself out?”
“Nope,” said Gina. “Did a runner on us.”
“Anyone see him go?”
“Nope,” said Gina.
“Well, hell.” Thumps started to turn away.
“And you’re not the first one to ask.”
Thumps turned back. Stood there for a moment, allowed the new information to flow over him. “Let me guess. Good-looking Latino. Black leather. Nice smile.”
“Best thing to come through here all night,” said Gina. “No offence.”
“He say anything?”
“Said I reminded him of Sophia Loren.” Gina smoothed her hair. “You know him?”
“I do.”
“Tell him he can come back anytime.”
IT WAS WELL after three before Thumps got home for a second time. Freeway and Cookie were stretched out across the bed, as though they owned the deed to the mattress.
“My bed,” Thumps told the cats. “My bed, my house.”
Thumps picked Cookie up, carried the enormous cat to his basket in the living room, wondered, not for the first time, if Freeway had found a lost cougar kitten and brought him home by mistake.
Thumps was carrying Freeway out to her basket when Cookie passed him on his way back to the bed.
Normally, Thumps liked to get at least eight hours of sleep. Given the night’s activities, that would mean he should be allowed to sleep in until noon that morning.
At seven, the phone rang.
“I have four questions for you.”
Thumps rolled up on his side. “Morning, Duke.”
“One. Why does my holding cell look as though it’s been attacked by the home decorating channel?”
“You at the office?”
“Two. Why are Cooley and Scoop playing house in my holding cell?”
“You know what time it is?”
“Three. What the hell is this pile of blocks on my desk?”
“It’s called Jenga. It’s a game.”
“Christ, DreadfulWater,” said the sheriff. “Office isn’t a daycare.”
“You said you had four questions?”
“Yeah,” said Duke. “Why are there no doughnuts waiting for me?”
THUMPS TOOK HIS time. Shower, dress, breakfast. There was little point in getting to the office before Duke had a chance to find his happy place.
If such a place existed.
The sheriff was standing by the filing cabinet with his back to the door. The old percolator was hissing and grumbling, in the throes of a coronary.
“Coffee’s almost ready,” said Duke without turning. “You better have doughnuts.”
Thumps set the box on the desk. “A dozen of Dumbo’s finest.”
“Chocolate cake?”
“Half the box.”
Duke lifted the percolator, banged it down on the table a couple of times. “Helps to stiffen the taste.”
Whatever it was that Duke’s coffee needed, stiffening was not on the list.
“Coffee’s not coffee until it has time to stiffen.” Duke gave the pot a sniff. “Hear we caught a dead body last night.”
“Not dead,” said Thumps. “Just injured.”
Duke poured himself a cup of coffee. It looked normal. More or less. Black and heavy as tar with iridescent oil-on-water flashes. A rotten cabbage bouquet that reminded Thumps of the Samoa pulp mill across the bay from Eureka on the Northern California coast.
“How bad?”
“Sifton twins took him to the hospital.”
“I hear a ‘but’ on its way.”
“There was a problem with his ID. I went to the hospital to straighten it out.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t there. Walked out of emergency and disappeared.”
“The problem with his ID?”
“Said his name was Jim Brown.” Thumps took the driver’s licence out of his pocket. “But here we have one Stan Greeley. Different name, same man.”
Duke turned the licence over. Looked at the photograph.
“Along with these.”
Thumps put the monocular and the camera on the desk.
“Sweet.” Duke picked the camera up, racked out the lens, aimed it at the coffee pot. “Macy would have liked this.”
“Good to have you back.”
“Who says I’m back?” said Duke. “Maybe I just stopped by to address the troops.”
Thumps didn’t bother to hide the pained look.
“The minute I come back to work,” said Duke, “you’re going to try to quit.”
“I won’t just try.”
“You can’t quit,” said Duke. “You know how many deputies I got?”
Duke didn’t wait for an answer.
“I’m supposed to have four,” said the sheriff. “But until I can find two more to hire, all I got is Heavy Runner and Small Elk.”
“Deanna is first-rate,” said Thumps. “Cooley is getting better every day.”
“You make three,” said Duke. “Which means I’m still one short. And since I’m on compassionate leave, for the time being, you’re me.”
Thumps closed his eyes. When he opened them, the sheriff was still there.
“You trying to play on my sympathies?”
Duke took another doughnut, broke it in half. “Who’s looking after the stolen cars?”
“Cooley.”
“Maybe you want to toss Brown-cum-Greeley to Heavy Runner. Give her something tasty to chew on.”
“Speaking of which, how about I buy you lunch?”
“You bought me lunch yesterday.”
“We could go to the Mustang.”
“You still feeling sorry for me?”
“Do you care why?”
“Not in the least.” Duke took his feet off the desk. “So, what’s with this Jangle thing?”
“Jenga,” said Thumps. “You remove blocks one at a time. If you remove the wrong block, the whole thing falls over.”
“Easier way to do that.” Duke gave the tower a gentle push. It tipped over, scattered the wood blocks across the desk. “Let’s eat.”
AT ONE POINT in its life, the Mustang had been a Texaco gas station. Delroy “Hack” Chubby bought the property at auction and turned the place into a biker bar. He left most of the station intact, brought in a beat-to-shit double-wide and spliced it onto the back of the service bays. Ingenious and cheap, Hack built the bar out of old doors and zinc roofing panels.
He saved the Texaco sign, hung it from the ceiling behind the bar and nailed the grille of a 1965 Mustang to the wall just below an old neon sign for the ‘Big Chief Motel.’ ”
Back in the day, the Mustang was a dark, dank cave, famous for its fist fights and arm-wrestling contests. And for the motorcycles lined up in the parking lot like horses at a hitching rail.
In those days, the bar was just beyond the city limits of Chinook and was a country unto itself with its own code of conduct, which included, but was not limited to, shouting matches, races along the shoulder of the road, and target practice with beer cans, road signs, tires, windshields, and the occasional radiator.
Hack was killed when he tried to pass a semi on the grade just north of Glory. His wake was held at the Mustang, ran through the weekend. And when the sun came up Monday morning, Hack’s daughter, Lorraine, moved the Texaco sign out of the bar along with the jukebox, the pool tables, the ’65 grille, and the ‘Big Chief’ neon, and burned the place to the ground.
Lorraine had her mother’s looks as well as her brains, and before the ashes of the old Mustang cooled, she brought in a bulldozer and levelled the site. The next week, she put up a new prefab building, bright red with a herd of wild horses on the side.
Along with free WiFi, satellite TV, and video gaming.
Lorraine was of the opinion that a twenty-first-century biker bar didn’t have to look and smell like a porta-potty, and that cowboys and bikers should be able to enjoy all the amenities that the modern world had to offer.
The Mustang was still the rough-and-tumble place it had been when Hack was alive, but now there were rules. Three to be exact. If you wanted to fight, you did it outside in the roped-off sand ring that Lorraine had built behind the building, a nouveau gladiator arena complete with a first aid station to deal with the various injuries that might result from a difference of opinion.
Lorraine’s second rule was no puking in the bar. Puking was to be done in the bathroom or in the parking lot. Puke in the bar, and you were gone for the rest of the evening.
Her last rule was simple enough. There was to be no excessive talking or yelling when she was on stage singing karaoke. Not because she had a great voice. It was only okay. But she liked to sing, and since she owned the bar, when she sang, she expected people to shut the hell up and pay attention.
BIG FISH PATEK was behind the bar.
“Hey, Duke, Thumps. Long time.”
Big Fish’s real name was Patek Carpenaux, the story being that his father had named him after Patek Philippe, the famous watch manufacturer in Geneva. Wutty Youngbeaver thought Carpenaux sounded French (which it was) and needlessly pretentious (which it was), and shortened Carpenaux to Carp.
And Carp became Big Fish.
Duke made his way to a table in the corner.
“You guys here for lunch?”
“We are,” said Thumps, “if Yo-Yo’s cooking.”
“Hey,” said Big Fish. “What am I? Stale beer and chip nuts?”
“Yo-Yo?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Big Fish, “Yo-Yo’s in the kitchen.”
“Cheeseburgers for two,” said Duke, “large fries, onion rings, couple of milkshakes. Thumps is buying.”
“Lorraine made her lemon meringue pie,” said Big Fish.
“That as well,” said Duke. “Thumps is diabetic, so I’ll eat his piece.”
“Meal’s on the house.” Big Fish grinned. “Lorraine’s orders. Good to see you back, sheriff.”
Duke waited until Big Fish had disappeared into the kitchen. “Where the hell does everyone think I’d go? Don’t remember ever leaving.”
“You got a bunch of friends,” said Thumps. “Everyone’s been worried about you.”
Duke leaned back in the chair. “So, we got a car thief, a peeping Tom with a phony ID, and Cisco Cruz, the ninja assassin. I miss anything?”
“There’s the woman staying out at Ironstone River Estates. A Nora Gage. Found the guy behind her place. Appears he was watching the place.”
“We know why?”
“Nope.”
“This Gage the woman we saw with Cruz and Ora Mae?”
“She is.”
Thumps hadn’t heard the door to the Mustang open, but he felt the shadow that fell across the table.
“Miss me?” Cisco Cruz slid into a chair, all smiles and good cheer.
“Mr. Cruz.” Duke set his hand on the butt of his gun. “So good of you to join us.”
“I’m guessing you want to talk to me.”
“Actually,” said Duke, “I’d prefer to arrest you.”
Cruz held his hands out, wrists together. “For what?”
Duke turned to Thumps. “Can you think of something with which we can charge Mr. Cruz?”
“Not offhand,” said Thumps.
“Then let’s do lunch.” Cruz picked up the menu. “You guys order yet?”