Bluetick Revenge Page 4

  “Coffee’s a comparatively harmless addiction,” I said. I had finished the paper, except the crossword puzzle, and slid the rest of the paper over to her. I needed an eight-letter word for “coward” and couldn’t think of one.

  “Is today Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  “Sure is,” I said.

  “We should do something special.”

  “I promised a nephew I’d have Thanksgiving dinner with him,” I said.

  “Am I going?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “You don’t sound too excited,” she said.

  “It’s not you,” I said. “Nancy’s kind of nighty.” Last year she’d insisted on making a goose for Thanksgiving, and it had been the stringiest fowl I’d ever sampled.

  “Who’s Nancy?”

  “My nephew’s mom.”

  “Your sister? Or your sister-in-law?”

  “Neither, she was married to my cousin.”

  She looked puzzled. “Then he’s not really your nephew,” she said. “He’s your second cousin.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I call him my nephew because he’s only fourteen.”

  “So Nancy was married to your cousin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re divorced?”

  “My cousin’s dead,” I said.

  “Oh.” I told her the short version. My cousin, Hal Keane, had been a high school chemistry teacher, a football coach, and a reserve officer with the Denver Police Department. He had died four years ago in a gun battle with a couple of punks he’d caught pistol-whipping a Nigerian immigrant. My brother and I had been close to Hal during our youth, when we had lived within a few miles of each other, but we’d drifted apart as we’d grown older and fashioned our own lives. I didn’t even know he’d been a police officer until after his death.

  Nancy had been a guidance counselor most of her adult life, but she’d earned a master’s degree in social work after Hal’s death and moved from Denver to Boulder more than a year ago. Since then I’d taken on the role of an uncle to their son, Jimmie.

  I walked to the kitchen, poured myself another cup of coffee, and resumed my seat at the table.

  “Tell me about Bugg,” I said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Does he have any family?” She allowed a bitter smile.

  “The gang is his family.”

  “Aside from that?”

  “He’s got a brother in Arkansas—Tommy. They don’t see each other much, but they talk on the phone every week.” She sipped her coffee. “He’s got an ex-wife named Linda out in California somewhere.”

  “Any kids?”

  “He had some kids with Linda, but he doesn’t have any contact with them. They’re probably in their twenties by now.”

  “Poltroon,” I said. The puzzle master would have to do better than that to stump Pepper Keane.

  “Huh?”

  “An eight-letter word for ’coward,’“ I explained.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “What does Bugg do for fun?” I asked.

  “You mean, like, hobbies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d list drinking as number one,” she said.

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He likes the outdoors. Hunting, fishing, tracking-all that shit. I hate that whole mountain-man thing, but he knows these mountains inside and out. He’s big into survivalism, too; he’s got a generator and a six-month food supply in his basement. He even has food, weapons, and money hidden all around the West in case he ever has to make a run for it.” I studied the crossword and sipped my coffee.

  “Does he have any ties to the White Power movement?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “What about Anvil?”

  “Anvil hates everybody,” she said.

  “I heard some of the Sons of Satan were big into White Power.”

  “A few of the guys talk about it,” she said, “but they’re not, like, skinheads or anything.” I nodded.

  “Bugg have any skinhead friends?”

  “I wouldn’t call them friends,” she said.

  “He does business with them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Drugs?” I asked. She nodded.

  “Some of them buy their shit from us,” she said, “and sell it to their crowd.” The “us” bothered me, but she’d been shacked up with the gang’s leader for seven years, and I supposed the Sons of Satan had been her only family.

  “He do any other business with them?” I asked. She stared at the table and said nothing. I had struck a nerve.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Please.”

  “They do some of the dirty work,” she said, still looking down.

  “Dirty work?” Now she looked right at me.

  “Like when Thad wants someone killed or roughed up.”

  “Why do the Sons of Satan need outside help?” I asked.

  “They don’t,” she said, “but Thad thinks it’s safer. He used to say, ‘Why put a brother at risk when I can pay a skinhead five hundred bucks to off someone?’“ I watched as she walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a carton of milk for her coffee. My shorts definitely looked better on her. “One time he paid them to beat up a Mexican who fucked up his bike,” she said as she resumed her seat. I asked her to elaborate. Bugg had taken a vintage Harley to a repair shop. The kid working on it had accidentally scratched the paint. “Why are you asking me all these questions about skinheads?” she asked.

  “No reason,” I said. “I’m just trying to learn about Bugg and his crew.” I didn’t tell her that skinheads had killed my cousin. He’d killed one with his pistol, but the other—the one who’d shot him— had somehow avoided capture and disappeared. One day later an anonymous man telephoned a local radio station, claiming he was responsible for the killings. He said my cousin’s death should serve as a warning to white cops that protect niggers and faggots. Four years had passed and the authorities had all but given up.

  6

  THANKSGIVING AT NANCY’S was about what I’d expected. She’d invited a few others to her Boulder home, but I’d never met any of them. Two of the guests were female therapists who rent space in the building where her office is located. One was in her late thirties and looked a little like a young Jaclyn Smith; she was tall and had long, dark hair punctuated with just two or three strands of gray. She wore tailored black linen slacks and a sheer white blouse. Her makeup was perfect. She said her name was Kendra Carlson. The other therapist was younger and plain-looking. Her name was Charlene, but everyone called her Charly.

  Then Nancy introduced a lady from the neighborhood and her two young sons. Both boys had blond hair and looked to be four or five years old. There was a bookish, mildly attractive young blonde woman who said little. Nancy said she was “a friend,” and I suspected she was one of Nancy’s clients. Or maybe a lonely heart from Nancy’s Unity church. The only other man was a chiropractor in his mid-forties who appeared to be Nancy’s current love interest. He was tall and thin but lacked muscle tone. His light brown hair was starting to recede. His name was Tim.

  Karlynn Slade looked out of place in her tight jeans, pink T-shirt, and black leather boots. I noticed a small turquoise heart tattooed on the inside of her left wrist. Nancy was dying of curiosity. “Who is she?” she’d asked after cornering me in the kitchen. Nancy is about five-six and stays in shape playing tennis. She looked good in her red corduroy dress. “Did you and Jayne have a falling-out?”

  “I thought you’d be more supportive, Nancy,” I said. She punched me on the shoulder.

  “Who is she?” she repeated. I gave in to a little smile.

  “She’s a lady with a checkered past,” I said. “I’m babysitting her until the U.S. Marshals can set her up in the Witness Protection Program.” She studied my eyes to determine whether I was joking.

  “You could’ve warned me,” she said.

  “I s
hould have canceled,” I said, “but I wanted to see Jimmie. I’m sorry.” She rolled her eyes, then picked up a tray of vegetables and carried it to the living room, where she had assembled an array of munchies for her guests to enjoy while awaiting the Thanksgiving feast.

  I decided to have a drink, but though Nancy’s refrigerator contained a variety of new age beverages, it contained no Coke. I made myself a rum and organic cola, which was the best I could do under the circumstances, then moseyed into the living room. The two therapists were talking with each other, using terms such as “inner child” and “creative self.” The quiet blonde was with them, looking interested but saying little. The neighbor kept asking Nancy if she needed any help. The little boys played with Lego blocks. Karlynn sipped ginger ale and studied the many knickknacks Nancy had collected over the years. The chiropractor stayed close to Nancy. Jimmie came down from his bedroom and stuck to me. I sat down on the oversize beige sofa, picked up the remote, and clicked on the TV. The Lions were playing somebody in a game that had NFC playoff implications.

  “Your mom dating him?” I asked my nephew. Jimmie sat down beside me.

  “Sort of,” he said. He wore a Broncos cap—backwards of course—but I saw strands of his thin, dark hair beneath it.

  “You like him?”

  “He’s okay, I guess,” Jimmie said. “He’s not into sports, though.” In addition to teaching chemistry, Jimmie’s dad had coached football, and Jimmie had been raised to love sports. He played running back on the freshman football team and planned to go out for baseball in the spring.

  “Sports aren’t everything,” I said. “If he’s good to your mom, that’s what counts.” He nodded like a boy is supposed to when an uncle imparts wisdom. He’s tall for his age, but thin like his mom.

  “Is that your new girlfriend?” he asked, pointing to Karlynn. Now she was studying the books in Nancy’s bookcase.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “Who is she?”

  “You promise not to tell?”

  “Sure.”

  “Her husband is the leader of a motorcycle gang. She’s paying me to protect her.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest injun,” I said.

  “Wow.”

  After a half-hour or so, Nancy announced, “Dinner is served.” Everyone filtered into the dining room and took seats around the highly polished rectangular walnut table. I sat at one end of the table, with Jimmie to my right and Karlynn to my left. The chiropractor sat at the other end. Nancy made several trips from the kitchen, finally sashaying back in carrying a colorful tray bearing what appeared to be Cornish game hens.

  Nancy asked Tim to give a blessing, and to his credit it was mercifully short. I smiled as I remembered a prayer Scott McCutcheon had taught me. He liked to say, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. And if that ain’t a square deal you can kiss my ass.”

  We began passing trays of food around the table. Aside from the birds, there was stuffing, green bean casserole, cranberry-orange salad, candied yams, and fresh sourdough bread with real butter. Short conversations erupted and evolved. When a topic had been exhausted, Nancy would say something to start a new conversation. The good-looking therapist kept eyeing me, wondering what I was doing with someone like Karlynn. “What do you do, Pepper?” she finally asked.

  “Little bit of everything,” I said.

  “A man of mystery,” she replied. “Tell me more.” She conversed with the enthusiasm of a woman who’d just finished a Cosmo article on how to snag a man by focusing the conversation on him.

  “You won’t get much out of him,” Nancy teased. “He’s not very talkative.”

  “I used to practice law,” I said, “but I got burned out.”

  “Well, you’re much too young to be retired,” she said playfully.

  “I stay busy,” I said.

  “Doing what?” she asked. Mostly dognapping, I thought.

  “I do some consulting,” I said, “and odd jobs here and there.” She possessed a wide mouth, like Julia Roberts, and her smile betrayed lots of white teeth.

  “He’s a private investigator,” Jimmie said.

  “Eat your beans,” I said.

  “So,” the good-looking therapist said, “you chose to leave a profession that is highly regulated and requires long hours in favor of one that allows you to make your own rules and set your own schedule.” I sort of smiled because she had hit the nail right on the head. Or at least one of the nails.

  “Don’t try to analyze him,” Nancy teased. “You’ll learn more than you ever wanted to know about Western philosophy and you’ll lay awake at night pondering free will versus determinism or some such thing.”

  I looked at Nancy and sipped the last of my drink. “It’s an important issue,” I said with a straight face. “For instance, did you choose not to keep any Coke in the house so that I would have to mix my rum with this foo-foo organic cola, or did the big bang set in motion an unalterable chain of events that made any other outcome impossible?”

  “You know,” Nancy said to me, “you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

  I laughed, and since it appeared everyone had finished eating, I started clearing the dishes. When Nancy got me alone in the kitchen, she mentioned that the good-looking therapist had been Miss North Dakota about twenty years ago. “The fairest maiden in Grand Forks,” I said.

  After the pumpkin pie had been consumed, I played a few games of Battleship with Jimmie, then surrendered my seat so he could play against Tim. I claimed the empty recliner and resumed watching football, but soon fell asleep.

  Karlynn and I stayed until around eight and began our drive back up the mountain to Nederland. It was dark and the truck was cold. She lit a cigarette and cracked her window.

  “You liked that woman, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Which one?”

  “You know which one.”

  “I told you, I already have a girlfriend.”

  “The one that left you?”

  “She didn’t leave me,” I insisted. “She took a sabbatical so she could teach in China for a year.”

  “You like the brainy ones, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. It was another one of those dangerous questions. If I said yes, that would launch her into “I’m not smart enough for you.” If I said no, I’d be lying. The truck had been running for several minutes, so I turned on the heat. “I don’t think she’s your type,” Karlynn continued.

  “Why not?” I didn’t think Karlynn Slade knew me well enough to decide what my type was, but I wanted her opinion just for the entertainment value.

  “She’s too high-maintenance, “ she said. “I’ll bet it took her twenty minutes to get her makeup on.” She turned away and blew some smoke toward the open window.

  We drove on in silence. When we were halfway up the mountain, snowflakes began to descend and I shifted into four-wheel drive. Karlynn continued staring out the window, evidently deep in thought.

  We arrived home before nine, but it was eleven on the East Coast and too late to call Jayne. We entered my home and found all three dogs waiting at the door with their tails wagging. Karlynn let them out while I went to my study to check my messages. There was only one. I hit Play. A male voice said, “Hey, this is— uh—Thad Bugg over in Ward. I need to hire a private dick. Gimme a call at four five nine three two nine nine.”

  7

  I PRETENDED TO GO to bed at ten-thirty. I followed my usual nightly ritual. Changed into boxers and a T-shirt. Brushed my fangs. Washed my face. Swallowed a rust-colored pill containing one hundred milligrams of an antidepressant known as imipramine. Then climbed into bed with Buck and Wheat. Buck turned around three times and flopped down on my left. Little Wheat licked my face, then curled up beside me on my right.

  When I was certain Karlynn was asleep, I got out of bed, walked down to the kitchen, and made some hot tea with lemon. Then I went to my study to think it through. The first question I asked myself was how Bugg
had obtained my name. I’m not listed in the Yellow Pages. Either it was a setup or he’d seen one of the business cards I’d posted on bulletin boards in gas stations and mini-marts along the Peak-to-Peak Highway, from the casino-infested towns of Black Hawk and Central City in the south to the remote towns of Jamestown and Allenspark in the north. But for it to be a setup, he’d have to know I was protecting Karlynn. And he had no way of knowing that. Except maybe for Anvil. I was fairly confident Anvil had not seen Karlynn and me enter my truck; I’d been careful about that. If Anvil hadn’t seen us enter my truck, he couldn’t have obtained my plate number. Without my plate number he couldn’t have learned my name. Karlynn had told him I was not a cop, so he might’ve suspected I was an investigator, but that alone would not have helped him much—there are hundreds of people calling themselves investigators in the Denver and Boulder phone books. I wasn’t certain, but for the time being I accepted the proposition that Bugg’s call was legitimate.

  The next question was why Bugg wanted to hire me. Was it to find Karlynn, the dog, or both? Or something else altogether? The only way to know was to call him. The safe bet was to ignore him, but he’d surely hire someone else—and that could be a problem for me. A big problem. I didn’t need anyone roaming around Boulder County asking questions about Karlynn or a bluetick coonhound. I had to call him.

  The final question was whether I could use this to my advantage. The answer was obvious. It was an opportunity to learn what he knew about Karlynn and the dog. With a little luck, I’d pick up some information that might help the feds put Bugg and the Sons of Satan away. On top of that, I could probably take Bugg for five or ten grand in cash without lifting a finger.

  That night I had another dream about Joy. Joy was a law school classmate I had lived with for several years, but she had died in a freak auto accident before graduation. I still carried a torch for her, even though she’d been dead more than twenty years. In the dream we were walking through a ritzy shop, looking at extravagant china and crystal. She would see a piece she liked, pick it up and examine it, then put it down and look for another. She bought one and we drove away in a Ford Taurus.