Short Money (12 page)

To his right, the driveway led to a sagging metal Butler building. Maybe the Hummer was in there. Crow banished the thought. Ricky would be here, or he would not. Up the hill from the garage he could see two cottages built back into the woods. Guest cottages, he suspected. He started back toward the lodge, paused, decided to look around a bit. He circled the house, following a trampled path that led between the house and the barns. His wing tips, absurd in this woodland setting, creaked on the packed snow. As he came in view of the kennel behind the barn, the dogs stopped barking and began to wag their tails, three hounds with their noses pressed up against the chain-link fence of their kennel, staring at him.

Crow said, “Nice dogs.”

At the sound of his voice, the barking resumed with renewed vigor. Crow shook his head. He should know better than to talk to animals.

The land behind the lodge dropped away quickly. He could see the river through the trees; wide white shelves of snow-covered ice sandwiched a leaden ribbon of water. He wondered if he could throw a rock that far. The distance seemed to shift—as he watched, the river receded. A wet wind rolled up the bluff; Crow turned up the collar of his trench coat and buttoned the storm flap. Looking back at the lodge, he discovered a bank of five picture windows above him, running most of the length of the log building. It would be a great view from inside. He glanced back at the house, noticed something moving behind the glass. Someone—it looked like an old woman—was watching him from an upstairs window. Crow lifted a hand and smiled. The old woman backed away from the glass. He turned toward the river again, shivered, then retraced his steps, sending the kenneled dogs into a new level of frenzied barking.

The old woman was waiting for him at the side door. She was not quite five feet tall, and pink scalp showed through her white hair. She stood in the open doorway wearing a housedress, little pink flowers on white cotton, her veiny, sinewy arms crossed, staring up at Crow with eyes the color of bitter chocolate, frowning in a way that made her mouth disappear in a whorl of wrinkles. A few seconds into an awkward silence, Crow realized that she was not going to speak.

“Afternoon,” he said.

The old woman nodded, confirming his statement.

“Is George around?” he asked. He felt like a little boy asking if George could come out to play.

“Who the devil are you,” the old woman asked, “making them dogs bark themselves silly?”

“My name’s Crow.”

“What kind of name is that? You a Indian?”

Crow shook his head. “I’m looking for George Murphy. Are you Mrs. Murphy?”

Mrs. Murphy nodded, studying him. “Crow,” she said, pushing out a small, surprisingly pink lower lip. “You’re a friend of Ricky’s, aren’t you? I’ve heard him mention your name.”

I bet you have, Crow thought. He tipped his head to the side and smiled, striving for neutrality. “I know Ricky.” He wished the dogs would stop barking. His toes were freezing, and his ears were going numb. Mrs. Murphy didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold.

“Shaddup!” she bellowed, frightening both Crow and the dogs into silence. She returned her attention to Crow, looking at him as if he had suddenly materialized before her. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.

Crow shook his head. “It’s a private matter.”

Her eyes shifted to the sky. “Private? His daddy Sean was the most private man I ever knew. Never knew what he was thinking. Never let on nothing till the day he learned he was going to die. Oh, how he hated to die.”

“I’m sorry,” said Crow, feeling uncomfortable. The old lady was batty.

“Don’t be,” Mrs. Murphy commanded. “He’s been dead fifteen long years now, God rest his soul, though we mostly only miss him on holy days now. He was pure Irish, you know, and liquor was poison to him. Of course, you being a Indian, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know about liquor. Is there something I can do for you?”

Crow was mostly Irish—no Native American ancestors that he knew of—but he understood that bit about liquor being poison. “I’d like to talk to George,” he said.

“Ricky’s not here. He’s took off someplace in that truck of his.”

“George. I’m looking for George.”

“George? I thought you said you were looking for Ricky. You can go look for him in the lodge.” She stepped back and slammed the door.

Crow walked around the house to the lodge, pulled open one of the double doors, and stepped inside, relaxing his shoulders and letting the warmth penetrate. The air held a rich animal smell.

The lodge, he discovered, consisted of a single open room. Directly opposite the entrance were the picture windows he had seen from outside. The view of the river valley was even more impressive from inside, filling the entire bank of windows. He let his eyes rest briefly on the panorama, then turned his attention to the room itself. Several bulky club chairs and a long sofa upholstered in burgundy leather faced the windows, looking out over the trees across the river. A collection of mismatched wooden chairs were ranged at tables on and around a fifteen-by-thirty-foot Oriental rug that was centered on the polished wood floor. To his left, the wrinkled, determined-looking head of a rhinoceros jutted out into the room from above a huge fieldstone fireplace. On each side of the fireplace hung a collection of trophies, including an elk, three black bears, a cougar, a leopard, and a pair of boars. Below the rhino head, an octagonal green felt card table was surrounded by four men, intent on a hand of cards. Three of the men he did not recognize. The fourth man, the one dressed in a police uniform, was Orlan Johnson.

Crow looked toward the other end of the room. At first, his mind refused to process the image. Then he remembered what Berdette Williams had told him. Yes, the Murphys did indeed have a tiger. The animal was reclined on its belly, examining him through unblinking eyes. The primate in Crow wanted very badly to climb the nearest tree. Fortunately, since no trees were available, the more evolved portions of his mind recognized the heavy chain leading from a collar around the tiger’s thick neck to a substantial-looking steel ring bolted to the wall. The floor was covered with straw—from the way it was scattered, it appeared that the tiger’s territory was strictly limited to a half circle about fifteen feet in diameter. A large jointed bone—the leg of some sizable creature—lay near the perimeter of the circle. The bone was scarred; shreds of meat and gristle still clung to the joint. The animal smell he had noticed upon entering sorted itself out in his mind: straw, tiger piss, and aging meat.

“Is that who I think it is?”

Crow turned and looked at the cardplayers. Orlan Johnson was grinning at him.

“I’ll be got-damned. It is Joe Crow! What the hell are you doing here?”

Crow crossed the room to stand a few feet from the table. He wished his heart would slow down. He could still feel the tiger tasting him with its feline mind. That, plus being in the same room with his old boss, a guy who had had him arrested, then forced him to resign, was playing hell with his glands. He forced himself to speak calmly.

“How you doing, Orlan?”

“I’m doin’ fine.” A loose smile crawled across Orlan Johnson’s wide face. A cigar with a plastic mouthpiece jutted from between his teeth. “You wanna play? Play a little stud?” He was drunk. A tall glass filled with ice cubes, carbonated fluid, and a lime rested at his elbow. That would be a vodka tonic, Crow recalled. Johnson never drank anything but vodka tonics, which he believed were less detectable on his breath.

“I’m looking for George,” Crow said.

“He just left. He’s all upset because his elk got sick.” Johnson laughed through his nose, blowing ashes on his uniform.

“You just missed him,” said the sandy-haired man to Johnson’s left.

Johnson said, “George likes to feed his beasts when he gets upset. You still play poker, don’t you, Crow?”

Crow ignored Johnson and addressed himself to the sandy-haired man. “Any idea where he went?”

Johnson said, “Jus’ a frien’ly game, Joe. Dollar limit.”

One of the other men, a nondescript but well-groomed fellow wearing a red chamois shirt and an expensive watch, stood up and introduced himself and the other two men. Crow shook their hands and instantly forgot their names. All three men, he noticed, were drinking Budweisers. Their identical grips were firm, dry, and practiced. Executives of some sort, probably worked for some corporation large enough to have sent them to handshaking school.

“You know,” one of the men said, “George didn’t walk out of here but a couple minutes ago. You might want to check out by the barns.”

Johnson said, “Why don’t you sit down, Crow? Four makes for a lousy card game. George’ll be back sometime. Might as well win some of our money while you’re waiting. You want a beer?”

Crow shook his head, staring at his former boss, imagining how it would feel to step around the table and grind the heel of his right hand into that bulbous nose. Rage swept through him, then was gone, leaving only a shaky nausea in its wake. The air in the lodge was stale and heavy and warm. The sweet smell of Johnson’s cigar combined with the yeasty, alcoholic aroma of the beer and settled low in Crow’s gut. He had to get out of there. “No, thanks,” he mumbled, heading for the door.

A large, pear-shaped man in a baby-blue snowmobile suit was standing beside Bellweather’s Jaguar, staring down at it. He turned his head and looked at Crow, blinking. Framed by the blue hood, his face had the rubbery, slack look of the mentally impaired. He pointed a mittened hand at the car and lifted reddish eyebrows over mud-brown eyes.

Crow smiled and nodded, half expecting the man to clap his hands together and giggle.

The man did not return his smile, but said, “Don’t you feel like a jerk, driving that thing?” There was no trace of arrested development in the clear, deep voice.

Crow made a rapid mental adjustment. “Are you George Murphy?” he asked.

The man pushed back his hood. His hair, red shot with gray, covered most of his protruding ears. He had a swollen red spot in the center of his forehead. “That’s right. Is Nelly Bell here?”

Nelly Bell? Crow repressed a smile. “If you mean Dr. Bellweather, no, he’s not here.”

George Murphy took three swift, fluid steps, bringing him to within arm’s reach of Crow, who had to strain to keep himself from backpedaling. The man could move, considering his size. At closer range, his eyes did not appear so much muddy as opaque. Murphy lowered his head, tipped it twenty degrees, and peered into Crow’s face like a curious gorilla looking into a camera.

“You are Officer Crow,” he said. Steamy breath crossed the space between them. It smelled of peppermint. “Ricky said you was working for that son-of-a-bitch. I thought we were rid of you.” He paused and pressed his lips together. “I see I was mistaken.”

Murphy’s face went through several mutations as he spoke, as if small animals were scurrying about just beneath his skin. The effect was both comic and alarming. His language also seemed inconsistent, like that of an intelligent but uneducated man trying to speak with unaccustomed formality.

Crow said, “It’s a small world.”

“Like hell it is. What do you want, Officer Crow?”

“I want to talk. You mind if we go inside? It’s cold out here.”

Murphy snorted and turned away, walking toward the barns. Crow hesitated. Was this a summons or a dismissal? He decided to take it as an invitation, pushed his hands into his coat pockets, and started after the lumbering Murphy. He looked up at the house as they passed and caught the old woman watching him through one of the upstairs windows. Crow waved, and once again she backed away from the glass. Murphy unlatched and opened the door leading into the first barn, stepped inside. The smell hit Crow hard; his nostrils clamped shut at the organic intensity of it.

The long metal building was illuminated by three bare, low wattage yellow light bulbs hanging from cords seven feet off the straw-matted floor. The left-hand side of the barn was divided into stalls. Breathing shallowly, he followed Murphy into the dimly lit interior. The first three stalls were vacant, but the fourth was occupied by an ugly, barrel-shaped creature that pushed its snout through the metal bars of the gate and snorted steam. It was a pig, but uglier and meaner looking than any pig Crow had ever seen—coarse speckled gray-and-black hair, long legs, and a hunched back. Murphy stopped, pried the top off a plastic garbage can, scooped out a handful of corn, and tossed it into the stall. The hog produced a hoarse squeal and proceeded to vacuum up the kernels. It paused in its feeding and raised its head, showing a pair of six-inch-long tusks jutting from its lower jaw. Crow met the tiny, glittering eyes, shuddered.

“A little treat,” Murphy said. He grabbed a small metal bucket from a nail on the wall, filled it with corn, moved on to the next stall, which contained a smaller, reddish version of the same species. He tossed out another scoop of corn, then looked back at Crow, a demented grin filling his face.

“I like to feed them.”

“I can see that,” Crow said. “What kind of pig is that?”

“Russian boar. We got twenty, thirty razorbacks running wild down on the bottoms, but I like to keep the Russians penned up here until we need them. Sometimes they don’t mix so good with the native stock.”

“They sure are ugly.”

“Eye of the beholder, Officer Crow. I hear you have climbed on the water wagon. I respect that. More people should try it.”

“Who’d you hear that from?” he asked.

Murphy laughed. “It’s a small world.”

The next few stalls were empty, but a larger stall at the far end of the barn held a mottled gray-and-white ram with horns corkscrewing out eighteen inches from the sides of its head. The ram stood chewing something, apparently oblivious to their presence. Murphy threw it some corn, but the animal showed no interest.

“He’s not happy,” Murphy said. “These exotics don’t last long in our climate, even if you keep them indoors.”

“Then why keep them?”

Murphy looked surprised. “Why, to hunt, Officer Crow. Aren’t you a hunter?”

“That depends on what you call hunting.”