The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (48 page)

THOMAS MCGUANE

FROM
The New Yorker

L
OOKING IN THE
hotel mirror, David Jenkins adjusted the Stetson he disliked and pulled on a windbreaker with a cattle-vaccine logo. He worked for a syndicate of cattle geneticists in Oklahoma, though he’d never met his employers—he had earned his credentials through an online agricultural portal, much the way that people became ministers. He was still in his twenties, a very bright young man, but astonishingly uneducated in every other way. He had spent the night in Jordan at the Garfield Hotel, which was an ideal location for meeting his ranch clients in the area. He had woken early enough to be the first customer at the café. On the front step, an old dog slept with a canceled first-class stamp stuck to its butt. By the time David had ordered breakfast, older ranchers occupied several of the tables, waving to him familiarly. Then a man from Utah, whom he’d met at the hotel, appeared in the doorway and stopped, looking around the room. The man, who’d told David that he’d come to Jordan to watch the comets, was small and intense, middle-aged, wearing pants with an elastic waistband and flashy sneakers. Several of the ranchers were staring at him. David had asked the hotel desk clerk, an elderly man, about the comets. The clerk said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about and I’ve lived here all my life. He doesn’t even have a car.” David studied the menu to keep from being noticed, but it was too late. The man was at his table, laughing, his eyes shrinking to points and his gums showing. “Stop worrying! I’ll get my own table,” he said, drumming his fingers on the back of David’s chair. David felt that in some odd way he was being assessed.

The door to the café, which had annoying bells on a string, kept clattering open and shut to admit a broad sample of the community. David enjoyed all the comradely greetings and gentle needling from the ranchers, and felt himself to be connected to the scene, if lightly. Only the fellow from Utah, sitting alone, seemed entirely apart. The cook pushed dish after dish across her tall counter while the waitress sped to keep up. She had a lot to do, but it lent her a star quality among the diners, who teased her with mock personal questions or air-pinched as her bottom went past.

David made notes about this and that on a pad he took from his shirt pocket, until the waitress, a yellow pencil stuck in her chignon, arrived with his bacon and eggs. He turned a welcoming smile to her, hoping that when he looked back the man would be gone, but he was still at his table, giving David an odd military salute and then holding his nose. David didn’t understand these gestures and was disquieted by the implication that he knew the man. He ate quickly, then went to the counter to pay. The waitress came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, looked the cash register up and down, and said, “Everything okay, Dave?”

“Yes, very good, thanks.”

“Put it away in an awful hurry. Out to Larsen’s?”

“No, I was there yesterday. Bred heifers. They held everything back.”

“They’re big on next year. I wonder if it’ll do them any good.”

“They’re still here, ain’t they? I’m headed for Jorgensen’s. Big day.”

Two of the ranchers had finished eating, and, Stetsons on the back of their heads, chairs tilted, they picked their teeth with the corners of their menus. As David put his wallet in his pocket and headed for the door, he realized he was being followed. He didn’t turn until he was halfway across the parking lot. When he did, the gun was in his stomach and his new friend was smiling at him. “Name’s Ray. Where’s your outfit?”

Ray had a long, narrow face and tightly marcelled dirty-blond hair that fell low on his forehead.

“Are you robbing me?”

“I need a ride.”

Ray got in the front seat of David’s car, tucked the gun in his pants, and pulled his shirt over the top of it, a blue terry-cloth shirt with a large breast pocket that contained a pocket liner and a number of ballpoint pens. The flap of the pocket liner said
Powell Savings, Modesto, CA.

“Nice car. What’re all the files in back for?”

“Breeding records—cattle-breeding records.”

“Mind?” He picked up David’s cell phone and, without waiting for an answer, tapped in a number. In a moment his voice changed to an intimate murmur. “I’m there, or almost there—” Covering the mouthpiece, he pointed to the intersection. “Take that one right there.” David turned east. “I got it wrote down someplace, East 200, North 13, but give it to me again, my angel. Or I can call you as we get closer. Okay, a friend’s giving me a lift.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Your name?”

“David.”

“David from?”

“Reed Point.”

“Yeah, great guy I knew back in Reed Place.”

“Reed Point.”

“I mean Reed Point. Left the Beamer for an oil change, and Dave said he was headed this way. Wouldn’t even let me split the gas. So, okay, just leaving Jordan. How much longer, Morsel? Two hours! Are you fucking kidding? Okay, okay, two hours. I’m just anxious to see you, baby, not being short with you at all.”

Lifting his eyes to the empty miles of sagebrush, Ray snapped the cell phone shut and said, sighing, “Two fucking hours.” If it weren’t for the gun in his pants, he could have been any other aging lovebird. He turned the radio on briefly. “Swap Shop” was on the air: “Broken refrigerator suitable for a smoker.” Babies bawling in the background. He turned it off. David was trying to guess who Ray might really be—that is, if he was a fugitive from the law, someone he could bring to justice, in exchange for fame or some kind of reward, something good for business. He had tried everything he could to enhance his cattle-insemination business, even refrigerator magnets with his face on them that said, “Don’t go bust shipping dries.”

He asked, “Ray, do you feel like telling me what this is all about?”

“Sure, Dave. It’s all about you doing as you’re told.”

“I see. And I’m taking you somewhere, am I?”

“Uh-huh, and staying as needed. Jesus Christ, if this isn’t the ugliest country I ever seen.”

“How did you pick me?”

“I picked your car. You were a throw-in. I hadn’t took you along you’d’ve reported your car stolen. This way you still got it. It’s a win-win. The lucky thing for you is you’re my partner now. And you wanna pick up the tempo here? You’re driving like my grandma.”

“This isn’t a great road. Deer jump out on it all the time. My cousin had one come through the windshield on him.”

“Fuckin’ pin it or I’ll drive it like I did steal it.”

David sped up slightly. This seemed to placate Ray and he slumped by the window and stared at the landscape going by. They passed an old pickup truck traveling in the opposite direction, a dead animal in the back with one upright leg trailing an American flag.

After they’d driven for nearly two hours, mostly in silence, a light tail-dragger aircraft with red-and-white-banded wings flew just overhead and landed on the road in front of them. The pilot climbed out and shuffled toward the car. David rolled down his window, and a lean, weathered face under a sweat-stained cowboy hat looked in. “You missed your turn,” the man said. “Mile back, turn north on the two-track.” Ray seemed to be trying to send a greeting that showed all his teeth, but he was ignored by the pilot. “Nice little Piper J-3 Cub,” Ray said.

The pilot strode back to the plane, taxied down the road, got airborne, and banked sharply over a five-strand barbed wire, startling seven cows and their calves, which ran off into the sage, scattering meadowlarks and clouds of pollen. David turned the car around.

Ray said, “Old fellow back at the hotel said there’s supposed to be dinosaurs around here.” He gazed at the pale light of a gas well on a far ridge.

“That’s what they say.”

“What d’you suppose one of them is worth? Like a whole Tyrannosaurus rex?”

David just looked at Ray. Here was the turn, a two-track that was barely manageable in an ordinary sedan, and David couldn’t imagine how it was negotiated in winter or spring, when the notorious local gumbo turned to mud. He’d delivered a Charolais bull near here one fall, and it was bad enough then. Plus the bull had torn up his trailer and he’d lost money on the deal.

“So, Dave, we’re about to arrive and I should tell you what the gun is for. I’m here to meet a girl, but I don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. I may need to bail and you’re my lift. The story is, my car is in for repair. You stay until we see how this goes and carry me out of here, if necessary. My friend here says you’re onboard.”

“I guess I understand, but what does this all depend on?”

“It depends on whether I like the girl or not, whether we’re compatible and want to start a family business. I have a lot I’d like to pass on to the next generation.”

The next bend revealed the house, a two-story ranch building with little of its paint left. Ray gazed at the Piper Cub, which was now parked in a field by the house, and at the Montana state flag popping on the iron flagpole.
“Oro y plata,”
he said, chuckling. “Perfect. Now, Davey, I need you to bone up on the situation here. This is the Weldon Case cattle ranch, and it runs from here right up to the Bakken oil field, forty miles away, which is where all the
oro y plata
is at the moment. I’m guessing that was Weldon in the airplane. I met Weldon’s daughter, Morsel, through a dating service. Well, we haven’t actually met in real time, but we’re about to. Morsel thinks she loves me, and we’re just gonna have to see about that. All you have to know is that Morsel thinks I’m an Audi dealer from Simi Valley, California. She’s going on one photograph of me standing in front of an Audi flagship that did not belong to me. You decide you want to help, and you may see more walkin’-around money than you’re used to. If you don’t, well, you’ve seen how I put my wishes into effect.” He patted the bulge under his shirt. “I just whistle a happy tune and start shooting.”

David pulled up under the gaze of Weldon Case, who had emerged from the plane. When he rolled down the window to greet the old man again, Case just stared, then turned to call out to the house. “It’s the cowboy way,” Ray muttered through an insincere smile. “Or else he’s retarded. Dave, ask him if he remembers falling out of his high chair.”

As they got out of the car, Morsel appeared on the front step and inquired, in a penetrating contralto, “Which one is it?” Ray raised his hands and tilted his head to one side, as though modestly questioning himself. David noted that the gun was inadequately concealed and turned quickly to shake Weldon Case’s hand. It was like seizing a plank.

“You’re looking at him,” Ray called out to Morsel.

“Oh, Christ,” she yelled. “Is this what I get?” It was hard to say whether this was a positive response or not. Morsel was a scale model of her father, wind-weathered and, if anything, less feminine. Her view of the situation was quickly clarified as she raced forward to embrace Ray, whose look of suave detachment was briefly interrupted by fear. A tooth was missing, as well as a small piece of her ear. “Oh, Ray!”

Weldon looked at David with a sour expression, then spoke, in a lusterless tone: “Morsel has made some peach cobbler. It was her ma’s recipe. Her ma is dead.” Ray put on a ghastly look of sympathy, which seemed to fool Morsel, who squeezed his arm and said, “Started in her liver and just took off.”

A small trash pile next to the porch featured a couple of played-out Odor-Eaters. David wondered where the walkin’-around money Ray had alluded to was supposed to come from. “Place is kind of a mess,” Morsel warned. “We don’t collect but we never get rid of.”

As they went into the house, Weldon asked David if he enjoyed shooting coyotes. He replied, “I just drive Ray around”—Ray turned to listen—“and whatever Ray wants I guess is what we do . . . whatever he’s into.” David kept to himself that he enjoyed popping coyotes out his car window with the .25-06 with a Redfield range-finder scope and a tripod that he’d got from Hill Country Customs. David lived with his mother and had a habit of telling her about the great shots he’d made—like the five-hundred-yarder on Tin Can Hill with only the hood for a rest, no sandbags, no tripod. David’s Uncle Maury had told him a long time ago, “It don’t shoot flat, throw the fuckin’ thing away.”

David, who enjoyed brutally fattening food, thought Morsel was a good cook, but Ray ate only the salad, discreetly lifting each leaf until the dressing ran off. Weldon watched Ray and hardly said a word as Morsel grew more manic, jiggling with laughter and enthusiasm at each lighthearted remark. In fact, it was necessary to lower the temperature of the subjects—to heart attacks, highway wrecks, cancer—in order to get her to stop guffawing. Weldon planted his hands flat on the table, rose partway, and announced that he’d use the tractor to pull the plane around back. David was preoccupied with the mountain of tuna casserole between him and the peach cobbler and hardly heard him. Ray, small and disoriented next to Morsel, shot his eyes around the table, looking for something he could eat.

“Daddy don’t say much,” Morsel said.

“
I
can’t say much,” Ray said, “with
him
here. Dave, could you cut us a little slack?”

“Sure, Ray, of course.” David got up, still chewing.

“See you in the room,” Ray said sharply, twisting his chin toward the door.

Weldon had shown them their room by walking past it and flicking the door open without a word. It contained two iron bedsteads and a dresser, atop which were David’s and Ray’s belongings, the latter’s consisting of a JanSport backpack with the straps cut off. David was better organized, with an actual overnight bag and a Dopp kit. He had left the cattle receipts and breeding documents in the car. He flopped on the bed, hands behind his head, then got up abruptly and went to the door. He looked out and listened for a long moment, eased it closed, and shot to the dresser, where he began rooting through Ray’s belongings: rolls of money in rubber bands, generic Viagra from India, California lottery tickets, a passport identifying Raymond Coelho, a woman’s aqua-colored wallet, with a debit card in the name of Eleanor Coelho from Food Processors Credit Union of Modesto, Turlock grocery receipts, a bag of trail mix, and the gun. David lifted the gun carefully with the tips of his fingers. He was startled by its lightness. Turning it over in his hand, he was compelled to acknowledge that there was no hole in the barrel. It was a toy. He returned it to the pack, fluffed the sides, and sped to his bed to begin feigning sleep.