Bluetick Revenge (3 page)

“Can we listen to something else?” Karlynn said. From her tone you’d have thought I’d been forcing her to listen to it for
months. This is going to be a fun couple of weeks, I thought.

“Sure,” I said. “Anything except rap or heavy metal.” She fiddled with the radio until she found a classic rock station. Another
ten minutes passed before she said anything.

“So you were in the army?” she said.

“Marines,” I said.

“Same thing,” she said. Ordinarily that would have been strike three, but for two thousand a week I could cut her some slack.

“No, it’s not the same thing,” I said. “The army fights land wars; the Marine Corps supports naval operations.” She just stared
out the window.

We came into Boulder on Twenty-eighth Street, and I pulled into the Boulder Mall. The indoor mall, not the one on Pearl Street.
It’s a dying mall, and only a few stores remain. The city of Boulder has been trying to figure out what to do with it for
years, but the city council has been more concerned with human rights abuses in Tibet and making sure the rest of the world
knows that Boulder is a nuclear-free zone than it has been with sales tax revenue. “What are we doing here?” she asked.

“Shopping,” I said. “This is where you get your clothes and whatever else you need.” I found a space, put the truck in park,
and cut the engine.

“I don’t need anything,” she said.

“Look,” I said, “I live in a house two miles out of a small town, and it’s a town a lot of your biker friends like to visit
when things get a little dull back at the old amphetamine ranch. You’re not going to be able to waltz into town whenever you
need a carton of cigarettes or someTampax.”

“Fuck,” she said. She opened the door, got out, and slammed it shut. I shook my head.

“You might want to buy some hair dye, too,” I said. “Bugg and his goons are looking for you.”

We entered the mall through the Foley’s entrance. Foley’s is a department store once known as May D&F. I think the “D&F” stood
for “dry goods and furnishings,” but that’s just a guess. It might have stood for “downtown and freakin’ expensive.” Though
it was still a few days before Thanksgiving, the store had its Christmas face on. Fake pine trees adorned with bells and tinsel
were strategically positioned, each with colorful packages beneath it. Karlynn went straight to the lingerie section and I
followed. She began sifting through a bin of pastel panties as I stood watch. “Do you have to watch me buy underwear?” she
said.

“Part of the job.”

“Try not to enjoy it too much,” she said.

When she’d finished in lingerie, I followed her through the store as she selected jeans, shirts, and a few personal items.
I paid for everything. Matt had given me ten thousand in cash. When we finally went to pay for her purchases, the cashier
thought we were married and told me I would receive a free set of perfume and lotion for my wife if I opened a charge account.
“We won’t be together much longer,” I said.

By the time she had finished shopping, it was nearly one and I was hungry. “Want something to eat?” I asked.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“Mind if I hit the food court?”

“Whatever,” she said. I started walking in that direction. She waited a moment, then ran as best she could in her boots until
she was beside me. I carried several shopping bags in my left hand, leaving my right hand free in case I needed my Glock.
She carried the third bag. The food court was surprisingly busy given that few stores remained at the mall, but I found an
empty booth and placed the bags on one of the benches. She followed suit.

The rectangular food court had once boasted a dozen vendors, but competition from a newer mall in nearby Broomfield had taken
its toll. The Broomfield City Council does not care about Tibet or nuclear weapons. There were now only three vendors, the
other spaces boarded up. I handed Karlynn a twenty and told her to get whatever she wanted. I got in the pizza line, ordered
two slices with mushrooms and a large diet Coke. When I returned to our table, she was not there. I slowly scanned the area
until I’d turned 360 degrees, but she was nowhere to be seen. Damn, I thought, I’m going to have to be more careful.

I set my food down and began walking the perimeter of the food court. I checked all three establishments. Just when I was
really starting to worry, I saw her walking down a long passageway toward me. She’d been using the restroom. She saw the look
on my face.

“You think I took off on you?” she asked. I studied her face and manner, but she showed no signs of drug use.

“That crossed my mind,” I said. “I told you to get some food; I didn’t tell you to go to the bathroom.”

“I don’t need your permission to take a piss,” she said.

“No, but you need me to protect you from Bugg and his scumbag friends, and I can’t do it if I don’t know where you are.” We
started walking toward our table. She stopped at the Greek place, purchased a gyro and an orange soda.

We sat across from each other, not saying much. “You married?” she finally said.

“No.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“More or less.”

“She live with you?”

“No.”

“How’s she gonna feel about me staying at your place?”

“That’s a damn good question,” I said. Fortunately, Jayne Smyers, PhD, associate professor of mathematics at the University
of Colorado, was in the middle of a nine-month stint teaching fractal geometry at Peking University and wouldn’t be returning
until Christmas, at which time we hoped to share ten wonderful days with each other. Peking University is in Beijing, which
was known as Peking until the 1980s, when translators began using the pinyin system of romanization of Chinese. For reasons
unknown they still call it Peking University rather than Beijing University. Maybe the person in charge of the university
was a 270-pound cigar-smoking Chinese man who didn’t want to have to pay some fucker to design a new logo.

“What about you?” I said to Karlynn. “What’s your story?” She said nothing, didn’t even look at me. “I was just making conversation,”
I said. “If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “I left McCook, Nebraska, the day I graduated from high school, and took the bus to Omaha.
I met Thad in Sturgis seven years ago and I’ve been with him ever since. Then the feds came after me, and you know the rest
of the story.”

“You left him after one visit from the FBI,” I said. “I think you already had one foot out the door.” She lit a cigarette,
then pursed her lips and released a stream of smoke with the expertise of a woman who’d been smoking a long time.

“He’s a prick,” she said. “I loved him once, or thought I did, but the gang is everything to him now.” I nodded. “He drinks
too much. Stays out for weeks. Treats me like shit.”

“He beat you?” I asked. In the light of the food court I had noticed some faint yellow discoloration beside her left eye.
She ignored the question, and I went back to work on one of my pizza slices.

“He didn’t used to,” she finally said. I sensed she felt shame for letting him treat her that way.

“He beat you a lot?” I asked.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” I said. “You have any family?”

“There’s another great topic,” she said. She took a drag on her cigarette, this time releasing the smoke more slowly. “My
brother Lyle is doing twenty to life in Lincoln for second-degree murder.” She put the cigarette down and resumed eating.

“That’s it?”

“Christ,” she said, “you’re as bad as the feds. My mom was a drunk and died of cirrhosis. My dad still lives in McCook, I
guess, but I haven’t seen him in years and I hope I never see his sorry ass again.” I took the hint, finished my second slice
of pizza, and began getting ready to leave.

“Oh, shit,” she said. She turned her head away from the food court entrance so that she was facing the wall on the closed
side of our booth.

“What?”

“That man over there. That’s Anvil. He’s one of Thad’s enforcers.” I looked toward the entrance and saw a bearish man. He
stood six-four and must’ve weighed 260. His complexion was ruddy and pockmarked. About thirty years old. His scraggly red-blond
hair reached nearly to his shoulders. He wore black boots and a black leather jacket with the Sons of Satan emblem across
the back. He had a slight beer belly, but a belt made of bicycle chain prevented his tattered jeans from slipping too far
down.

“Did he see you?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said. She was using her soft drink cup to shield her face from him.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “If something happens, grab the bags and walk—don’t run—to the truck. I’ll meet you there.”
I turned to look at the man. He looked right at me and began walking deliberately in our direction.

“Be careful,” she said. “He’s crazy.”

Now he was at our table. “Well, looky here,” he said in a deep and gravelly voice, “Bugg’s gonna be real happy when I tell
him I saw his little whore having lunch with a cop.” What can I say? People see my dark, closely cropped hair and my thick
build, and they think I’m a cop. She lowered her cup and glared at him.

“He’s not a cop, Anvil,” she said, “so go away.”

“Is that your real name,” I said, “or just a nickname?” He ignored me and glared back at Karlynn. “The reason I ask,” I said,
“is that I’m kind of interested in how people get their names.”

“Nobody’s talkin’ to you,” he said.

“I mean, was your father a blacksmith or something—”

“Go away, Anvil,” Karlynn repeated. He leaned over, placed his beefy hands on the table, and looked at me. It was hard to
miss the “SPD” tattoo on his wrist.

“You the guy that took Bugg’s mutt?” he whispered. “’Cuz if you are, Bugg’s paying five large to the man who ices you.”

“Of course, sometimes a cobbler will use an anvil,” I said. “Was your father a cobbler?”

“You’re real funny, mister,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just kill you right here.” He opened his jacket to reveal a large knife
in a leather sheath attached to his belt.

“I doubt it,” I said. I opened my blazer to reveal my Glock 17. “See ya around, Anvil,” I said.

He took a few steps back, then pointed his index finger at Kar-lynn and said, “You’re dead, bitch.”

W
E ARRIVED AT MY HOME
at midafternoon. Buck and Wheat greeted us at the door. Prince started barking as soon as we entered. Karlynn ignored my
dogs, followed Prince’s voice straight to the basement, and began stroking his head. Then she knelt down and caressed his
floppy ears as he joyfully licked her face. It was a side of her I hadn’t seen.

“He needs to go out,” she said.

“Just for a minute,” I said. “I don’t want my neighbors knowing I’ve acquired another dog.”

“What neighbors?” she said. I live in a log home a few miles out of Nederland, on the edge of the Roosevelt National Forest.
Three thousand square feet on an acre lot. Nederland, population 1,894, is seventeen miles west of and three thousand feet
above Boulder. My nearest neighbors, a pair of aging hippies named Luther and Missy, live a few hundred yards west of me in
an old summer cabin they have converted into a year-round residence. We are separated by a fair number of pines and aspens,
so it’s easy to accept the illusion of privacy, but they share the house with others, and the composition of the group is
constantly changing. I never know when one of them might light up a joint and go for a walk. And there are plenty of other
homes hidden behind the trees in the mountains surrounding Ned. Not to mention hikers, hunters, fishermen, skiers, campers,
miners, squatters, fugitives, and some dreadlock-wearing kids who call themselves “The Rainbow People.”

“There are more people up here than you think,” I said, “and word spreads fast in a small town.” I walked upstairs and they
followed me to the back door. “Will he stay near the house,” I asked, “or should I tie him to something?”

“He won’t run away,” she said. I opened the door and let all three dogs out. We watched Prince bound among the trees for a
moment. He was a well-muscled hound, about eighty pounds, with plenty of black or blue specks adorning the white areas on
his back, ears, and sides. His head and ears were predominantly black. There were patches of tan over his eyes and on his
cheeks. After a few minutes I opened the door and Prince trotted up to it, so I let him in, leaving Buck and Wheat to play
outside. “I’m so glad you got him,” she said.

“Is he really a champion?” I asked.

“Sure is,” she said. “He won awards for tracking, too.”

“Because it didn’t look to me like he was living the life of a champion,” I said.

“I bought him as a present for Thad,” she sighed. “About two years ago. From a breeder in Arkansas. Thad grew up in Arkansas
and was always going on about getting a bluetick coonhound and hunting raccoons like when he was a kid. So I bought him a
dog that had been trained by a professional. Cost me fifteen hundred bucks.” She stopped, but I got the impression she hadn’t
finished what she had started to say.

“And?”

“And,” she said, “Thad takes him hunting now and then, and sometimes they enter tracking competitions, but other than that,
Thad doesn’t pay much attention to him.”

“The dog’s been neglected,” I said. “A short-haired hound like that shouldn’t be kept outside in the winter, not in this climate.
He shouldn’t be chained up with no room to run. And he should have fresh water; the water in Prince’s bowl was frozen solid.”

“I know,” she said. “It made me sad, the way he treated Prince. In his own way he loves Prince, but that’s how he was raised.
If the dog’s not helping you hunt or track or do some chore on the farm, you chain him up and forget about him.” I said nothing,
but she knew I had something on my mind. “What?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” I said.

“No, what?”

“You didn’t mind that he was a murdering drug dealer, but you didn’t like the way he treated the dog?”