Dead Meat (10 page)

Rolando folded his arms and cleared his throat. “Get on with it, will ya?”

Tiny shrugged. “I’m tryin’. I gotta tell it the way I remember it.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Anyhow, he hung around for a while. I noticed he went over and took another look at the register, which struck me as a little queer. Not likely there’d be any new names there since the last time he looked. I mean, unless Gib flies folks in, they don’t come, and Gib was still here. Had been since he flew in with your brother. I recall, now that I think of it, that he asked me if there were more guests comin’ in during the week. I remember that, because generally folks come in on the weekend. Friday, Saturday, Sunday—”

“I know what the hell a weekend is, for Christ’s sake,” barked Rolando.

“Yeah. Right. Anyway, the thing was, we did happen to have a fella comin’ in that day. Monday. Last Monday, that is. Gib was worried that he couldn’t get out, what with the low ceiling and all. Gib said to me, I remember, that he could get up okay, but he wasn’t sure if he could get down anywhere. I got on the shortwave and talked to Greenville, and they said it was okay down there.”

“There was somebody coming in that Monday?”

“Yep.” Tiny glanced at me. “That was Mr. Schatz,” he said to me. “And he did come in. Late that afternoon. Your brother,” said Tiny, his voice softening, “was gone by then.”

“Ken disappeared the morning before this Schatz arrived. Where’s Schatz now?”

“He’s gone. Left this morning.”

Rolando seemed to move this information around in his head for a minute before storing it away. Then he shrugged. “Ken never did go fishing, then.”

“Nope. The last thing I saw of your brother, he was sittin’ out there on the porch, watchin’ everybody load up the canoes and settin’ off. Marge and Polly—that’s my wife and my little girl—they were around. And Bud Turner, our cook, he was in the kitchen. You want, you can talk to them.”

Rolando shrugged. “What else?”

Tiny shook his head. “According to Marge, he hung around the lodge, here, then went off. Supposedly to his cabin. Marge and Polly usually go around to the cabins in the morning, bring clean towels, clean up a little. They didn’t go to your brother’s, figuring he was in there. He didn’t come to the lodge at lunchtime. Most of the sports eat with their guides out on the lake, anyway, but Bud always leaves the makin’s for sandwiches for anyone who comes back. See, Bud sometimes takes the truck down to town during the day for supplies. He didn’t that particular day, but he often does. He can get down and back between breakfast and dinner if he leaves right after breakfast. We’ve got a couple four-wheel vehicles, and the lumber road’s passable—”

“Ken,” interrupted Rolando. “What about Ken?”

“What I mean is, we don’t really have an organized lunch. Bud don’t have to make lunch. Everybody more or less fends for themselves. So when your brother didn’t show up, it wasn’t like it was noticeable, really. When I asked Marge later, she said she hadn’t seen him around. That’s all I’m tryin’ to tell you. It wasn’t like there was anything to worry about, because you don’t expect to see anybody at lunchtime. It’s just Marge and Polly here. And sometimes me and Bud.”

“You don’t need a lawyer, Mr. Wheeler,” said Rolando.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re quite a talker yourself. So far you’ve given me a lot of bullshit about what a great place this is. Fine. I accept that. I want to know how the hell my brother could disappear from such a wonderful spot.”

“We don’t know that he did disappear,” I said.

“And when did you get here?”

“Yesterday.”

“Well, it’s no wonder you don’t know anything. I’m asking this man.” He jerked his head at Tiny.

“Well, Brady’s right. We don’t know. I couldn’t tell you when he disappeared or where he was going or anything. Nobody saw him after he left the lodge. Probably seven-thirty, eight in the morning. Whether he was in his cabin most of the day or went walkin’ in the woods in the morning or what, I couldn’t tell you.”

“When did you realize that he was gone?”

“Dinner. When he didn’t show up, Polly went down to his cabin. Banged on the door. No answer. She came up and told me, so I went down, knocked for a while, called to him. Finally I opened the door and went in. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere around. Well, we ate, though I was worried at that point. Still, I didn’t figure he was gone. Understand? You don’t think like that. I mean, it just doesn’t happen. But after dinner I asked around if anybody had seen him. I checked with everyone—the guests, the guides, Marge, Polly, Bud. Everybody. I guess Marge must’ve been the last to see him, and that was when he was out on the porch in the morning. So I got the guides together quiet like, so as not to upset the guests, and I told ’em that Mr. Rolando was nowhere to be found. They got into the canoes, took flashlights with them. Bud got into his truck along with Marge, and they drove up and down the roads, showing the light along the way. I stayed around here, you know, with the other guests. After a while the guides came stragglin’ back in. Nobody had seen anything. So the next morning I raised the sheriff on the shortwave. He flew up that afternoon. We talked about bringin’ in the dogs. No sense to it, though. It’d been raining for a long time.”

“Your new guest,” said Rolando. “Your Mr. Schatz. What time did he come in?”

Tiny frowned. “Five, maybe. I guess it was a little hairy, but Gib got him in. About the same time we noticed your brother was gone.”

“But the sheriff didn’t get in until the next afternoon?”

“He can’t fly in the night, Mr. Rolando. This is a lake, not an airport, for Christ’s sake.” Tiny took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. I thought he might’ve gotten in earlier in the morning, but it was still socked in pretty good. Guys like Gib, they’ll do it. Them bush pilots can do things like that. The sheriff’s got cops flyin’ for him. They don’t take chances at all.”

“Look—” began Rolando.

“I want to finish,” said Tiny. “Since your brother turned up missing, I’ve had Bud Turner drivin’ the loggin’ roads every day. There’s only so much we can do. The police know about it. Maybe they could do more. I don’t know. Fly around in their planes. Maybe they could still bring in dogs. Maybe you should talk to them.”

Rolando slouched down in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. When he looked up at us, I thought I detected, for the first time, a hint of sadness on his face. “There’s something you should know about my brother,” he said. He cleared his throat and stared at a spot on the wall between me and Tiny. “Ken was no outdoorsman, it’s true. But he was a tough son of a bitch. And smart. It is absolutely inconceivable that he would wander away and get lost and not find his way back.”

“Unless something happened to him,” I said, finishing what I assumed was his thought.

“Exactly,” said Rolando. “So my question is this: what could have happened to him?”

Tiny shrugged and spread his hands, palms up.

“Your guess is as good as anyone else’s,” I said. “What I don’t understand is why he came here in the first place. He wasn’t a fisherman. Had no gear. He was alone.” I frowned at Rolando.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. We’ve always been pretty close, but that doesn’t mean he tells me everything. He just said he was coming here for a vacation. That’s it.”

There was a thump on the door. I reached over and opened it. Marge stood there with a little tray bearing three cans of beer. She squeezed into the room and put it down on Tiny’s desk. She glanced at me and Rolando, then said to Tiny, “It is happy hour, you know. Be nice if you could mingle with our guests.”

Tiny nodded without smiling. “Be out in a minute.”

On her way out Marge gave me a private grin and rolled her eyes in the direction of Mr. Rolando.

Each of us took a can of beer from the tray. Rolando sipped tentatively at his, as if he suspected it might have been poisoned. “Ken’s reservation extended through when?” he asked Tiny.

“Sunday.”

“Okay. I’m going to stay here that long. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

Tiny shrugged. “Sure. It’s all paid for.”

“Good. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to kind of have the run of the place. I mean, I’d like to talk to people, maybe have a guide to show me around, see what I can find out. Any problem with that?”

“I’d rather you didn’t upset the guests,” said Tiny.

“I understand. But those who were here when Ken disappeared—you wouldn’t mind if I just asked them if they’d talked to him or if they saw him, would you? Maybe I can pick up something.”

Tiny glanced at me. I shrugged.

“I guess so. We’ve already done that, so it won’t be anything new to them.”

Rolando sipped his beer again. “I just want to feel that I’ve done all I can. You can understand that.”

Tiny nodded.

Rolando placed his beer can gently back onto the tray on Tiny’s desk and pushed himself up from his chair. “I’ve kept you long enough. I guess I came on a little strong. Sorry about that. It’s kind of upsetting. I’d rather have somebody to blame. Understand?”

Tiny and I stood at the same time. “No problem,” said Tiny. “Whatever we can do.”

Rolando nodded, and we went out into the lounge, where happy hour was in full swing. Tiny grabbed my arm and held me back. When Rolando had moved out into the room, Tiny said, “What the Christ is going on with that guy, anyway?”

“I don’t know. His brother’s missing. He’s upset.”

Tiny shook his head. “Somethin’ ain’t right. Can’t put my finger on it.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t look like he plans to sue you, anyway.”

“Like to see him try it.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I said.

His gold tooth glittered from inside his beard. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. Still, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, me too. I had good fishing today.”

I was listening for the loons again that night when Marge came down to the dock. She sat beside me, tinkling ice cubes in the two glasses she carried.

I lit a cigarette and handed it to her.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she said. “I keep thinking maybe you’d rather be alone.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “I like it. But—”

“Polly, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not your problem,” she said. She spoke in a low, private voice. The vast quietness of the lake at night seemed to call for that kind of respect. “Brady, can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t really have anybody I can talk with.” I started to speak, but she rushed on. “No, not Tiny. Tiny’s almost sixty-six years old. He doesn’t know about teenage girls. He worships Polly. He wouldn’t hear anything I’d say. I’ve tried. He walks away. It’s my problem. Raising her has always been my problem.”

I thought of my own family. Gloria had raised Billy and Joey herself, too. That we were divorced didn’t make me any less responsible than Tiny for the burden that fell on our wives. Oh, I conducted the requisite father-son sessions on subjects such as marijuana, condoms, and French homework as the need, typically hinted at by Gloria over the telephone, arose. I watched Billy play third base and Joey run the 440. I evaded those painful back-to-school nights, but so did a lot of resident fathers. I took my sons fishing. Billy went along dutifully. I had the feeling Joey really liked it.

I always mailed the child-support checks on time. I gave Gloria a little extra around back-to-school time. I bought my boys expensive presents for Christmas and their birthdays. Gloria, too. I was a marvelous provider.

And I missed it all. I missed the day-to-day stuff, the sulks and laughs and the silly times and the triumphs. I have no idea when Billy kissed his first girl or how Joey learned to drive a car. I never got to check their homework or make fun of their taste in clothes and music. I liked my boys very much. They seemed to be turning out real well. Gloria was doing a helluva job. I could take no credit whatsoever. I was proud of Billy and Joey. But I was not especially proud of myself.

“I’m hardly the best person to consult about child rearing,” I told Marge.

Her hand touched my leg. “Right now you are. You’re here. I just need someone to listen. You don’t need to give me any advice.”

“I can listen.”

She shifted, edging closer to me. I felt the soft solidness of her hip against mine. “I was nineteen when I met Tiny Wheeler,” she said softly. “My parents dragged me up here after my sophomore year at college. It was supposed to be a family vacation. Togetherness. My father wanted to make up for all the years he hadn’t been around. I was a city girl. I had boyfriends. I thought fish were slimy. They didn’t even have waterskiing here. I pouted and sulked. But I ended up coming with them, of course. We didn’t dare to rebel back then. Well, one day it worked out that Tiny guided me. Just me. The folks were off with another guide, for some reason. Probably they just wanted to get away from my bitchiness for a day. Anyway, Tiny paddled me around the lake, and I didn’t talk to him at all, this forty-five-year-old backwoods hick whose grammar wasn’t that good and who had a weird gold tooth. And he didn’t try to talk to me, either. He just paddled, and I trolled a fly. I hooked a salmon, and it was exciting as hell, but I didn’t let him know it.”

Marge sipped her drink thoughtfully. “At noon he beached the canoe and went about making lunch. I sat on the ground, hugging my knees, still sulking, watching him. I noticed how strong he was and how gracefully he handled an ax and how efficiently he went about his business. He was in charge, confident, competent. He cooked our salmon, and we ate without even looking at each other. And after lunch, without either of us saying a word, we both took off our clothes, and he made love to me right there on the pine needles. And when my parents were ready to go home at the end of the week, I just stayed on. Tiny and I never did get church married, you know. Still, after all these years, I guess we’re about as married as anyone gets. Common law, right? I’ve been here twenty-one years. Can you believe that? Tiny and I, we still don’t talk much. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“I’m not sure,” I confessed.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder if I did the right thing. And now Polly…”