Drawing Dead (41 page)

“I can't get my shoe on. I'd hate to have to stand on the brake. It still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”

They heard the crunching of a car coming up the drive. Debrowski looked out the window. “It's Mrs. Fish,” she said.

Crow lifted a black suitcase out of the trunk. “Feels like there's something left in there.”

“That's cash money, son. Take a look.”

Crow tried the catches. They were locked.

Sam started back toward the cabin. “Let's go crack that sucker open.”

“Wait.” Crow heard a vehicle coming up the driveway. Catfish rolled into view and stopped her car a few feet from the front door of the cabin.

“I don't see Tommy,” Crow said. Catfish got out of the car and stretched. Debrowski appeared in the doorway.

“You know that one, son?”

“Quiet, Sam.”

The two women were talking, but they were too far away—all Crow could hear was the wind in the leaves. Debrowski reached out and put a hand on the other woman's shoulder. Catfish's knees seemed to collapse; she twisted away and took a step backward, rubbing her shoulder. The conversation continued for a few more seconds, then Debrowski went back inside. Catfish crossed her arms, looked down the driveway, kicked the dirt with her toe. Crow hoped she would not look into the woods and see them. He had no idea what was going on, but he was sure he didn't want to get in the middle of it. A minute later, Jimbo Bobick hopped out of the cabin, aided by Debrowski. Catfish watched as, with some difficulty, she inserted Jimbo into the passenger seat of the Porsche. Debrowski said something to Catfish, who shrugged. Catfish was climbing into the driver's seat when Dickie staggered up. More conversation, this time between Catfish and Dickie, then Dickie squeezed himself into the Porsche's tiny back seat. Catfish got behind the wheel. A moment later, the little car disappeared down the driveway. Debrowski looked over at Crow, smiled, and waved.

“You want to tell me what's going on?” Sam said.

Crow lifted the suitcase. “I have no idea.”

Debrowski seemed pleased with herself.

“What was that all about?” Crow asked, setting the suitcase on the steps.

She shifted her eyes to the side and smiled faintly.

“I'll go find us a wrecking bar,” Sam said, moving off.

“I asked Mrs. Fish to give the realtor a ride into town,” Debrowski said. “He couldn't drive with his foot.”

“I'm surprised she agreed.”

Debrowski shrugged. “Jimbo wants you to meet him this afternoon at five.”

“What for?”

“He wants to show you an island. I told him you'd pick him up in his car at his office in town. Since he saved your life, and probably mine too, I told him you'd be there. Okay?”

Crow sighed.

She pointed at the suitcase. “Is that what I think it is?”

Sam came around the corner of the cabin, holding a crowbar. Without saying a word, he jammed the tip of the bar under the catch and twisted. Forty-two thousand dollars spilled out onto the cabin steps.

“I
want to thank you for the lift, Mrs. Fish,” said Jimbo.

Catfish's jaw was clamped shut. She pulled out onto the highway and ran quickly through the gears. Within seconds they were doing ninety. Jimbo cleared his throat nervously and decided not to distract her with more conversation. Something was on this little lady's mind. He still had no idea what had transpired back at the LaRose place. He did not know what all the fuss had been about, and he had heard only a few snatches of the conversation between Laura Debrowski, who had done such a damn fine job of patching him up, and this Mrs. Fish. At one point, he thought he had heard Laura say that she was going to shove her head up her cunt and pull it back out through her asshole. Maybe he hadn't heard that one right. Whatever had been said, Mrs. Fish was decidedly perturbed. He turned and looked in the back seat. Dickie Wicky was passed out already, snoring quietly.

“My office is up the road here, about twenty more miles,” Jimbo said.

They rode in silence, a forest of mixed conifers to their right, a field of sweet corn to their left. Jimbo let himself fantasize about selling the Whiting Lake property to Crow.

“I'm going to make the sale,” he said out loud.

“What?”

“I'm selling a cabin to Joe Crow. I'm a realtor.”

Catfish slid her eyes toward him and eased up on the gas. “You do pretty good at that?”

Jimbo was pleased. He loved to talk about his work. “We've moved forty-two properties so far this year, three of 'em for over a quarter mil. People want to move property in this territory, they give a call to Jimbo Bobick.”

Catfish nodded and ran a tongue over her lips. “You must make a lot of money.”

“I do all right.”

A minute later, she said, “My name isn't 'Mrs. Fish.' It's Wicky. Catfish Wicky.”

“Jeez, I'm sorry! Laura said your name was Fish. Are you Dickie's wife?”

She nodded curtly, looked back at her unconscious husband, and said, “But we're separated.”

They passed a pastie shop, a bait shop, a KOA campground. The highway curved to the west, followed the rim of a small, milfoil- infested lake, returned to its southern heading. Catfish looked back at Dickie, who was still in his coma, then at Jimbo. They were coming up on a small roadhouse: the North Woods Lounge. She guided the car off the highway and parked, turned to Jimbo and gave him her best smile.

“You in a hurry to get to your office?” she asked. “Or do you have time to buy a lady a drink?”

Sam
insisted on getting his truck out of the lake as quickly as possible.

“You let it sit there, one hour in the water is like a year on the road, what it does to the metal.”

It had seemed a project of incalculable difficulty to the exhausted Crow, but under Sam's shouted, obscenity-ridden directions, the three of them extracted Ben's Cadillac from the woods and then, pulling with both Cadillacs and a rather complicated system of ropes and chains, they were able to retrieve the sunken truck.

Most of the boxes of magazines had been thrown off the truck and sunk; a few of them were still floating on the lake. Sam opened the driver's door, and several gallons of muddy lake water poured onto his feet. Crow and Debrowski got out of their respective Cadillacs and walked back to view the damage. To their surprise, only the remains of Joey Cadillac were present.

“Looks like the big one swum off,” Sam said. “Bet he's halfway to nowheres by now.” The windshield had shattered and popped out of its frame.

Crow scanned the woods, looking for a large, wet man.

Debrowski's eyes had become fixed on Joey's body, horror knocking aside all other emotion. “What are we going to do with it?” Her voice rose in pitch.

Sam was opening the hood. “I'll have 'er up and running by morning,” he said.

Debrowski grabbed Crow's arm. “We have to do something with it, Crow.”

“What?”

“
Him!
” Debrowski pointed at Joey Cadillac's dead eyes.

Crow moistened his lips. Joey Cadillac did not appear real to him. The dead man looked like a wax figure in the House of Horrors at the state fair.

Sam said, “You two want to shorten up those chains? I want to get this fucker towed back over by the cabin there, where I can work on her.” He hopped into the cab beside Joey Cadillac, pulled the body out of the cab. “I suppose we ought to get rid of him. You want to give me a hand here, son?” Sam was holding Joey by the feet.

“What do you suppose we should do with him?” Crow asked.

“It's your show, son. I'm just the mechanic.”

Crow considered his options and made a decision. He grabbed Joey's wrists, still warm. They loaded Joey's body into the trunk of Freddy's blue Eldorado.

“We'll just park the car someplace,” Crow said, slamming the trunk. “Let the cops deal with it.”

They towed the truck into the clearing near the cabin. Debrowski sat in a lawn chair smoking cigarettes, watching Sam work on the truck. She looked tired. Crow was debating with himself over whether he should keep his appointment with Jimbo Bobick. He didn't like to leave them there, with Freddy Wisnesky unaccounted for, but he felt an obligation to the realtor.

“Don't you worry 'bout us, son,” Sam had said. “You go ahead and buy yourself that island. Me and Deb, we'll be here when you get back.”

Crow was thinking about that, resting his eyes on the surface of the lake, when a portion of the brushy shoreline seemed to swell, rise up into a dark column, and move slowly toward them. It was Freddy, soaking wet, Twins T-shirt shredded, shoes gone, his face and torso a collection of opened scabs, new cuts, and bruises in assorted colors, shapes, and sizes. Crow stood up. Sam gripped a ratchet handle.

Freddy was not walking well. One foot was dragging. He walked past them, giving Crow and Debrowski a dull, incurious look. He veered away from Sam and the red truck and headed straight for the blue Eldorado. He lowered himself into the car. The keys were in the ignition. He started the engine, put the car in gear, and drove slowly down the driveway.

You'd be surprised how many nights I spend sitting on the goddamn sofa, trying to make sense out of the stains on my ceiling.

—Laura Debrowski,
talking on the phone to an old friend

The note on the front door
of Bobick Realty read: “Joe: Meet us at the landing.” A hand-drawn map directed him to take 371 south, then turn on County 9. Crow tore the note off the door and got back in Jimbo's Oldsmobile. After Debrowski's Kawasaki, the Olds felt like the
Queen Mary
. He spent the short drive wondering who else Jimbo had been referring to when he wrote “us.”

Whiting Lake was only ten minutes away. Crow found the public landing easily and was only mildly surprised to see Catfish's Porsche parked near the water's edge. Dickie was sitting on the hood, holding his head in his hands. Crow considered simply turning the big car around and rolling out of there, but he hated the thought that Dickie Wicky might stand between him and his island.

There was no sign of Catfish or Jimbo.

Crow pulled up alongside the Porsche and rolled down his window.

“Dickie,” he said.

Dickie jerked, and his head came straight up as if it was on a wire.

“Joe! Jesus, am I glad to see you.” His face loosened, and a torrent of words spilled down his chin. “Where am I? Christ, I just woke up—Catfish's car—what the hell happened? What happened to the comic books? What are you doing here? What is this place, Joe? I wake up and—Christ, am I thirsty! You got a beer, a can of pop or something? Oh, God. Where are my comic books?”

“The comics are all gone, Dickie. You don't know where Catfish

Wicky's face tightened up. He shook his head, moaned, and pressed both palms to his forehead.

“You haven't seen Jimbo Bobick?”

Wicky did not respond. Now that he had the money, Crow was actually feeling sorry for Dickie. If he had liked the guy, he might even have tried to help him, get him into a program. He looked out over the water and shook off the thought. Wicky the drunk he could handle. If the guy ever got straight, he might be dangerous.

From the landing, Whiting Lake appeared to be almost perfectly round. The land rose steeply from the shore and was heavily wooded with a maple, poplar, and conifer mix that would be spectacularly colorful by mid-October. Two boats were in motion along the far shore, trolling for walleyes. A single island was visible. Crow pulled the Olds forward onto the cement boat ramp, his front wheels entering the water, and looked up and down the shore. He could see a rust-colored log cabin a couple of hundred yards to the right. An open aluminum boat with a small outboard motor was tied up to the dock. He backed up, ignoring Wicky's plaintive shouts, and followed the road in that direction.

Ten minutes later and fifty dollars lighter, Crow eased the boat up to the landing.

“You want to go for a boat ride?” he shouted.

Wicky, who was standing in the water already, nodded and held out his arms. He was so happy not to be abandoned, he reminded Crow of a lost dog.

Jimbo
Bobick thought he would never have to fuck again as long as he lived. He looked out over his sweat-glistened body and listened to himself breathing. He watched the smoke from Catfish's cigarette exploring the wood-slatted ceiling.

“That was incredible,” he said.

“I thought you were gonna split me wide open, big guy.”

Jimbo moaned at the intensity of the memory. Even his lips were burning. Another memory intruded.

“Uh, I oughta get over to the landing, babe. Crow's gonna be waiting for me.”

Catfish trailed her red nails up his thigh. “He can wait. Don't you want to play some more?” She put her mouth against his ear and breathed. The smell of cigarettes, which normally he despised, now smelled sweet and seductive. She trailed her hand lightly down his belly.

Jimbo cleared his throat, intending to tell her it was all over. He was spent. It would be impossible. But he felt something moving against the inside of his thigh, and it wasn't Catfish. “Oh, lord,” he moaned. “Here I go again.”

The
island was a rocky mound, about six acres, covered with assorted conifers and stunted hardwoods. Crow cut the engine fifty feet from shore. The boat's momentum carried it to a perfect landing at the stubby wooden dock. Crow tied up the boat and helped Dickie onto the dock.

“Nice dock,” Dickie said.

Another boat—longer, with a bigger motor—was tied to the other side of the dock.

“So you're really going to buy this place, huh, Joe?”

Crow took in his surroundings—the trees, the rocky, brush- tangled shore, the collapsing boathouse a few yards down the shore. He looked up the dirt path that snaked its way uphill toward the interior of the island.