High Hunt (11 page)

“Figures,” I said.

“Say,” he said, his voice sounding guarded, “didn't you have a tomato over at your pad last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Pick her up at that foreign flick?”

“Sure,” I said. I thought I'd rub him a little. “There was one there for you, too—a blonde, about five eight, thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six, I'd say. I threw her back.”

“You son of a bitch!” he moaned. “Don't
waste
'em, for Chrissake.”

“You're the one who doesn't like foreign flicks,” I told him.

“Not a word about any other women when I get there with this girl, OK?”

“Sure.”

About half an hour later, Jack came in with a tall, very
attractive brunette. He waved me over to a booth and ordered a pitcher and three glasses.

“Dan,” he said, “this is Sandy. You remember—I told you about her. Sandy, this is my long-lost brother, Dan.”

“Hello, Dan,” she said quietly, not really looking at me. She seemed frozen, somehow indifferent to everything around her. She concentrated on her cigarette.

“Hey,” Jack said, “I hear you broke it off in Sloane.”

“He quoted the price,” I said a little smugly, “I didn't”

“He claims he could have got fifty bucks for that gun.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “It's a pretty butchered-up piece.”

“What do you want it for if it's such a junker?”

“I'm going to rework it. New stock, dress down the barrel, and so forth, and it should be a pretty fair-looking rifle.”

“Sounds like a lot of work to me,” he said dubiously.

“I've got lots of time.” I shrugged.

We went on talking about guns and the hunt. Sandy didn't say much. I glanced at her from time to time. She seemed withdrawn and seldom looked up. She was quite a nice-looking girl. I wondered how she'd gotten tangled up with a son of a bitch like my brother. Her hair was very dark and quite long—almost as long as Clydine's, but neater. She had long lashes which made her eyes seem huge. She seemed to smoke a helluva lot, I noticed. Other than lighting cigarettes, she hardly moved. There was an odd quality of frozen motion about her—as if she had just stopped. She bugged me. When I looked at her, it was like looking into an empty closet. There wasn't anything there. It was like she was already dead.

“Hey,” Jack said, “did you pick up that pistol the other day in Seattle?”

“Yeah, it's over at the trailer.”

“You know,” he said, “I've been thinking maybe I ought to take along a handgun, too. There
are
bears up there, and you know what Mike was saying.”

So we kicked that idea around for a while. We had another pitcher of beer.

Sandy kept smoking, but she still didn't say much.

I worked—off and on—at the gun all the next week, and by Saturday it was beginning to take shape. I did most of the work over at Mike's since he had a vise and a workbench in his garage. Also, it was a good place to get away from Clydine's three-hour-long telephone calls. I began to wish that classes would start so she'd have something to keep her busy.

I had the shape of the rifle stock pretty well roughed in, and I was working on the metal. I'd filed off the front sight, and now I was taking the lathe marks off the barrel with emery cloth—a very long and tedious job.

Betty was feeling punk, and I was checking in on her now and then to see if she was OK. She had a recurrent kidney problem that had Mike pretty worried. She'd had to spend a week in the hospital with it that spring, and he was afraid it might crop up again.

I was about ready to start polishing on the barrel with fine-grade emery cloth when Betty called me from the back door. I made it in about two seconds flat.

“Are you OK?” I demanded breathlessly.

“Oh, it's not me”—she laughed—“I'm fine.”

“Please,” I said, “don't do that anymore. I like to had a coronary.”

“You've got a phone call.”

“Oh, for God's sake! How did she find the number?” I grabbed up the phone. “Now look, you little clothhead, I'm busy. I can't spend all day—”

“Hey.” It was Jack. “What's got you so frazzled?”

“Oh. Sorry, Jack, I thought it was that dizzy little broad again. I swear she spends at least six hours a day on the horn. I'm starting to get a cauliflower ear just listening to her.”

“Why don't you do something about it?”

“I am,” I said, “I'm hiding.”

He laughed. “Could you do me a favor?”

“I suppose. What?”

“I'm over here at Sloane's pawnshop sittin' in for him. He said he was going to be back, but he just called and said he was tied up. I've got some stuff at the cleaners on Thirty-eighth Street—you know the place. They close at noon today, and if I don't get that stuff outta there, I'll be shit out of luck until Monday. You think you could make it over there before they close?”

“Yeah, I think so. I'm about due to take a beer break anyway. Will you be at the shop?”

“Yeah, I'll stick around till you get here. Sloane ought to be back before then, but you can't depend on him.”

“OK,” I said, “I'll crank up and bag on over there—on Thirty-eighth Street?”

“Yeah—you know the place. Right across from that beer joint with the shuffleboard.”

“Oh. OK.”

“Thanks a lot, buddy. You saved my bacon.”

“Sure. See you in a bit.”

I made sure that Betty was feeling OK and then took off. My hands were getting a little sore anyway.

The weather had begun to break, and it was one of those cloudy, windy days we get so often in Tacoma. It's the kind of day I really like—cool, dry, windy, with a kind of pale light and no shadows. I made it to the cleaners in plenty of time and then swung over onto South Tacoma Way.

Sloane still hadn't shown up, and Jack was puttering around in the shop. “Thanks a million, Dan,” he said when I came in with his cleaning. “How much was it?”

I told him and he paid me.

“How you comin' with that gun?” he asked me.

“I'm about down to the polishing stage on the barrel,” I told him. “I've still got to dress off the receiver and trigger guard. A couple more days and I can blue it. Then I'll finish up the stock.”

“You get a kick out of that stuff, don't you?”

“It's kind of fun,” I said. “Gives me something to do besides drink beer.”

“Let me show you the gun I'm takin',” he said.

We went on into the back of the shop. He took a converted military weapon out of one of the cubbyholes.

“Eight-mm German Mauser,” he said.

“Good cartridge,” I told him. I looked the piece over. Some
body'd done a half-assed job of conversion on it, but it had all the essentials. “It'll do the job for you, Jack.”

“Oh, hey, look at this.” He reached back into another bin and came out with his hand full of .45 automatic. The damned thing looked like a cannon. He stood there grinning, pointing that monster right at my belly. I don't like having people point guns at me—even as a joke. The goddamn things weren't made to play with. I was still holding the Mauser, but I was being careful with the muzzle.

“Let's see it,” I said, holding out my left hand.

He pulled back the hammer with the muzzle still pointed at me. His face got a little funny.

Slowly, with just my right hand, I raised the Mauser until it was pointing at him. I thumbed off the safety. It was like being in a dream.

“All right, Jack,” I said softly, “let's count to three and then find out which one of these bastards Sloane forgot to unload.”

“Christ, Danny,” he said, quickly turning the .45 away from me. “I never thought of that.”

I lowered the Mauser and slipped the safety back on. Jack hadn't called me Danny since we were very little kids.

“You ain't mad, are you?” he asked, sounding embarrassed.

“Hell, no.” I laughed. Even to me it sounded a little hollow.

We checked both guns. They were empty. Still, I think it all took some of the fun out of Jack's day. We put the guns away and went back out into the pawnshop.

“Where the hell
is
that damned Sloane anyway?” he said to cover the moment.

“Probably visiting Helen What's-her-name,” I said. I'd run into Sloane and Helen a few times, and I didn't like her. Maybe it was because of Claudia.

“I wouldn't doubt it a goddamn bit. Say, that reminds me, you want to go on a party?”

“I'm almost
always
available for a party,” I said with more enthusiasm than I really felt. I wanted to get past that moment in the back room as badly as he did.

“It's Sloane's idea really. That's why I kind of wanted to wait for him to show up, but piss on him. He owns this house out in Milton that he rents out—furnished. The people who were livin' there just moved out, and the new people aren't due in until the first of the month—Wednesday.”

“What's all this real estate business got to do with a party?” I asked.

“I'm gettin' to it. Anyway, the place needs cleanin'—you know, sweep, mop, vacuum, mow the lawn—that sort of shit.”

“
That's
your idea of a party?”

“Keep your pants on. Now, Sloane'll provide the beer and the booze and some steaks and other stuff.”

“And brooms, and mops, and lawnmowers, too, I hope,” I said.

“All right, smart ass. Here's where the party comes in. We each bring a tomato—Sloane'll bring Helen, I'll bring Sandy, and you can bring What's-her-name. We'll bag on over there tomorrow afternoon about four, hit the place a lick or two—the girls can get the inside, and we'll do the outside—and then it's party-time. Give me and Sloane a perfect excuse to get away from the wives.”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure Clydine would go for the domestic scene,” I said. “That's not exactly her bag.”

“Ask her,” Jack said. “I bet she goes for it. Where else can you stir up a party on Sunday afternoon?”

“I'll ask her,” I said. It was easier than arguing with him. “But I'm not making any promises.”

“I'll bet she goes for it,” he said.

“We'll see.”

We batted it around for about half an hour, and then Sloane called. He was still tied up. Jack grumbled a bit but promised to hang on. I wanted to swing on by the trailer court to check my mail, and he asked me to drop the cleaning off at his trailer so Marg could hang it up before it got wrinkled. I took his clothes on out to my car again and drove on up the Avenue toward the court.

That whole business with the guns had been just spooky as hell.
“Maybe someday I'll just decide that you're no good, and I'll take my gun and shoot you. Bang! just like that, and you'll be dead, and I'll betcha you wouldn't like that at all.”
When had I said that to Jack? Somewhere back in the long, shabby morning of our childhood. The words came echoing down to me, along with a picture of a dog rolling over and over in the snow. I tried to shrug it off.

I saw McKlearey's car in the lot at the Green Lantern Tavern about two blocks from the court, and I decided that if he was still there when I came back, I'd haul in and buy him a beer. If we were going to go hunting together, I was going to have to make some kind of effort to get along with him. I still didn't much like him though.

When I drove past Jack's trailer, I saw the two little girls out in their play-yard, and I waved at them. I parked at my place and checked my mail—nothing, as usual. Then I slung Jack's cleaning over my shoulder and hiked on up to his trailer. Maybe I could promote some lunch out of Marg if she didn't have a whole trailerful of gossiping neighbors the way she usually did.

As I came up to the trailer, I glanced through the front window. I saw that mirror back in the hallway I'd noticed the first time I'd visited. I'd meant to tell Jack about it, but I'd forgotten. The angle from where I was standing gave me a view of part of the bedroom. I had visions of Margaret unveiling her monumental breasts to the scrutiny of casual passersby. I straightened up and craned my neck to see just how much of the bedroom you could really see.

Margaret was on the bed with McKlearey. They were both bare-ass naked, and their hands were awfully busy.

I have my faults, God knows, but being a Peeping Tom is not one of them. I think I was actually frozen to the spot. You hear about that, and I've always thought it was pure nonsense, but I honestly couldn't move. Even as I watched, Lou raised up over her and came down between her widely spread thighs. Her huge, dark nippled breasts began to bob rhythmically in a kind of counterpoint to Lou's bouncing, hairy buttocks. Her head rolled back and forth, her face contorted into that expression that is not beautiful unless you are the one who is causing it. I don't think I'd ever fully realized how ugly the mating of humans can look to someone who isn't involved in it. Even dogs manage to bring it off with more dignity.

I turned around and walked on back to my trailer, suppressing a strong urge to vomit. I went inside and closed the door. I laid Jack's clothes carefully on the couch, went to the kitchen and poured myself a stiff blast of whiskey. Then, holding the glass in my hand, I took a good belt out of the bottle. I put the bottle down and drank from the glass. It didn't even burn going down.

The phone rang. It was Clydine.

“I've been trying to get you all morning,” she said accusingly. “Where have you been?”

“I was busy,” I said shortly.

She started to tell me about some article she'd just read in some New Left journal she was always talking about. I grunted in appropriate places, leaning over the sink to watch Jack's
trailer out of the kitchen window. Even from here, I could see the whole damn thing rocking. I'll bet you could walk through any trailer court in town and tell who was going at it at any given moment. Old Lou had staying power though—I had to admit that.

“Are you listening to me?” Clydine demanded.

“Sure, kid,” I said. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“We've been invited to a party.”

“What kind of a party?”

“Probably a sex orgy,” I told her bluntly. “My brother and another guy and their girlfriends—it's in a house.”

“I thought your brother was married.”

“So's the other guy,” I said. I told her the details.

“No swapping?” It sounded like a question—or maybe an ultimatum, I don't know.

“I doubt it. I've met the girls—one of them would probably dig that sort of stuff, but I'm pretty sure the other one wouldn't. You want to go?”

“Why not? I've never been to an orgy.”

“Come on, Clydine,” I said. “It's like being spit on. They're not inviting you to meet their
wives
—just their mistresses.”

“So? I'm
your
mistress, aren't I? Temporarily at least.”

“It's different. I'm not married.”

“Danny, honestly. Sometimes you can be the squarest guy in the world. I think I might get a kick out of it. Maybe I can catch some of the vibrations from their sneaky, guilty, sordid, little affairs.”

“You're a nut, do you know that? This thing tomorrow has all the makings of a sight-seeing trip through a sewer.”

“Boy, you're sure in a foul humor,” she said. “What's got you burn-tripped now?”

“My brother pulled a gun on me.”

“He
what
?”

“Just a bad joke. Forget it. Are you sure you want to go on this thing tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

“That may just be the world's
stupidest
reason for doing anything,” I told her. “Hey, let's go to a drive-in movie tonight.”

“What the hell for?”

“I want to neck,” I said. “No hanky-panky. I just want to sit in the car and eat popcorn and drink root beer and neck—like we were both maybe sixteen or something.”

“
That's
a switch. Well, why not?—I mean, sure.” She paused, then said rather tentatively, “you want me to get all gussied up—like it was a real—well—
date
or something?” She sounded embarrassed to say the word.

“Yeah, why don't you do that? Wear a dress. I'll even put on a tie.”

“Far out,” she said.

“And wear your contacts. Leave those hideous goggles at home.”

“Are you sure we aren't going to—well—I mean, I wouldn't want to lose my contacts.” I'd asked her before why she didn't wear contact lenses. She told me she had them but didn't wear them because they popped out when she made love. “I don't know why,” she'd said, “they just pop out.” I'd laughed for ten minutes, and she'd gotten mad at me.