Snake Eater (27 page)

“What’s that?” I said.

“A copy of the bill I’m supposed to testify on tomorrow and some of the SAFE propaganda. I haven’t had a chance to look it over.”

“You probably ought to before you talk about it,” I said. “Lawyer’s advice.”

“And that,” said Wally, “is why I pay you those outrageous fees.”

Whether it was the booze, or visions of Deerfield brown trout eating my dry flies, or just seeing Wally again, I don’t know, but I lay awake for a long time. It all must have affected Wally the same way, because even as I finally drifted off to sleep I could still hear him pacing around in my living room mumbling to himself.

W
HEN I STUMBLED INTO
the kitchen the next morning, Wally was slouched in the same chair at the table, scratching on his yellow legal pad. I poured two mugfuls of coffee and slid one beside his elbow. “You been sitting there all night?” I said.

He took off his reading glasses, laid them on the table, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he reached for his coffee and took a sip. “I slept for a while.”

“This must be important,” I persisted, gesturing at what looked like an entire pad’s worth of balled-up sheets of yellow paper scattered on the floor behind him.

Wally leaned back and rolled his shoulders. “Actually it’s just a little subcommittee hearing, one of those deals where you slip in and slip out and nobody listens to what you say because they’ve already got their minds made up, but the law requires a public hearing. So they set it up for Monday morning before the press rolls out of bed and everybody just wants to get it over with.”

“Then why…?” I gestured at the litter of paper balls on the floor.

“I just like to do things right,” said Willy with a shrug. “It’s a character flaw.”

I waited until nine to call Julie. “Brady L. Coyne, Attorney,” she said. “Good morning.”

“It’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“Home. I’m gonna be late.”

“How late?”

“Couple, three hours.”

“No, you’re not. Mrs. Mudgett has a ten o’clock.”

“Call her. Reschedule.”

“Aha.” I could visualize Julie squinting suspiciously. “Who is it? The Hungarian or the Italian?”

“I’m not with a woman, Julie. I’m with a client, and we should be done sometime before noon.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, Brady Coyne,” said Julie.

“No. Listen—”

“I know you,” she said. “You don’t set up meetings with clients. Especially on Monday mornings. You avoid meeting with clients. You hate meeting with clients. I’m the one who sets up meetings. Then I have to keep kicking your butt to make you show up for them. Look. If you’re hung over, or if you’re calling from some fishing place in New Hampshire, or if you’ve got your legs all tangled up with some woman and just can’t summon up the strength of character to kick off the blankets, okay, fine. I mean, not fine, but at least I know you’re telling the truth.”

“It’s Wally Kinnick. He flew in unexpectedly last night. He’s got a problem. I’m his lawyer. My job is to help my clients with their problems. So—”

“Ha!” she said. “I know the kinds of problems you and Mr. Kinnick discuss. Like how to catch big trout on those little bitty flies you use.”

“No, listen,” I said. “This is lawyer stuff. We’re here at my place, and we’ve been conferring, and we’ve got more work to do, and I’ll be there by noon. And don’t give me any more shit about it or I’ll fire you.”

“Ha!” she said, “You’d go broke in a week.”

“I know. I won’t fire you. I’ll give you a raise. Call Mrs. Mudgett and reschedule her. Oh, and, um, you better clear my calendar for Thursday and Friday.”

“Fishing, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Boy,” sighed Julie. “To think, I could’ve been an emergency room nurse, run the control tower at O’Hare, something easy on the nerves.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” I said. “Love ya.” I made kissing noises into the phone.

After I hung up, Wally said, “From this end it sounded like you were taking a bunch of shit from a wife.”

“Worse. A secretary.”

Wally grinned, “That Julie’s a piece of work.”

His testimony before the Senate Subcommittee on Public Safety was scheduled for ten. It was a gorgeous May morning, so we decided to walk over from my apartment on the harbor. I carried my briefcase and Willy lugged his overnight bag. We talked about fishing and baseball and micro-breweries and girls we knew when we were in high school. We did not discuss gun control.

We got to the Common at about nine forty-five and took the diagonal pathway that led to the State House. Hallway across, Wally stopped and said, “Oh-oh.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Look.”

I looked. The golden dome atop the State House gleamed in the morning sunlight. On the sidewalk in front a mass of people were milling around in a slow circle. I saw that many of them were carrying placards.

Several of them, in fact, were dressed in cartoonish animal costumes. I saw a Bambi, a couple of Smokey-the-Bears, and several person-sized rabbits.

They were chanting. At first I couldn’t distinguish what they were saying. Then it became clearer.

“Kinnick’s a killer.”

That was the chant: “Kinnick’s a killer.”

I turned to Willy with raised eyebrows.

“Animal rights activists,” he said. “For some reason, they don’t like hunters.”

“Ah,” I said. “The good folks who splash red paint on fur coats. Does this happen often?”

He nodded. “Yep. Some places you expect it. Washington, of course. Denver, New York, San Francisco. Dallas, on the other hand, or Cheyenne or Billings? Never. Boston, or, best of all, Cambridge? Definitely.”

“I love their costumes,” I said.

Wally shrugged. “Part of their schtick. Come on. Let’s go.”

We climbed the steps that took us from the Common up to Beacon Street. The demonstrators patrolled the sidewalk across the street. From where Wally and I stood I could read the signs they carried.

LET’S MAKE HUNTERS THE NEXT ENDANGERED SPECIES
, read one.

A Smokey look-alike carried a placard that said,
SUPPORT YOUR RIGHT TO ARM BEARS
.

HUNTERS MAIM WITH NO SHAME
. A big rabbit held that one.

PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF ANIMALS
. An uncostumed pregnant woman.

KILLERS JOIN SAFE.

FUND FOR ANIMALS.

STOP THE WAR ON WILDLIFE.

HUNTING: THE SPORT OF COWARDS.

ANIMAL LIBERATION.

COMMITTEE TO ABOLISH SPORT HUNTING.

OPEN SEASON ON KINNICK.

KINNICK’S A MURDERER.

REMEMBER BAMBI.

There were thirty or forty demonstrators, I guessed, an equal mix of men and women, various ages, costumed and not, moving slowly hack and forth, chanting “Kinnick’s a killer” and waving their placards. A policeman stood off to the side watching them.

“I didn’t realize you were so popular,” I said to Wally.

He grinned. “Like it or not, I’ve become the nation’s most visible hunter.”

“I would’ve said you were an outdoorsman, a conservationist.”

“Sure,” he said. “Me, too. But to some people, if you hunt, that’s what you are. A hunter. None of the rest matters. You’re a murderer, and it doesn’t matter what else you do, what else you stand for.”

“How’d they know you’d he here?”

“Gene McNiff probably told the media that I was testifying. That’s McNiff’s main thing. Politics, lobbying, public opinion. He speaks to any group that’ll listen. Watchdogs the six New England legislatures. Prints his newsletter. Keeps gun issues alive in the media. That’s SAFE’s whole purpose. If they didn’t do these things, they believe the Second Amendment would be doomed.” He touched my arm. “Well, shall we?”

“Lead on,” I said.

We crossed the street and approached the milling crowd of demonstrators. “Excuse us,” said Wally. “Please let us through.”

Some of them paused and stepped back to let us pass. We began to edge through the crowd. Then someone shouted, “That’s him! The big guy with the beard! That’s the killer!”

Others echoed the cry. “That’s Kinnick! That’s him!”

“Come on, folks,” said Wally. “Get a life, huh?”

They closed in around us. The chant rose up, loud, frenzied voices. “Kinnick’s a killer. Kinnick’s a killer.” Their bodies bumped ours. They were yelling into our ears. I felt an elbow ram into my ribs. Something thudded against the back of my shoulder. I felt a hand grab my arm and yank me. I stumbled forward.

Wally was tugging me up the steps and the crowd was behind us. “Wait, now,” said Wally. “Be cool.”

We stopped at the first landing on the stairway, flanked by the statues of Horace Mann and Daniel Webster on the State House lawn. I turned to look back. The demonstrators, people and ersatz animals, were all staring up at us, waving their placards and yelling. I could read the passionate hysteria of their conviction in their faces. Their chant was out of sync now, so that their words mingled into an undifferentiated swirl of hate-filled noise.

One tenderhearted animal lover in a rabbit costume was giving us the paw.

The policeman hadn’t moved. The expression of resigned cynicism on his face hadn’t changed.

“Jesus,” I said.

“True believers,” said Wally. “Goes to show what happens to people with too much time on their hands.”

“Are they here for the hearing?”

“Naw. They don’t care about assault weapons. They care about animals. They’re here for me.

“They’re kinda scary.”

“All true believers are.”

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A
WRITER FEEDS OFF
the love and understanding of family and friends during the long self-absorbed process of novel-making. He is generally not good company. My kids, for some reason, seem to love me no matter how weird I get. My writing group keeps reminding me that it’s supposed to be hard. Andy Gill, Elliot Schildkrout, Steve Cooper, Randy Paulsen, and Jon Kolb just pour me a Daniel’s, deal another hand, tell trout stories, and, in a pinch, analyze my dreams.

For their indispensable help with this manuscript, I also want to thank Jane Rabe, Rick Boyer, Betsy Rapoport, Alcinda VanDeurson, Jed Mattes, and Michele Slung.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1993 by William G. Tapply

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

978-1-4804-2737-2

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