Spotted Cats (20 page)

‘I heard he was an art collector,’ I said.

Flask nodded. ‘I hear that, too. Don’t seem to fit, though. Big crude fella, McBride. Hear he likes to throw his weight around. Big fanny pincher when he’s had a dozen Coors. He’s on his third wife. Keeps her at the ranch. He’s got somethin’ goin’ with one of the gals in town. Pretty little thing from Helena name of Jenny. College gal, waitin’ tables for the summer. ’Bout half his age, I reckon.’

‘You didn’t ask,’ I said, ‘but I want to tell you why I’m interested in McBride.’

‘Fact that I didn’t ask don’t mean I ain’t interested.’ He picked a speck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue.

‘I’ll give you the short version,’ I said. ‘One of my clients back in Massachusetts had some priceless art objects stolen back in July. Got his head smashed in by the crooks. Irreversible coma. I picked up a rumour that the bad guys were shopping them around. This McBride might’ve bought them.’

Flask reached over and tapped my knee. ‘You playin’ detective again, Brady?’

I shrugged. ‘More or less, I guess. It’s sure nice to be out here, for whatever reason.’

‘I ain’t heard nothing about him buyin’ stolen art.’

‘I’d like to find out.’

‘I got an idea,’ said Flask.

‘Good. I need one.’

‘It’s Friday night. McBride’ll be sittin’ at the bar, swiggin’ Coors, pesterin’ the girls, waitin’ for Jenny to get off. Whyn’t we go ask him?’

‘What bar is that?’

‘The Totem.’

I sat up straight. ‘The Totem Café?’

Flask cocked his head at me. ‘Why, sure.’

‘That’s where McBride hangs out?’

‘Yup. Him and lots of others. Why?’

I smiled. ‘It fits, that’s all. This McBride. He’s my man.’

Flask suggested we walk, since it was only a few blocks to the Totem Café from the Madison River Inn. I told him I wanted to take my car. He shrugged. Flask wasn’t one to ask questions.

Even when the boy delivered the Lincoln to the front door and I slipped him another ten-spot before sliding behind the wheel, Flask didn’t say anything. For some reason I felt I had to explain myself.

‘You’re probably wondering about the Lincoln,’ I said as I pulled out of the circular drive.

‘I might be wonderin’. Don’t mean you gotta tell me.’

‘I’m trying to make a certain statement.’

‘You sure’n hell are makin’ one, all right.’

‘To McBride, I mean.’

He was silent for a few moments. ‘I get it,’ he finally said.

I parked directly in front of the Totem, and Flask and I went inside. I had eaten there several times on previous trips, and I knew the beef and the ribs were good. The décor isn’t much, but the service is fine and the prices are right.

We walked through the big front dining-room, through the smaller inside dining-room, and found two empty stools at the horseshoe-shaped bar in the back.

The bartender was a beefy guy with close-cropped red hair and a big Irish grin. He swiped at the bar in front of us with a rag that looked like a diaper. ‘Usual, Flask?’ he said.

Flask nodded.

‘Mister?’

‘Daniel’s on the rocks,’ I said.

The bartender was back in the space of time it took me to get a cigarette lit. He placed a glass of Coca-Cola in front of Flask and a generous slug of sippin’ whisky in front of me. He leaned his elbows on the bar. ‘Been up to the Madison?’ he said to Flask.

‘T’other day,’ said Flask. ‘Took a few on Prince nymphs. Right out back of the Grizzly Bar.’

‘Been meanin’ to get up there,’ said the redheaded guy. He cocked his head inquiringly at me.

‘This here’s Brady Coyne,’ said Flask. ‘Buddy Gleason. Picks a mean banjo.’

I shook hands with the bartender. I didn’t bother trying to remind him of our phone conversation a month earlier.

‘Gonna try some fishin’?’ he said.

‘Little fishing, little business,’ I said.

‘What sort of business you in?’

‘Investments,’ I said with a deprecatory wave of my hand. ‘Whatever.’

‘Mr Coyne’s got lots of money,’ said Flask. ‘Mr Coyne’s from back East.’ I thought he was speaking more loudly than necessary.

‘Well, nobody gets rich around here,’ said Gleason, ‘’less you like sunsets and trout rivers.’

‘I like both very much,’ I said.

Buddy Gleason grinned and wandered down towards the other end of the bar.

Flask tapped my leg. I looked at him and he darted his eyes across the bar. I lifted my drink to my mouth and from behind the glass I mumbled, ‘McBride?’

Flask nodded.

He was sitting directly across the U-shaped bar from me. He had a thick neck and small eyes and a wide mouth. There was a gap between his two front teeth you could wedge a matchbook into. He wore a green-and-black-checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his ropy forearms.

I realized after an instant that those small eyes were looking directly at me and that wide mouth was smiling at me. I arched my eyebrows and lifted my glass in his direction. He nodded, chugged from his beer glass, and resumed his conversation with the two swarthy men sitting on either side of him.

‘You got his attention,’ muttered Flask.

‘You got his attention, you mean.’

‘Wasn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Yes, I guess it was. I just don’t know what to do next.’

‘You’ll figure it out.’

I thought about it, but nothing came to me.

Flask and I sipped our drinks and he told me trout stories, for which I have an insatiable appetite. Occasionally I glanced across the bar towards Timothy McBride, who seemed to have forgotten me. He had his head cocked to the side so that he could listen to what appeared to be an impassioned sales pitch from the man on his left while still keeping an eye on the waitresses who came up to the bar with drink orders. The two men sitting with McBride looked as if they were Indian or Spanish—or a mixture of both—neither typical tourists nor typical West Yellowstone natives.

After I finished my drink, I said to Flask, ‘Ready to eat?’

‘Don’t you want another?’

‘One’s enough for me. Let’s eat.’

‘You payin’?’

‘You taking me fishing?’

‘Yep.’

‘Well, then, I’m payin’.’

Buddy Gleason brought the bill and I spread some money on the bar. Flask and I climbed off our stools and Flask got the attention of a hefty woman whose grey hair had been braided and wound into a beehive on top of her head. She waddled towards us.

‘Evenin’, Flask,’ she said. Her smile revealed a random scattering of stubby teeth.

‘Evenin’, Cora.’

‘You boys ready to eat, are you?’

‘We’re starved,’ I said.

She led us to a table in the smaller dining-room adjoining the bar, dealt us menus, and wandered away. A moment later a girl wearing a white blouse and tight blue jeans appeared at our table. A small plastic pin-on plaque over her left breast had ‘Jenny’ imprinted on it.

‘Want drinks, men?’ she said. She had blonde hair, cut short and straight, and a tan the colour of honey.

‘Had ’em,’ said Flask. He glanced at me. ‘Unless—?’

I waved my hand. ‘I’m fine. I’m already to order, though.’

‘Me, too,’ said Flask. He glanced at me. ‘One of them great big sirloins, rare.’

‘I’ve been dreaming of a rack of ribs with that sauce since I was here three years ago,’ I said.

Jenny bit her lip as she wrote this down, a gesture that made her look about nine years old. ‘Salad bar’s in the next room. You want fries or baked?’

I took the fries, and Flask asked for baked with sour cream.

When the waitress left, I said to Flask, ‘Is that the same Jenny, the one McBride’s chasing?’

He nodded.

‘Pretty one.’

Flask frowned and nodded again.

From where I was sitting I could see into the bar. As I watched, McBride swivelled off his stool and walked around to the left. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to Flask.

I found the men’s room beside a big-screen television set off a small room behind the bar. I pushed open the door and walked up to the urinal beside McBride. I saw then that he was about my height and considerably broader across the back and shoulders.

I unzipped. ‘You’re McBride, aren’t you?’ I said.

He turned to look at me. ‘That’s right.’

‘My name’s Coyne.’

McBride grinned. ‘I’d shake hands, but…’

‘I know. Your hands are full.’

‘They sure’n hell are, friend.’ He zipped up and stepped away. ‘How’d you know my name?’

‘I imagine everyone in this little town knows your name, Mr McBride.’

‘I suppose they do at that. But that doesn’t answer my question.’

I finished and went to the sink to wash my hands. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t. I heard of you before I came here. I heard you were like me.’

‘That right?’

I turned to face him. ‘Heard you liked to make money.’

‘Who doesn’t?’

I smiled at him and reached for a paper towel.

McBride ran his damp fingers through his hair and inspected himself in the mirror. ‘So what do you want with me?’ he said.

‘What makes you think I want anything with you?’

‘You followed me in here, didn’t you?’

‘I had to take a leak.’

He shrugged. ‘My mistake.’ He turned towards the door.

‘Mr McBride?’

He stopped but didn’t turn. ‘What?’

‘I’m looking for investments.’

‘So?’

‘I heard you might be looking for investors.’

‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘Does it matter?’

He turned to face me. ‘Yes, it does.’

I shrugged. ‘Forget it, then. When I’m asked to keep something quiet, that’s what I do.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

I shrugged. ‘I heard you were hurting. I might be interested in helping.’

‘Why?’

‘Like I said. I need someplace to park a little money.’

He narrowed his little eyes at me for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Maybe we’ll talk sometime,’ he said. He pivoted and pushed out of the room.

I dried my hands slowly, then followed him. He had returned to his place between the two Indians. I went back and sat across from Flask. He lifted his eyebrows at me. I shook my head quickly.

When we left the Totem Café an hour later, Timothy McBride was still at the bar, still drinking draught beer and still talking with his two Indian friends.

Flask’s old Ford pickup was parked in the lot beside the Inn. I steered the Lincoln into the empty slot beside it and we got out. A full moon bathed the broad plains in pale orange light. I looked up. The Big Sky. You can see way more stars in the Montana sky than in Massachusetts. Our breath showed in little puffs.

Flask climbed into his truck. I stood beside it. ‘Fishin’ tomorrow?’ he said.

‘Yes. Where will you take me?’

‘Lemme think on it. Suppose I pick you up about nine?’

‘I’ll be ready,’ I said.

He started up the truck and rumbled away in a cloud of exhaust. I went up to my room. Although it was only nine-thirty, my internal clock was still set on Eastern Time, and I suddenly realized that it had been a long day. I showered and crawled into bed, and I had nearly drifted off when the phone rang. I picked it up.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Coyne?’

‘Hello, Mr McBride.’

He chuckled. ‘You knew I’d get ahold of you, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I knew you couldn’t be predicted that easily.’

‘Not many people drive into town in a rented Lincoln.’

‘They have them at the airport. Somebody must rent them.’

‘People who do that are trying to say something.’

‘What do you figure they’re trying to say, Mr McBride?’

‘They’re trying to say they’ve got money. They’re trying to say that real loud.’

‘I think I already told you that, straight out.’

‘Not many people tip the kid who parks their car ten bucks, either.’

‘The boy did a good job.’

‘So you want to talk business?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘What kind of business.’

‘You said it yourself, Mr Coyne. Investments.’

‘Sure. We can always talk.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘I had planned to go fishing.’

‘Cancel it.’

‘OK.’

M
CBRIDE GAVE ME DIRECTIONS
to his ranch. I agreed to be there at ten the next morning.

I disconnected from him and phoned Flask.

‘Change of plans,’ I said.

‘McBride?’

‘Yes. He wants to talk with me.’

‘About art?’

‘No. Investments.’

‘Well, you take care.’

‘I intend to. I’ll call when I get back. I’d still like to get fishing.’

‘I should be hangin’ around.’

I slept soundly and awakened with that familiar keyed-up sharpness I used to get on the day of a ball game, and which I continue to get when I’m due to make a court appearance. I worry when I don’t feel that way. It means I won’t perform well.

And today, I realized, I’d have to perform. I’d do it the same way I managed most of my courtroom performances, a combination of careful planning, meticulous research, and inspired improvisation.

I’d make it up as I went along. I’d wing it.

I ate a leisurely breakfast of steak-’n’-eggs on the patio outside the elegant dining-room of the Inn and glanced through the
Billings Gazette.
The box scores were two days old. At nine forty-five I had my Lincoln delivered to the front door. Ten-dollar tips were getting out of hand, but I seemed to have established a precedent.

I headed north out of town on Route 287, crossed the Madison River, and two miles later found the gravel road McBride had described angling off to the left. It cut straight through a second-growth forest of lodgepole pine. Here and there rutted dirt roads branched off it, with signs indicating campsites and areas where firewood could be gathered.

One sign warned of bears. It advised would-be campers to use hard-sided tents.

A couple miles down the rippled roadway the forest ended. Spread out in front of me stretched a broad expanse of plains that rolled down for several miles towards Hebgen Lake, which had been created by damming the Madison River. Beyond the lake rose the peaks of the Madison Range in the Beaverhead National Forest. I stopped the car and got out to drink it in.