The Old Gray Wolf (10 page)

But we digress.

The point is this: the FBI is deadly serious about nailing Francine Hooten's tough old hide to the late Mr. J. Edgar's barn door. With so many critical irons in the fire, why is the Bureau heating up still another one—and just to put a pathetic invalid mobster's wife into the well-known clink? Thank you for asking. One cannot be absolutely certain, but the federal cops might be especially hot under the collar because one of their own has, as the odd saying goes, “gone missing.” Not a solitary word has been heard from Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, since Mrs. Hooten's employee called in the evac code and presumably hit the road to Terre Haute to meet a Bureau team dispatched from Indianapolis. The lady has, in a word—vanished. Dropped off a cliff.

No doubt with an enabling push from that miscreant known to the FBI as the “Cowboy Assassin.”

But this is not exactly a morale booster. What we need is a few minutes of R & R from the dark, seamy side of life—a pleasant diversion in the bright sunshine. Which suggests some lovely spot where yellow butterflies flutter by, happy little bluebirds sing their tiny hearts out, and good, honest, salt-of-the-earth folks are occupied with having themselves an innocent good time. The Methodist picnic in Logan County would do the trick, but that congregation of upstanding citizens has long since packed up their high-calorie leftovers, softballs and bats, and plastic horseshoes—and gone home.

Never mind.

There are bound to be some other solid citizens hereabouts who will fill the bill.

Aha! There are—word has just come in about a fine old gentleman and his wholesome grandson. They are enjoying one of those memorable days that inspired Mr. Norman Rockwell to illustrate covers on the old
Saturday Evening Post
with nostalgic and heartwarming scenes that remind aging romantics of what Small Town USA life was once like in the Lower Forty-eight. For those who slept through four years of high school except for lunch breaks and Pep Club, this was before the toasty-warm Sandwich Islands and the Seward's Folly deep-freeze were admitted to the federal union. Which celebrated historical events occurred in nineteen hundred and fifty-nine
A.D.
(On January 3 and August 21, respectively.)

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A BIG CATCH

Eighty-year-old Grover T. Washington was seated in the narrow end of an aluminum bass boat, happily running his trotline, which was submerged across a narrow section of the Wabash. What made the old man so doggone happy was not only a fine catch of channel catfish (not one of those slippery rascals was under three pounds) and a respectable assortment of drum and carp, but the fact that his twelve-year-old grandson was along for the fun. “Uh-oh,” he muttered through his gray, tobacco-stained beard as he tugged at the taut line. “Feels like we got us a shore-enough big 'un!”

The blue eyes in the boy's charmingly freckled face bulged, and his changing voice croaked as he said, “What is it, Granddad—one a them hunnerd-pound jug-head catfish that lays on the bottom, just waitin' for somethin' tasty to drift by that he can swaller?”

“Could be, sonny—them lazy old buggers don't put up much of a fight.”
But this feels like dead weight.
He shrugged and sighed. “More likely, it's just a waterlogged poplar stump, or a rusty old 'frigerator that some jackass dumped into the river, or—” He got his first look at a portion of the catch, and dropped the line before the boy could see the monstrous thing he'd hooked. With admirable presence of mind, Grover muttered, “Damned old log.” He motioned to the boy in blue overalls. “Row us back to the bank. Before I get this line untangled, I'll need to get some special tools from the green tackle box.”

“Okay, Gramps.” As the man-child leaned into the oars, he licked his chapped lips. “Can we have us a riverside fish fry afore we go home?”

The elderly man did not respond.

“Granddad?”

“Oh—I don't think so.” The dispirited angler glanced at his wristwatch. “We'll have our fish fry at home. While I'm tending to business here, you hoist this string of fish over your shoulder and take the shortcut across the cornfield.”

The boy's face fell. “Why can't I ride home in the pickup with you?”

“Because you need to go tell Grandma that I'll be running late. I need to get my line untangled from that danged old log.”

A suspicious expression shadowed the lad's honest face. “Why don't you call her on your cell phone?”

Danged smart-aleck kid.
“Because if I do, she'll start pestering me with silly questions—just like somebody else I won't mention!”

“Okay, then.” The youngster grinned as he tied the bass boat to a sycamore limb. “But I'll tell Gran'ma what you just said.” And lickety-split, off he went with the catfish, drum, and carp.

Even before his grandson was out of sight, Grover Washington put in a 911 call. When the dispatcher asked what the emergency was, the grim fisherman described the horrific thing that was entangled on his line.

*   *   *

The sheriff and his deputy showed up in fifteen minutes flat, and an Indiana state trooper was not far behind. What did the lawmen find?

A cinder-block-weighted corpse that might never have been discovered had a strong undercurrent not taken it a few miles downstream to a fateful encounter with an aged fisherman's trotline.

The preliminary finding was that the body was that of a forty-five-to-fifty-five-year-old Caucasian female, who'd had her throat cut. Even in rural southern Indiana, a few such unfortunates are never identified, and those that are rarely attract overmuch attention by those in the upper echelons of law enforcement.

This instance would prove an exception.

A subsequent examination by the McLean County Medical Examiner's office would lead to a positive identification: FBI Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay—until quite recently, maid and live-in companion to Mrs. Francine Hooten.

Despite the Bureau's best efforts to connect the homicide to the purse snatcher's momma, and the telephone record of the undercover agent's hurried departure from the Hooten residence, there would not be a shred of solid evidence to support an indictment—much less a conviction.

Very depressing. Let us leave Indiana and the tree-lined Wabash banks behind.

And go where?

How about—a far piece west of here, in sunny Colorado, where most rivers are too shallow and transparent to conceal the corpse of an adult Caucasian female. But for the moment, we shall not visit Granite Creek. (We have friends in Pueblo.)

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE TOWN LAWMAN'S DAY OFF

Scott Parris is the lawman in question, and he had taken a day of precious vacation to spend with his best friend in the whole world. Why? Because Charlie Moon had asked him to, that's why. Which, as answers are wont to do, raises still another question. Which is: why did Parris's deputy make such a presumptuous request of the busy chief of police, who saves up his vacation days like wild-eyed old misers hoard gold coins? Because the owner of the Columbine had made up his mind to
do it,
and was determined to reveal his life-changing decision to Scott Parris so that they could celebrate with a big day on the town down in Pueblo. The Ute could not wait until tomorrow, which—as we all know—never comes for some of us. Anyway, when Moon proposed the impromptu holiday, Scott said, “Let's go,” and they took off on a joyride. Had a danged good time, too.

Which wasn't very hard to do, because these were uncomplicated men who enjoyed ordinary pleasures, like paying a call on Fat Jack's Tack and Leather, where one of the westerners (the paleface) bought himself a fancy pair of Moroccan ostrich-hide boots and the other one treated himself to a Made in America leather gun belt. About the time stomachs had begun to growl, the hungry men drove over to that dandy Cracker Barrel on the north end of town to enjoy fried chicken (Parris) and a double order of fried catfish (Señor Luna). For the benefit of those on strict diets, we will not describe either the side dishes or their outrageously scrumptious desserts, which Parris and Moon walked off on Twelfth, Seventeenth, and Elizabeth Streets before dropping in at dusty old Polecat Joe's 1950s Pawnshop, an establishment that specialized in previously owned bone-handled pocket knives, sooty old Mexican silver, miscellaneous and sundry hand tools, vintage musical instruments, and, for those who don't want to buy somebody else's old junk—a selection of brand-new items. Scott Parris bought himself a pocket-worn Case stockman's folding knife just like one he'd lost on Pigeon Creek some fifty-odd years ago. The Columbine Grass's dexterous banjo player purchased a set of Nashville Special finger-picks for his nimble fingers.

After the most fun they'd had in quite some time, the lawmen said a heartfelt adios to Pueblo and—

But wait a minute. An honorable mention must be made of an incident (the most fun they'd had in quite some time) that, though of no great importance, did serve to add some spice and vinegar to their already dandy day.

HELL
-
CAT
HARLEY
,
SNAKE
-
EYE
,
AND
SWEET
MAURICE

Right up front, it should be noted that the three scruffy thugs thudding along on matching black Harley-Davidson motorcycles were what you'd call
new boys in town,
and like so many of their ilk—they figured they were about to have their way in Pueblo. (Not all insane folk are in lunatic asylums.)

These entrepreneurs had parked their pulsating bikes outside Polecat Joe's profitable establishment with the intent of conducting some customary business—i.e., beating Joe's head to a bloody pulp, emptying the semifamous pawnshop's cash register, and roaring away with raucous wa-hoos! and shouts of “the Bad Black Wolf Pack has struck again!”

With this stimulating adventure in mind, the uncouth youth were pleased to find only one vehicle parked out front. Charlie Moon's wheels. (Polecat Joe, a U.S. marine Iraqi war vet who topped out at about five-seven in his GI boots, kept his black Hummer parked out back and a matched pair of loaded-for-bad-asses .44 Colt six-shooters holstered on his hips.)

H-C Harley, self-appointed leader of the pack, eyed the Expedition's Columbine Ranch logo and spat. “Anybody who'd paint a purple flower on his SUV is a damn sissy who drinks his beer through a straw!”

Snake-Eye signified his agreement with a demented snicker.

A slope-browed ape-man of few words, Sweet Maurice replied with 10 percent of his vocabulary: a heartfelt grunt.

Cutting his Harley-Davidson's ignition, Harley said, “Let's go in and get it, brother Wolves.”

As they entered the dimly lighted pawnshop, the pupils in the doped-up bikers' eyes did not dilate appreciably behind their dark sunglasses, which may be one reason why the thugs made the potentially fatal error of picking a fight with an overweight, late-middle-aged white man, his skinny Indian friend—and the extremely dangerous proprietor behind the counter, whose round, little-boy face barely showed over the top of a glass case that was filled with antique carpenter's tools.

As it happened, Scott Parris, Charlie Moon, and Polecat Joe had noticed the sinister-looking trio the instant they pulled up in front of the pawnshop, where robberies were attempted by ignorant out-of-towners two or three times every year—most of whose carcasses were removed by unsympathetic emergency medical technicians, pronounced seriously deceased at the ER, then transferred to the morgue.

The boss biker swaggered up to the counter to sneer at the proprietor. “I'm Hell-Cat Harley.” He jerked a thumb to draw attention to his sidekicks. “This here is Snake-Eye and that's Sweet Maurice. We're here to kick ass and take what we want.” He punctuated this announcement by spitting.
On the counter
.

Parris rolled his eyes and whispered, “Here we go again.”

The Ute neither moved nor said a word.

His concealed hands itching on the ivory-handled butts of his silver-plated six-shooters, Polecat Joe smiled. “Don't stand there all day—make your play.”

Not before Charlie Moon had his say. “Hold on just a minute, Joe—me and Scott can handle this.”

Before the eager-for-action proprietor could voice a righteous protest, Parris chimed in. “Which of these scum-bums do you want, Charlie?”

Moon took an appraising look at the momentarily speechless opposition. “I'm still a little full from lunch, pardner. You feel up to taking the two big ones?”

“Piece of cake.” Eyeing the available weapons, Parris selected a old ash ax handle. “I'll have a go at Hell-Cat and Snake.”

“Good choice,” Moon said. “While you knock their ears off, I'll grab a hold of Sweet and stuff his pointy little head into that twenty-gallon brass spittoon which ain't been emptied in thirty-nine years.” Which he commenced to do straightaway.

As they used to say about Major League home-run hitters, Scott Parris “laid the wood” into the other two before the startled sidekicks quite realized what was happening.

It would be gratifying to report that the fight was over in six seconds flat and that was that, but in real life things don't generally work out so nice and clean. While Hell-Cat was felled by Parris's first blow and would not regain the least glimmer of consciousness until three days of dreamless sleep had passed, Parris's attempt to poleax Thug Number Two was a glancing blow that served merely to arouse Snake-Eye's understandable ire. The big bruiser threw a roundhouse punch that caught the Granite Creek chief of police square in the jaw. This made the cop wielding the ax handle plenty angry.

Mr. Moon also had his hands full. Sweet Maurice (already a slippery character) objected to being drowned in several gallons of aged-in-brass spittle. The miscreant managed to wriggle his way out of the gigantic spittoon and bite Charlie Moon on his leftmost cowboy boot, which (thankfully) Sweet's yellowish canines did not penetrate—elsewise the Indian might have expired from the infectious effect.