Dark Tiger (6 page)

“No hints as to where you're going, or why. I can't emphasize this strongly enough.”

“I get it.” He was wondering what he could say to Kate. She wasn't going to like it, he knew that much.

“At Loon Lake,” said Mr. Brescia, “you're a temporary guide. Nobody up there will know any different, even the owner. That's your cover. Don't blow it.”

Calhoun nodded. “I told you. I get it.”

Mr. Brescia reached into his pants pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to Calhoun.

Calhoun took it and looked at it. Two phone numbers and an e-mail address and the letter
B.
That was all. “Okay,” he said.

“One more thing,” said Mr. Brescia.

Calhoun looked at the man. “What?”

Mr. Brescia's eyes were dark and impenetrable. “You better not let me down.”

“That a threat?” said Calhoun.

Mr. Brescia shook his head. “I don't issue threats.”

“Sounded like a threat to me.”

“No, Stoney. It was a statement of fact, that's all. Just get the job done. There's no room for failure. This is too important. Understand?”

“Sure,” said Calhoun.

“Don't make me regret trusting you.”

“I said I understand,” Calhoun said.

Mr. Brescia smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Good luck.” He didn't stand or offer Calhoun his hand.

Calhoun got up from the table, nodded to Mr. Brescia, and headed back to his truck.

 

 

 

 

Toward closing time on Friday afternoon Calhoun was helping one of the local guys, a lending officer named Ben Fallows from the Portland Savings and Loan, pick out some landlocked salmon flies for his annual trip to Aziscohos and Parmachenee lakes and the Big and Little Magalloway rivers. Calhoun was pushing the old-time, traditional Maine streamer flies that presumably imitated smelt—Gray and Black Ghosts, Ballou Specials, Dark Tigers, Warden's Worries—but Mr. Fallows seemed to believe that modern flies made from flashy synthetics had to be improvements, just because they were newer. “Refinements,” he called them.

Calhoun made his case, Mr. Fallows shrugged a couple of times, and Calhoun realized he didn't really give a shit what flies the banker brought with him. It didn't matter that much anyway. They'd all catch fish if they were cast to the right places and fished properly. If they weren't it didn't matter, either.

Just about then the phone rang. Kate, up at the counter, answered it, then called, “Hey, Stoney.” She held the phone up in the air. “For you.”

Calhoun touched Ben Fallows on the arm and said, “Grab a bunch of whatever you want and take 'em to Kate. They're all good. You can't go wrong. I gotta get the phone.”

He waved to Kate and pointed to his office. She nodded.

He went into his office, shut the door, picked up the phone, and said, “Okay. I got it.”

When he heard Kate disconnect, he said, “This is Calhoun.”

“Stonewall Jackson Calhoun? The Maine guide?”

“I do some guiding,” said Calhoun.

The voice on the other end said, “Mr. Calhoun, my name is Martin Dunlap. I own a fishing lodge up near the Canadian border, and I have a proposition for you that I think will interest you.”

Here we go
, thought Calhoun.
Just like Mr. Brescia said
.
An offer I better not refuse
. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Oh, no,” said Dunlap, “not on the telephone. It's too complicated for the telephone. We should be looking at each other, face-to-face. Why don't I just meet you at your shop? That will also give me the chance finally to meet the legendary Kate Balaban.”

“Nope,” said Calhoun. “You want to meet with me, we got to make it somewhere else.”

Dunlap hesitated, then said, “Okay, I understand. I'll take you to lunch, then. Tomorrow all right with you? Can you meet me at the Sandpiper at one o'clock?”

“I can,” said Calhoun, “but I'd like to have some idea what your proposition is all about.”

“It's about a job, Mr. Calhoun.” Dunlap paused. “I was led to believe that you would be receptive.”

“Who led you to believe that?”

“Why don't we talk about it over lunch tomorrow,” Dunlap said. “Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” said Calhoun. “The Sandpiper. I'll be there.”

“Excellent,” said Martin Dunlap. “One o'clock. See you then.” He hung up.

When Calhoun returned to the front of the store, Ben Fallows was at the counter, and Kate was counting the flies he'd selected.

“I got a few of everything,” said Fallows. “You never know what the fish might want.”

Calhoun nodded. “Some days they just lay there saying to themselves, I ain't bitin' nothin' except a yellow Matuka with three strands of Flashabou on each side tied on a 4XL Limerick hook with white thread. Other times they might wait all day for a Carrie Stevens Black Ghost, and if they don't get an authentic one, they say the hell with it, they'd rather go hungry.”

Fallows frowned at Calhoun as if he thought he might be having his leg pulled but wasn't quite sure.

“Stoney's right,” said Kate. “You can't have too many flies with you, because, like you said, you never know what the fish might be thinking.”

Ben Fallows spent about a hundred and fifty dollars on his assortment of salmon flies. He seemed quite pleased when he left the shop.

“So,” said Kate after the bell dinged behind Mr. Fallows, “who was that on the phone?”

Calhoun felt that he was sinking deeper and deeper into his deception. He hadn't exactly lied to Kate, at least not yet, but he'd withheld a ton of truth from her. Sooner or later he'd have to tell her what he was doing, and even then, he couldn't tell her much. He knew that after he had lunch with Mr. Dunlap tomorrow he'd have no more excuses. He'd have to talk to her. He didn't look forward to it.

“It was just some guy, wanted to talk about fishing,” he said.

 

The Sandpiper was a sprightly multicolored Victorian building on Baxter Boulevard overlooking Back Cove. It had once been a run-down private residence, but then a couple of ex-schoolteachers from Boston bought it, gutted it, renovated it, hired a chef from San Francisco, named it the Sandpiper, and turned it into one of the most popular high-end restaurants in Portland. It was particularly popular with wealthy tourists and summer vacationers from out of state.

Calhoun often guided wealthy out-of-staters, and some of them had mentioned dining at the Sandpiper. They all said the food was great.

He pulled into the crushed-shell parking area beside the building a few minutes after one on Saturday afternoon. He had put on freshly washed blue jeans and a clean shirt for the occasion, and he wondered if he should've added a necktie.

A pretty college-aged girl in a short black skirt and a white shirt greeted him at a podium inside the entry. She asked if he wanted a table or would rather sit at the bar.

“I'm supposed to meet somebody,” he said. “Man name of Dunlap?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “He's waiting for you. Follow me, please.”

She led him through the dining room, where most of the tables were occupied, and through some French doors to a glassed-in porch that stretched across the back of the building. Beyond the wall of glass, there was a nice view of the cove, where gulls and terns wheeled in the breeze and cormorants perched on the pilings and dozens of fishing boats and pleasure craft rocked at their moorings.

The waitress led Calhoun to a table in the corner of the porch. The man sitting there had his chin in his hand and was gazing out at the water. He either didn't notice them or was pretending he didn't.

“Mr. Dunlap,” said the waitress quietly. “Your guest is here.”

Dunlap looked up, frowned for just an instant, and then nodded. “Mr. Calhoun?”

“Stoney,” he said.

“Good,” he said. “I'm Marty.” Marty Dunlap stood up and held out his hand. Calhoun guessed he was in his midfifties. A compact man with thinning straw-colored hair and sloping shoulders, he was wearing a white shirt and a striped tie and round rimless glasses. A suit jacket hung on the back of his chair. “It's good to meet you finally, Stoney. Your reputation precedes you.” He looked at the waitress. “Bring Mr. Calhoun a drink.” To Calhoun he said, “What'll you have, Stoney?”

“Cup of coffee,” said Calhoun.

Dunlap smiled at the hostess. “Okay. Coffee, then. Me, I'll have another of these.” He held up a tall glass.

The hostess said, “I'll tell your server,” and she left.

Dunlap and Calhoun sat down.

“You don't drink?” said Dunlap.

Calhoun shook his head. “Not anymore. I don't miss it a bit.”

“I don't get down to the city much this time of year,” said Dunlap. “As you can imagine, things really start hopping at the lodge once the ice goes out. When I do get away, I always come to the Sandpiper. Best food north of Boston, if you ask me. You've got to try their lobster bisque.”

Calhoun nodded.

“How's business at your shop?” said Dunlap. “I'd like to meet Kate Balaban some day. She really is a legend in Maine fishing
circles.” He waved a hand and smiled. “But I guess you know that.”

“She's a great guide,” said Calhoun. “I can tell you that.”

“You're no slouch yourself,” said Dunlap. “Speaking of legends.” He fixed Calhoun with a hard stare, as if he expected him to argue the point.

Calhoun returned Dunlap's gaze until the man smiled and looked out at the cove.

“I'm not very good at small talk,” said Calhoun. “You said on the phone you had a proposition for me, and I'd just as soon hear it.”

“I thought we could wait until after we'd eaten,” said Dunlap.

“Why?”

Dunlap smiled. “I don't know. That's the way it's generally done.”

“How I generally do things,” said Calhoun, “is, when something needs to get done, I just go ahead and do it, get it out of the way so I can get on to the next thing.”

A blond waitress wearing tight black pants and a pale blue jersey appeared. She put a cup of coffee in front of Calhoun and a tall glass holding what looked like a gin and tonic in front of Dunlap. “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?” she said.

Marty Dunlap waved his hand. “Give us a few minutes, hon.”

She smiled and nodded. “Certainly, sir. Take your time.”

When she left, Dunlap picked up his glass, took a long gulp from it, and put it down. “So, okay, Stoney,” he said. “I told you I had a proposition for you, and here it is. I have been led to believe that you might be receptive. The fact that you agreed to meet me here seems to confirm that. Am I right?”

Calhoun shrugged. “Sure. I'm here.”

Dunlap smiled. “Excellent. Here it is. I would like to hire you away from Kate's shop for a month, or six weeks, max, beginning as soon as possible. One of my best guides had to go home a few days ago. Some kind of family emergency involving his youngest son. Now, the thing is, Stoney, Loon Lake has a reputation to uphold. Our guides have been handpicked. We believe we have the best crew of guides in the Northeast. We pay them better than anybody, and we take care of them better than anybody. We believe that the men and women our clients spend their days with, the folks who find the fish and paddle the canoes and tell the stories and cook the shore lunches—these are the people who make or break a fishing operation.” Dunlap paused to take a sip from his gin and tonic. “Our guides come back year after year,” he said. “They are like family. When we have to replace one of them, we take the job as seriously as a corporation hiring a new CEO.”

“And you want me,” said Calhoun. “To take this poor guy's place.”

“For a month or six weeks,” said Dunlap. “We've given him a leave of absence—with full pay, by the way, a sabbatical, you might call it—so you don't need to feel too sorry for him.”

“Generous.”

“Yes. We'll make it worth your while, too, of course.”

“Of all the guides in Maine,” said Calhoun, “you want me.”

“You're the best,” said Dunlap.

“I'm pretty good,” said Calhoun, “but I doubt I'm the best.”

Dunlap shrugged. “Let me tell you about Loon Lake,” he said. “It's the biggest and prettiest of the string of lakes that we fish. We built our lodge on Loon Lake.” He began to draw with his fingertip on the tablecloth. “There are seven lakes in all. They're all connected by streams, some close to a mile long, some just a narrows at the outlet of the lake. Really, it's one big
river system that goes all the way to the sea. Up there in northwestern Aroostook County, the woods are all owned by the paper companies, except for what the government gave back to the Indians. We've got a ninety-nine-year lease. Virtually inaccessible except for one of those narrow roads that cut through the woods for the logging trucks. It connects us to the nearest town. We get in and out mostly with float planes, of course. Before we built our lodge—well, my grandfather built the first one back in the thirties, just a log cabin, really—these lakes were hardly ever fished.”

“Your grandfather,” Calhoun said. “So it's a family business, and you're—what, the third generation”

“I'm the third,” said Marty Dunlap. “My son would make it four, if he . . .” He smiled quickly.

“Your son works with you?”

Dunlap nodded. “I'm trying to teach him the business so that June and I can eventually retire from it. Robert's a good man, but I'm not sure he's cut out for this. He's kind of restless, the way young people nowadays seem to be. In a big hurry to get nowhere, if you ask me.” He shook his head. “If Robert doesn't want to keep Loon Lake going, I don't know what will happen. I'd hate to have to sell the place. It's part of the family, if you know what I mean, but . . .” He looked at Calhoun and shrugged.