Authors: Jon A. Jackson
He opened the door and gallantly waved her outside. Luck leaned on the driver’s door of the Cadillac with both hands and explained to Roman that he’d lead them over to the cabin.
“Go ahead and turn around, I’ll be right with you,” Luck said. “Hey, you could ride with me, if you want,” he called across the front seat to Helen. But it seemed that she preferred to ride with Roman. He shrugged and jogged quickly to a large black pickup, pulled it out, and led them out of the yard.
Helen could see him talking on one of the walkie-talkie phones as he drove slowly through the woods toward the gate. “Roman, that guy is really creepy,” she said.
Roman looked at her with narrowed eyes. “He didn’t try no thin’? You shoulda said somethin’.”
“No, he didn’t try anything,” Helen reassured him. “He was just . . . creepy. At first he seemed really friendly, then I think he figured out I was looking for Mulheisen.”
“How’d he figure that?” Roman said.
“I almost gave it away,” she admitted. She related the conversation.
“He’s sure takin’ his time,” Roman said, “jabberin’ away a mile a minute. But so what if he knows you’re lookin’ for Mulheisen? I don’t get it.”
Helen didn’t get it either. What was Mulheisen to Luck? They came to the gate and waited while he unlocked it, drove through, then waited again while he locked it.
“This guy is into security,” Roman said.
Luck stopped as he passed by them to say, “Just follow me. It’s not that far, but you’ll miss the road if you don’t tag along.”
They nodded and followed him out. Ten minutes later they were on the highway. Again they drove along quite slowly, causing a few cars to pull out and pass them, although this was hardly a high traffic area, through a rather extensively forested countryside. The trees came right to the edge of the road, making it almost dark already, although it wasn’t that late in the afternoon. But the clouds had moved in again after a pleasant morning and early afternoon of mostly sun. The trees were brilliant in their fall foliage, despite the rain of the previous night, and despite having lost many leaves in the wind. It was clear that fall was coming to its end with a quickened pace.
After about two miles, they crested a long hill and there was a large iron bridge below, painted silver. Luck slowed the pickup and turned at a road just before the bridge.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Helen groused, “he could have told us it was the road just before the bridge.”
Indeed, it was the river road, obviously, although it soon moved away from the stream to take a easier route around some knobs and gullies. They lost sight of the river through the trees. And very soon they lost sight of Luck, who had sped on. Roman did not dare to match his speed, the big old Cadillac already
bounding alarmingly on the undulating rough road, with its declivities and rises. It went on for at least a mile. Soon enough, they pulled up short of the rustic cabin, perched on a rise looking out over the river and the forest beyond. Luck was standing next to his truck.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” he said, when they drove up and parked.
He looked around at the forest behind them.
“Did you knock?” Helen said, getting out.
“No,” Luck said. “Try it. Looks like someone has been here, but whoever it was is gone now. Sorry.”
Helen went up to the door and pounded, looking in through the large windows from the spacious deck. There was no response and in general there was that utter absence of sound and life that tells one that no one is at home. She strolled out on the deck and stood there, hands on hips, gazing out over the broad expanse of forest that reached off to the west.
“I’ll be darned,” she said, returning to the vehicles.
Luck looked at her amiably. “Now what? Maybe he’s gone back to Detroit.”
Helen was stymied. “Maybe,” she said, “but he might have just gone into town, for groceries or something.”
Roman got out and stretched. “Jeez, I’m hungry,” he said.
“Well, why don’t you folks come on back to the house?” Luck said. “I’ll fix you some dinner. Hate to think of you sitting out here waiting, not knowing if Mullin is returning.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Helen said firmly. “We’ll go on into town and get a motel. How far is it to Traverse City?”
“Cadillac’s closer,” Luck said. “About eighteen, twenty miles. It’s kind of a toss-up, but Cadillac’s easier to get to.”
“Well, I guess we’ll go to Cadillac then,” she said. She thanked Luck for all his help.
He assured her it was no problem. He waited for them to drive off, then turned around and followed. He soon fell back and they lost sight of him.
Helen looked back. “He was in a hurry to get here,” she said, “now he’s dawdling.”
Roman drove on. When they got to the highway he turned south, toward Cadillac, but once they were beyond the bridge and out of sight of the river Helen told him to pull over.
“What’s up?” he said, easing the Cadillac onto the narrow shoulder. There was a little house a ways ahead.
“Let’s just wait a bit,” Helen said. “Mulheisen had been there. I saw his cigars—
my
cigars—the butts anyway, in the ashtray. La Donnas. He’ll be coming back. A guy doesn’t leave them for someone to clean up. I’ll tell you something else: Joe was there.”
“He was?” Roman was surprised. “You mean, just now?”
“Maybe. I think so.”
“There wasn’t no car,” Roman pointed out.
“No, there wasn’t,” Helen conceded. “Maybe he went somewhere with Mulheisen. Although . . . that doesn’t seem too likely. Does it?”
“I don’t t’ink so,” Roman said, shaking his head slowly.
They sat silently for a while, then Roman said, “You wanna go back?”
“In a minute,” she said.
“I’m starvin’,” Roman said. “You? We ain’t had nothin’ since breakfast.”
“All right,” Helen said. She nodded forward.
They drove to a small town up the road a few miles and ate a country-style meal of chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy at a family restaurant. Roman ate with great gusto, but Helen wasn’t so keen on the cuisine. It was way too starchy, she said. Roman shrugged and ordered the cherry pie with ice cream. “Good pie,”
he said as they left. “I remember that pie. I come up here with your dad once.”
Helen was astonished. “Up here?”
“Somewheres around here,” Roman said.
“I can’t imagine Pop up here, in the woods. What were you doing here?”
“Nothin’,” Roman said. “I can’t remember. Your old man hated it. We hung out for a few days and went back. Almost drove him nuts.”
T
here was a log cabin bar on the highway a few miles from Luck’s place. It was currently named the Dog House, but Joe thought it could just as easily be called the Road House. A spacious barroom, a low ceiling, suitably gloomy, with a tiny bandstand toward the rear and space for patrons to dance. No one was dancing there now, of course—it was only a little after midday. They had large jars of pickled eggs on the bar, pickled pigs’ feet, too. Joe had a couple of each. They were a bit alarming to look at but tasty. He ordered a draft beer and sat chatting with the busty blond woman who was tending bar. They were the only people in the bar. She said her name was Jerri. She had a sad look but a lovely smile. She asked Joe if he was from around here.
“I’m not,” Joe said, “but I’m looking at property. I’d like a little cabin in the woods.”
Jerri thought that was a good idea. Was he a fisherman? A hunter?
Neither, Joe told her, he just liked the idea of a cabin in the woods. But why, he wondered aloud, was a pretty woman like herself so sad? Was it because it was a nice day and she had to work?
Jerri’s smile got even brighter. She seemed to be about thirty-five, a little older than Joe. “It doesn’t look like that nice a day,” she said. She glanced in the mirror behind her. “Oh, I don’t
know, maybe I didn’t sleep right or something.” She frowned, recollecting something, but added, “It’s just my nature, I guess.”
She wore a wedding ring and Joe wondered if it had something to do with her apparent sadness. She was married to the owner, it turned out. She freely admitted that he could be the source of her sadness. He was very jealous, but then he didn’t pay her much attention either. She, too, she told him, was attracted to the idea of cabins in the woods. She liked flowers, and birds too.
Joe suggested that if he could find some property and build a cabin she could visit him sometime. Jerri seemed to like that notion. Joe had another beer and mused aloud on what he would do in the woods. Bird-watch, perhaps, he suggested. He’d recently met an elderly lady who had made it seem interesting. He’d never thought about them much, but now he wanted to know more about birds.
“And the bees?” Jerri suggested, arching a brow.
Joe smiled and said that was also a good idea. This seemed a promising gambit, one that Joe was happy to pursue. But now a string of customers came in, some from off the highway, others local farmers who also flirted with Jerri and she with them. Joe sat quietly, thinking about Luck.
Luck had been the second person in twenty-four hours to suggest that Echeverria could be lured to the States so that Joe could settle their accounts. It occurred to Joe that, after all, he had no beef with Echeverria; it was all one-way. Or was it? Maybe it was another of the Colonel’s fictions, facilitated by Luck. Joe thought it would be smart to discuss it with Echeverria himself; maybe they could settle this peacefully. All Joe wanted was to be left alone. He had more of a beef with Luck, if it came to that. He was the one spreading malicious rumors about Joe and telling people where he lived—not that Joe lived there anymore. Or did he?
The sexual interplay with Jerri had aroused him, but mostly it reminded him of Helen. He had to admit, he missed her. Right
now. Not just sexually, although that was always present in his thoughts of her, but also in terms of comradeship, for want of a better word. He appreciated her help. She expanded his reach, he felt. Without her, he realized, he was less versatile.
Joe thought it would be a good idea to contact Echeverria. But how? Well, Luck could do that for him. He’d said as much. As soon as he thought it, though, he knew it was bullshit. Any contact would go through the Colonel, and who knew what the Colonel’s agenda was? Luck couldn’t contact Echeverria.
Luck, Joe realized clearly, was an inveterate loser. He was a plausible-looking guy, impressive for a while, but the longer you were around him the more you realized that he was a loser. Losers are dangerous people, Joe thought, especially when they’re oblivious to their inferiority. So . . . what to do about Luck?
The momentary rush of custom had just as suddenly abated. There was again no one in the bar, Joe realized. Jerri drifted back to him, looking lonely. Joe liked her, although he couldn’t help thinking that she, too, was a loser. Joe asked her if she knew Luck.
“Imp?” Jerri’s face clouded. “Yeah, I know him. He comes in here just about every day, or used to. He doesn’t come in much lately. Why you interested in him? He doesn’t have any property to sell.”
“He doesn’t? I thought he was a big property owner around here. Doesn’t he own some river property?”
“He might have, at one time,” Jerri said, “or his grampa did. Seems like Imp has pretty much pissed all that away.” Her tone said clearly that she was not fond of Imp Luck.
Joe said, “Well, he’s got a cabin in the woods, hasn’t he? Have you ever been there?” That was pointed enough, Joe felt. And Jerri rose to the bait.
“I’ll never go again, that’s for sure.”
So she’d had an affair with Luck, and it had not turned out well. Oddly, knowing it made Joe think less of both of them. Her
wistful loneliness suddenly seemed pathetic. He knew it was unfair. Minutes earlier, he’d been contemplating making a play for her himself, but now he knew he couldn’t do it. Joe felt sorry. As for Luck, it seemed that he was the sort of man who . . . well, like Joe, putatively . . . fooled around with roadhouse barmaids.
“I heard he was a big man around here,” Joe said.
Jerri looked contemptuous. “Imp always thinks he’s a big man,” she said. “That’s his problem. He thought he was somebody, but it was his grampa. He steps all over people, but what is he? A big man in the barnyard. He has all them fool Huleys following him around, wearing camo, waving the flag, marching in the woods, toting guns, and scaring folks.”
“Huleys?”
“The Huleys are from over near Beckley. No-account hicks. Well, there’s always a few ornery pups in a litter. There’s good Huleys and bad Huleys, like anybody else. Most of them are all right, but there’s a few could do with a little more time in the pen, not that they haven’t already spent more than they should have.”
Joe asked about the sins of the bad Huleys and was treated to a long list: robberies, petty crime, bullying, ignorant shiftlessness, multiple bastardies . . . she could go on, but what was the point? Luck had always gotten along with them, though. Indeed, he’d urged them on, kept them going with small loans, jobs. Luck was a facilitator of backwoods skullduggery. According to Jerri, he did it because it flattered his ego to have a bunch of worthless followers. Although, lately, she conceded, he seemed to be attracting a more middle-class kind of supporter: outsiders, in her opinion, folks from down below, newcomers who didn’t know who they were dealing with.
Joe could see it. Luck was one of those guys who gave a meaning to the concept of “rabble-rouser.” Although Joe had never thought in these terms before, Luck was a man who ought to be shot. He couldn’t recall anyone about whom he’d had such feelings. Most
of those he’d shot had been bad enough, but Joe’s reasons for shooting them had never been based on the men’s character, but rather the necessity of shooting them before they shot him.
This man was so self-involved, so oblivious of everyone else, that he was simply too dangerous. Even petty concerns were likely, Joe felt, to be the premise for disastrous actions.
The notion actually gave him a bit of a shock. Was he himself guilty of Luck’s kind of thinking? Was he being petty, self-obsessed, in even thinking casually that Luck should be erased because he was causing some minor discomfort to him? Joe didn’t think so. Luck was bad news. Also, he was too tall. And Joe wasn’t in a good mood.