Spotted Cats (19 page)

All of this she managed to convey in a single, exquisitely expressive sigh.

She was not happy. This, cumulatively, made me unhappy.

Ultimately, we got divorced.

She remained vaguely unhappy. Nor did I find instant ecstasy. But although from time to time we halfheartedly tried, we knew that we could no longer blame each other for it.

‘Your flight,’ sighed Julie, ‘leaves Friday at 6:40 a.m. Delta, if it matters. You’ve got a two-hour-and-ten-minute layover in Salt Lake City. You arrive in Bozeman at 1:35 p.m. That’s Rocky Mountain Time, of course. Hertz will have a car waiting for you. I reserved a room for you at the Madison River Inn, which they claim is the swankiest place in West Yellowstone, those things being relative in the Wild West, I assume. It’s the most expensive, at least. It’s on the outskirts of town. A view, I was assured, of mountains and forests. Elk and pronghorn antelope, I think they were called, presumably graze out back. Sauna, hot tub, masseuses on call. OK?’

‘Perfect,’ I said.

She cocked her head at me, a question I declined to answer.

‘You’re scheduled to return on Wednesday,’ she continued when she realized I wasn’t going to explain myself. ‘If that’s not enough time to wet a line in enough trout rivers, you can change it.’ She closed the folder and slid it under the other one. ‘You can pick up your tickets at the agency downstairs. Any questions?’

‘This isn’t a fishing trip, Julie.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Right.’

‘What about the car?’

‘You got a Lincoln Town Car. I gather it was the least tasteful car available.’

‘Good. A Lincoln Town Car is sufficiently tasteless.’

‘Next question?’

‘Why Friday? I said next week.’

‘The rates are better if you’re gone over a Saturday.’

‘I knew that.’

‘Sure you did.’

‘I’m speechless at your efficiency.’

‘You better be, buster,’ she said. She picked up the other manila folder. ‘Now, if you’re going to be out of the office for four days, and I’ve got to play lawyer for you, there’s a bunch of things we have to discuss.’ She tapped the folder with the long nail of her right forefinger. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready,’ I said. But already I was trying to decide which fly rods to pack, and whether I’d need my insulated waders, and if I should call Charlie and Doc to gloat a little. Maybe I just would try to squeeze in a little fishing. If nothing else, it would be a good cover for my real business.

I had to stay up until midnight—ten o’clock Rocky Mountain Time—to reach Flask Dillman.

‘Yuh?’ he said into the phone.

‘Brady Coyne.’

‘Brady. Be damned. How’n hell are you?’

‘I am presently terrific, since I’m flying into Bozeman this Friday, laden with fly rods. Any fishing these days?’

‘Madison up back of the Slide Inn’s been fishin’ real good. Caddis comin’ off towards dusk. Little hopper action on the Yellowstone. Spring creeks’ve been hot. The usual stuff.’

‘You still know where all the big ones are?’

He chuckled. ‘Every goddam one of ’em. Got a couple with your name on ’em, if you’re interested.’

‘I could be persuaded,’ I said.

When I first knew him, Flask Dillman was a highly respected Montana fishing guide, a small, lithe man with a scraggly sun-bleached beard, sun-fried skin, and a boundless capacity for rum-and-Cokes.

He lost his guide’s licence when one of his clients nearly drowned in the Box Canyon section of the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, a place where several less fortunate fishermen have actually succeeded in drowning by carelessly wading in the heavy boulder-strewn currents. It wasn’t exactly Flask’s fault. But the client happened to be an influential Wall Street banker who believed that Flask’s failure to leap to his rescue was attributable to his having consumed the entire contents of the engraved silver flask he carried in his hip pocket before he curled up under a lodgepole pine and fell asleep, while the client tumbled downstream past him.

After that, Flask kept the rum out of his Cokes. He placed his silver flask on the windowsill over the sink in his kitchen and left it there as a sort of trophy of his comeuppance. And every year he applied to the state’s licensing board for reinstatement. Every year he was turned down. That Wall Street banker had powerful friends. Flask always said he wished to hell the fat shit had drowned. Since then Flask and I have fished together as partners.

‘Saturday, then?’ he said.

‘It’s a date. I’ll call you when I get in Friday. You can do me a favour in the meantime.’

‘Name it.’

‘Ever hear of a guy named Timothy McBride?’

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Might’ve. Rings a bell.’

‘Real estate developer. Supposed to be building somewhere in your neck of the woods.’

‘Yeah, OK. Him. Got himself a spread up by Hebgen Lake. They say he’s gonna build a big fancy condominium resort. Sure. I heard of him.’

‘See what you can find out about him.’

‘OK.’

‘Quietly, Flask.’

‘Goes without saying, Brady.’

The thing I liked about Flask was that he didn’t ask questions.

‘I’ll buy you dinner Friday night,’ I told him. ‘I’m staying at the Madison River Inn.’

‘Hoo, boy. The Inn. Some client must be payin’ your way this time.’

‘As a matter of fact.’

‘Business trip, then.’

‘Mainly, yes.’

‘This McBride,’ he said. ‘Folks don’t like him much.’

‘I hope to draw my own conclusions,’ I said.

The next morning, unable to restrain myself, I called both Charlie and Doc. To gloat. I left out the whole part about the jaguars and Jeff Newton. They responded as I’d hoped they would. They were jealous as hell, and, good friends that they were, both of them expressed enormous resentment and promised they’d hang up on me when I got back and tried to tell them about all the big fish I’d taken. They knew this was the reaction I wanted.

I also phoned Dan LaBreque to thank him for his indirect contribution to my trip.

‘So you’re going out there?’

‘I owe it to Jeff.’

He chuckled. ‘Sure.’

‘I don’t understand why I get the same reaction from everyone.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Well, listen,’ he said. ‘The blues’ll be blitzing for the next month. When you get back?’

‘Definitely. It’s a date.’

‘Hey, Brady. Be careful, huh?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘I’m jealous.’

‘It’s strictly business, Dan.’

‘Right.’

West Yellowstone is a simple grid of twenty-eight blocks on the western border of Yellowstone National Park in the narrow south-central tongue where Montana meets Idaho and Wyoming. West Yellowstone exists for two reasons: It’s the western gateway to the Park, and it’s smack in the middle of the greatest concentration of fine trout fishing in the lower forty-eight. Within one hundred miles of the town flow more than two thousand miles of blue-ribbon trout waters—the Madison, Yellowstone, Lamar, Gallatin, and Henry’s Fork are just the better-known. And the lakes—Henry’s, Hebgen, Quake, Island Park Reservoir—teem with huge trout.

Mecca.

Around seven hundred people actually live in West Yellowstone. Their businesses cater almost exclusively to flyfishing and Park-visiting tourists. Over a million every year. Souvenir emporiums vie with motels and restaurants and gas stations and fishing shops for the vacationers’ bucks. Generally there are more than enough bucks to go around.

Many of the roads in town are still unpaved. The sidewalks are elevated from the street and made of wood. Storefronts are low, featuring log structure and rough-hewn vertical planking. The Old West.

The natives are friendly. They all fish for trout, or pretend they do when they talk with patrons of their businesses. Western beef is the speciality of all restaurants except the odd pizza joint. Steaks are cheap and thick. If you order one rare, it gallops into the dining-room under its own power.

They had my Lincoln Town Car waiting for me at the Hertz booth. I loaded my duffel into it, drove south for a little under two hours on Highway 191 from Bozeman into West Yellowstone, where I checked into the Madison River Inn. A big, open-faced kid held my car door for me and insisted on lugging in my gear. I folded a ten-dollar bill twice and slipped it into his hand, and he shoved it into his pocket without looking at it. A classy joint.

A teenage girl with sleek black hair and an olive complexion checked me in and then tapped a bell. An old guy with stooped shoulders materialized and hefted my bags and rod case. I took the bags away from him and let him carry the rods. I didn’t want to be responsible for his coronary. I followed him to my room while he told me about all the good stuff at the Inn. I gave him a ten-spot, too.

I tested the bed and the television. Then I flopped down and dialled Flask Dillman. No answer. I asked the operator for Timothy McBride’s number. A computerized voice told me Timothy McBride’s number was unlisted.

I took a shower, slipped into my Montana outfit—jeans and moccasins and an old flannel shirt—and went outside. I climbed into the Lincoln, feeling as out-of-place among all the four-wheel drives, vans, and trucks that populated the West Yellowstone streets as a water skier on Walden Pond. I drove a few diagonal blocks to the Blue Ribbon Fly Shop, where I bought a Montana fishing licence. Then I wandered around the store, ogling the rods and reels and fly-tying stuff, and to justify my time I bought half a dozen No. 16 Pale Morning Duns. The young guy behind the counter told me that the Madison was fishing well, as was the eastern end of the Madison arm of Hebgen Lake. So, naturally, I bought half a dozen Adamses in size eighteen. It was hard to leave.

I got back to my room at four-thirty and tried Flask’s number again. Still not home. I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the bed. I’d try Flask again in a few minutes and we could go fishing, hit the evening hatch somewhere. He could tell me about McBride while we cast dry flies towards rising trout. Talk about combining business with pleasure! I closed my eyes and thought about it.

I awakened to the jangling of the phone beside my bed. I opened my eyes reluctantly. My room was dark. Dusk had arrived. So much for fishing.

‘M
R COYNE?’

‘Yes?’ I mumbled from amid the cobwebs.

‘This is Janice, at the front desk.’ She had a professionally cheerful voice, which, right then, irritated the hell out of me. ‘Mr Dillman is here to see you?’ She made it a question. She sounded as if she assumed there was a mistake.

‘Sure. OK.’ I creaked my neck and yawned extravagantly. ‘Send him up.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, after just an instant’s hesitation, and by her tone I surmised that Flask, clad and groomed, no doubt, in his usual fashion—faded blue jeans blotched with outboard motor oil and dried fish slime, flannel shirt with the elbows out, scuffed leather boots, untrimmed beard, tobacco-stained teeth—did not fit the Madison River Inn image.

I swivelled into a sitting position on the bed, took a deep breath, stood, and staggered into the bathroom. I filled the sink with cold water and immersed my face in it. I was towelling myself dry when I heard the knock on the door.

I went and opened it. Flask Dillman, all scrawny five-foot-seven of him, stood there. He held his shapeless canvas fishing hat in his left hand. Flask’s hat is studded with dozens of bedraggled flies and smeared with ancient dirt and trout gore. It’s a great hat. Every time I saw it I wished I had a hat like Flask’s. His right hand was extended. I grasped it and was instantly reminded of the sinewy strength of the little man.

‘Flask,’ I said. ‘Come on in. Damn good to see you.’

‘Me too,’ he said, grinning.

At the window end of my room a pair of maroon satin wing-backed chairs sat on either side of a round Queen Anne table. They were angled to encourage the guest to gaze westward over the meadow towards the sunset behind the distant mountains. In the evening I supposed the elk and pronghorns really did venture out there to graze. Flask and I sat down and dutifully gazed. No animals appeared.

Although I had fished with Flask several times since he lost his guide’s licence and climbed on to the wagon, I still remembered him the way he was when I first knew him—often red of eye, slurry of speech, and hesitant of gait, but always vastly knowledgeable and reliable. He was a good companion, drunk or sober. Now his grey eyes were clear and his bearing almost aristocratic.

‘You’re looking terrific,’ I said.

‘One day at a time. Fightin’ them demons.’ He crossed one leg over the other and hung his hat on the toe of his boot.

‘Looks like you’re winning.’

‘Oh, the fight never ends. I just keep my guard up, look sharp, try to keep on standin’.’

‘I tried to call you when I got in,’ I said.

‘I was cuttin’ brush down to my sister’s place in Ashton.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s work. I take what I can get.’

‘You should be guiding.’

He nodded once and looked out at the mountains.

‘Cigarette?’ I said, fumbling in my shirt pocket for my pack of Winstons.

‘Factory-rolled?’

‘Yep.’

‘I got my makins.’ He extracted a cloth bag of tobacco and a package of cigarette papers. He poured, rolled, and lapped a nifty cigarette.

We lit up. He turned to face me. ‘You want to talk fishin’ or McBride first?’

‘Let’s get McBride out of the way, then we can move on to the important stuff.’

‘Rich fella,’ said Flask without further preliminary, returning his gaze to the darkening plains outside the window. ‘Come out here maybe two years ago. Bought himself a spread up north. Near five hundred acres. Few horses and cattle. Fella I know did some wranglin’ for him. Says this McBride don’t know shit about ranchin’, and don’t seem particularly interested in learnin’. Plannin’ to build some kind of big resort up there. Already’s sunk lots of money into it and ain’t even broke ground yet. My friend figgers McBride’s got himself a serious case of the shorts. Folks around here don’t think much of him. California-type boy. Loud talker. Likes to shoot partridge and pronghorn out of season, bomb around the back roads in his Jeep chasin’ rabbits.’