That Dog Won't Hunt

THAT DOG
WON'T
        HUNT

THAT DOG
WON'T
        HUNT

LOU ALLIN

Copyright © 2010 Lou Allin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Allin, Lou, 1945-
That dog won’t hunt / written by Lou Allin.
(Rapid reads)

Issued also in an electronic format.
ISBN
978-1-55469-339-9

I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads
PS
8551.l5564t43 2010     
C
813’.6     
C
2010-903657-3

First published in the United States, 2010
Library of Congress Control Number:
2010929176

Summary:
A drifter takes a job at a hunting lodge in Northern Ontario, with the expectation of a big payday for the summer’s work. But when the eccentric owner decides to renege on her promises, she ends up dead. (
RL
2.8)

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has
printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

13 12 11 10 • 4 3 2 1

To all the dogs that have enriched my life:
Pebbles, Freya, Nikon, Friday, Shogun, Zia…
and Bucky.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

T
his mirage was made to order. A cherry-red Mustang Mach 1 sat by the side of the road in the Mojave Desert. Its hood was up. Waves of heat rolled off the asphalt like X-rays.

My eyes were sore from squinting. One side of my throat was tickling the other. I took the last swig from a plastic gallon of water I’d bought at Twentynine Palms. Scored a three-pointer against a saguaro. The jug rolled like a tumbleweed. I had been hitching on I-10 east from LA. They might be looking for me on the Interstate, so I took this back road through the Sheephole Mountains toward Vegas. Hadn’t seen one damn car in an hour.

Cowboy boots hate asphalt and sand. Fact is, they’re not big on walking, period. I hoisted my duffel over my shoulder and headed for the car. The sun beat down like honey. Too dry in the desert for sweat to even bead. Thank god it was April, not July.

“Damn it to hell!” a rough voice yelled. The rear plate read
Ontario
. My mirage was near perfect. Canucks are helpful, and they’ll swallow hard-luck stories. Then the hood slammed down.

A wiry woman, barely five feet, with a wide straw hat and sunglasses, puffed on a cigarillo. Female. Three for three. Leading with my “trust me” grin, I approached.

“Where did you come from, cowboy?” she asked, tapping the ash and smiling with a plump red mouth. My boyish look makes women want to mother me.

“A lady in distress?” I took a mock bow, sweeping off my hat. It was battered and stained from a beating I’d rather forget.

Why was she out here alone? Where was she heading? Surely as far as Utah. Canada was way past that.

“You look like a man who knows horses. How about Mustangs?”

Smiling, I trailed a finger over the dust on the door. Hand-buffed and detailed. Someone loved it.

“Let’s take a look.” Raising the matte black hood with that sexy scoop, I fixed the safety rod.

She took off the hat and fanned herself. The cat’s-eye sunglasses made her look like Cher. Throaty laughter said hard years of liquor and tobacco.

“It’s fate. Looks like we both took the wrong road. Nothing’s come along but a couple of vultures ready to pick my bones.” She pointed to a circling bird.

“Shame to waste such pretty bones. Anyways, it’s a red hawk. You can tell by the whistle.” I reached in and turned the key to watch the gauges. “Not outta gas. Oil’s good. Not overheating. What happened to her?”

She shrugged and flipped the plastic tip of the cigarillo toward the sagebrush. “Got herky-jerky at first. Nearly slowed to a stop.” She wore a white linen skirt and a floral blouse. Silk scarf around her neck. Like she’d come from a business meeting. Not many women could keep their cool alone in the desert.

I tossed an appreciative glance just to let her know I noticed.

“One thing’s sure, we gotta get out of here. Start her up.” I moved to the front.

The engine caught right off. But instead of a purr, she sounded like she had the hiccups. Not in the starter then. No backfiring or pinging either. Dirty fuel line? I signaled to turn off the ignition. Sparkplug connections were good, carburetor flap moved easy. When I removed the distributor cap, I knew what was wrong.

“More gas. But nice and easy. She’s talking.”

Give Daddy a paper clip, a screwdriver, duct tape and a hose and he’d get anything with wheels moving. From my jeans pocket, I pulled a penknife with a bone handle. Then I exposed the points and scraped.

“Try her now.” Listening, I held up a hand, and she read me loud and clear. The engine stopped. I scraped again. “She’s hurting but back in business.”

The Mustang had enough life to get us to a town. The woman revved the motor.

“You’re one damn miracle worker. I’d like to shake your hand, kind sir.”

I took out my last handkerchief and cleaned my fingers. “Glad to help.”

“I’m Gladys Ryan.” She had a firm grip, like she knew what she was doing. It’s a western thing. I’m all for being equal. Some women I’ve seen could ride and rope circles around me. Credit where credit’s due, and all that. She wore a real strange ring on her third finger, left hand. Like a cigar band, only colored metal.

“Rick Cooper.”

“Gary Cooper. Tall, dark and handsome.”

“No relation, ma’am.” Mama used to like that dude. Another good sign.

“Looks like we both caught a break. Hop in. You drive,” she said.

I tossed my duffel into the trunk beside her set of fancy luggage marked
YSL
. Maybe it was secondhand. Then I eased into the seat and took the leather-wrapped wheel. Daddy always said to keep your hands at ten and two. Looking at the gearshift, I did a double take.

“What the hell’s that?”

She gave a little pound to the dash as she laughed. “That’s the future, if you get old enough. A steel hip joint.”

“I’ve seen custom, but this beats all.” I found first and juiced the gas. I went through all five gears, double-clutching at the top to show off.

Some fierce stink filled the car. “Oh, Christ. Bucky’s awake.”

“Huh?” I hadn’t seen a kid. She was a bit old for that.

“It’s my golden retriever in the backseat. You’d never know he was there unless he wakes up for a meal. Then he farts up a storm.”

Turns out Bucky was fifteen, old for the breed and on the deaf side. She and her husband had him from a pup. Retrievers weren’t my thing. Didn’t see the point of them. German shepherds, maybe. Good guard dogs earned their keep.

Her tiny hand reached out to adjust the air conditioner. Blue veins. Not so young then. Maybe a rough fifty or a prime sixty. That could work in my favor.

“The gearshift was my late husband George’s. He had a hip replacement and a wicked sense of humor.”

“Uh-huh.” That explained the weird ring. Must’ve been a cheap bastard.

“I do admire the car. She’s choice.” Fifty thousand miles on the odometer. Babied big-time for twenty years. “No rust neither. Saw your license. Don’t you have salt on the road up there?”

“Kept it covered up inside all winter. Too light in the rear for traction. We used it only for special trips. George had a sister in San Diego. We went down once a year.” Her voice took on a sad tone. “I’m… coming back from her funeral.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

She shrugged and pooched out her lower lip. “She was eighty. When you gotta go…”

“It’s not bad to go in California.”

“You got that right. How’d you know that trick with the engine?” She reached into the backseat.

“My daddy purely loved Mustangs. The ’65 classic, and then the ’70 like this one: 351 Cleveland V-8 engine. Same color too. Christmas cars, he called ’em. Red, green, gold stripes.” I heard her rummaging around. A metallic clinking. My lips were chapped and I licked them. “Sure would be funny if it was the same one,” I said.

“In the movies maybe. George bought this new. Five thousand bucks.” She popped the cap off a can of Colt 45 and passed it over.

“That’ll hit the spot. Lots of snow up north?” I finished the brew in a couple of gulps.

“We don’t all live in igloos like Yanks think. But we plow and shovel plenty of the white stuff.” Next came a paper cup and a bottle of Smirnoff. She poured herself a generous slug and toasted me.

CHAPTER TWO

A
t a constant ninety mph, we were eating up that desert. At Amboy, we turned east toward Needles. “I’ve heard of Toronto. They have the Blue Jays.”

“Wimps in the Banana Belt. Now, you take Wawa.”

“Wa…huh?”

“It’s a town in Northern Ontario where they have a big goose.”

“For real?”

“A tourist attraction statue, silly boy. People make jokes about going up by Wawa. Then back by choo choo.”

The joke was lame, but I laughed. Maybe she’d spring for dinner. One thing for sure: that car would take a day or two to fix. Getting twenty-year-old parts wouldn’t be easy.

She gave my arm a friendly punch. “So tell me about yourself, Rick. We’ve got some road to cover. You look like the real thing, not some rhinestone cowboy like the song.”

The leather seat was cooling off. I breathed deeply and settled back like I owned the world. She listened, not like a lot of girls I’d met.

I told her how I grew up in a double-wide in Escalante, Utah. Tires on the top to keep the roof on. Daddy was a heavy-equipment mechanic for a local mine until it shut down. Same year Mama died from a snakebite. She had been planting flowers by the house. Just wanted a little color. I was only ten.

“That must have been hard. A boy needs his mother.” She patted my shoulder. “Go on.”

I said that a couple of weeks later, Daddy gave me a hug and put the bone-handled knife in my hand. “I called your Uncle Seth in Salt Lake. He’ll come get you. You’re okay, kid, but I’m not cut out to be a father. Maybe you will be. It’s an important job. Never forget that.” I waved as that Mustang headed down the road. Children’s Aid came instead of Uncle Seth. Foster homes. Back of the hand or a leather belt for any smart talk. I quit school at sixteen and went to work on a ranch. But I was always looking for Daddy to come around that curve. Christ, he was probably dead now.

I found myself opening up like a cactus flower. Something wet touched my eye. I hadn’t never told no one about all this. Thirty years old and I felt like a kid again. Gladys had the bottle half gone. When I crushed the empty can I’d been holding, she passed me another brew.

“Last one for now. You’re driving. By the way, I’m going to Vegas. That suit you?” Her words were losing their edge.