Tumbler, page 9
Du Pré nodded.
My poor friend thinks this is all his fault, so he gets mad at himself.
“We let him out now maybe,” said Du Pré.
Booger Tom led Du Pré to the paint shed. He took a pin out of the hasp and he slid the door open and Bart stepped out. His face was red and puffy. He’d been crying.
He looked at Du Pré and Booger Tom.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Julie is in there,” said Du Pré. “You maybe go talk with her.”
Bart nodded and he walked away.
“He’ll be all right now,” said Booger Tom. “This ain’t something poor ol’ Bart kin take good.”
“What you think, my friend?” said Du Pré.
“Too old ta think,” said Booger Tom. “Makes my ears droop.”
“Pret’ bad stuff,” said Du Pré.
“Over them damn journals,” said Booger Tom. “It was me, I’d burn the damn things. Nothin’ but trouble.”
Du Pré laughed.
“When Bart says his little niece is a-comin’,” said Booger Tom, “I says, well, she’ll rip his nuts off easy enough.”
Du Pré slowly shook his head.
“Come mornin’,” said Booger Tom, “I believe I will look around fer one of them little objects.”
Du Pré nodded.
“That little bitch clubbed pore ol’ Bassman with a damn tire iron, sure as shit,” said Booger Tom, “and she puts it back where she got it and she sprays herself with that pepper crap and throws the can, I think.”
Du Pré nodded.
“Don’t need a damn roadblock,” said Booger Tom.
“Why you think this?” said Du Pré.
“Same goddamned reasons you do,” said Booger Tom. “They got plumb away ’cause they was never here in the first place.”
“Maybe,” said Du Pré.
“I ’spect the tire iron or whatever she spotted in the back of a pickup and she put it back and then sprayed herself,” said Booger Tom. “But she had to get rid of the dingus, now, didn’t she?”
Du Pré shrugged.
“Bassman was slugged in the back of the head,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré nodded.
“She run off once already,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré nodded.
He played the light around more. He bent over and he shone it under Bassman’s van. Du Pré laid down and he reached under and picked something up. A black plastic canister, like a tiny fire extinguisher.
“Under there,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré handed it to him.
“She’s good,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré nodded.
“She could be telling the truth maybe,” said Du Pré.
“It don’t make no sense,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré nodded. Truth don’t make sense lots of times. Lots of times.
“God damn it,” said Booger Tom. “It’s that kid, I knows it.”
Du Pré shrugged.
“The spray, it is tossed under the van,” he said. “Maybe there was a person here, two maybe.”
“But them tracks is all messed up,” said Booger Tom.
Du Pré nodded.
“God damn it, Doo-Pray,” said Booger Tom. “If you knows somethin’ I don’t, spit it out.”
Du Pré shone the light on the ground again.
Booger Tom spat tobacco.
“I don’t know,” said Du Pré, “maybe could be a lot of things. So we have to wait.”
Booger Tom snorted.
Du Pré stood up and he walked toward the open door in the side of the saloon.
CHAPTER 20
“I KNOW WHAT YOU think,” said Julie. She mopped at her eyes with a sopping rag.
“Julie …,” said Bart, “we’re trying to help.”
“Your idea of fucking help, Uncle Bart, is paying some psychiatrist to tell you you were right and I need therapy.”
Bart sighed.
“What should I do then?” he said.
Julie blinked at him, her eyeballs cherry red around the brown.
“I don’t know,” she said, “what you should do. I’m not old and wise enough. I get maced and Bassman gets clubbed and you think I did it. I like Bassman.” Her eyes watered.
Du Pré rolled a smoke and lit it and he turned away.
Bart came to him, head down.
“Maybe Madelaine … ,” he said.
“Uncle Bart,” said Julie, “I’m not deaf. I just can’t see well. I’ll tell Madelaine the same thing. I didn’t spray myself and I didn’t club Bassman. Oh, what’s the use?” She put the wet towel to her face and she got up and she groped for the door and she went outside.
Bart threw up his arms.
“I’m hopeless,” he said. “I can’t do anything right.”
“Quit whining,” said Madelaine, passing by. She went on out the door after Julie.
“Ah,” said Du Pré, putting his hand on Bart’s shoulder, “me … I got those two daughters … thing is … sometimes you can’t do anything right. God would screw it up.”
“Do you think she did it?” said Bart.
Du Pré shook his head.
“I thought you did,” said Bart.
“I think maybe,” said Du Pré, “but I don’t now. Beck, he thinks, ver’ straight line. Easy to walk, them.”
Bart nodded.
“She’s a good kid,” said Bart, “and I can’t for the life of me figure out what she needs.”
Du Pré walked out the front door and he looked round. Allison Ames was sitting in her little white SUV, looking at Du Pré. She got out and she walked over slowly.
“Bassman’s half killed,” she said. “Kinda getting dirty. All over the lost journals. Julie gets maced. Maybe I’ll do a book. Yeah, ’cause how long will it be, do you think, before somebody gets murdered. Lots of money there. People kill for lots of money.”
Du Pré nodded.
He looked down at her feet. He reached for her right foot suddenly, and he lifted it and twisted it so he could see the sole of the light cloth-and-leather hiking boot.
Allison Ames struggled a little, her balance uncertain.
“Fucker,” she hissed, “let go.”
Du Pré pulled his hands away.
“I don’t do it,” said the reporter. “I watch it.”
Du Pré looked at her for a long time.
“Your right leg, shorter than your left one,” he said, “so you drag your left heel a little. Foot turns out some, too. So you been at Benetsee’s. Been lots of places. Change your shoes. Get new ones. I still know it is you. Somebody hurt my friend. Somebody is playing games, wants the journals. Two people hurt, now. Watching, it is not good enough. Don’t play fucking games with me. I go, say, Benny, that Ames woman her tracks are by Bassman’s van, she is the one, you maybe sit in jail, Cooper, can’t watch much.”
Ames looked away.
“It wasn’t me,” she said. “I was inside, listening, and I had a soft drink after your set. I never went outside until the commotion started.”
“Other reporters are there, yes?” said Du Pré.
“Three,” said Ames. “Well, two for sure and another one maybe.”
“Who?” said Du Pré.
“There was a big heavy guy who was acting drunk but wasn’t. Had a brown leather coat on …”
Du Pré nodded.
“A woman in drugstore cowboy duds, had opals on her hatband …”
Du Pré nodded.
“Benson Drew,” said Ames, “he writes for an online magazine. Sheet. I haven’t met him. He just got here this afternoon.”
Du Pré looked at her.
“Young kid, looks like a … yuppie mountain climber,” said Ames.
“Bassman dies,” said Du Pré, “him die, my good friend, I will be ver’ angry. Ver’ angry. So. Maybe you tell me what you see.”
Ames spread her hands.
“I have tried to see the old medicine man,” she said. “The journals are a big story. Very big. The bicentennial of the Lewis and Clark journey is soon upon us.”
Du Pré waited.
“I get a old violin, worth a fortune,” said Du Pré, “tells me I got to talk to them, but I don’t. Who are they?”
Ames shrugged.
“Bullshit,” said Du Pré, “maybe you tell them no but they find you, yes?”
Ames looked off. She nodded.
“Who is it?” said Du Pré.
“Some computer wizard,” said Ames. “I got an offer, it just popped up on the screen. Hundred grand. Just for finding where the journals are.”
“Who?” said Du Pré.
“I gave what I had to a guy at the paper,” said Ames, “I mean the Wall Street Journal.”
“What him do with it?”
“He tried to find out who sent it and just hit a wall. This guy is very, very good. I am no computer genius, but it seems he finds a new route each time he contacts anyone, and then he erases his tracks. Not all of them, sometimes three or four connections can be traced, but then there isn’t anything.”
Du Pré nodded. He rolled a cigarette.
“Don’t play games, me,” he said, “play like a goddamned lawyer. Who you think is doing this?”
Ames looked at her watch. It was a quick movement, and then she cleared her throat.
Du Pré grabbed her by the arm and he dragged her into the saloon and back to the kitchen. Bart was there, sitting on a stool, looking lost.
“Her,” said Du Pré, “keep her here. She gives you shit, throw her in the freezer, goddamn bitch.”
Bart looked puzzled.
“I don’t got time, explain,” said Du Pré.
Ames yelled a few things at Du Pré and Bart stood up, massive and red-faced.
“Shut up!” he roared.
Du Pré ran back outside and he got in Bassman’s van and he started it and he backed and turned and he drove up to the far end of town and he turned on the road that led to his old place where Raymond and Jacqueline and their twelve kids lived now.
Du Pré went to a big shed and he slid the door open and then he drove Bassman’s van in and he cut the engine and he began to root around in the van, tossing bags of marijuana into a paper sack. He pulled out the little drawers under the back seats and he rifled the glove box and he checked behind the sun visors.
“Du Pré,” said Raymond, looking very sleepy, “you are doing what?”
“I got to get all Bassman’s dope the fuck out of his van,” said Du Pré. “Him, been set up I think.”
“I help?” said Raymond.
“Yah,” said Du Pré. “Crawl under maybe see there is something stuck the frame.”
Du Pré started again at the back doors and he worked his way forward. He pulled at the carpets but they were tight and the steel floor solid under them. He checked every little place again.
“Yah,” said Raymond. “Under here …”
Du Pré knelt down and Raymond handed him a plastic bag full of white powder, about a half cup.
“This is not Bassman,” said Du Pré.
“What is that?” said Raymond.
“Speed maybe,” said Du Pré, “don’t matter what, there is a lot here.”
“Why somebody do this, Bassman?” said Raymond.
Du Pré shrugged.
“OK,” said Du Pré, giving Raymond the little bag. “You burn this bag, everything, all burnt, the grass you hide someplace. I got to take this damn van back now.”
Raymond went off.
Du Pré backed out and he drove down the street to the Toussaint Saloon and he parked the van.
Madelaine and Julie were inside now, and Bart and Allison Ames were glaring at each other.
“Pret’ shitty,” said Du Pré.
“What?” said Allison Ames, looking innocent.
Cars pulled into the parking lot.
CHAPTER 21
“DAMN IT, DU PRÉ,” said Harvey Wallace, Blackfeet and FBI, “I can’t do anything. The fine folks at the Drug Enforcement Administration hate us FBI people, you know how it is, two dogs, one bone.”
“Yah,” said Du Pré, “three cars, twelve agents, they get this hot tip, dope in Bassman’s van, drive three hundred miles, attack at dawn. Who calls them? Newspaper reporter. Bunch of speed, in this bag under Bassman’s van, the frame.”
“Shit happens all the time,” said Harvey. “Lots of folks in the can got set up that way.”
“Twelve agents?” said Du Pré.
“Does seem to be overkill,” said Harvey.
“Bassman, him in the hospital, somebody crack his skull. He is in Billings. Why are there twelve agents, drive three hundred miles his van?”
“I dunno,” said Harvey. “It’s really out of my jurisdiction.”
“Fine,” said Du Pré. “You talk, Madelaine then …”
He handed the telephone to Madelaine.
“Blackfeet son of a bitch,” said Madelaine, cooing, “you are giving Du Pré the me-I-don’t-know, yes? We got our Bassman, you dance him plenty, in Billings they operate on his brain, somebody club him, and somebody stick some dope, his van frame, and call the drug cops and you tell me you don’t know nothing?”
Madelaine smiled while Harvey talked at some length.
“Good,” said Madelaine, “I call your wife then …”
Harvey began to talk louder.
“So fucking find out!” said Madelaine. “Shit, Du Pré him find out things for you, yes?”
Harvey said something really loud and he hung up.
“Him have to eat three jelly donuts,” said Madelaine, “calm him down some there.”
“You call his wife?” said Du Pré.
“Harvey don’t call back two hours I call his wife,” said Madelaine. “Fair is fair.”
Madelaine yawned.
It was nine in the morning and neither she nor Du Pré had slept.
“So,” said Madelaine.
The telephone rang and Madelaine picked up the old black receiver.
She listened.
“No shit,” she said. “Him be all right then.”
She listened some more.
“We come down,” said Madelaine, “you call us first.” She put the phone back in the cradle.
Du Pré sipped his ditch.
“They operate on Bassman,” said Madelaine. “Not too bad Kim says. She is sitting by the bed, sees his eyes move a little. She leans over, so she can hear. Bassman, him say ver’ loud, I AM NOT GETTING NO FUCKING JOB.”
Du Pré snorted.
“Bassman him look good,” said Madelaine.
Du Pré shook his head.
“Why him?” said Du Pré.
“We go sleep and then we ask why him?” said Madelaine.
“Yah,” said Du Pré.
They went out and got in Du Pré’s old cruiser. Bassman’s van sat where it had been when the DEA agents came, and there were scraps of foam from the seat padding here and there. The agents had slit every seat cover and torn up all of the carpeting. They had ripped down the velour from the ceiling. They had gotten angrier and angrier when they found nothing at all.
“Poor Bassman,” said Madelaine.
“Him do all right,” said Du Pré. “Julie she is out there with her video filming the agents, pissing them off. Him get a new van, probably.”
“Maybe they stick on a new head, the hospital,” said Madelaine. “Him need that more.”
Du Pré snorted.
“Kim, she is good for him,” said Madelaine, “the poor son of a bitch.”
“Damn Benetsee get rid of those journals,” said Du Pré, “this maybe all get quiet.”
He parked in front of her house and they went in and fell into bed and both were asleep like that.
Du Pré woke up suddenly, hearing a voice.
“No shit,” said Madelaine. “Jesus. Government peckerheads.”
Du Pré yawned and he sat on the bed and began to pull on his clothes.
She came into the bedroom.
“Some informant,” said Madelaine, “said Bassman had his van mostly packed with methamphetamine. Harvey say ‘reliable informant’ then he laugh. And he say after they give him the bullshit, guy whispers that the tip came in on the computer, Billings, no telephone call.”
“World,” said Du Pré, “is so much better place since they got computers.”
“Same people,” said Madelaine, “trying to get those journals I bet.”
Du Pré yawned. He got thick strong coffee.
“They don’t club Bassman, though,” he said.
Madelaine nodded.
“Me,” she said, “I can’t think that one out. Why hit Bassman? Him don’t know nothing. Why take Julie?”
Du Pré sucked down a heavy load of the coffee.
“Maybe Beck got more now,” he said.
Madelaine began to fry eggs and make toast.
They ate without talking.
They went back to bed and got up and Madelaine let Du Pré shower first because he was fast and she was very slow.
They drove back down to the saloon.
Susan Klein was there pulling beers for the old men who came in in the afternoon.
“Fun night,” she said, looking at Du Pré and Madelaine.
Susan put an envelope down in front of Du Pré. Du Pré sighed and he opened it.
He read the odd print.
Madelaine looked at the paper.
“It was on the window ledge by the stage,” said Susan, “under a drink. Behind the curtain. Left last night, I guess.”
“Ten million dollars for the journals,” said Madelaine, “and five million more if they are real.”
“I’ve had it,” said Susan. “Go get the fuckers and I will be rich if you don’t like the idea. I’d sell those suckers like that.”
Du Pré looked at Madelaine.
“Julie, she is taking movies last night?” he said.
“Uh-huh,” said Madelaine.
“Oh,” said Susan, “Bart called and said to come out when you could. I think something about those movies she took last night.”
“You go,” said Madelaine, “I got to work. Susan has the dentist.”
“I could go another time,” said Susan.
Madelaine shook her head.
Du Pré waited while Susan made him a ditchwater highball in a white plastic go-cup and he went out and he got in his old cruiser and he drove off toward Bart’s place.
