The Prairie Chicken Kill Page 3

  "I'm interested in the birds," she said. "And maybe I feel a little guilty. Red is my father-in-law, and he was a rice farmer for a long time. He killed his share of birds of one kind or another over the years."

  A lot of the rice farmers had put out poison until the government stopped them. The farmers had a pretty good argument for what they'd done. They were trying to make a living, and birds of all kinds were eating their crops. But the farmers couldn't use the poison any more.

  "What about your husband?" I asked. "Does he still farm?"

  "Paul? No. He works for Lance."

  "Doing what?"

  "He manages my radio station," Lance said. "KLWG."

  Lance's full name was Lance Wayne Garrison. I was glad to learn that he was just as modest as he had always been.

  "Where is this radio station of yours?"

  "In Picketville. It's the only station there."

  I would have laid odds on that. Picketville, not far from Eagle Lake, was hardly big enough to support one radio station, much less any others.

  "We have a pretty good-sized listening audience," Lance said, reading my mind again. "We carry talk shows all day and all night. People like talk radio these days."

  "Most talk show hosts I've heard aren't into saving Prairie Chickens," I said.

  Lance laughed. "Not hardly. But I don't endorse the shows or the hosts. I just put them on the air and bank the money the sponsors pay me for the air time. You know what the canned announcements say: 'The views expressed on the shows heard on KLWG do not necessarily reflect those of the station's owner.' Or words to that effect."

  "Plausible deniability," I said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. Just a phrase I heard one time."

  Lance's face darkened. "Look, Smith, we never got along very well, and I didn't really want to deal with you on this. But Red's being stubborn, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I gave it one, but I don't think it's going to work out. Maybe we'd better just call it off and let you get back to whatever it is that you do."

  "Background checks," I said.

  "I -- what?"

  "Background checks. That's what I do."

  He didn't seem impressed, not that I blamed him. I'd tried my hand at a couple of jobs since coming back to Galveston. I'd painted houses for a while, and until recently I'd been working for a bail bondsman, a job I'd left mainly because I didn't get along very well with the boss.

  Background checking was something that I could do at home. All I needed was a computer, the right software, and a modem. People don't realize how much information about them is available these days, and it's available to just about anyone. For example if you know nothing more than someone's date of birth and first name, you can dial up a place near Dallas and get the someone's last known address.

  Credit checks are even easier, and if you're stumped on something, private eyes all over the country are on-line. All you have to do is ask for their help and advice. They're usually glad to give it.

  And if I needed any illegal hacking done, I could always call on my friend Johnny Bates. He claims that he can get into any computer system that he wants to get into, up to and including the one in the Department of Defense, and I don't have any reason to doubt him.

  And of course if worse comes to worst, there's always the telephone. You can get the phone numbers of nearly every telephone subscriber in the country on CD-ROM.

  "Whose backgrounds do you check?" Lance asked.

  "Anyone's. But mostly I work for women who want to know something about the man they're dating or thinking about marrying. There's a shocking lack of trust these days."

  I'd even been shocked myself at the response I got to the two small ads I'd placed in a couple of big-city newspapers. It had taken me less than a month to become comfortably established in my new line of work.

  Of course, considering some of the things I found out about prospective fiancés and lovers, it was no surprise that there was such a lack of trust. The number of lies I uncovered amazed even me, not to mention the women I was working for.

  "I'll bet it's really lucrative, too," Lance said. "But I was thinking of paying you five hundred dollars a day."

  "Plus expenses," I said.

  "Of course. I thought that went without saying."

  "I'll look into your bird caper, then," I said.

  Lance smiled his slightly sneery smile. "I thought you might."

  It wasn't the money, though I didn't bother to disturb Lance's smile by telling him that. He wouldn't have believed me anyway, so let him think whatever he pleased.

  "You'll have to run over to Picketville and talk to Red," he said. "I think Red's blowing this way out of proportion, but I suppose you'll have to do some investigating. You do remember how to investigate?"

  "I think so. You check out Colonel Mustard and make sure he doesn't have the lead pipe hidden in his jock."

  For some reason Lance didn't think that was funny. "It won't be that easy. But I think it's more than likely that somebody shot the bird by accident. Red doesn't agree with me, though."

  "Did he say why?"

  "I'll let him tell you that," Lance said. "I don't want to prejudice you. You'll probably have to stay in Picketville for a day or so to satisfy Red that you're at least trying. Check into the Picketville Inn and tell the clerk you're working for me. He'll comp you; I own the place."

  "Sure," I said. I didn't mind if he wanted to save a few bucks on my accommodations.

  "When can you start?" he asked.

  I glanced over at Anne, who had turned her attention to the sunset. The clouds were a deep, dark purple now, and the sun was sinking low behind them, making the higher clouds glow orange and pink. I couldn't see the sailboats any more.

  I sat quietly and looked out the window for a few seconds, and then I asked Anne, "When are you going back?"

  "Tonight," she said.

  I smiled. "Then that's when I can start."

  Five

  On the drive back to my house, Dino made it clear that he thought I was crazy.

  "It's a dead chicken, for Christ's sake," he said. "You're gonna investigate a dead chicken."

  The Pontiac's radio was tuned to a Houston oldies station, and Roy Orbison was belting out "Only the Lonely." Now and then the clouds would move aside and uncover the full moon. I was sure that if I tried, I could come close to remembering how I'd felt on nights like that twenty years ago.

  "It's not a chicken," I said. "It's a grouse."

  "Like that makes a difference. Chicken, grouse, it's still some damn dead bird. You're gonna try to find out who killed a bird."

  "And make five hundred dollars a day," I reminded him. "Don't forget that. Not to mention expenses."

  "Yeah, that's why you're going, all right. I'm sure Anne doesn't have a thing to do with it."

  "She's married," I said. "What could she have to do with my going?"

  "She's pretty friendly with Lance, for a married lady."

  "They're just old friends. They knew each other when they were kids."

  "Right."

  "You always did have a dirty mind, Dino. You can't make anything out of Anne visiting an old friend from high school."

  "I guess not. She visits me all the time. And you, too, probably. We just forgot to mention it when we were talking about things."

  "She hasn't visited me, but maybe she didn't know I was here."

  "Gimme a break."

  "All right. Let's just forget it."

  I didn't want to talk about it anymore, but Dino wasn't going to let it drop.

  "What's Cathy gonna think if you go running off to see Anne?" he asked.

  Cathy Macklin was the woman I'd been going with for a while. I didn't want to talk about her, either.

  "She'll think I'm going to do a job," I said. "Anne doesn't have anything to do with it."

  Dino snorted disgustedly. "Sure. I forgot. It's the five hundred dollars a day."

  Roy Orbison h
ad been replaced by the Beatles singing "All My Lovin'."

  "Five hundred dollars a day is more than I'm making by doing background checks," I said. "Besides, I need to get out of the house and off the Island more. It wouldn't hurt you to do the same thing. You want to go with me?"

  "Somebody has to stay here and feed the cat. You didn't forget about the cat, did you?"

  To tell the truth, I had forgotten about the cat, a sure sign that I wasn't thinking clearly.

  "OK," I said. "You're right. I'm going because of Anne. But it's not like you think. I'm just glad to be able to do her a favor."

  "Sure you are. And you're such good buddies with Lance that you can't resist helping him out."

  Sometimes I wish Dino didn't know me so well. I decided that I might as well tell the truth, or come as close to telling it as I could. I wasn't entirely sure how I really felt about things.

  "Seeing Anne after all this time gave me a pretty good shock," I admitted.

  "Now there's a news flash," Dino said. "If your jaw had been hanging any lower, you'd have stepped on it."

  "That obvious, huh?"

  "Even Lance noticed. What does that tell you?"

  It told me that my surprise had been obvious to everyone. Lance had never been known for his sensitivity to the feelings of anyone other than himself.

  "Do you think people ever really change?" I asked as Dino pulled off onto the oyster shell drive leading to my house. "After high school, I mean."

  "Sure they do. How much did you weigh when you graduated?"

  "I don't mean physical changes, and you know it."

  "Yeah. Well, Lance hasn't changed much. He's still an asshole. I couldn't say about Anne, but she didn't look like she was still madly in love with you, if that's what you mean."

  "That's not what I mean," I said, though I wasn't sure that was true. "I mean Lance. You're right about him. Of course he probably thinks the same thing about me."

  "I wonder why," Dino said, stopping the Pontiac in front of the house.

  "Dion and the Belmonts," I said. "1958."

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind. You want to come in the house? It's your house after all. We could have something to eat."

  Dino looked at the house. "You actually have something to eat?"

  He had me there.

  "No," I admitted. "Not unless you like peanut butter."

  "Peanut butter's OK, but I've got a better idea. Why don't you pack your bag and say good-bye to the cat. Then we'll go somewhere and eat. My treat."

  That sounded like a good idea to me. It didn't take me long to pack. I just threw Tobacco Road, a shaving kit, a few pairs of jeans, and short-sleeved sweatshirts into a black nylon sports bag. I don't dress up a lot.

  The only tough decision I had to make was whether to take my pistol or not. I didn't think the murder of a Prairie Chicken was serious enough to warrant the heavy artillery, so I left the pistol in its zippered case in the closet.

  "Where's the cat?" Dino asked when I came back into the living room carrying my bag.

  "Out tormenting geckos, probably. I'll leave him a bowl of Tender Vittles on the porch by his water. You can check on him in the morning."

  Dino looked at me.

  "If you don't mind," I said. "I wouldn't want to put you out."

  Dino stood up. "Sure you wouldn't. But I don't mind. That cat's beginning to succumb to my charms. By the time you get back, he might even have moved in with me."

  "That might not be a bad idea. You could use the company."

  "Yeah. You planning to call Cathy?"

  "As soon as we decide where to eat."

  "Mexican food. You can meet me at the restaurant after you make the call and feed your cat."

  He went outside to his car, and I went to the telephone.

  We ate at The Original Mexican Restaurant, not far from The Strand. We had fajitas for two. I thought that Dino ate more than his share, but I didn't mention it to him. After all, he was paying.

  When we left the restaurant, Dino said, "Don't get yourself into more trouble than you can handle."

  "Like you said, it's only a chicken."

  "Grouse."

  "Whatever."

  "Yeah. But that's not what I mean, and you know it."

  "Don't worry about me and Anne. I know that whatever there was between us was over a long time ago. We were just kids, after all."

  "You still remember it, though, the way Lance remembers that broken nose. You might not want to talk about it, but you remember. What did Cathy say?"

  "About what?"

  "About Anne."

  "I don't think I mentioned her."

  "What did you mention, aside from the five hundred bucks a day?"

  "I think I mentioned something about doing my part to prevent the disappearance from the Earth of a species vital to the survival of humanity."

  "Jesus, Tru."

  "You think I laid it on a little thick?"

  Dino shook his head. "Oh, no. Hell, no. I'd have done the same thing in your position."

  "What position is that?"

  "The position of a guy who's sneaking out of town to see an old girlfriend in the hopes that she's still got fond memories of the way things were a long time ago."

  "You've got it all wrong," I said.

  Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. I wasn't even sure myself.

  "I may be wrong," he said, "but I saw the look on your face when you saw her this afternoon."

  "She took me by surprise. I know you can't recapture the past."

  "You remember that book everybody has to read in college, the one about the guy with the big yellow car? He was always standing on the end of his dock looking at some green light."

  I hadn't realized Dino was so literary. "You mean The Great Gatsby?"

  "That's the one. You remember what happened to him?"

  "Who?"

  "Who are we talking about here? Gatsby, that's who."

  "I remember."

  "Well, keep it in mind."

  I said that I would, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  He was still standing on the sidewalk watching me when I drove away.

  Six

  I was driving a little blue and white Chevy S-10 pickup that I'd bought a few months ago. I got the money for it by selling the Jeep that Fred Benton gave me after I found out who killed his alligator.

  Fred said at the time it was a authentic World War II mode Jeep, but I'd never really believed him. Then one day a guy flagged me down on the street. He was vacationing in Galveston, and he was an automobile collector. He wanted to know how much I'd take for my Jeep.

  After I did a little checking into prices for genuine antique Jeeps and after a little haggling, the collector and I arrived at a price that was satisfactory to both of us, especially to me. I was glad to get the money because it allowed me to buy a nifty home computer with a modem. That was all I needed to set up my background checking business and quit my job with the bail bondsman.

  The truck was just a bonus. It wasn't new, but it had an AM/FM radio and air-conditioning. Its biggest advantage over the Jeep, however, was that it had a roof for the times it rained, which was fairly often if you lived on Galveston Island.

  I drove up Highway 6 through Hitchcock and Santa Fe. At Alvin, I turned off 6 and got on a Farm Road that led to Highway 36. Once I got to 36, I turned right and went up to Rosenberg. I went through the edge of town, past the K-Mart Super Store, and then headed west.

  The clouds were ragged here, not as thick as they had been over the Island, and the full moon had risen high and bright. It made my headlights almost unnecessary. The road in front of me stretched out like a dark ribbon, and the fields to my left and right were bathed in the pale light with moon shadows chasing across them.

  The road was straight and the land was flat. There were no trees and hardly any houses, just seemingly endless fields of rice and grain, with a little cotton mixed in, and I was the only one on the road.

&nb
sp; I was running along with the windows down, enjoying the air that was not quite as humid as that on the Island and that had no smell of salt in it, and thinking about the times when Anne and I had driven down Seawall Boulevard with the night wind coming in off the Gulf and smelling like all the faraway places we thought we'd see some day.

  I'd never seen them. Maybe Anne had. Maybe I'd see her in Picketville. Maybe she'd tell me about them.

  That was a lot of maybes, and they made me wonder what Anne had been doing all those years that I hadn't seen her. They made me wonder if she'd ever thought of me in all that time.

  While wallowing in my nostalgic mood, I was listening to the same oldies station that Dino had tuned his radio to, but in the middle of Buddy Holly singing "Rave On," I passed a sign that said

  TURN YOUR DIAL TO

  KLWG AM

  FOR TALK THAT MAKES UNCOMMON SENSE.

  There was a frequency given, one that was far to the right on the dial. Feeling a little stupid for obeying a sign, I switched off Buddy Holly and changed to the AM setting, then tuned the knob to KLWG.

  I was just in time for the closing message on "The Reverend Clyde Callahan's Full Gospel Worship Hour." The message consisted mostly of a strong suggestion, if not an outright plea, that the Rev. Clyde's listeners send as much money as they possibly could to the address that the good reverend kept repeating over and over.

  I figured that KLWG was mostly preachers at night, and I wasn't in the mood for a sermon. I was about to change the station when I heard the opening notes of "Stars and Stripes Forever." I'm a sucker for Sousa, so I dropped my hand and listened.

  As the strains of the march faded, a deep voice came on the air. It wasn't a cultured voice, and it wasn't a trained voice. It wasn't even an educated voice. But it had one important quality: It sounded good on the radio, smooth and sincere. There was a hint of an East Texas accent that might grate a bit on the ears of someone born north of, say, Oklahoma, but nothing that would bother anyone likely to be listening to KLWG.

  The speaker identified himself as Ralph Evans and said he'd be taking calls from the listeners in a little while. But first he had a few things to say himself.