Red Dog Saloon (4 page)

The
campaign that followed Sheriff Foster’s announced retirement was a free-for-all
with election signs in almost every front yard in Castle County. Being well known
in the community since his childhood, perhaps best known as the all-state
quarterback for the Castle County Knights in high school, Sam used his name
recognition to his benefit along with his recent service in the U.S. Army. That
combination, along with having some of the most attractive campaign signs in
the field of candidates, led to Sam winning by a scant fifty votes.

Sam’s
popularity, as well as his margin of victory, increased over the years to the
point no one even bothered to run against him in the last election. He still
used the campaign signs from his first run, figuring they were still the
sharpest campaign signs around. He even put a few of them up the last
election despite being unopposed.

Sam
had consulted with his predecessor on a few occasions since taking over his
office. Most of the time it was about minor things having to do with the
jail or about where fugitives may be hiding out. Bill still had his ear to the
ground for a lawman that had been out of the game for over a decade. Sam
figured if anyone would recall the history of the Red Dog it would be Bill
Foster. He had personally answered many a call at the bar back in his day.

“Sheriff
Delaney, how have you been?” the sixty-nine-year-old retired lawman said,
obviously surprised to see Sam standing at his door. “Come on in here,
you’ll catch your death of cold.”

Bill,
a recent widower, had always been hospitable to folks publicly despite tales
Sam had heard concerning the head-busting tactics the former sheriff sometimes
used to keep the peace in Castle County.

“I’d
offer you some coffee but my doctor told me to cut down on caffeine - high
blood pressure and whatnot,” the still fit-looking senior revealed as he pulled
a couple of beers from his refrigerator handing one to his guest. “That’s the
good thing about being the boss. Who’s going to get onto you for having a beer
on duty?”

Settling
down at Bill’s kitchen table, the men engaged in law enforcement chat for a
good twenty minutes, sipping beer and swapping stories. Sam caught his
predecessor up on the changes at the department. The casual chat, however,
eventually led around to Bill’s curiosity for the real reason of Sam’s visit.

“I
know you didn’t drive all the way out here on the coldest day of the year to
sip beer and swap war stories with an old man,” Bill reckoned.

“True,
I was actually hoping to pick your brain,” Sam revealed as he
leaned forward in his chair, giving the former sheriff a serious look.

“Pick
away,” Bill countered as he went for another beer. “So what do you want to pick
about?”

“The
old Red Dog Saloon,” Sam responded, his words freezing Bill momentarily as he
leaned into his refrigerator to retrieve a beer.

His
voice somewhat hesitant, Bill wondered about the significance of the old bar.

“The
Red Dog? You came all the way out here to ask me about a bar that’s been gone
for twenty-one maybe twenty-two years?” Bill asked as he returned, twisting the
lid off his beer. “Shoot, there wasn’t anything to talk about even when it was
open. All it amounted to out there was a bunch of trouble. The day it burnt
down was probably the best day in county history.”

He
knew he would have to show some of his cards in order to get cooperation from
his predecessor. The sheriff decided to trust Bill, hoping law enforcement
fraternity would ensure his silence on the sensitive matters of the case.

“Have
you heard about the murder this morning?” Sam began. “They found Andy Crouch
dead.”

Bill
nodded his head and gave Sam a solemn look.

“Yeah,
I heard about that,” Bill responded. “News travels fast in a small town.”

“We
have reason to believe his murder may have something to do with the old Red
Dog,” Sam revealed. “What I was wondering is if there was something back in the
day that someone could have held a long grudge for. I know Andy was one of the
regulars out there.”

“It’s
hard to say sheriff,” Bill began. “There was a lot of trouble out there -
fights, cuttings, you name it and it went on out at the Red Dog.”

“Can
you recall anything having to do with Andy Crouch or his old buddy Eddie Young
for that matter?” Sam questioned. “They used to hang out with your oldest son,
Bart. I believe. I think I saw them out there a time or two.”

Sam’s
reference to Bill’s son brought an immediate change in demeanor from the old
lawman.

“What’s
that supposed to mean?” Bill snapped, his tone immediately letting Sam know he
had crossed an invisible line in his course of questioning. “He was a grown man
so it wasn’t like I could tell him where he could or couldn’t go. If it were up
to me he wouldn’t have gotten within a hundred miles of that God-forsaken
dive.”

Sam
apologized for the wording of his question. He was taken aback by the extreme
reaction by the former sheriff.

“No,
I didn’t mean anything bad. I just knew there were a bunch of them that hung
out together back in the old days and thought maybe Bart might have some
information he passed along about things that went on out there,” Sam
clarified. “I’m looking for any information, no matter how seemingly minor,
which might help the investigation.”

Bill
paused for a second and looked blankly into space as if he was thinking back to
long forgotten conversations.

“Nope.
Bart never told me anything about what went on out there,” Bill declared, still
a bit standoffish from Sam’s mention of his son. “I’m just glad I never had to
arrest my own son out there. That would have been embarrassing. Like I said,
the best thing that ever happened was when the place burned to the ground.”

The
Red Dog burned under mysterious circumstances about twenty-two years ago. The
pervasive rumor was the fire was intentionally set, however, as far as Sam
could recall, no one was ever charged with arson.

“It
was intentionally set as I recall,” Sam began. “Did you ever have an idea who
was behind it?”

Sam’s
question seemed to again fluster his host who remained silent for a moment as
if deciding whether to answer the question.

“It’s
according to whom you talk to, Sam,” Bill started. “Some people say old Earl
Cutts decided to torch the place to collect insurance and got caught up by the
inferno inside before he could get out. Others say it was payback for trouble
that happened there over the years. Beer wasn’t the only thing being sold out
of the place so let your imagination run wild. I know from my dealings with him
over the years that Earl Cutts was shady as they come. There were a lot of
people who were happy when he went up along with the saloon. Some folks even
say the fires of Hell itself reached up to claim the Red Dog and its owner.”

“So
I take it the proprietor wasn’t on the up and up then,” Sam said.

He
already knew the former bar owner’s reputation as a businessman who didn’t let
the law stand in the way of making a dollar. Earl Cutts' less-than-honorable
reputation remained two decades after he was gone.

Eyeing
Sam across the table, Bill wanted answers as to what caused the sheriff to link
the killing of Andy Crouch to the old Red Dog Saloon.

“You
said you had reason to believe his murder had something to do with the Red
Dog,” Bill recalled. “What makes you think that if you don’t mind me asking,
one lawman to another?”

The
sheriff decided to take his predecessor into confidence when it came to the
writing on the mirror.

“We
found the words Red Dog written on a mirror at the crime scene,” Sam explained.
“I think whoever did it was trying to send a message or perhaps a warning.”

“So
why would you think that one is related to another?” Bill asked. “He could have
written that on the mirror himself. For all you know he may have hooked up with
the wrong man’s girl and got himself killed. That used to happen from time to
time when I was sheriff. A man would bed down with the wrong man’s wife and
wake up dead.”

“The
words were written in his own blood,” Sam declared. “Whoever killed Andy used
his blood for the ink to write those words.”

An
awkward silence fell upon the pair as Bill processed what he had just heard.
Something about the former sheriff’s actions wasn’t sitting right with Sam. He
just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“And
you’re sure you don’t know anything that could help us out on this case?” Sam
asked.

“Like
I told you, it was a bad place,” Bill snapped as he took a big swallow of
his beer. “Who knows what he got into there.”

Considering
his next words carefully given Bill’s earlier reaction, Sam reluctantly had to
ask.

“You
don’t mind if I talk to Bart and see if he remembers anything about it do you?”
Sam requested.

“Do
what you want! He’s a grown man!” Bill said in a loud voice as he stood up from
the table. “He doesn’t know anything anyhow. Now if you don’t mind I’ve got an
appointment in town I need to be getting to.”

Sam
knew the conversation was over given his host’s demeanor. His sixth sense told
him the former sheriff had been less than forthcoming during his visit. He had
certainly hit on a sore spot when it came to his son Bart, but perhaps it was
just a case of Bill being an overprotective father. Sure, Bill’s son was a
forty-four-year-old businessman but Sam realized, as a father of two young
adults himself, that they’re always your kids no matter how old they are.
Still, Sam had to admit to himself that Bill’s reaction was suspicious. One
thing for sure, he was going to have a conversation with Bart and he was going
to have it right now.

Sam
wasted no time heading straight to Foster Motors. He pulled into the sales lot
and immediately spotted Bart’s bright yellow Corvette sitting next to the
building. Sam parked beside the sports car and walked into the sales office.

“Hey,
I need to see Mr. Foster,” Sam announced to the woman at the reception desk.

“I’m
sorry but Mr. Foster isn’t in today,” the woman responded, not looking up from
her paper work.

“He’s
not? That’s his car parked out there isn’t it?” Sam retorted

He stopped
just short of questioning the woman’s honesty. He knew the Corvette was Bart’s
latest project which he had been showing around town for the past month. He
kind of doubted Bart would be tooling around in some broken down, second-hand
model off his lot when he could be driving the magnificently restored vintage
hot rod. The chances were that Bart was there - somewhere.

“He
must have taken another car off the lot,” the woman shot back as she looked up
from her desk obviously not thrilled with the lawman’s inference. “This is a
car lot you realize.”

Suspecting
he was being put off for unknown reasons, Sam played along knowing Bart couldn’t
avoid him forever.

“So
any idea when your boss will be back?” Sam asked. “Or better yet, any idea
where I might find him right now?”

“I
believe he’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day,” the receptionist
answered. “I’ll tell him you came by if you'd like.”

“Sure.
You do that,” Sam said as he left the office.

However, instead
of leaving straightaway, an idea hit him. Returning to his car he
paused for a moment to scribble out a note before placing it under
Bart’s windshield wiper.

“Maybe
that will get his attention,” Sam chuckled to himself.

The
note contained just two words – Red Dog.

Eddie
Young didn’t heed the advice of his old friend as he continued his assault on
the bottle of bourbon, killing it off by the end of the day only to open a new
one. Drink as he would, Eddie couldn’t erase the horrific sight burned into his
brain of the ax buried deep into his friend’s skull. He couldn’t forget looking
into his friend’s dead eyes, Andy's dark brown eyes still opened in terror when
he found him lying in a pool of blood.

Even
worse was that the bourbon couldn’t dull the fear - a fear that was
sitting like a knot in the pit of his stomach - that the same fate may be
awaiting him. After all, they were all equally guilty for what happened, no
matter how many years had passed. The message was not open for interpretation.
Eddie knew exactly what it meant.

Why
hadn’t Bart called back? He promised to “check into things” and get back with
him yet the day had passed and the sun set without his old friend telling him
anything. His calls to Bart’s cellphone would simply roll over to voice mail
which would announce his mailbox was full thanks to the scores of frantic
messages Eddie had left as the day went on without any word from the old ringleader.

Given
his intoxication, Eddie was in no condition to go to work prompting him to call
in “sick” for his night shift. His slurred speech likely gave him away despite
his best attempts to sound sober and use his sick voice when he made the call.
But then Eddie had never been the consistent one like Andy. Often called Good
Time Eddie by his friends, Eddie was always looking for fun. He lost many
jobs over the years when he chose entertainment over responsibility. He also lost
a couple of wives the same way. Eddie, now in his forties, had never grown up.
His maturity level was that of an adolescent, explaining why he was still
spinning his wheels when it came to the game of life.

Full
of liquor and frustration, he decided to disregard even more of Bart’s advice
as he sat alone in his trailer. He would call Stevie Grissom, one of their old
gang. Stevie was the one member of their old group who had gotten his life
together. Married with a couple of children, a dog and a cat, Stevie would
rarely make appearances at their various gatherings anymore. Stevie’s wife kept
close reins on her husband. She didn't want him to mix with his old
running buddies since their gatherings generally meant he would come back at
sunrise smelling of liquor and cheap perfume. Slowly but surely she had weaned
Stevie off his partying ways, turning him ever so grudgingly into a family man.
In Eddie’s eyes Stevie’s wife was the worst kind of woman. She was a real
soul-sucker who kept her husband’s family jewels with her anytime he went out.

Eddie
realized it was almost nine o’clock at night and likely past Stevie’s curfew.
However, he had just enough buzz to go ahead and dial his number, all the time
hoping it would be Stevie who answered the phone. Even in his intoxicated state
Eddie wasn’t sure he was quite drunk enough to endure her condescending voice,
let alone have to ask for permission to talk to her husband. They were in the
forties for crying out loud.

“Answer,
Answer,” Eddie urged. He listened nervously to the phone ring until Stevie
picked it up on the fifth ring.

“Stevie!”
Eddie yelled in an excited voice when his old friend answered the phone.

“Eddie?”
he responded. A child was crying in the background letting him know all
Hell was probably about to break loose at Stevie's house. “What are you doing
calling this late?”

Eddie
didn’t waste any time getting to his main point. His tact was already drunk
away by his day hitting the bottle.

“Did
you hear about Andy?” Eddie asked.

Just
as he had done when he called in sick a little while earlier, Eddie tried
not to sound drunk but his words were still slurred despite his
attempts.

“Yeah,
that was horrible,” Stevie responded as his wife could be heard in the
background asking who was on the phone.

“It’s
Eddie, dear," Stevie called back to his wife. His revelation was not taken
well by Stevie's better half.

“You
tell Good Time Eddie not to be calling this phone so late!” Stevie’s wife yelled.

Her
shrill voice was like fingernails on a chalk board to Eddie’s already ringing
ears.

“
Some
of us get to sleep at a decent hour," she screamed. "Regular
people don’t stay up partying every night.”

Eddie
continued his conversation despite the annoying droning of Stevie’s wife in the
background.

“Did
you hear what else they found?” Eddie asked.

“No,
I just heard he got hit in the head and they found him there,” Stevie
responded. 

He
cupped the receiver with his hand so his wife couldn’t overhear the
conversation. “Isn’t that what happened?”

“Hit?
He had an ax buried in his brain!” Eddie responded incredulously. “But that’s
not all. Are you ready for this? Whoever did it wrote the words Red Dog on a
mirror in Andy’s blood.”

Stevie
went silent on his end after hearing Eddie’s news.

“Hello,
Hello, you still there?” Eddie asked.

He suspected
Stevie’s wife had hung up the phone on him. It was something he wouldn’t
put past the domineering woman since she wore the pants in the family.

“Are
you sure?” Stevie asked sheepishly. “It was written in his own blood?”

“Positive,
I’m the person who found him. I saw it all with my own eyes,” Eddie responded
as he could hear Stevie swallow hard on the other end of the line. “You know
what this means don’t you?”

“Someone
knows, someone remembers,” Stevie declared in a low voice with his wife
still yelling in the background. “I knew we were doing wrong. I knew it’d come
back to get us.”

Stevie
couldn’t be more right in Eddie’s mind.

“We
need to meet, all of us,” Eddie said. “We need to figure this out.”

Stevie
went quiet again as he was obviously shocked and disturbed by what Eddie told him.
The news hit him from out of nowhere. His comfortable existence was
suddenly threatened.

“I’ve
got to go,” Stevie said, not knowing how to deal with the problem that now
confronted them.

“You
can’t just ignore this!” Eddie said in a loud voice. “We’re all in it!”

“I’ll
talk to you later,” Stevie responded before hanging up.

Eddie
knew he couldn’t just trust Bart to take care of things since he had kept him
in the dark all day. Still emboldened with liquor, he decided he would take the
lead. Bart had gotten them into this anyway so why trust him to get them out?
Eddie was going to call every member of the gang. Together they could figure
something out and perhaps come up with an answer about what was going on. He
would call Glenn Satterfield next, or at least he planned to before he heard
the movement outside his trailer.

Eddie
strained his ears and hit the mute button on his television trying to hear
if the noise repeated itself. Seconds passed but he heard only the slight
breeze outside.

He
was about to hit the button on his remote to turn the television back on,
dismissing his scare as alcohol induced paranoia, when he nearly jumped from
his seat. There was a loud bump outside his living room window. Something hit
the side of his trailer! This wasn’t paranoia. Something or someone was
outside!

Eddie
scrambled to his bedroom. He tripped over a chair and cursed as he
stubbed his toe. He then headed straight to his nightstand and pulled out
his thirty-eight caliber pistol from the bedside drawer. He checked the clip to
ensure it was loaded, jamming the clip back into the gun before chambering a
round.

“They’re
messing with the wrong man,” Eddie mumbled to himself as he stumbled out of his
bedroom and headed back to the living room. His arrival was greeted
by another loud thump outside the trailer.

“You
hear me! You’re messing with the wrong man!” Eddie yelled as he clutched his
gun, pointing it randomly around the room. “Come in here and I’ll blow your
head off!”

The
gun shook in his hand as he tried to clear his vision. He rubbed his
eyes as if that would wipe away the day of drinking. Then the noises returned,
an unmistakable beating, a rapping outside, the sounds circling around his
trailer. Eddie followed the sound of the pounding with his gun.

“Get
out of here! I’m warning you!” Eddie yelled.

The
fear was now telling in his voice. “Whoever you are, whatever you are, go
away!”

His
threat was answered by an even more intense pounding as the sound continued
moving around the outside of his double wide. The impact of the rapping
reverberated through Eddie’s body as the whole trailer shook.

His
threats of being armed had no effect on the intruder. Actually, his shouts
only served to embolden whatever was outside. He had to try another
tactic.

“Okay,
I’m calling the police!” he yelled as he reached for his phone.

The
 knocking
suddenly stopped after his announcement. Had his threat worked?

“I’m
calling them right now," Eddie shouted. "You’d better get out of
here!”

Eddie
was about to dial 911 to make good on his threat but was stopped by a bright
flash outside his back window. A moment later his trailer was plunged into
total darkness. Unable to even see his hand before his face, Eddie felt in the
pitch black for his phone. His hand fumbled across the receiver. He snatched it
up and put it to his ear anticipating a dial tone. However, his hopes of
calling for help were dashed. The line was dead.

He
would have to do this on his own, he and his gun anyway. He wasn’t about to be
caught by surprise like Andy had been the night before. He knew someone was
there and they were coming for him. The difference between him and Andy was
that Eddie was forewarned. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Eddie
caught his breath as something slammed against the kitchen window.
Instinctively throwing up his gun, Eddie squeezed off a round. The deafening
shot shattered the window from where the sound came.

“I’m
serious!” Eddie screamed as his eyes tried to pierce through the darkness which
had engulfed his trailer. “I’m not scared of you!”

The
banging continued again seconds later. This time the sound came from the
direction of his living room window. Eddie whirled and fired in the darkness
toward the sound of the noise. Flame erupted from the barrel of his
thirty-eight momentarily illuminating the interior of the small trailer. His
ears rang from the second concussion of his firearm.

“Get
out of here!” Eddie yelled again. “I will shoot you!”

Then
came the rocking of his trailer. The double-wide swayed as it was being pushed
from outside. The rapping became ever louder on the trailer’s siding.

Eddie
moved toward the front door and peered outside trying to catch a glimpse of the
intruder by the pale moonlight. He had to have a light, something to illuminate
the darkness. Feeling his way back to the drawer in his bedroom, Eddie fumbled
around until put his hand on the plastic cylinder of his flashlight.
He turned it on hoping for safety the light would provide. However, Eddie was
again disappointed. The batteries were dead. It was his only flashlight. How
had he let the batteries in his only flashlight go dead? It had sat there for
years doing nothing and now when he needed it, the batteries were dead.

He
walked through the darkness back to the front door. His eyes were now
adjusting to the dim light provided outside by the moon. Eddie wondered what to
do. How would he get out of the situation alive? While Andy was a close friend,
he wasn’t too keen on joining him in the realm of the dead so soon.

Eddie
realized he had three options as the rapping and rocking of his trailer
continued. First, he could stay inside his dark trailer and wait for
whatever was outside to come inside. Second, he could go outside and try to
hunt down whatever was terrorizing him. And third, he could make a run for his
truck and get away. Eddie decided to go with door number three. He would run to
his truck, careful not to get ambushed as he rushed out the door. Then he would
drive like a bat out of Hell, leaving his unwelcome visitor in his dust. It was
a perfect plan, but then there are very few bad plans when you’re drunk.

He
grabbed his keys off the peg by the door and prepared himself for his dash. He
could see his truck in the moonlight parked about ten yards from his front
door. He could cover that ground, even drunk, in no time. Plus, he had a loaded
gun. What could go wrong?

Counting
to three, Eddie sprung from his front door. He pushed the flimsy trailer
door  wide open as he stumbled down the steps, rolling onto the ground at
the bottom of the short flight. Eddie didn’t waste time standing up as he
scrambled on his hands and knees. He crawled toward his vehicle before righting
himself as he reached his truck.

The
keys! Eddie looked back as he held his gun in front of him like a
shield. He strained his eyes back toward his trailer.