Signs of Struggle (11 page)

M
onday morning I slept in, and when I got up, I dressed and took Gotcha on a long, lazy walk on my land. Gotcha, never big on long walks, seemed surprisingly eager.

The woods were cool. The leafy abundance of big trees blunted the heat, and the wind rustling through the treetops improved the comfort index considerably, bringing hope for a mild summer for those given over to delusions. Iowa summers sear the flesh and addle the mind. They’ll make a rattlesnake pant.

Gotcha’s ears perked up every time she heard the underbrush scurrying of some squirrel, chipmunk, or released Burmese python. She knew she could catch them, but I could tell she also felt it beneath her dignity to chase little woodland creatures. When the wind paused, I heard the sound of an airplane, then a distant truck on a blacktop road, its tires whining on the hot pavement. Sunlight filtered through the green lacework of the treetops, and the earth breathed its timeless fragrance of fertile summer. May slipped into memory on this first day of June.

I thought about Wendy Soderstrom and the transitions before her, a time of sorting through Hugh’s clothing to trash it or donate to charity, a time of reading insurance policies and Hugh’s will, a time of taking stock of finances with lawyers and accountants. A time of confronting “after,” of adding and subtracting, and always coming up empty no matter what the numbers said.

Returning from our walk, I heard the distant and vaguely-familiar rumbling of a big engine. We picked up our pace. I had not had any visitors, in fact, had not invited anyone to stop by. I’d paid for privacy.

The woods thinned near the house, and it was then I spotted the silver Corvette slowly approaching. Larry Soderstrom and I made eye contact through his windshield.

The car stopped, twenty yards away, engine chugging. Gotcha and I stepped out onto the fine white gravel of my drive. I started to say something, but he gunned the engine and the car lunged forward, spewing gravel, snapping pieces of rock into the underbrush behind him.

The car was coming straight toward me, and before I could decide whether to hold my ground and call his bluff or jump out of the way, the ‘Vette skidded to a stop, the sharp front edge of the vehicle two feet from my shins. Gotcha scattered back into the edge of the woods, wisely protecting my flank.

I walked around to Larry’s window. “I don’t remember inviting you out here. This is a private drive.”

Larry laughed. “I don’t give a crap. I just came out to tell you I don’t appreciate you settin’ the Sheriff on me.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Payne’s lookin’ for me, wantin’ to ask questions about my brother’s accident, and I understand you’re the one that told him I know something about it.”

“All I said was that I passed a car like this one that day at the farm,” I said, leaning forward and patting the hood. “Do you have a reason to be so touchy?”

“You ask a lot of questions about stuff that don’t concern you. My advice is to fuck off.”

“Larry, I was out at the farm that day. Got there before anyone else except your sister-in-law. Her report did not mention you, so that makes me wonder what you were doing out that way. That is, if it was you.”

“Back off, Pops. Stop poking your nose where it don’t belong.”

“But I’m curious.”

Larry scowled and gave me the finger. “I said back off, and you will, if you’re as smart as you think you are. I’d hate to see you have an accident.”

“My goodness,” I said. I fluttered my hands to my face and in my wimpiest voice said, “I do believe I have been
threatened
.”

“No threat. Promise. Go watch
Green Acres
reruns. I ain’t warnin’ you again.”

“Why are you so uptight about a few innocent questions here and there? Hiding something?”

Larry’s scowl grew into a glare. “Back. The. Fuck. Off. I’m not playin’. I could kill you now.”

“Not without a weapon.” The blood was pounding in my ears now, but I hoped I looked calm. I didn’t expect him to bring up a handgun the size of a kitchen appliance and point it at my chest, but he did.

“I can take you out this minute. And then I’d shoot that ugly, chickenshit dog of yours over in the bushes just for the pleasure of it all.”

“Yes, you could, but in the meantime, would you like to put that gun down and step out of your car and see if you can back up your threat without a pistol?”

If anything ignites my temper, it’s someone threatening me or my family. And since Gotcha’s my only family, Larry Soderstrom had just done it.

“You heard me.” He put down the howitzer and jammed the low-slung car into gear, whipping through the turnaround circle. Then he roared away, kicking up chalky dust and loose rocks.

I called Gotcha to me and rubbed her silky ears for a while. Then we went inside. She slurped water and flopped down on the floor in the study and promptly fell asleep, her belly spread on the cool slate, her hind legs splayed out like a frog’s, her tongue comfortably flopped out. I fixed myself an egg salad sandwich and a beer and shuffled out onto the deck. I dropped into one of the Adirondack chairs and put my feet up on the matching footstool and ate lunch. It was late afternoon when I finished.

I had other, more nuanced questions to ask Larry if he hadn’t left in such a snit, so I decided to take the initiative and go find him without consulting Payne, who would order me not to. Maybe Larry’d ask me to forgive him and we could hug and have a beer together.

Or maybe not. I tidied up, left Gotcha sleeping on the floor, and drove into town.

Business was brisk at The Grain o’ Truth with the evening crowd drifting in as the sun slipped lower toward Strawberry Point. I ordered a beer from Rachel and stood sipping until Lunatic was free. The big bartender glided over to me and said, “You can sit down and drink your beer if you want to. I know you respect me, but don’t feel as if you have to stand on ceremony, oh favorite of Mi-Ge-Zi.”

“What is ‘Shlop’s’ and where is it?”

“Was it something I said?”

“It always is, but that’s not the issue.” I finished my beer. “I’m looking for Larry Soderstrom, and I thought that might be a good place to start. You mentioned Schlop’s as an option for him last time he was here.”

“Why are you looking for him?”

“He came out to my place today and pointed a big handgun at me.”

Moon looked at me for a full minute without speaking. Then he said, “Larry has a few glaring deficiencies in his repertoire of social skills. Are you going to guide him to remediation?” He turned away for a moment, poured a pitcher of Budweiser, and placed it on the tray of a waitress, a tall bottle-blonde who looked like she had a history. He called her “Trudy.” She left with the order and he turned back to me.

“I just want to ask him some questions about the accident at the farm. You know, innocuous stuff designed to precipitate male bonding. This morning he was reluctant to chat.”

“Ugh,” Moon said, his face impassive. He seemed to be ruminating about whether or not to give directions. “Okay, white eyes, you can find Shlop's Roadhouse out on High Road. I know, I know,” he said to my raised eyebrows at the name of the address. “Go back outside to Main, head south to Bridge, cross, turn left and follow Iowa Street north out of town. You’ll go by Christ the King Church on your right just before the road curves to the right. A sign after that portrays a biker momma in a suggestive pose on the back of a Harley, and she’s pointing with her bare, well-formed leg down a gravel road flaring off to the left. That’s High Road. Shlop's Roadhouse is the only building on that road which is, prophetically and ironically, a dead end.”

“Thanks. I believe I’ll go take a look. It won’t hurt to ask a few questions.”

“It might. I hope your health insurance is paid up, because Shlop’s can be hazardous to your physiognomy. First sign of trouble, abandon your self-image, desert your sense of courage, and boogie right on out of there.”

“If I need help, I’ll give you a call.”

“No, you won’t.” The Ojibwa turned away to put an order for two pizzas in the oven. He returned and said, “Because under circumstances in which you might need my help, they won’t let you get to a phone.”

“Thanks for the warning.” I paid for my beer and headed for the door.

“Take your cell,” Moon said.

“I hate cell phones,” I said.

I followed Lunatic’s directions and quickly came to the sign he described. The biker momma on the back of the Harley was well endowed, and oblivious to modesty. Her nude leg did indeed point off to the left down a dirt road. The sign said “Shlop's Roadhouse.”

The direction of biker momma’s big toe led me down the road. Half a mile later, I came to Shlop’s. The enterprise was off the road to my right, housed in a modest, unpainted cinderblock building without windows or curb appeal. A variety of neon beer signs, some functioning, were nailed to the outside walls, and a dented steel front door was propped open by a mangy stuffed lynx poised on a chunk of wood, the work of a taxidermist influenced by controlled substances and a hatred for felines. An olive green Army blanket hung over the door, ostensibly to keep out the larger flying insects.

I pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot and parked alongside a half-dozen pickup trucks and a pair of big Harleys.

Shlop's mildly-pitched roof was covered with tarpaper and randomly placed tires to keep the wind from peeling it off. Because of the fetching exterior, I felt compelled to go inside, anxious to see whether the ferns were artificial, if the sushi was any good, and whether the string quartet approached my lofty standards.

I had seen similar places, some even less sophisticated, but that had been decades ago and not in the United States. Providence suggested I consider my next step.

“You’re too old for this kind of place,” I said out loud. I felt a tug in my gut as I stepped out of the truck, locked it, dumped the keys in my pocket, and strode toward the droopy Army blanket.

Inside, I paused, allowing my eyes and nose to adjust to the dark and the stink of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Directly across from me a long bar backed by a Dutch door led into a well-lit kitchen. Booths lined the walls, and a dozen or so Formica-topped tables with molded plastic aqua and orange chairs were scattered about. A pool table and two poker tables were set off to the side. No poker players yet, but two men were shooting pool. The sound of the balls clicking was nearly drowned out by the juke box, where Willie was singing about someone always being on his mind. The floor was filthy linoleum of no discernible color or pattern, peeled back in some places and chipped away in others.

The lighting came from bare blue or red light bulbs screwed into cheap metal fixtures ringing the walls. Overhead, stained ceiling tiles sagged, pink fiberglass oozing out around the edges. Wiggly strips of flypaper, displaying their catch, hung from the ceiling tiles’ support runners.

A handful of men inhabited the bar, none of them Larry Soderstrom. A female stood behind the bar. At first glance, she looked like Cher on Human Growth Hormone, except she had silver hair. Maybe a wig.

The men were all ages, grouped in two’s and three’s and, without exception, fat. None of them had sleeves on their shirts, and they looked like beached fish as the pale skin of their round faces and plump arms reflected the lights. Three women, white trash wannabes, distributed themselves among the groups of men. Two lone drinkers occupied opposite ends of the bar. Generally speaking, the men in the establishment were dressed like bikers, bubbas, and bums. The women had “turbo slut” written all over them.