Skunk Hunt (35 page)

"What would it be like to inherit millions?"
Skunk had mused as we were turned away from another gated community
by a guard who took one look at our car and its occupants and
bellowed, "Out!"

It was such an inconceivable notion that
neither Barbara nor I applied any mental power to the idea. Nor
were we put out by the self-important ire of the security guards.
Thumbing our noses at authority was in our blood. To us it was the
best part of the tour. It was only now, so many years later, with
the odor of money drifting across my shallow consciousness, that I
felt the contempt of wealth and the humility of my condition. In
Europe, I would have been a peasant (even today, I think) and none
the worse for wear. Peasants may be looked down upon, but at least
they have a valid niche in the hierarchy. Here, without money,
you're a worm. And I was beginning to squirm, as worms tend to do.
Especially when they're on the end of a hook.

I began to wonder if my driver's license had
expired. It was the kind of spontaneous apprehension that
evaporates quickly from my mind.

Everyone around here obeyed the speed limit,
so there was no honking behind me as I slowed to study the street
signs. This could be either a good or a bad sign of things to come.
In some moneyed neighborhoods speed limits are a waste of signage.
Cops being poor working slobs, there was no need to cater to their
whimsical notions of civic obedience. You floored the pedal, paid
the fines, and thumbed your nose at the underpaid and overworked.
But the Riverside crowd seemed intent on toeing the line. And here
was where the bad part came in. I might not get sideswiped, but
these were just the kind of folks who would call the cops (or their
private security service) if a suspicious character glanced at
their lawn. I don't look out of the ordinary—not particularly—but
around here I probably looked out of place. I wasn't a local and I
wasn't a maid.

I spotted the Victorian-esque street sign
that announced Ferncrest, turned off River Road, and gave a mental
sigh of relief. Judging from the houses and the occasional crown of
weeds, Ferncrest wasn't as unapproachably saturated with respect as
some of the other subdivisions. These were reasonable homes, in the
half-mil range. Armed guards had been mowed down by fiscal common
sense.

A collie raced across a broad front lawn to
chase my car, but was brought up short by invisible fencing. I saw
the receiver on his collar spiking his mutt-brain with electronic
diktats. These people kept their pets under control. It might be an
ominous sign. There would be no one-sided gunfights on the
immaculate fescue, but there were other ways to control unwanted
strangers. I scratched my neck, sensing imperious fleas.

20011Ferncrest Avenue was one of those
stucco-stacks real estate salesmen love to describe as "well
appointed". It was tucked between two homes whose architectural
styles were equally vague, with chef-tossed bits of Mediterranean,
Northwestern, Contemporary, French Chateau, Golf Course and Burger
King. They were distinguishable by Nouveau variations in roof tilts
and shrubbery and the degree of racism in their lawn ornaments. Not
exactly the ticky-tacky houses ol' Pete Seeger had railed against,
but similar enough to impart a creepy frisson of conformity. The
same kind of architectural dictatorship prevailed on Oregon Hill,
but over the years front porches had become encrusted with
personality. No one in our neighborhood would stop you from making
a fence out of surveyor stakes or random mosaics of broken beer
bottle glass. No one created a stink for strewing appliances on
your property and leaving them to rust for so long that they became
works of art. That brand of bohemianism was absent from Ferncrest.
Even the cars looked stamp-punched.

That included the Jag sitting in the driveway
at 20011, which was worth as much as my house plus the houses to
either side, with a bit of riverfront thrown in. As I proceeded
slowly down the road, my Impala whimpered in envy. But I took note,
in that quick pass, that monotonous perfection had no home here.
Put politely, there appeared to be a lack of lawn and garden
hygiene.

There was no place to park without drawing
the attention of alert homeowners. I know, because I tried. After
pulling off a few blocks down the street to think things over, a
woman came running towards me, arm raised. It took me a moment to
realize she was not pointing at me or my heap, but at the cigarette
dangling out of my mouth. "Jesus," I said to myself, racing away
before Ms. Anality took it into her head to write down my plate
number.

Lucky for me, Ferncrest was low-class
enough to have its blocks divided by alleyways to allow access to
garbage trucks and other unsightly vehicles that might disturb the
antiseptic vistas. In fact, there were cars parked back there that
resembled my own automotive universe, cars with carburetors, the
only real difference being they were dent-free and clean. But so
long as they were parked next to trash cans, I felt at home. There
was even a whiff of decaying vegetables as I got out of the Impala.
It was probably leftover ragout, but it might as well have been
Campbell's Beans
à la
Sewer
.

I was still a couple of blocks from the
Neerson house. Being on foot was no less noticeable than being in a
car tenderized by multiple fender benders. I offered neighborly
nods to the homeowners and mortgage slaves who ventured beyond
their privacy fences into the alley, trying to give the impression
that my tux was at the cleaners. They nodded back in a friendly
enough manner, but that could have been a ploy to distract me while
they furtively pressed their panic buttons. But as I drew closer to
the house, I was nonplussed when a couple raking cut grass looked
up, smiled...and waved. I wondered if they recognized me from the
Science Museum, the only place I could imagine where our paths
might have crossed. I had always thought of myself as the
proverbial invisible man, and was disconcerted by the idea of
complete strangers logging me in their mental databases.

I found it difficult identifying the Neerson
house, not having foreseen that I would be approaching from the
back. I had scooted past the front too fast to count the lawns.

I wondered about the kids mentioned in the
Neerson will. Were they related to me? Could they be my half
brothers and sisters? It was inconceivable, seeing as Skunk was too
busy counting his cell bars to start a second family. But why else
give the Neerson will as a clue? Could Skunk have had a brother I
didn't know about? Someone who could have laundered the Brinks
money, perhaps keeping some—or all of it—as his reward? Could this
theoretical brother be Jeremy's father, and could Jeremy really
have a twin? If Jeremy did have a twin living the good life, I
would imagine certain similarities between the man and his shadow.
In other words, I began to look for any sign of eyesores that would
distinguish a man born with a rusty spoon in his mouth. No one with
the Skunk gene could avoid a certain accumulation of junk.

I had spotted a broken trampoline
cushioned by overgrown fescue when the roar of an engine distracted
me. I stepped off the gravel lane with the casual
gravitas
of a well-heeled resident,
as though dodging a ton of flying metal was a simple act of
courtesy. I reasoned any other reaction, like diving behind some
bushes, would attract attention. The van came on in a maniacal
swirl of dust, as though it was packed with a demented posse from
the Neighborhood Watch.

And the Neighborhood Watch, even demented and
armed, even if it had been out to suck blood, would have been
preferable to the man in the broken straw hat behind the wheel.

Dog somehow braked, parked and threw open the
driver door in a single, violent movement.

"What the..." I began.

The panel door slid open and there crouched
Carl Ksnip, smarming me with a greasy grin that would put me off
sausage for weeks to come.

"...hell," I finished."

"Hop in, partner," Carl said, pushing up out
of his seat with some effort. He seemed to be out of shape. I
assumed he spent every night bench-pressing his female employees,
but it had done him no good. Maybe they did all the work.

His invitation was transformed into a command
when Dog gave me a stiff push from behind and I landed face-first
on the Astrovan floor.

"Be a lot more comfortable if you sat," said
Carl, pulling himself back onto the passenger seat, grunting the
whole time like the pig he was.

I began to back out, but changed my mind when
Dog began sliding the door panel shut with the apparent intention
of slicing off my leg. He jumped into the driver seat and we shot
ahead. I was on my hands and knees, trying to figure out what
direction to point myself, when Dog took a sharp turn without
benefit of brakes and I tumbled back into the cargo space.

"Told you to sit," shrugged Carl when I
yelled in pain, my shoulder having slammed against the wall. He did
not look very secure himself as he fumbled for his seat belt, a
sign that he knew his chauffeur's driving habits all too well. I
began to raise a fuss. There was a click as Carl cinched his belt.
He twisted around, obviously annoyed by the effort. "If you don't
shut up I'll have Dog put a bag over your head."

This was borderline cinema. As in most cases
when truth hits fiction, I had no choice except to suspend
disbelief. Dog was forced to stop at the next traffic light. I was
tempted to bolt out the back, but when I caught his eye in the
rearview mirror I resigned myself to the kidnapping. I just managed
to clamber into the seat next to Carl before the light turned green
and Dog shot ahead.

"Can I ask what's going on?" I said as I
pulled the seatbelt harness across my chest.

"It's a free country," Carl smiled.

"Ain't nothing free in this country," Dog
pointed out.

"I wasn't speaking in fiscal terms," Carl
said, his smile dipping into a scowl.

"
Fee
country!" Dog barked, processing the pun with great relish.
"Pay a helluva fee to live in a
free
country. The Injuns gave it for free, but it's been Wall
Street ever since."

"Can you keep your eye on the road?" Carl
complained. His man Friday was deviating dramatically from the
staid style of the River Road locals, drawing far too much
attention from the drivers flung out of his path.

I was surprised that Dog had a mouth on him.
Egged on by fear and anger, I dug myself deeper into trouble.
"Hearing you talk is like listening to a goldfish sing."

Carl gave me a warning glance. But from what
I could see of his face in the rearview mirror, Dog was seriously
mulling over the imagery.

"That's very purty," he concluded.

Carl seemed relieved that his driver had not
taken offense. There must be moments when he lost control of
Frankenmutt.

It finally dawned on me to repeat my original
question. "Why are you doing this?"

"Don't be a bonehead," Carl said, genuinely
afflicted by my ignorance.

"What happened to your pimp SUV?"

"It attracts too much envy."

"Penis envy, or just plain attention?"

Carl's silence was a penthouse thunderclap,
with emphasis on the clap. They knew about the money we had found
in the pump house—that was the only explanation. They had followed
me here the old fashioned way, without benefit of a tracking
device. Once they were confident I wasn't planning to deposit the
$20,000 in the bank, they swooped in for the kill. It seemed like a
lot of trouble to go to. Why hadn't they stopped me outside my
house? But I never have pretended to understand the criminal mind.
I had never understood Skunk.

I turned around, looking towards the
back.

"Dog would know if someone's following us,"
Carl said. "Hey Dog, is anyone following us?"

"Nope," said Dog confidently.

"No rescue, then," said Carl with a
convincingly bogus shrug of resignation.

But I had not been looking out the back
window. I was studying the cargo space for evidence of electronic
eavesdropping equipment. The GPS tracking device would have been
small and portable. But what about all the cameras at the old farm
house and pumping station? I would have imagined a pretty
sophisticated setup of screens and remote receivers, like a TV
station, taking up a good portion of the cargo space. But there was
nothing in the back but a pick and shovel.

A pick and
shovel
....

My bones fossilized in an instant. I could
only hope I wasn't alive when the cold dirt was shoveled on my
head. I wasn't sure if Dog was a sadist, but he probably played
with his food.

Carl caught my expression and laughed. "Since
we were coming to River Road, I thought I would have Dog dig up
some petunias for my window planters. You came along before we had
the chance."

A flat-out lie. They couldn't have known in
advance that I was headed for the riverside. Besides, kidnapping an
interloper like me was a minor offence compared to stealing flowers
from titty babies. Even these dumb coconuts wouldn't have taken the
risk.

Still, there was no reason for them to kill
me. Maybe the garden implements were meant for show. They wanted me
to be weak at the knees with fear before we reached our
destination—as if the kidnapping itself hadn't done that already.
By the time the formal questioning began I would be ready to spill
the beans, my guts, and whatever other undigested anatomy that
might be of interest to them.

"Really, if you just want to ask—"

"There's nothing to ask," Carl said curtly.
"You backed out of our deal. 'Nuff said."