Dead Silver

23

I was late for work at the Split Rock Lodge next morning. When I got there, Madbird was sitting on the steps of the motel cabin we were currently remodeling. That was not at all like him. His style was to hit the job running, and if you wanted to talk to him, you ran with him.

He scrutinized me critically. "You look like you ain't slept much."

"I never sleep good on Sunday nights."

"This is Tuesday." He watched me for a few more seconds, then jerked his thumb toward the cabin's interior. "We got a problem."

I exhaled. I didn't want a problem. I didn't want to be there. I'd been reluctant to leave Renee, but she'd gently shooed me out, reminding me that she had to go shop for underwear and didn't need my help on that. It was clear that she wanted some time alone. Even so, I had only come to work to tell Madbird I was going to take off again.

When I walked inside the cabin, that jerked me down to reality fast. All of our most expensive power tools-compound miter and table saws, his Hole-Hawg and our cordless drills, compressor and nail guns-were gone.

I came back out and sat down heavily beside him. We both knew what most likely had happened. We'd left the place locked and there were no signs of a break-in, but at Split Rock, anybody could have a key to anything. We probably wouldn't have to look far for the perp.

"Let's see what we can find out," Madbird finally said. We walked across the parking lot to the main lodge. The residents here didn't tend to get active until later in the day, and the place looked like a ghost town, with nothing moving across the vista but last year's dead underbrush sticking up through the melting snow and swaying in the fresh breeze. A couple dozen vehicles were scattered around, most of them in perilous condition and many looking like they'd never move again.

I spotted Darcy's car among them, parked around the side of the lodge. So she was here working. I wondered if Madbird had seen her arrive or if he'd talked to her, but he didn't say anything.

Split Rock's owner, Pam Bryce, was in the kitchen setting up the lunch menu. Pam was a pretty earth mother with a big heart; she was pushing fifty but possessed an enduring youthfulness, with hennaed hair in a Little Orphan Annie mop, big hoop earrings, and enough bracelets for a gypsy caravan.

Her goal in operating the place wasn't profit, but to provide a home for fifteen or twenty lost souls who had nowhere else to go and few skills for surviving in straight society-drunks and small-time dopers, old hippies, a couple of vets who were disabled physically or mentally, and other such castaways. They helped out here and there and paid Pam what they could, and while there was incessant squabbling, everybody got by.

The operation had been tottering along for years, but finally there were so many plumbing and electrical malfunctions that something had to be done. Pam, saddled with mountains of unpaid back rent and bar tabs, was in no position to hire a mainstream contractor. She'd asked Madbird and me for advice. We didn't have much else going on then and it would be a decent way to get through the winter. So we'd offered to do it for rock-bottom wages-straight time and materials, cash under the table. Pam could manage that, although our payday usually came late. We didn't like lowballing other contractors, but the alternative was for her to lose the place, which would have meant her clientele being pushed out into a world where they couldn't cope.

When she saw us come in, she took on a sassy look and put her hands on her hips. The bracelets tinkled like mini-wind chimes.

"I told you guys, one at a time," she said.

Madbird grinned. "Careful what you wish for."

"What fun would that be?"

"Good point." He lifted a coffeepot off its burner, poured two cups, and shoved one at me. "Anybody around here get rich in the last couple days?"

Pam's face turned serious. "Uh-oh."

"A bunch of our stuff's gone. We ain't out to bust anybody's balls, we just need it back."

She sighed. "Artie drank in the bar until late last night, and bought two cases of beer when he left. I'd had him cut off because of his tab, but this time he paid cash."

That synched in precisely with the scenario. Artie Thewlis was a longtime Split Rock resident who more or less redefined the term "loser"-a shifty little guy who ran endless petty schemes to buy, sell, or swap stuff that he hauled around in his beater pickup truck. As often as not, the deals fell through completely or segued into something else that would.

Our expensive tools would have been a sore temptation for Artie, and he'd probably convinced himself that he could lie his way out of it.

"If he's not in his cabin, try Elly May," Pam said. "They left the bar together."

I thanked her and started to leave.

But Madbird said, "Darcy around?"

"She's setting tables." Pam pointed at the swinging doors that led to the dining room.

Madbird walked to the doors and shoved them apart theatrically, like a gunfighter in an old Western going into a saloon. Darcy was standing over a table, taking silverware from a wheeled cart and laying it out. Her head was bowed, and even in that brief glimpse, I got the sense that she was moving very slowly.

"Hey, pretty girl," Madbird said. "How about I buy you a drink later?"

She kept right on with what she was doing, never so much as glancing at him.

He stood there another fifteen seconds. Then he stepped back and let the doors swing shut.

"Let's go take care of our bullshit," he said to me.