Dead Silver

40

Renee ate sitting up in bed, wearing one of my T-shirts-we'd never gotten around to unpacking her car last night-with the cat and me flanking her on opposite sides. He could put away bacon like a black hole sucking down a galaxy, and she was a soft touch; he beat her out of damned near every other bite.

"I've decided to sell the house," she said.

I nodded, although that gave me a little pang. But it made all the sense in the world, and it didn't necessarily mean she wouldn't stay in Helena.

"What about the repairs?" I said.

"I'll get somebody to finish cleaning up-not you; don't even think about it. Otherwise, it goes on the market as is. I know that's a mistake, but I just can't deal with it anymore."

"That's not a mistake."

"Well, this probably is-I'm going to let Evvie Jessup handle the sale. She called me in Seattle when she heard about the shooting. All gushy about how glad she was that I was okay, but really, she was keeping her foot in the door."

"I don't see why it should matter," I said. "She's a professional. You might want to make sure she discloses the rat problem."

"It's just that I'm uncomfortable with her. But she knows the place, I don't have to hassle finding somebody else and showing them around, all that."

"You're dodging a bullet, too," I said. "If you went with somebody else, she'd never forgive you."

"Amen," Renee said solemnly.

I stood up and reached for her empty plate, but she caught my hand and held it.

"I've already dragged you into such a mess," she said. "Are you sure you want to keep going?"

I'd said much the same thing to Madbird once; he'd answered much the way I felt now, and those words came to my mind. But they were a notch too colorful for this situation, so I toned them down.

"Ever hear an old song called 'Riot in Cell Block Number Nine'?" I said.

"No. It must have been before my time."

"There's a line that goes something like, 'Scarface Jones said it's too late to quit-pass the dymamite, 'cause the fuse is lit.'"

She smiled and gave my hand a grateful squeeze.

It wasn't yet eight o'clock, too early for Evvie Jessup's office to be open, so Renee called her at home. Evvie was surprised to hear that Renee was back in town, and thrilled to get the news about the house sale. She said she'd hurry in to her office and be there by the time we got to town.

I cleaned up the dishes and made the round of morning chores while Renee showered-I'd have lobbied to get in there with her but the space was small, and while usually that would be a wet soapy delight, an elbow to my ribs was inevitable-then took my own turn.

When that was all done, I tried Tom Dierdorff's phone. He answered with Monday morning grumpiness.

"Sounds like you're getting ready to sweet-talk a jury," I said.

"Sorry. I like to drink kerosene to get me going, but the doctor made me switch to coffee. Just doesn't have the same bite."

"Yeah, but you can start smoking again."

"Goddamn, I never thought of that. You're a fucking Pollyanna, Huey."

"It's a mick thing. Hey, I'll stop wasting your valuable pissed-off time. Any chance I can talk to that tree-spiker you defended in the Dead Silver deal? Some new twists have come along."

There came one of his considered pauses.

"I'll ask him, if I can find him. He was living in Missoula, but we haven't been in touch for quite a while."

"I'd really appreciate it, Tom. This is important."

"I'll get right on it. You still healing okay?" He was one of the friends who'd called to check on me after I'd been shot.

"Never better," I said, glancing at Renee.

I gave him Renee's cell phone number in case he got the information while we went to town to deal with Evvie. Then Renee and I packed overnight bags to take with us so we could head straight to Missoula without having to come back here.

Missoula was a hundred-plus miles west of Helena, on the other side of the Rockies and the Continental Divide. The division between here and there wasn't just geographical; it aptly symbolized a deep social and political rift in this state, and probably in the nation. Missoula was widely perceived as the Berkeley of Montana-home to the state university, and a hotbed of 1960s-type alternative lifestyle and activism. Some found the atmosphere positive and exciting; many others saw it as a cesspool of decadence and subversion. The two edges of that sword were getting sharper all the time. I had friends from there who had actually become nervous about driving in other parts of the state with license plates that began with the telltale number 4, which identified them as residents of Missoula County.

What a lot of people didn't know was that the original hippies there were mostly working-class kids from small towns, ranches, and reservations around the state-tough, hardworking, many of them war veterans-and that while some were educated, they were far from effete intellectual snobs. I'd always thought that the true underlying reason for the establishment's wrath at them was that they refused to walk any company line and they were very canny about seeing through bullshit. In general, they had a lot more in common with old-time people like my father than either group did with the newer Montana that was springing into being.

I had always loved Missoula, and I'd had a lot of good times there. The old bars-Eddy's Club, Charley B's, The Top Hat, Luke's, The Turf, The Flame-were the kinds of places where you might meet people who'd led lives you could hardly imagine, fall in love, and get the shit kicked out of you, all in the same night.

But my ambivalence about growth kicked in again every time I visited. The funky old downtown had been gentrified and was thronged with tourists in summer. The university-once a modest, well-run operation that was mostly attended by Montana residents-had doubled in size and turned into a moneymaking venture, largely designed as a party school for rich kids from out of state. The city itself was exploding at the fringes with commercial strips and industrial parks, while a policy known as "infill" had invaded quiet older neighborhoods, with second residences shoehorned into back and side yards, many of them cheaply built rentals. It was getting to look more and more like someplace in California. But there again, I had to recognize that all those elements would serve more human beings in many ways; and personally, I didn't feel that I had any claim to locational purity.

The drive from Helena to Missoula was about two hours. It would have been sensible and politically correct for us to take Renee's comfortable, economical Suburu instead of my truck. But I felt cramped in smaller vehicles, I liked sitting up high, and I liked having a lot of metal around me.

I stowed our gear under the pickup's seat, and we headed for town.