Free Fire

11

“How long ago were they here?” Clay McCann asked Sheila while picking up the business cards. He was agitated.

“I don’t know-three hours, maybe.”

“What did they want?”

“Gee, Clay,” she said, rolling her eyes, “maybe they wanted to ask you about shooting four people dead.”

Annoyed, he looked up at her from the cards. He recognized the woman’s name-Demming. She was one of the first on the scene at Bechler. She was no heavy hitter within the park, he knew that. Nothing special. But. . a game warden?

Sheila looked back at him with insolence. She was a poor fill-in for the receptionist who quit. Too much attitude, too much mouth. He wanted to tell her to tone down her act or he’d lose what few clients he still had. Then his focus changed from Sheila to the open door behind her, to the credenza and the notebooks that were clearly displayed on his desk.

“Why is my door open?” he asked, his voice cold.

“I wanted some light out here so I could read,” she said defensively.“If you haven’t noticed, it’s dark in here. You need to replace some bulbs. And there’s a nice big window in your office that lets in the light. Besides, the room needed airing out.”

He glared at her. It wouldn’t take much to drag her out from behind the desk by her hair. “Did they go into my office?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Did you?”

“Just to open the door and the curtains. I told you that. Jesus, calm down.”

“Did either of them look into my office?”

She glared back. “No. What’s your problem, anyway?”

Instead of answering, he strode around her desk into his room. Shutting the door, he said, “Keep it closed.”

She knocked softly on the door. “Clay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Actually, everything was wrong.

He sat heavily in his chair and rubbed his face and scalp with both hands, stared at his desk without really seeing it.

Everything was wrong. He tried not to think he’d been played. He was the player, not the playee, after all, right?

But the money still hadn’t been wired. The banker was gettingruder each time he called, and had even insinuated that morning that “perhaps Mr. McCann should consider another financialinstitution, one more enthusiastic about such a small deposit,one that would be more in tune to servicing such a meager balance. Maybe one in the States?”

The banker had turned McCann from an angry customer demandinganswers into a pitiful two-bit wannabe, begging for just a few more days of patience. The money would be wired, he assured the banker. He guaranteed it, knowing the value of his word, like his big talk months before, was being devalued by the day.

Even worse was that the man who was supposed to deposit the funds wouldn’t take his call. McCann couldn’t get past the secretary. How could this be?

Had he been conned? McCann couldn’t believe that. He was too smart, too street-savvy to fall for it. He knew too much. But why wouldn’t his business partner take his call? Why wouldn’t he pay up, as promised? If this was a legitimate transaction, McCann could slap a suit on the bastard and take him to court to get his money. A contract was a contract, and this was ContractLaw 101. But in this circumstance, McCann couldn’t handlethe problem through the courts. The irony of his situation gave him the sweats.

He’d spent hours waiting by the pay phone on the side of the supermarket for the callback that never came, his frustration and anger building by the minute. He debated with himself whether to go back and try again.

“Fuck it,” he said to himself as he reached out and picked up his desk phone and dialed.

"EnerDyne, Mr. Barron’s office,” the receptionist answered.

“This is McCann, again. I need to speak to Layton Barron immediately. Tell him.”

“Mr. McCann, I told you earlier. Mr. Barron is in a meeting and he can’t be disturbed. I’ll give him your message when-”

“Tell him now,” McCann said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

My life, McCann thought. His death, if there wasn’t some cooperation.

The receptionist hesitated, then put him on hold.

Okay, McCann thought. Either Barron came on the phone and explained himself, which meant the deal was still in play, or he sent the receptionist back with another delay or refusal. If that happened, there would be hell to pay.

Minutes ticked by. The lawyer began to wonder if the receptionisthad chosen to place him on permanent hold.

Finally, Barron came on the line, angry, and said, “You agreed never to call me here. Is this a secure line?”

McCann was relieved. “No. I’m calling from my office.”

“Goddamn it, we agreed-”

“I’ll go to a secure location, but I’m not going to stand around in the cold all day again. Call me in ten minutes.” McCannread off the number of the supermarket pay phone. Barronrepeated the number back.

At last, he thought, gathering his coat and hat. Finally, he would find out why the funds hadn’t been deposited into his account,as promised. He’d done his part, certainly. Now it was time for them to do theirs.

“Going again?” Sheila asked, sighing heavily.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Keep-”

“Your goddamned door shut!” Sheila finished for him in a screech.

Mccann thought about Sheila as he walked down the sidewalk to the supermarket. His feelings were mixed, which surprised him.

Even though she was a piss-poor receptionist, he liked to look at her. She was more than a cartoon after all, he’d decided. She brought experience, sexual knowledge, and unabashed dutifulnessto his needs and desires. Her reputation as a former mafioso kept woman excited him. He liked being seen with her because it was scandalous and only added to his infamy in town. Her features were severe: very black hair, very white skin, fire-engine red, pillow-soft lips. She was a combination of sharp, soft, ethnic, sensual, and in-your-face. Even if she was on the summit of over-the-hill.

He’d always thought her exotic and amusing, but he was beginningto wonder if there was more going on with him. Was he falling for her? How could that be? He knew he couldn’t trust her.

She was a puzzle, though. How she went on and on about getting out of there but never seemed to pull it off. It made no sense. Leaving wasn’t that hard. An hour to Bozeman and the airport, that’s all the time it would take. And it couldn’t be just lack of money. What did a Bozeman-to-Newark plane ticket cost? Five hundred bucks? Surely she could afford that. So why did she keep leaving just to end up back in West Yellowstone?

The only thing he could figure out was that, despite her constantcomplaints, she liked it. She liked being the wildest vamp in town, the fish with the biggest, reddest lips in the small pond. He started to admire her a little and feel sorry for her at the same time.

Maybe, just maybe, he would take her with him after all.

First things first, though. He needed his money.

As he turned the corner he saw the pay phone blocked by a dirty white pickup. A big woman with a loud voice was on the phone. His heart sank. McCann approached the vehicle slightly panicked and checked his wristwatch. In two minutes, Barron had agreed to call.

She had curlers in her hair and was wearing an oversized parka. There was a cigarette in the stubby fingers of her free hand, and she waved it around her head as she talked. Her pickup was twenty years old, the bed filled with junk, the cab windows smeared opaque by the three big dogs inside, all of them with their paws on the glass and their tongues hanging out. He was vaguely familiar with her and had seen her death trap of a pickup rattling through town before. She collected and sold junk and hides. She had a sign on a muddy two-track west of town that offered $10 apiece for elk hides, $7.50 for deer. Her name, he thought, was Marge.

When she saw McCann standing there, obviously waiting for her and checking his wristwatch, she flicked her fingers at him. “It’ll be a while,” she said. “There’s a phone down the street outside the gas station.”

“No, I need this phone.”

Marge looked at him like he was crazy. “I told you it’ll be a while, mister. The phone service is out at my place. I got a bunch of business calls to make.”

She turned away from him. “I’m on hold.”

In a minute, Barron would call.

“Look,” McCann said to her back, “I’m expecting a really important call on this number. Right here, right now. You can call whoever it is you’re waiting for right back. Hell, I’ll give you the money. In fact, if you want to sit in my office and use the phone there, you can make calls all day.”

She turned slightly and peered over her massive shoulder with one eye closed. “If you’ve got a phone in your office, mister,why don’t you use it?”

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Lady. . Marge. .”

She ignored him.

Furious, he reached out to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention when the dogs went off furiously, barking and snarling, gobs of saliva spattering the inside of the cab window inches from his arm. He recoiled in panic, and she yelled for her dogs to shut the hell up.

Then she turned on him. “What the hell is wrong with you, mister? I’m on the phone.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said, his heart racing in his chest from the shock of the barking and the flash of teeth. “I’m expecting an important call. It’s a matter of life and death. I need that phone.”

She assessed him coolly. “I know who you are, Clay McCann.I don’t think much of you. And you’re not getting it.”

He shot a glance at his watch. Past time. He prayed Barron would be a few minutes late. Or call back if it was busy the first time. But what if he didn’t?

The.38 was out before she could say another word. McCann tapped the muzzle against the glass of the passenger window in the drooling face of a dog. “Hang up now,” he said.

“You’re threatening my dogs,” she said, eyes wide. “Nobody threatens my dogs.”

Then she stepped back and jerked the telephone cord from the wall with a mighty tug.

“There!” she yelled at him. “Now nobody can use it!”

“Jesus! What did you do?”

“I just got started,” she said, swinging the phone through the air at him by holding the severed metal cord. The receiver hit him hard on the crown of his head.

McCann staggered back, tears in his eyes, his vision blurred. But not blurred enough that he couldn’t see her whipping the phone back and swinging it around her head like a lariat, lookingfor another opening.

He turned and ran across the street, hoping she wouldn’t follow.On the other sidewalk, he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, stunned. Marge glared at him, as if contemplating whether or not to give chase.

“Don’t ever threaten my dogs!” she hollered.

Then she jammed the useless receiver back on the cradle, lumbered into her pickup, which sagged as she climbed in, and drove down the street, leaving a cloud of acrid blue smoke.

Before reaching up and touching the lump forming beneath his scalp, McCann put the gun back in his pocket so no one would see it. He hoped she wasn’t headed for the sheriff’s department.

On the wall of the supermarket, the telephone box rang.

He closed his eyes, leaned back against the front of a motel that was closed for the season, and slowly sank until he was sittingon the concrete.

The street was empty and Clay McCann listened to his future,for the time being, go unanswered.

He was still sitting on the sidewalk, eyes closed, his new headache pounding between the walls of his skull like a jungle drum, when Butch Toomer, the ex-sheriff, kicked him on the sole of his shoe. “You all right?”

McCann opened one eye and looked up. “Not really.”

“You can’t just sit there on the sidewalk.”

“I know.”

Toomer squatted so they could talk eye-to-eye. McCann could smell smoke, liquor, and cologne emanating from the collarof the ex-sheriff’s heavy Carhartt jacket. Toomer had dark, deep-set eyes. His mouth was hidden under a drooping gun-fighter’s mustache.

“You owe me some money, Clay, and I sure could use it.”

McCann nodded weakly. Now this, he thought.

“Tactics and firearms training don’t come cheap. And it looks like it paid off for you pretty damned well. Four thousand dollars, that’s what we agreed to back in June, remember?”

“Was it that much?” McCann said, knowing it was. He had never even contemplated, at the time, that money would be a problem. He did a quick calculation. Unless he sold his home or office or suddenly got a big retainer or the money he was owed came through, well, he was shit out of luck.

Then he thought of the business cards in his pocket. And his so-called business partners who had hung him out to dry. They could use some shaking up.

He said, “How would you like to turn that four thousand into more?”

Toomer coughed, looked both ways down the street. “Say again?”

McCann repeated it.

“Let’s talk,” Toomer said.