“My son,” Johannson said. He sounded disappointed.
We went upstairs. Three more shotgun blasts greeted us when we stepped outside. They were coming from the side of the house facing away from the road. We made our way around slowly. I knew I wasn’t being fired upon, but the shots activated my internal fight-or-flight response mechanism just the same, and I instinctively searched my jacket pocket for the Walther PPK.
Jimmy Johannson was facing the forest, a twelve-gauge pump resting on his shoulder. He was scolding a black Labrador puppy at his feet. Next to the puppy was a small boy, a frail, skinny little thing dressed in dirty T-shirt and sneakers held together with duct tape. When Jimmy Johannson nodded, the child tossed a dog dummy with all his might at the trees. Johannson fired three shots in the air in quick succession. The dog flinched and cowered, and Johannson kicked it, cutting loose with a string of obscenities that did not seem to shock the boy at all.
“That’s no way to train a dog,” I said.
“Jimmy don’t mean no harm,” Johnny Johannson told me, but he didn’t sound convincing.
“Who’s the boy?” I asked as we approached.
“My grandson, Angel’s kid, Tommy,” Johannson said softly; then louder he called, “Jimmy! Man here to see ya.”
Jimmy Johannson glanced at me without curiosity and yelled, “Pull.”
Little Tommy heaved another dog dummy into the woods, and Jimmy fired three times. Again the dog cowered, and again he was beaten. I shook my head. The dog wasn’t frightened by the noise of the shotgun. He was frightened because he knew the shots would soon be followed by punches, kicks, and screams. I was tempted to tell Jimmy so but held my tongue.
“Whaddaya want?” Jimmy asked after he had finished assaulting the puppy.
“I’m a private investigator,” I told him and flashed my photostat.
“Minnesota license don’t mean shit in Wisconsin,” he informed me.
“Don’t mean much more than that in Minnesota,” I replied.
“So?” he asked. I could tell he was warming toward me.
“I’m looking for a guy named Chip Thilgen.”
Jimmy didn’t even hesitate. “Who?” he asked.
“Chip Thilgen.”
“Never heard of him,” he said.
“Sure you have,” Johnny Johannson volunteered.
Jimmy turned on him. “If I say I don’t know him, old man, I don’t fucking know him,” he snarled.
“I was told you and Thilgen were seen driving together just two days ago,” I lied.
“Who the fuck told you that?” Jimmy asked angrily.
“Does it matter?” I asked in reply.
“It matters a lot if some asshole is putting me with this Thilgen guy,” he said. “It matters a fucking lot if people are lying about me.”
“It could have been an honest mistake,” I ventured, not wanting to unduly anger a man with a loaded shotgun in his hands.
“Got that fucking right,” Jimmy spat.
“Tell me, then,” I asked cautiously, “where were you around noon the day before yesterday?”
“Right here,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Sucking on the welfare titty,” he announced almost proudly. Then, “Pull!”
Another dog dummy into the woods, another three shots. The dog laid at Jimmy’s feet and began to whimper even before the man hit him.
I had seen enough.
“That’s a piss-poor way to train a dog,” I told him.
“Who fucking asked you?” he snapped. Then, to prove who was boss, he clubbed the puppy with the stock of the gun.
“Sonuvabitch,” I muttered.
“I’ll show you how to train a dog,” Jimmy boasted.
He took two steps backward. The boy seemed to know what was coming because he dove out of the way. Jimmy pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. A round of six shot took the dog’s head off.
“Play dead!” Jimmy shouted at the corpse. “Play dead!” He laughed as if the sight of the headless puppy was the funniest thing he had ever seen.
“See? The dog’s trained,” he told me and laughed some more.
The scene made Johnny Johannson turn pale. The boy nudged the black Labrador’s body with his battered sneakers, staining the tips of them with blood. I gripped the butt of the handgun hidden inside my pocket.
“Ahh, fuck it,” Jimmy said, suddenly speaking in a monotone as he zipped the twelve-gauge into a leather case. “Dog was no good. Gun shy. Can’t hunt with no gun-shy dog.”
Jimmy went around to the front of the house; his father, visibly shakened but saying nothing, dragged his silent grandson inside the house through the back door. When Jimmy reappeared, he was carrying a spade. Without expression—without any emotion that I could observe—he began digging a shallow grave for the dog’s still-warm carcass. I waited. I don’t know why I waited. Maybe it was so I could tell Jimmy something when he had finished.
I gripped the Walther inside my pocket and asked, “What’s the only thing money can’t buy?”
“Huh?”
“What’s the only thing money can’t buy?” I repeated loudly.
“Shit, I dunno. Love?”
“The wag of a dog’s tail,” I answered.
Jimmy sneered at me. “Fuck that.”
He heaved the spade in the general direction of a large shed and walked slowly to the house. I did not take my hand out of my pocket until he was well inside.
twenty-two
The sign outside The Wheel Inn Motel read: STAY SIX NIGHTS GET YOUR 7TH NIGHT FREE. Now that was optimism. I wondered if anyone ever took the proprietor up on his offer. I meant to ask him, only I didn’t like the way he smirked when I checked in without luggage, paying cash instead of using a credit card. He looked at me like I was a talent scout for a porno magazine. Still, he showed me to my room with a certain amount of pride. I don’t know why. It looked like any other motel room you’ve ever been in except it was older and crummier. The wallpaper was faded and crumbling along the edges—large yellow flowers on a blue background. The bed and bureau were bought new in, say, 1933. And the toilet was operated by a chain. All the comforts of home. The owner told me there was no cable, and the ancient black-and-white TV took a good fifteen minutes to warm up, but the Brewers were playing on channel ten later that evening if I was interested.
I had two questions: Where could I buy a change of clothes? And where could I get something to eat? As to the former, he directed me to the combination clothing/appliance store attached to the grocery store in Deer Lake: King’s One-Stop. As for the latter, he recommended the $5.95 all-you-can-eat buffet at The Forks Restaurant and Casino, about fifteen miles down the road just this side of the county line.
Before I left, I made two phone calls. The first was to Deputy Gary Loushine, but he wasn’t in. The woman who answered the sheriff department’s telephones promised she’d deliver my message. The second call was to Cynthia. The voice on her machine promised she’d return my call, too.
King’s One-Stop was located just off the main drag in Deer Lake, not too far from Koehn’s counterfeit log cabin. It offered only a limited selection of men’s fashions. I found white athletic socks (two to a package), white briefs (three to a package), a white shirt with button-down collar, and a pair of blue jeans all in less than ten minutes. What made me linger was a gray-black silk-blend sports jacket sewn in Korea by a company I’d never heard of that was marked down to $34.95. I spent five minutes trying to determine what was wrong with it and couldn’t, except that the sleeves were about a half inch too short. But for thirty-five bucks, what’s half an inch? I bought the jacket, the other clothes, a plastic razor, a small can of shaving foam, a toothbrush and paste, and deodorant, paying with a check. The cashier looked at me like I was challenging her arithmetic when I asked for a receipt, but I figured Hunter Truman would insist. If he didn’t reimburse my expenses, I’d take my chances with the IRS.