Chuck Logan - Homefront

Griffin nodded-it was common knowledge. “The way people tell the story, Gator’s trying for a fresh start up here.” Hearing the words come from his mouth in the context of this conversation, they sounded too good to be true.

“Yeah, right, he’s fuckin’ Robin Hood. Or maybe”-again, the sly smile-“he’s knocking off the competition, huh?” Teedo said it quietly, raising his eyebrows slightly, conjuring a depth of hard-knocks insight into the backwoods drug scene. He’d done six months in Beltrami County for selling grass couple years back before he cleaned up his act. Knew the players.

Griffin leaned back, mulling over it. “Teedo, you got a suspicious mind.”

“No,” Teedo said, “I got a cousin, Jerry, who brews that poison. Remember that cold snap last month, hit twenty below?”

Griffin nodded.

“Yeah, well, Jerry figured nobody’d be out in that weather, so he snuck into one of those old houses to cook. And Gator shows up, knocks him around, and chases him off at gunpoint. Jerry didn’t run far-he pulled off into the trees to watch what Gator would do. See, Jerry didn’t have a shopping bag from Fleet Farm and a few cans of solvent. He had a whole truckload of supplies, two big boxes of pseudoephedrine he smuggled in from Canada. Jerry was looking to cook a couple pounds of that shit.

“So Jerry waits, freezing his ass, for the sheriff to show up. No sheriff. Instead, Gator loads all the chemicals and stuff in his truck and drives it north on Twelve, toward his place.” Teedo leaned forward and pointed his beer bottle at Griffin. “One of the ways you catch meth heads, is you follow them when they run their trapline, picking up supplies, huh? But if you’re fucking Robin Hood, you just steal from the meth heads and give to yourself.”

“So-no exposure.” Griffin thought about it.

“Plus, he’s got what amounts to police protection. Way Jerry tells it, Gator brings Keith in on the little fish, but if he finds a big stash, he keeps it for himself.”

“So, say something. Anonymous tip, 911,” Griffin said.

“Oh, right,” Teedo shook his head. “Uh-uh, not me, man, word’d get out. I believe those stories about Gator. He kills people and gets away with it, going way back. Some people even think the way his folks died was no accident.”

Teedo drank a few swallows of beer in silence, smacked his lips. “But I did go out there to Gator’s and take a look.”

“Hey,” Griffin said, “you’re the one blowing smoke about staying clear.”

Teedo lifted a hand. “I had an excuse. This time of year, I go back in the woods near his farm. ’Bout two hundred yards in from one of the fields, there’s this grove of birches. Put in some test taps. Been so warm, I figured the sap might be early. Not as good as sugar maples, but you can still make syrup. Not bad if you cook it twice.”

“For Christ’s sake, Teedo…”

Teedo took another pull on his beer, stretching it out. “You know how to find Camp’s Last Stand?”

Griffin nodded. “Turn off Twelve east on County Z. Go in on the old logging road.” It was a local landmark set back in the woods.

“Two miles past the crossroads. Clock it on your odometer, ’cause it’s grown over, hard to find. When you get to the stand, take the trail that forks to the left, that’ll bring you up to the grove, you’ll see some tin buckets I put out.”

“Yeah?” Griffin hearing Teedo give him directions… like he’s sure I’m going out there…

“You’ll be a couple hundred yards from his house. That’s where I was two weeks ago when I smelled it.”

“Smelled what?” Griffin asked.

“A smell like a big litter box full of cat piss and shit. This real stink. I went in closer and heard the generator running…”

“Generator?”

“Yeah, he’s got a big-ass generator going in the shop. Now why do you suppose that is? He’s got enough four-forty to run all his tools coming in on the line. Had the fans running in the paint shop. So I went in closer, along this windbreak of pines that goes from the woods, stops about fifty yards from the shop.” Teedo leaned forward on his elbows, taking his voice even lower. “You know how Gator is supposed to be out there all alone?”

“Yeah?”

“Not that day. Jimmy Klumpe was there, bigger’n shit, sitting in his garbage truck, had Gator’s trash container up on the lift. Top open. Just sitting there, engine running…

“Then this person comes out of the shop. Got this paint suit and breather mask on. When they took off the hood, saw it was a woman. Thought it was his sister, Cassie, at first. She had this black hair, same build.”

“Really?” Griffin said, “I heard Cassie never goes out there, hasn’t been back since their folks-”

Teedo shrugged. “Wasn’t Cassie, though. ’Cause little while later Gator and her brought these black heavy-duty garbage bags out from the shop and loaded them in the Dumpster. Jimmy hoists her up and drives off. But he goes north, not back toward the town dump. Goes into the woods. And Gator, he starts up his Bobcat and moves all these boxes and big plastic drums from the shop into the garage part of his barn. Then him and the woman went into the farmhouse…

“Wind was right, could hear them in there. Windows musta been open. Was the bathroom, ’cause the shower was running.” Teedo flashed a grin. “Heard the kinda noise you ain’t suppose to make with your sister.”

“So you think he’s cooking dope out there?”

“Cooking dope?” Teedo laughed. “Man, when’s the last time you were on the streets?” He raised his beer. Before he got it to his lips, Griffin clamped his hand over the bottle top and looked Teedo directly in the eyes.

“Why you telling me this?”

Teedo shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the only person around who’s crazy enough not to be afraid of the guy.” Then he set the bottle down and reached for his wallet. “Hey, and I got this.” Teedo took his wallet from his hip pocket and withdrew a salmon-colored slip of paper. An old Powerball lottery ticket. He handed it to Griffin. “That woman? She drives a silver Pontiac GT. Never seen that car in town. Had it hidden in the barn. Look on the back.”

Griffin turned it over; three letters and three numerals printed in ballpoint. Set it on the table.

“License plate on the Pontiac,” Teedo said.

Griffin narrowed his eyes, waiting.

Teedo shrugged. “You know people, those guys who come up from the cities to hunt sometimes, Broker’s pals. They’re cops, right.”

“So? Keith Nygard’s a cop.”

Teedo shook his head and said cryptically, “Him and Gator’s high school buddies. When the meth house blew up and all Gator’s cousins burned, Keith, he looked the other way.”

Teedo finished his beer, set the bottle aside, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “So. Jimmy was there, using his truck for something Gator’s up to. Just saying-if Broker was my friend, and he’s messing with Jimmy, the person who comes back at him might not be Jimmy. Might be someone who needs Jimmy. In which case it might not be about kids fighting on the playground.”

Griffin exhaled, picked up the slip of paper, and turned it slowly, weighing it. He looked up at Teedo. “You willing to go back out to Gator’s farm?”

“Nope. Ain’t my fight. No disrespect, but fuck a bunch of white guys. It would be interesting, though, to find out if the lady driving that Pontiac has a record, huh?” Teedo gave Griffin the barest smile as he stood up and put on his coat.

Griffin said, “Anything else you can tell me?”

Teedo shrugged. “Every Saturday morning, nine A.M., Gator comes in town and eats bacon and eggs at Lyme’s Cafe.”