Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

“I’m gonna go see if Mr. Shannon is home yet,” I said. I had his number circled on one of the sheets of paper Leon had given us.

“You’re gonna call him?”

“No. I’m gonna go walk back to his house,” I said.

“Somebody’s a little grouchy,” he said. “I’ll get you another beer. Then we’re gonna go out and you’re gonna show me around, right? You promised.”

“I didn’t promise that, Randy.”

“I want to see where you grew up, Alex. I want to see the parking lot where you lost your virginity.”

“I’m gonna go call him now,” I said.

“Go,” he said. “Go do your thing.”

I went to the pay phone and called the number. I heard two rings and then a rough voice saying hello.

“Mr. Shannon?” I said.

“Speaking.”

“My name is Alex McKnight. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a question for you, and it’s going to sound a little strange.”

“A private who? What’s this about?”

“Mr. Shannon, I’m trying to find somebody who lived at your address in 1971. I don’t suppose you know who owned your house back then.”

“Nineteen seventy-one? Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you this evening. The family’s name was Valeska.”

“No, no, stop. Nineteen seventy-one, I was nowhere near here. I’ve only been in this house a couple years.”

“Perhaps the person you bought the house from?”

“No, he only had the place for… a year, I think. And before he had it, I remember him telling me, the place was sitting empty here for a long time…”

“I understand, sir. Can I ask if you’re aware of an old staircase that used to run up the right side of your house?”

“Matter of fact, yeah. It looks like there used to be something like that. They redid the whole place, knocked the back wall out. Looks like they put in a new staircase when they did that.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “That’s kinda what we figured.”

“If you know about that old staircase,” he said, “then I guess you really are looking for somebody from that long ago. You’re really a private investigator?”

“Yes, sir, I am. If I can ask you just one more question…”

“Ask away.”

“Is there anyone on your block who may have been living there back in 1971?”

“I wouldn’t think so. It’s changed a lot around here.”

“Well, okay, then. I really appreciate your time.”

“I wouldn’t swear to that. You could ask around.”

“Perhaps I will, sir.”

“Stop by the house if you do. I’ve never met a private investigator before. I’m here after three o’clock most days.”

“We’ll do that, sir. And thanks again.” I hung up the phone.

When I got back to the booth, something had changed. That smooth little look Randy always wore, like he was ready to be amused by something, was long gone. His eyes were wide open.

“What happened?” I said.

“I got us another round,” he said, sliding a draft my way. “No problem.”

“There’s a problem,” I said. “What is it?”

“There’s no problem.”

“You’re lying,” I said “I told you, you can’t lie to me. You’re the world’s worst liar.”

“I got into a little disagreement, that’s all.”

I looked around the place. There were a couple of young men seated at the bar, watching us. White boys from the suburbs, slumming it in the Motor City.

“With those guys over there, I take it?” They didn’t look too happy. They didn’t look too small, either.

“A couple local gentlemen with some misinformed opinions,” he said. “They were talking about how badly the Tigers sucked, which is pretty much true this year, so I couldn’t disagree with them. But then they started going on about how it didn’t matter, because baseball wasn’t a real sport and anybody could play it.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You tried to straighten them out.”

“I just asked them when was the last time somebody threw a baseball ninety-five miles an hour at them. That’s all I said. Then I just paid for our drinks.”

“I meant to tell you,” I said. “Detroit’s not the best place to be flashing a big roll of bills.”

“They asked me about the tattoo on my arm. I told them my cell mate gave it to me, the last time I was in prison. He also taught me how to kill a man using just my index finger.” He pointed to the ceiling with the finger in question, on his left hand, of course, and then brought it down on the table like he meant to break it in two. Somehow, the table stayed intact.

“That’s quite a story,” I said. “I bet that put them in their place.”

“I think it was the slinky that really got them going,” he said, shaking his hand. Then he took a hit off a tall glass. Whatever he was drinking, it was brown and foamy.

“You told them about your old pitch?” I said.

“No, it’s a drink I invented,” he said. “I can’t throw them anymore, so I have to drink them now.”

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but what’s in it?”

“It’s pretty simple,” he said. “One part vodka and one part root beer. You wanna try it?”

“I’m gonna say no to that.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “You’ll be surprised.”

“No, Randy, nothing would surprise me now. I’ll probably never be surprised again in my entire life.”

“You know what this drink is good for?” he said.

“Killing rats?”

“You see a really nice-looking woman at the bar, you go up and stand next to her and order a slinky. It never fails.”

I didn’t say anything.

“The bartender doesn’t know what it is, so I have to tell him how to make it. The best vodka you got, preferably Charodei, which isn’t filtered through charcoal like other vodkas. And she’s standing there listening to this. Vodka and root beer? What kind of a man drinks vodka and root beer? She turns around to take a look at me, and I just give her this smile. Like I’m drinking the best vodka in the house because I’m sophisticated and successful, and I’m drinking root beer because I’m still a little boy at heart. And when she asks me why it’s called a slinky, I tell her I was once a major-league pitcher and that was my money pitch. It works every time.”

“Uh-huh. Are you gonna try the same game when you find Maria? Order up a slinky?”

“Come on, Alex, I’m just joking around. I drink it because I like the way it tastes. Here, try it.”

“I told you, I’m not drinking that,” I said. “Vodka and root beer, for God’s sake. What next, Randy? Are you crazy all the time? Do you ever take a day off?”

“You would have backed me up, right? If those guys tried something? Just like the good old days. Remember that brawl we were in that one game? Where was that, Evansville?”

“It was Savannah,” I said. It all came back to me. There was another side to Randy Wilkins. You didn’t see it very often. It took a lot to get him to lose control of himself. But when he did, he lost it completely. “You hit two straight batters in the head. What did you expect?”

He took a long drink and then put the glass down. “I think I know what your problem is,” he said. His voice had changed.

“What?” I said. “What’s my problem?”

“The problem is that I got a shot and you didn’t. And it doesn’t help that I got to play right here in Tiger Stadium. How many times did you go and see games there when you were a kid? How many times did you dream about playing on that field someday?”

“Randy, do you really think that I’m upset because you got to play in Tiger Stadium and I didn’t?”

“It’s got to bother you,” he said. “Something’s bothering you.”