C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

“I’ve never understood your job,” Dad said. “What-you go to foreign countries and hand out maps? You get paid for that?”

Actually, I’d explained my job to him three or four times over the years. His eyes glazed over each time.

“Why don’t you stay?” she said again.

He said, “I’m sure they can spare you for one day, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

His face darkened, and I braced for it; you sure are sorry or something similar and cutting. He was still Walter McGuane in there. But he caught himself, held it in, let it pass. “I wish you weren’t going to take this little one away from me,” he said instead, tickling her, making her laugh.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a big storm coming down from the north?” Melissa said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to be snowed in here.” She was good at saying reasonable things.

“Hell,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind.”

WHILE MELISSA AND MY MOTHER cleaned up dishes, Dad said he wanted to show me something out in the barn. He didn’t. As we walked outside in the last gasp of dusk in the cold, he didn’t look at me as he said, “I’ve realized something since you left this place, Jack. I was hard on you. I guess I didn’t know how to be a father. My old man was a bastard, and he’s the one supposed to teach you those things.”

“You did okay,” I said, a lump in my throat. All I remembered of my grandfather was a tall man with a full black beard that smelled of cigarette smoke and eyes that weren’t kind.

“Naw. But that don’t mean you shouldn’t know how to be a son. Call your mother more. Hell, invite her to Denver. That little girl in there is her only grandchild. I’ll survive if she comes down to see you. I know how to cook a steak.”

We walked to the Quonset, crunching gravel. So much to say. “I’ll do that, Dad. But didn’t you hear what Melissa was saying about Angelina?”

“I did.”

“We may not get to keep her.”

“Bullshit. Fight it.”

“We are.”

“Good,” he said. “And if you ever get the time from your busy damned job passing out maps of Denver, come back and stay a little while. I got fence to fix.”

I laughed.

“I’m proud you done so well on your own,” he said. “I was telling a cattle buyer about you just yesterday morning. He acted all interested, but you know you can’t trust those bastards. But I am proud of you.”

IN THE CAR, the lights of Bozeman looking like the last vestige of civilization in the pure dark of a cloudy, moonless night, Cody said, “We’ll never figure ’em out, Jack. They are what they are. My old man’s a drunk. I didn’t fall very far from that fucking tree. This is a good place, Montana. I hope to come back someday.”

“It is a good place,” I said. “Or is it just because it isn’t Denver right now?”

“Maybe for you. I just hope I can figure out a way to make it back.”

Why did he say that as if he never would?

I WAS SLEEPING when Melissa’s cell phone burred. I sat up, had no idea at all where we were in Wyoming. It was midnight.

“It’s Brian,” she said from the backseat, looking at the display.

She listened, mostly, saying, “That’s great,” and “You be careful, Brian.”

She closed the phone, said, “Brian’s meeting the guy with the photos to night someplace downtown. By the time we get back, we’ll have them.”

“Everything’s working,” I said. “I’m glad we canceled that thing with Jeter.”

“We’ll see,” Cody cautioned. “Brian could just as easily be on a wild-goose chase. That would be very Brian-like.”

WE WERE APPROACHING CASPER at two in the morning when Melissa’s phone rang again. She said “Brian again,” and answered. A few seconds went by when she gasped, and said, “Who are you?”

“Give it to me,” I said, and she quickly handed the phone over, as eager to get rid of it as I was to get it.

I could hear city noises and the sound of someone laughing in the background.

“Who is this?” I asked. “What are you doing with Brian’s phone?”

“Brian?” the voice said. A young voice, Hispanic accent. “ Brian? We kicked his ass.”

Again the laugh in the background, and a phrase I’d heard before. My entire body went cold.

We fucking own you, man.

“Brian,” the caller said before punching off, “is one dead faggot.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Someone called us on Brian’s phone, and I think I heard Garrett in the background.”

“Shit,” Cody spit, and floored it.

WE HURTLED DOWN I-25, reaching speeds of 110 miles per hour, with Cody barking out the names of detectives he used to work with. I’d locate the numbers on his cell and speed-dial them and hand the phone over when someone answered. We woke up a lot of detectives. All were groggy from sleep. Cody asked whether the detective was aware of a homicide or attempted homicide in downtown Denver.

“Okay, thanks, man,” Cody said three times in a row. “Sorry to wake you up,” and handed the phone back to me to place the next call.

“Nothing?” I said. “Could it be a joke? A way of screwing with us?”

“That was Brian’s phone they used,” Melissa observed. “How would they have gotten it?”

“She’s right,” he said. “Goddammit, who was on shift? They won’t tell me anything if I call the desk. I’ve got to find who might have worked it and talk to them personally. Jack, scroll down through the numbers. I can think of two other guys who might know something.”

I found both numbers and called each in turn and switched on the speaker feature of the cell so Cody could talk and speed at the same time. It scared me when he held the phone to his ear and drove at the same time because he was incapable of talking without gesturing as well. The first detective didn’t pick up, the second asked Cody if he was drunk to be calling at this hour.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I need to know who was on shift tonight.”

“The FNG-fucking new guy. Who else would be on midnights?”

“Torkleson?”

I felt a little trill of recognition.

“Yeah.”

“Do you know his cell number?”

“It’s fucking four in the morning, Cody. I don’t know anything except that I want to go back to sleep. He’s the FNG. I’m not sure I wrote his number down.”

“Please, Dan, I really need to know it.”

“Are you even working? Aren’t you suspended?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell are you doing, Cody?”

“Checking on a friend. Please, Dan.”

Dan sighed, and grumbled, “Hold on.”

I was afraid we’d drive out of cell-phone range before Dan found the number. Wyoming was notorious for huge expanses where there was no signal. Luckily, it was also notorious for its lack of state troopers on the highway. Finally, Dan came back and gave Cody the number.

“Can I go back to sleep now?” Dan asked.

“Sure. Thanks. Good night.”

To us, he asked, “Got it?”

“I do,” Melissa said, and tore out the page of her check register that she’d used to write down the number.

I punched the numbers in, keeping the speaker on.

“Yeah?” the detective answered, no doubt leery of the late-night call.

“Jason, it’s Cody Hoyt.”

“Shit, I didn’t recognize the number, and it’s four in the morning. What can I do you for?”

“I need to know if you worked an incident to night. The subject’s a friend of mine named Brian Eastman. Tall, thin, Caucasian, midthirties. Probably somewhere down-town.”