Jim Harrison - The Ancient Minstrel

He finally checked his cell for an explanation for all of the irritating predawn calls. They were from Ziegler, Marquette’s only possible tycoon. When Sunderson was still on the force and Ziegler’s son was thirteen, one of his friends had sneaked a five-pound joke turd, a true monster, into their toilet at a party and Ziegler had called the station demanding a police investigation to catch the guilty perp. The captain had Sunderson answer the call because Sunderson was thought to have married well and therefore to be a gentleman by the movers and shakers of the city. The captain of course knew this was an illusion. Ziegler was a local boy who had done phenomenally well, becoming an all-American tight end at the University of Michigan. He had graduated with high honors and his senior thesis had been published as a book. It was an exposé of his own family’s turpitude in the mining business. When they came in contact, which was not often, Ziegler always pretended he couldn’t remember Sunderson’s name, an old tactic.

His son and twin girls were students at the University of Michigan. Mona had said they were typically perky rich kids. On the phone Ziegler said that one daughter was a problem and arranged to meet Sunderson on a street corner three blocks away. He was careful about appearances and didn’t want people to see him consorting with a private detective. Sunderson met Ziegler’s Lexus at the corner. He was obviously transfixed by two girls doing wheelies on their bikes at the intersection. One was a sprightly, handsome girl, the niece of the president of the university, and the other was Barbara, her light short skirt flipping up to her waist. Legs to die for, he thought. He knocked on Ziegler’s window and got an irritated look then was beckoned into the car.

“I’d give thousands for a night with that one.”

“Which one?” Sunderson teased.

“Don’t fuck with me. I want those legs around my neck.”

“I think she’s underage. She lives three houses down the street from me.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’d take the chance. That’s what lawyers are for.”

“Her father is on the city council.” Sunderson said this with an air of threat.

“I don’t care. I can buy those little chickenshits for lunch.”

Barbara rode close to the passenger seat, looked in the open window. “I’ll be over in a little while after I pick up lemons for lemonade, darling.”

“Why the fuck is she calling you darling? Why is she coming over?” Ziegler exploded.

“We’re friends. She takes care of my flower garden.”

“A big tough detective with a beautiful pussy weeding his flowers. That doesn’t add up.”

“A medium-size ex — state police detective with ten black belts in karate.” He added the latter as manly decoration. Ziegler was restless as they danced around the main business.

“Here’s the killer. I sent one of my daughters, Margaret, a check for three thousand to buy duds because she got all A’s at the university. She signed over the check which was cashed by an organization called the Circle of Heaven and Hell. I had an old friend in the athletic department check it out. It’s a Zen Buddhist group headed by a California kook. Now I’m not so dense that I don’t know that Zen Buddhism is a time-honored group. But this cucaracha floated in with a costume of black robes and picked up a bunch of strays. He has them howling like monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” Sunderson played dumb. Ziegler’s wife had engaged Sunderson to look into the group when all three of the kids were involved, and he wanted to avoid reminding the man that he hadn’t taken it all that seriously. He wondered why the athletic department.

“Yes. That was the report I got. I want you to look into this. Obviously I pay well.”

That took care of that. It should be easy. He’d begin with Mona. She had looked into it before and he was sure she’d be up for it again. Meanwhile Ziegler implied he’d like to come over in order to see Barbara again. Sunderson, wanting privacy for his voyeurism, said that he had too much work to do.

“What does she wear?” Ziegler asked plaintively.

“Soft khaki short shorts. She’s working on a tan.”

Ziegler looked up at the sky through the windshield as if some answer might be there. He shook Sunderson’s hand.

“Let me hear from you ASAP.”

“Of course.”

Sunderson walked hurriedly home to assume his upstairs perch. He reached the front porch just as Barbara pulled into the yard with a sack of lemons. He waved her into the house and followed her down to the hall into the kitchen with a sharp eye on her wagging butt cheeks.

“I’ll work an hour or so then make lemonade. It’s all that I’m eating. I’m trying to drop a few pounds.” She patted her perfect butt as if it were overweight.

“Don’t lose an ounce. Your butt is perfect.”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen it. Maybe it’s covered with acne,” she said with a teasing grin.

“I’d appreciate a glance,” he mumbled.

“I have to deal with my conscience. You don’t. A divorced man is asking to see my ass. It seems harmless.”

“It’s an aesthetic exercise,” he interjected.

“Oh well, Mr. Sunderson needs help.” She turned and bent slightly, pulled down her shorts speedily, no undies, and then back up. “First you see it, then you don’t,” she laughed.

He had concentrated on taking an imaginary photo with his eyes. The butt was superb and he felt breathless with his heart pounding. “Once more, please.”

“Not a chance. Maybe after my lemonade when I take my shower. I’m going sailing this afternoon.” She was holding a pair of knee pads for weeding. “Let’s make a deal. You get another look at the butt if you squeeze the lemons, and if you can help me with something I’m doing for a friend.”

“Fair enough,” he said as she hurriedly left the kitchen and went out the back door. Through the screen it was fetching when she bent over to put on her knee pads. A cautionary note flickered in his brain but failed to shine brightly. Toward the end of his relationship with Monica he had a drink with the prosecutor to discuss a case of vandalism at the local marina, where he’d done several big investigations in his time, and toward the end of the meeting the prosecutor had used the old expression “a word to the wise” which meant a bomb of some sort would drop. The upshot was the prosecutor claimed that he had received several complaints about Sunderson living with an underage girl. Her parents were both dead and that was why the case raised suspicion with local busybodies. Monica was actually nineteen, so there was no crime, but the prosecutor seemed to keep an eye on him after that.

Now here he was looking out his bedroom window at Barbara through binoculars. She was on her knees in the dahlias with her butt arched up like a beautiful house cat. He recalled that stupid song “Yummy Yummy Yummy (I got love in my tummy).” He felt suitably absurd. He recently had a lovely dinner with the new librarian for the solid pleasure of talking about books as he used to do with Diane. Now like a feeb he was waiting for another possible bare-butt viewing of Barbara when she had her lemonade. He felt a trace of shame. Act your age, he thought, but simply enough he didn’t want to. He was an old boy on the loose again.

He called Mona in Ann Arbor, didn’t get her, and left a long message until her voice mail lost its patience and cut out. Could they really howl like monkeys? He supposed he’d find out soon enough. Mona would enjoy snooping into this case.

The librarian hadn’t excited him except for her mind. Of course she would be a far wiser seduction then Barbara. If he had been warned about Monica they were ready for his next misstep. He suspected a junior member of the police force of possibly stirring up trouble. He was known as the “Kid” because he looked very young and had been hired as liaison to the area’s young people, something which he had trained for in college. The Kid had told Sunderson that his own thirteen-year-old sister had been sexually abused. Sunderson was curious because the Kid was obsessed with sexual abuse where there didn’t seem to be any suggestion of it, much less evidence. He called a friend on the force in Saginaw from which the Kid hailed and found out there was in fact no sister. There was an early complaint against the Kid in high school from the mother of a neighbor girl who claimed that the Kid had tampered with her daughter. Sunderson’s friend remembered this though no charges had been filed. He said that the Kid weepingly denied everything and although he was cleared he entered a long depression afterward. The Kid’s father was a sergeant on the local force and not above beating the shit out of his son. Sunderson had no conclusions, only suspicions, but found ironic the Kid’s zeal on sex cases and he had to be reprimanded for bringing so many cases with a very low conviction record.