Big Hungry: A Novel

  Big Hungry

  A novel

  By John Clausen

  Digital edition by Hukilau 2011

  Copyright 2007

  John H. Clausen

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to the Jacobson family of Renville County, without whom I probably would not have survived those long North Dakota winters.

  Chapter 1

  The fat woman's corpse cost Pooch Eye Ziegler a 73-pound catfish.

  Five feet and three inches of undeniable, no bullshit, legend-making, stud fish. An unbeatable-in-our-lifetime record, complete with ancient Evinrude scars on its head and a stupid, malevolent glint in its eye. It was not, to be sure, the largest catfish ever to traverse the murky waters of the Big Hungry River. There were at least three larger monsters gliding menacingly over the rich, dark mud that lined the river's bottom. Pooch Eye's catfish – that is to say, his almost catfish – had seen them. However, he had by then reached the enviable stage of life when nothing in the river frightened him, which is to say that nothing in the river was large enough to swallow him.

  Like the other, lesser catfish in the river, Pooch Eye's fish spent his days and nights cruising for prey that offered an optimum of nourishment for a minimum of effort. A bit of promising carrion here. A young and inexperienced walleye there. Or maybe a lump of guts spilled from the rotting carcass of a dead deer. It made no difference. Anything he could get into his mouth, a gaping maw approximately as big around as a Pontiac hubcap, was considered fair game.

  As one might imagine, this boundless and largely indiscriminate appetite made it necessary for the big fish to hunt throughout the entire river, including the general area known as Paff's Pond, above which Pooch Eye Ziegler's Zebco rod and reel were at that moment poised.

  Paff's Pond was really nothing more than a wide place in the river near a bridge on State Highway 52. The highway connected the slowly decaying community of Tulleyville, North Dakota, to its equally desiccated neighbors to the east and west. The river itself traced a meandering trail down from Canada, made a U-turn somewhere close to the middle of Wallace County, and then beat a determined retreat for the border. Eight or nine decades ago, when the area was a hotbed of homesteading activity and the bridge was an important factor in local transportation, an enterprising German immigrant named Gunther Paff had built a flour mill on the site, thereby turning the lethargic waters of the Big Hungry and his neighbors' hard red wheat into a considerable profit. After approximately six years spent making the German's fortune, the river was relieved of its duties by a large and mysterious fire. It completely consumed the mill and left nothing but the stone foundation and some charred lumber that floated for a month or two on the mill pond and then disappeared downstream.

  Pooch Eye was perched on the largest of those moss-covered foundation stones that late morning. He was nursing a minor hangover and quietly pondering his shaky finances, a condition that had been made even worse by an enthusiastic but unsuccessful attempt to loosen the moral resistance of Deedee Christianson via the medium of gin and tonic. Not a man to wallow needlessly in failure, Pooch Eye had self-prescribed a bit of catfishing to restore his spirits. Now, with the sun warming his back and two cans of Miller Lite working in his veins, Pooch Eye was beginning to feel quite content and even a little drowsy.

  The fish, however, was intensely focused on the chunk of aged Spam that offered itself on the sharpened trebble hook at the end of Pooch Eye's 20-pound-test line. He wanted that greasy piece of meat, wanted it badly. But, still, there was something about the way it hung there in the water that made him cautious. Had it been lying on the river bottom or snagged in some aquatic foliage, he wouldn't have hesitated to scoop it up and be on his way. The unnatural pose of the morsel, however, made him halt and rerun the available data through his primitive brain. He hadn't grown to his current status through recklessness. This prudence notwithstanding, in a minute or so his hunger would have overcome his microscopic intelligence sufficiently to prompt him to hit the bait and make Pooch Eye the heavyweight champion of Big Hungry catfish hunting.

  Unfortunately, it was at this point that the soon-to-be-famous floater made its way into Paff's Pond. The intruder was at least a foot longer than the fish and even bigger around, making it, in the fish's view, something to be feared or at the very least avoided.

  With a leisurely wag of his massive tail the catfish turned from the bait and swam out of Pooch Eye's life forever.

  Chapter 2

  Two mornings before Pooch Eye's macabre encounter with the soon-to-be-celebrated floater, Darrell Johnson and Otto Wesley were hurtling north on Big Hungry Road about five miles upstream from Paff's Pond.

  Darrell, a large jeans-and-flannel specimen who would never be a significant threat to any scholarship fund, was trying to revive a miles-long debate. He lifted a multi-stained Versatile tractor cap off his head, ran a hand through his thinning blond hair, and released a long, loud sigh in the direction of his partner.

  "I still say we ought to take it over and let them dogs work on it."

  "And I still say shut the fuck up and drive."

  Darrell fought the wheel of the bright orange Ackerman Dray Lines pickup for a moment as it hit a series of washboard ruts in the gravel road.

  "Shit, it wouldn't hurt nothing at all. Just take a couple minutes. Sniff, sniff, and we'd know for sure."

  Otto stirred from the corner of the cab where he had been trying in vain to catch a nap. "How far now?"

  Darrell glanced at his delivery order and then turned his attention back to the road, which was becoming rougher with each mile. This guy sure lived far enough out in the sticks, he thought. Damned near to Canada.

  "Work order says look for a big black mailbox."

  Otto jerked a thumb toward the large wood-and-cardboard crate in the back of the pickup. "Better be a huge motherfucker."

  The package was a good six feet tall and three feet wide. Someone had used a black marker to write "FRAGILE" and "HANDLE WITH CARE!" on all sides of the box. There was no return address, but the shipping information revealed that the crate had originated in a suburb of Miami, Florida. The remote possibility that the package contained a bail of marijuana had engendered a long, profane discussion between Darrell and Otto as to their own legal liability should they be stopped by government drug agents. They had also touched on the package's retail value, but neither one had mustered the courage to suggest keeping the package and reaping any possible rewards themselves.

  Darrell favored stopping by his family's farm to let his daddy's coon dogs investigate. Otto, a more pragmatic and perhaps somewhat brighter soul, wanted to "get the fuckin' thing delivered and out of the truck and let the son of a bitch deal with it himself."

  Neither one of them considered, for even the briefest moment, the possibility of sharing their suspicions with the local police.

  "Black mailbox," Otto said pointing through the dust-covered windshield. "Turn in here."

  Darrell cranked the wheel sharply to the right and slid around the mailbox onto a dirt driveway. He floored the accelerator and the truck fishtailed once and righted itself as Otto bounced against his door.

  "You drive like an asshole…you know that?"

  "Yeah. You mentioned it."

  The house at the end of the driveway sat comfortably under a pair of cottonwood trees, sharing the old farmyard with a newly built three-car garage and an ancient but well preserved hip-roof barn. A half dozen outbuildings in varying degrees of decomposition squatted among the idle farm machinery and old vehicles. Brightly colored chickens were moving in and out of the largest of the shacks and several sleepy horses stood flicking flies in the meager shade of a dying pine tree.

  Darrel
l pointed excitedly toward the garage. "There, that's a Volvo. Drug dealers, man. Sure sign."

  "Fuck you, my aunt drives a Volvo."

  "Well, that's St. fucking Paul. This is Tulleyville and I say it’s a drug ring."

  Otto rolled his eyes as his partner brought the truck to a sliding halt in front of the farmhouse. The hinge on the passenger side protested as he opened the door and stepped out. He could hear the river moving over the shallows on the far side of the barn. As he began untying the cord holding the crate, his eyes settled on a row of barn swallows sitting on the power line leading into the house. The sky beyond the line was filling with dark clouds.

  "Looks like it could be a real turd floater."

  "Holy shit, Otto, look at that!" Darrell was pointing toward the front door.

  Otto looked toward the porch. The biggest dog he had ever seen was slowly getting to his feet. He looked vaguely like a German shepherd, but had to be as big as the Shetland pony Otto had given his sister's kids the summer before. His ears were laid back against his head and his tail hung almost straight down. A ridge of dirty gray fur rose from his neck and ran halfway down his back. The tail, Otto noticed, was not wagging.

  Darrell was still frozen to his spot on the other side of the truck. "Jesus, is that even a dog? Looks like a fucking wolverine."

  Otto wondered silently if Darrell had actually ever seen a wolverine.

  The dog stepped off the porch and began walking slowly toward the truck growling softly. By the time he reached the truck, both men were inside with the windows rolled up. Darrell was locking his door.

  "You think he’s gonna open a car door?"

  “You need any help with that crate,” Darrell said, staring at the dog, “you let me know and I’ll see if I can find somebody.”

  "Hell with that." Otto looked at the work order. "Who the fuck lives here anyway? Don't look like they’re home right now."

  "You want to just shove it out the back and take off?”

  “Naw. Let's put it in the barn and leave a note."

  Darrell backed the truck up to the barn’s open double doors and the two men quickly unloaded the crate. On the way out, they stopped by the mailbox while Otto scribbled a message.

  "Tell them their fuckin' wolverine got loose,” Darrell said, “and let’s get the hell outa here.”

  Chapter 3

  The newsroom at the Porterville Daily Journal was the most primitive place Jerry Guthrie had worked in all of his 11 years as a reporter. Although the paper had fostered three generations of millionaires and continued to gin out prodigious amounts of money, the current members of the Boone family, publishers of the paper, were not the kind of folks who lavished money on the newsgathering side of the business.

  Not that there wasn't a certain amount of lavishing going on. Ad sales managers, for example, drove company cars. Upper management had the latest in time-saving computers and software. Both of the Boone children, Ricky and Sarah, drove deluxe new Land Rovers, complete with topside cargo carriers, front-bumper winches, and high-stacked exhaust systems for fording raging streams (of which there were precious few in the Porterville area). The current president of the company, E.L. Boone, and his wife Marie spent the harsh North Dakota winters tucked into their villa-like retirement home in Scottsdale, Arizona.

  The newsroom, with its penal-institution lime-green paint job, was equipped with manual Royal typewriters, through each of which was threaded a continuous roll of newsprint. The reporters, perched at three-desk clusters and competing for the single telephone that graced each cluster, worked their beats for compensation that barely topped minimum wage. The Boones steadfastly refused to improve either the reporters' salaries or their working conditions, even though it had been pointed out on several occasions that word processing stations linking the reporters and back shop would actually produce a significant savings.

  The working conditions, of course, engendered staff-wide pissing and moaning. For a thriving, moneymaking operation, the Journal had about the worst morale possible.

  Not everyone was unhappy, though. Jerry Guthrie, by virtue of a résumé that included The Kansas City Star (six months as a general assignment reporter), had managed to position himself as the Journal's solitary "color" reporter. This meant that while his colleagues were busy covering the Fox Hole City Sewer Committee meeting or unearthing the Pheasantville United Way results or grilling local officials on any number of other important issues, Jerry was free to roam the Journal's circulation area searching for poignancy and pathos. It was this freedom that kept him from accepting the frequent offers of several higher-paying publications. That, and the fact that his salary – a closely held management secret – was roughly two and a half times that of his fellow reporters.

  This relative bounty that made it possible for Jerry to explore the hinterlands, as well as to live there. He often wrote at home on a Macintosh laptop computer and used the machine's Internet connection to file his stories in Porterville where they would be sent directly from the editor's desk to the composing room. As long as he continued to supply the paper with pithy observations and touching insights on a regular schedule, he was for the most part left to his own devices.

  Jerry Guthrie was a slender six-footer with an unruly mop of brown hair, hazel eyes, and a narrow face dominated by a longish, crooked nose that had been badly broken in his high school years. He told the locals that it was a football injury, but it was actually broken in an incident involving a hot tub, teenage nudity, and an artistic stomping administered by a jealous boyfriend. The incident’s only connection to football was that the boyfriend had been a promising high school linebacker named Rolly Korbet. The beating had inspired a curious response in young Mr. Guthrie. Instead of curtailing his romantic efforts regarding the linebacker’s girlfriend and avoiding the impressively muscled youngster who had beaten him, Guthrie undertook a policy of extreme harrassment. Every time he’d see Rolly, he would run up and hit him as hard as he could. Then he’d take another beating. Once, he’d run across the lunchroom and launched himself feet first into young Rolly’s impressively developed chest, knocking the air out of his victim and almost knocking himself unconscious in the process. The campaign lasted nearly two weeks and became the stuff of high school legend. At the end, it became too much for even a linebacker to handle and Rolly began avoiding Guthrie. That year, Jerry took the linebacker’s now-former girlfriend to the school’s Homecoming Week dance and would have taken her to the Junior Prom had he not tired of her and wandered off in search of more stimulating romance. His reputation as someone not to be trifled with was assured, even though he’d never even come close to beating up his rival. Sheer lunacy and determination had carried the day. It was a lesson he never forgot…even though he never again had to take such extreme measures.

  Guthrie had purchased the old Henry Knutson farmstead shortly after getting the "color" job at the paper. His property covered approximately ten acres fronting the river and another 40 acres of pastureland behind the barn. Upon moving in, Jerry had stocked the pasture with a handful of unspectacular riding horses, acquired some banty chickens, and adopted a billy goat named Hammerhead. He'd also acquired a half Great Dane and half Irish wolfhound pup he named Teddy.

  At the moment, Jerry was paying one of his rare in-person visits to the offices of the Porterville Daily Journal. He had worn clean jeans, a tweed sports jacket, and conspicuously white sneakers for the occasion.

  Guthrie was there to defend what he considered to be the most important story of his career, a story he intended to milk to a fare-thee-well. Best of all, it had quite literally come to him.

  Guthrie had been quietly drinking beer in Nolen’s bar, the watering hole of choice for the more colorful citizens of Tulleyville. He often hung out listening to the “voice of the people,” as his editor June LeGrand was likely to say in their rare meetings. He found some of his best material simply by listening and, if questioned by the locals, agreeing with almost anything they m
ight say.

  The topic on that particular night had been the impending Big Hungry Recreational Project and the part played in it by local millionaire rancher and businessman Harlen Ackerman. Guthrie’s fellow drinkers apparently disapproved of the project, which promised to dam the Big Hungry River, create a huge recreational lake, and flood out huge chunks of ranch and farm land, as well as Big Hungry Park. The park figured prominently in the social lives of these men. Aside from its beer hall, café, and roller rink, the park was situated alongside the part of the river considered a fisherman’s paradise. Northern pike abounded in the waters, as did perch, walleye, and several varieties of catfish and bullheads…including, of course, the monster that had eluded Pooch Eye Ziegler’s artfully constructed ambush. Many of the assembled protesters had taken their first deer in the area. Nearly all of them had tasted their first beer or choked down their inaugural shot of cheap whiskey while driving down the back roads that paralleled the river. They were loath to lose all of that to a recreational lake filled with speedboats, jet skis, and other toys of the rich.