Big Hungry: A Novel Page 2

  Plus, there was the matter of the tiny Tulleyville cemetery which would have to be dug up and relocated on higher ground. No one in the bar that night wanted to have the eternal rest of his ancestors disturbed in the name of fattening Harlen Ackerman’s already swollen bank balance.

  Guthrie knew that sooner or later someone in the bar would recognize him from the photo the paper often ran with his columns and articles. He would probably be called upon to give his considered opinion of the situation and be invited to join the debate, although at this point it was more of a communal rant than a debate. Sometimes, just for his own amusement, Guthrie would take a contrary view. Stir things up a bit, see just how deep the local passions were running. These guys seemed fairly excited already, though, so he decided early on that tonight he was going to be one of them…or at least as much as he could be while remaining a neutral, objective member of the press.

  Just as he was ordering another Schlitz, proprietor and bartender Jimmy Nolen recognized him and hollered, “Newspaper man in the house. Count your change.”

  The assembled drinkers laughed and Guthrie took it in good sport. Within 30 seconds, he was holding forth on the subject of man-made lakes and large recreational projects. His audience, enthralled by mass-evaporation figures, employment statistics, and other such information, really had no way of knowing that almost all of what Guthrie was spouting was pure fabrication. He purposely painted a grim picture of capitalism’s relentless and nearly always successful march toward maximum profits. They were screwed, he explained, and there wasn’t a whole lot they could do about it.

  “I can understand where you guys are coming from, though,” he said, by way of closing his part in the discussion. “I’d hate to have my old granny dug up and dragged off somewhere. Trouble is, rich people’s folks aren’t buried in that little cemetery, so it really doesn’t matter to them. You want to get a rich guy’s attention…you gotta hit him where he lives. You gotta find something that he cares about or something that scares the shit out of him. Otherwise, it’s all just blue smoke and bullshit.”

  Guthrie left the bar shortly after that pronouncement, feeling that he had perhaps gone a little overboard. Oratory powered by Schlitz, he mused to himself as he walked down the deserted streets of Tulleyville. He was about half a block from his truck when a car slammed on its brakes beside him. It was an older model Ford, one of those relics from the days when gasoline sold for 30 cents a gallon. The rear driver’s side door opened and three hooded men tumbled out. One of them tripped, fell to his knees, and said, “Shit, Darrell, get the fuck outa my way.”

  Someone, probably Darrell, said, “Shut up…no names.”

  The three men grabbed Guthrie, dropped a burlap feed sack over his head, and shoved him onto the floor of the back seat. A two-inch hole in the sack let Guthrie breathe easily and even get a good look at the men as they peeled off their masks. There seemed to be five kidnappers altogether, three in the front and two holding him down in the back. Even if they’d kept their hoods on, Guthrie would have recognized them as the men he’d been talking to in Nolan’s Bar. He concluded that he was not in mortal danger, unless it would be from the exhaust he could smell seeping up through a rusted out spot in the car’s floor.

  After a high-speed escape from the scene, the driver of the car slowed down and turned onto a gravel road. In seven minutes, the car bumped over something and came to an abrupt halt. Guthrie could see his watch’s glowing face and figured that at the car’s speed they had to be about ten or 15 miles from Tulleyville. He could hear water running and thought for a moment that he might be in a little more trouble than he had originally assumed. The last man to be lynched in Wallace County had been hanged from a bridge on the Big Hungry River. Even though the hanging had happened many decades ago, it was still not a comforting thought as Guthrie’s abductors pulled him from the car and snatched the bag from his head. They’d all donned their own disguises by then and were milling around as if they were waiting for him to say something.

  “Okay,” he said. “You got me. Now what?”

  A large guy in a flannel shirt with a bandana tied cowboy style across his nose and mouth stepped up. “We know who you are,” he said. “Are you with us or against us?”

  “Who the fuck are you,” he answered, taking charge…a little pissed off, but also interested.

  “You can call us the River Rats,” bandana said. Behind him somebody muttered, “fuckin’ aye” and the rest of the gang members mumbled their agreement.

  “Okay…I’ll play your silly game. You’re the River Rats. What’s that mean to me?”

  It took at least half an hour to drag the story out of the reticent desperadoes. They were, they finally explained, a group of concerned citizens who wanted support from the Porterville Daily Journal in their struggle against the Big Hungry Recreational Project. Specifically, they wanted Guthrie to write a major article on the evils of the project and the lying, cheating, and stealing that was being done by Harlen Ackerman and his stooges. After pressing their case for an additional twenty minutes or so, they ordered Guthrie to put the bag back on his head and get back into the car.

  They dropped him off in Tulleyville near his truck and roared away. Guthrie went home and emailed his editor a lurid 600-word story on the incident, which was why he was now making one of his rare appearances at the newspaper.

  Guthrie’s editor, June LeGrand, was a slender, almost attractive woman in her mid-forties. Guthrie had briefly considered her as romance material, but she’d been disqualified by a nose…her own nose, actually, which tended to bob up and down slightly as she talked. The more adamant she became, the more pronounced the bobbing. June had been in the business since graduating from Brainard Junior College with a degree in communications twenty-four years ago. She’d never gone on to a four-year college or a degree in journalism. Instead, she opted to learn by experience. She’d worked on weekly newspapers, a handful of startup magazines that all failed, and three other dailies before settling at the Daily Journal. She was an excellent editor and the most likeable boss Guthrie had ever worked for. She was especially good at working with difficult reporters, a category in which Guthrie often belonged. She had Guthrie’s story in front of her when he walked into her office.

  “Is this shit true?” she asked as he flopped down in the chair across from her desk.

  “Yep…every throbbing syllable.”

  “These guys are serious? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, they sound like a bunch of boneheads.”

  "Serious boneheads."

  "Any chance they’re going to do something stupid?”

  "Almost a hundred percent they'll try. I wouldn't bet one way or the other if they'll actually get anything done. Why? You want another piece? Maybe a series?"

  "Maybe. They know you’re a reporter?"

  "Hell yes. I'm famous.”

  "You knew who they were? All of them?"

  “Pretty much. This is the bonehead gang. Security’s not their strong suit…although one of them did tell me I’d have to swear myself to secrecy."

  "So you swore."

  "What I did was promise not to reveal their names or the location of the meeting, which was easy because I didn't really know where we were. There's a bunch of old bridges up on that old river. I could probably find it if I had to, but why bother?

  "Anyway, they seemed happy with it, so I asked them what their meeting was all about and did they have a list of demands or what. They were a little disorganized, kind of confused. Not really used to being terrorists, I guess. Probably the biggest project so far was grabbing me, and they did that on a deserted street in Tulleyville for God’s sake. No list of demands, no manifesto…not even a motto. All they wanted was for me to help them stop Harlen Ackerman from flooding the Big Hungry River Valley. Said they were prepared to do anything to get him stopped."

  "So what did you tell them?"

  "I bullshitted them about the ethics of journalism. How I’d have to stay neutral on
the issue. You want to know what I think…they were looking for a leader. Seemed kind of bummed that I didn’t want the job. I did tell them one thing, though."

  "Oh, jeez. Here it comes."

  "It's not as bad as you think. I just told them that most organizations like theirs usually had some kind of positioning statement. That's all. They had a little election right on the spot and decided on a motto."

  "That was your contribution?"

  "Yep, it's right there in the story. DAM THE RIVER AND DIE! Catchy, huh?”

  "You think they'd actually kill somebody?"

  "I think they'd give it a shot. For sure, they'd be competent enough for some serious vandalism if the Rec District ever starts bulldozing."

  June shifted in her chair and tossed the River Rats story back onto her desk. "Think you could get another meeting?"

  "Sure. But what's the angle?”

  "Somebody took a shot at Harlen Ackerman at one of his farms out by Tulleyville. Might not be anything to it, but I'd hate to miss it if the River Rats or somebody else is starting a shooting war out there."

  "They hit him? Bullet bounce off?”

  "Don’t know. Get up there and find out what's going on.”

  She looked at a schedule on her desk. "Take a camera along. I want some front-page art with this if it gets really serious, especially if somebody important gets popped…and be careful.”

  Chapter 4

  The large crate sitting in the barn bothered Teddy a lot.

  There had never been a thing like that in the barn before and that just wasn't right. Teddy was a rock-ribbed conservative, law-and-order Republican kind of canine with a fine appreciation for consistency. He considered it his job to keep an eye on things when Jerry left the farm and to make sure that everything was precisely the same when Jerry returned. So far, the 190-pound guardian of barnyard status quo had settled accounts with a marauding red fox, an ambitious young badger, and one chicken-loving skunk. All of these contests had ended quickly and fatally for his opponents, although the skunk's presence had lingered long after his death. That episode had left Teddy with a profound aversion to both skunks and to the tomato juice in which Guthrie had bathed him. He had also easily mauled a dozen or so local farm dogs that had dared hike a leg on his territory. As a matter of routine, he confidently challenged every new arrival at the farm.

  The box in the barn, however, posed a new kind of problem. It was clearly not some undersized varmint lusting after a free chicken dinner. Nor was it an ambitious cur looking to expand his territory and mating prospects. It was bigger than Teddy and it seemed completely unimpressed by growling, bristling hair, or any of the other standard canine warnings.

  Pausing prudently in the large doorway that opened into the barn, Teddy considered his options. A roaring charge had worked well with the Erickson's golden retriever. A flanking strategy had paid off in the badger battle. None of those seemed appropriate in this case. Teddy was well equipped in dog-style warfare, but he was completely unschooled in the nuances of crate combat.

  Finally, he just walked up to his strange adversary, lifted a huge hind leg and launched a yellow torrent against the middle portion of the thick cardboard wall. An insult of that magnitude would surely inspire some sort of response.

  Nothing happened. The craven thing just sat there dripping.

  Teddy circled it twice growling softly. He put a massive paw on the corner and pushed lightly. To his surprise the crate moved. It wasn't nearly as heavy as he had expected. Bolder now, he reared up on his hind legs and put his forepaws heavily on the top of the crate. One push and the crate flopped easily onto its side, exposing the cheap pinewood that formed its base.

  Here was something Teddy could understand. He clamped his massive jaws down on a piece of two-by-four and began chewing with grim purpose. As he settled down to his task, he barely noticed that rain had begun to fall.

  Chapter 5

  Harlen Ackerman was pissed.

  Rain poured off the brim of his black 3-X-beaver Stetson and a cold, wet wind tugged at his chore coat. His jeans were soaked, his boots were beginning to fill with shitty brown water, and he was fairly sure that the expensively bred, impressively pedigreed two-year-old Hereford heifer he was working on was going to die having her first calf.

  His own damned fault, too, he thought bitterly. That Sorenson bull he'd bred the heifer to had a reputation for throwing big calves. The bull itself was so big he would about ruin a cow's hindquarters just mounting her.

  The heifer moaned desperately again, forcing Harlen's thoughts back to the work at hand. He rolled up his shirtsleeve and shoved his hand into the heifer's birth canal. He pushed until he could feel the calf's oversized, mother-killing head. Feeling under its chin, he found the trouble. The calf's two front feet should have been pointed forward to form a streamlined package for delivery. One of the feet was there, but the other was turned back, making the calf's shoulder bulge out and block the passage. He had to get his hand down beside the calf, grab the hoof, and pull it up even with its mate before he could apply any serious pressure.

  "Sonofabitch," he muttered as the cow's contraction clamped down on his arm.

  Another two minutes passed before he got a good grip on the calf's errant leg. He pulled it up into place and managed to get the youngster's face and feet to appear at the cow's bleeding, slimy opening. Working quickly, he looped a thin rope around the calf's exposed feet, braced his right boot against the cow's upper leg, and pulled as hard as he could.

  Nothing happened for a moment or two. Then the calf began moving toward him. It came slowly at first until the head cleared the cow. Finally, with a wet woosh, the calf sailed out of his long-suffering mother and landed squarely and messily on Harlen Ackerman's lap.

  "Sonofabitch," he said quietly. He was sitting past his belt loops in the same manure tea that had been filling his boots a moment ago. He could feel it running down the back of his pants into the crack of his ass. The front of his shirt and his jeans were covered with cow placenta and manure. His hat was floating in the watery muck somewhere behind him.

  "Sonofabitch," he said again, this time directly to the calf. "I've been dipped in shit and rolled in afterbirth. It don't get any better than this."

  He paused a moment to catch his breath and remove the rope from the calf's feet. Then he returned his soggy hat to his head, gathered the calf in his arms, and began wading toward the barn through the shallow brown lake that surrounded the manure pile upon which the heifer had chosen to experience the miracle of motherhood.

  "I'll come back for you in a minute, Mama," he shouted back to the heifer, which by now was struggling to her feet.

  He was half way to the barn when he saw the calf’s newly revived mother coming after him bawling insanely.

  "Shit," he said to the calf, "here comes Mama."

  Slogging through the water, he made it to the barn a few steps ahead of his pursuer. She stood moaning wildly outside the door.

  "Looks like you and your mama are gonna survive after all," he said as he wiped the calf off with a piece of burlap sacking. "Close call for all of us."

  "Jesus, Harlen," said a voice from inside the barn, "why don't you hire some more cowboys? You're covered in shit from head to toe."

  Ackerman looked up at his visitor. "I got lots of cowboys, Odell, and I got plenty of dirty work for all of them. You oughta know that."

  Odell Scrum shifted his plastic-covered, snap-brim Stetson from one hand to the other. He was sitting on the edge of a hay bale, feeling his sinuses fill with dust and the smell of wet animal.

  "What you got for me, Odell? I'm a little busy right now. I need to get that cow in here before she dies or kills somebody. Don't suppose you'd give me a hand?"

  "Allergies, Harlen." Scrum said, rising to his full six-foot, three-inch height. "I shouldn't even be here in this dust bin. And I wouldn't be if it wasn't important."

  "Well sit your skinny, wrinkled old ass down and wait a minute. W
hatever it is, I'm pretty sure it ain't more important than keeping a $4,000 investment alive. Not after what I've been through with the damned thing. Sonofabitch, I just love a day like this."

  Twenty minutes later, the two were sitting in the kitchen of a ramshackle farmhouse. The house, one of the half dozen that Harlen Ackerman owned in and around Wallace County, sat about 100 yards from the barn where the new mother and baby were resting on a bed of clean oat straw. This particular house was home to one of the score of Norwegian bachelors who worked for Ackerman as farmhands. Harlen was extremely generous to his help, more so than Scrum would have been, for sure. But he also took liberties that, in the lawyer’s view, could spell trouble someday. Harlen had opened the door and marched in as though he lived there himself. Didn’t even holler, “Anybody home?” The house was a two-story place built in the 1920s and looked every bit that old, Scrum thought, with deeply gouged linoleum floors and a few out-of-date kitchen appliances. He could only imagine what the bedrooms and bathrooms looked like. It was not the place for a man of Harlen Ackerman’s financial and social stature.