Contract Killer Read online

  Contract Killer

  Richard Hoyt

  © Richard Hoyt 1985

  Richard Hoyt has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published as ‘Fish Story’ in 1985 by Viking Penguin.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  for Janice Johnson

  The skies they were ashen and sober;

  The leaves they were crisped and sere —

  The leaves they were withering and sere;

  It was night in the lonesome October

  Of my most immemorial year.

  - EDGAR ALLAN POE, from Ulalume

  Table of Contents

  1 – MELINDA

  2 - RODNEY’S VOW

  3 - DISCOVERY IN THE PARK

  4 – KILLERS

  5 - THE DOIE

  6 - STARK’S STORY

  7 – WARRIORS

  8 - UNDERGROUND

  9 – SIRENS

  10 – SALMON

  11 - LIARS AND LISTENING DEVICES

  12 - DETECTIVE WILLIS

  13 - HILLENDALE’S CALLING

  14 - MAN IN A WHITE HAT

  15 - FOXX JENSEN

  16 - MR. AND MRS. EGAN

  17 - DOWN AT THE STATION

  18 - BACK RUB

  19 – RENEGADE

  20 – PARTNERS

  21 – OMISSION

  22 - AS SEEN ON TV

  23 – AMANITA MUSCARIA

  24 - PARTICLES OF CLAY, TRAINED DOGS

  25 - A HOWLING

  26 – WILLIS GOES UNDERGROUND

  27 - BUZZING OF A SAW

  28 – ENCOUNTER

  29 - IN THE BEGINNING

  30 – COYOTE

  31 - WE’RE ON OUR WAY, DENSON

  32 - EARLY IN THE MORNING

  33 – EPILOGUE

  1 – MELINDA

  The late summer salmon harvest had been poor for yet another year in the Pacific Northwest, but it was in and counted before the fish story began. Willie Prettybird and I were facing dislocation from our old darts haunt at the Pig’s Alley, which wasn’t the best start. The Pig’s view of Puget Sound was too good and the colorful hubbub of Pike Place Market was too handy for Tontos like Willie and Lone Rangers like me. Willie and I knew that and weren’t surprised when the Pig’s Alley was sold, scheduled for replacement by a restaurant to be called Le Cuisine de Pacifique.

  Willie went into a fruitcake imitation when we heard the news. “Oh, Jesus, Denson,” he lisped. His wrists drooped like wet towels. Willie was a Native American, a real Indian — not a make-believe or a pretend one. “It’s just so wonderful!” he said. “All those sweet, sweet people will be coming down here to eat food from Paris, France.”

  I said, “There’ll be waiters dressed like butlers in old movies.”

  “There’ll be cute little tables with candles in the center. The talk’ll be as soft as the wings of a dove.” Willie fluttered his fingers and grinned. He made kissing sounds with his lips. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

  “The menfolk’ll wear blue blazers with nifty little buttons,” I said. I held my wrists up and admired imaginary blue blazer cuffs.

  “Oh, yes, and the ladies’ll take extra time with their makeup, maybe wear a dress to show a little boob there.” Willie Prettybird cupped his hands on his chest by way of demonstration. “They’ll know the food is good because there won’t be much of it and the prices’ll be outrageous. The gentleman will be casual when he pulls his VISA — no swallowing or grinding of teeth. And the message to m’lady? If you please, Mr. Denson.”

  “This guy’s got bucks. Lean forward,” I said. I pretended to leer at Willie’s make-believe breasts. That’s the way it was with Willie and me, Chingachgook and Natty Bumppo, Chief Dumbshit and the Natural Assholete.

  Melinda Prettybird came to me for help on the next to the last night at the Pig’s Alley. The final, melancholy hours were upon us. The drinkers and talkers at the Pig’s faced the end with spirit — agitated, euphoric with nostalgia, they decided to start a memorable wake a day before the death was official. Under the circumstances and considering the victim, they said, that was the correct thing to do. It was a Friday night, and when the jazz band arrived the drinking would begin in earnest. The regulars would close the Pig’s out on Friday and Saturday nights. On Sunday they would rest.

  Willie Prettybird and I played 301 late Friday afternoon, waiting for the wake to begin in earnest. I was sitting on a double-ten to beat Willie Prettybird when I spotted her walking through the crowd, coming right at us. She was an Indian with a walk that turned heads. I’d never seen Melinda but I suspected it might be her. I looked at Willie.

  Willie laughed. “My sister. I told her to meet us here.” Willie was pleased at my reaction. He was proud of Melinda. “She’s a looker, didn’t I tell you?”

  “Well, setting up an old pardner, eh? Your sister’ll be in good hands with me, Willie, you know that.”

  Ordinarily that would have earned a put-down, but Willie was suddenly serious. “We’ve got a little problem we need to talk to you about, Denson.” He rose to greet his sister.

  “Is this your friend John Denson?” Melinda Prettybird was a short, extraordinarily pretty woman dressed in blue jeans and a checkered shirt. She had large, flirtatious brown eyes. Her glistening black hair was done in a handsome braid and fell to the small of her back.

  I rose to shake her small hand.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Denson.” Melinda gave me a smile that was both shy and provocative. Melinda Prettybird was Indian-beautiful, which is to say exotic and Asian, not white-woman-beautiful. She looked me straight on with those flirtatious brown eyes. They were enough to make a man’s knees buckle.

  Willie and I ordinarily talked about out-darts and the Sonics. We razzed and were razzed in turn. We didn’t talk a whole lot about family although I knew his sister, Melinda, had had her ups and downs. After Melinda had taken a seat, Willie got right on with it. “A man in a ski mask beat up one of Melinda’s boyfriends last night, put him in a hospital.” He cleared his throat. “Crashed right into the bedroom.”

  Melinda looked embarrassed. “Last night was the third time,” she said.

  I looked at Willie. “Bedroom attacks? What are you talking about?”

  “The guy says Melinda’s next.” Willie was one worried Redskin. “It’s her ex-husband, Mike Stark. We’re sure of it. Listen to this, Denson. Tell him, Melinda.”

  “I knew there was something wrong with Mike from the beginning, Mr. Denson.” Melinda’s eyes were disappointed, bitter. “Big-deal history professor. Big-deal fishing rights expert. Why would a guy like that marry a Cowlitz squaw eighteen years younger than himself? In three years of marriage he never got off my case, not once. Claimed I was going to bed with every male in the city of Seattle. I couldn’t talk to a grocery clerk without him freaking out …”

  Willie said, “A guy like that’s not right upstairs. You know that, Denson.”

  “… we had two sons before I packed my suitcases.” Melinda fell silent. It was hard for her to continue.

  I knew most of the story. The courts awarded Melinda nearly two hundred thousand dollars of Mike Stark’s family money, which she promptly turned over to her brothers to help start a fishing business. Willie had gotten his start working part-time at the counter of a fish stall in the Pike Place Market and wound up managing the place. His brother, Rodney, worked as a deck hand on a commercial fishing boat. With a little help from the Small Business Administration, they launched the Pretty-bird Fish Company — with Rodney in charge of their four gillnet boats operating out of Astoria, Oregon, just off the mouth of the Columbia River.

  There is no a
dequate way of saying how much Willie Prettybird appreciated his sister. Anybody who hurt Melinda hurt Willie. Younger brother, Rodney, felt the same way, only Rodney, under the influence of Old Granddad, was notorious for his temper.

  “This was the third time? Why didn’t you say something earlier, Willie?” I was irritated and let it show. I was Willie’s friend, a private investigator. He should have come to me earlier.

  “I didn’t want him to,” Melinda said. “I was embarrassed. The guy didn’t say anything the first couple of times. I figured he’d give up. Last night was different.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “I guess last night he let me know how crazy he really is.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He gave me this.” Melinda opened her handbag and retrieved a note, which she unfolded on the table for me to read. The note, in large, handwritten block letters, said:

  I WANTED YOU TO SEE WHAT I CAN DO SO YOU WILL BELIEVE WHAT I SAY, MISS BRIGHT EYES. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO. DO IT OR YOUR FACE IS NEXT.

  Willie said, “Why did he give her a note, Denson? Why didn’t he just threaten her?”

  “I guess because he thought she might recognize his voice.”

  Willie was pissed. “Mike Stark.”

  I said, “Can you give me the details leading up to last night, Melinda? Everything you can think of.”

  “Tell him everything, sis. I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t keep your confidence.”

  Melinda Prettybird sighed. “Well, I met a man named Marshall Collins, lives down in Tacoma. He’s a nice guy. Things were going okay between us. He was real pleasant. He even liked the way I cook eggs.” Melinda laughed at that. “I break the darn yolks every time. He even likes Michael and Bert — those are my little boys. Marshall runs one of those franchised taco places in Tacoma, the Titanic Taco.” She stopped momentarily.

  Willie said, “Tell him everything, sis. He’ll need to know everything.”

  “I know, Willie, but it’s hard.”

  “Denson’s heard it all, I’m sure,” he said.

  “So Marshall and I are in bed, Mr. Denson, a little high off some southern Oregon bud Marshall bought for us last week. We’re watching reruns of Saturday Night Live and eating some Titanic Taco nachos Marshall brought with him. He’d been bringing me big boxes of frozen burritos and stuff.”

  “And along comes a guy with a ski mask over his face?”

  “Along comes the guy with ski mask. Two holes for his eyes, one for his mouth, that’s it. The guy’s so quick I don’t get a good look at him.” Melinda looked like she was about ready to cry.

  Willie said, “The guy beats hell out of Marshall and gives Melinda the note.”

  “I think I better go to the ladies’ room,” Melinda said. She started to get up. She was fighting tears. “Listen, this is hard, you know. I’ve got Prib Ostrow sitting Michael and Bert. It isn’t fair to take advantage of his good nature like this. What do you say you two play a few games of darts and come on down to my place. Give me a couple of hours and we can finish then. I’ll be okay with Prib.”

  “Oh, sure, sis,” Willie said. “I’ll give you a call after a while. When you’re ready, we’ll come on over.”

  “Thank you, Willie. I appreciate all this, Mr. Denson.”

  “No problem,” I said. A man would do almost anything for a woman with eyes like Melinda Prettybird’s. I watched her small, vulnerable figure as Willie escorted her to her car.

  The Pig’s Alley regulars would have to do without us at the start of the wake.

  2 - RODNEY’S VOW

  When Willie Prettybird returned to the Pig’s, I let him know I was sore. He had it coming. “Listen, Chief Bungwad, why in the hell didn’t you come to me earlier? I’m disease-free. I feed parking meters. It’s dangerous and stupid to let something like that ride.”

  Willie ordered another pitcher of beer. We had some serious talking to do. “Your fee is what’s wrong with you, Denson. This kind of thing is how you earn your living.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe he’d said that.

  “What money we haven’t spent on Rodney’s boats and fixing nets, we’ve blown on the Cowlitz lawsuit, and that’s the truth.”

  I said, “Willie, if I were a dentist and Melinda had a toothache, I wouldn’t charge her for pulling the damned thing. If I were a doctor and you had hemorrhoids, I wouldn’t charge for operating on your ass. We’re talking about your sister, man.”

  “I always pay my way,” Willie said.

  “You always pay your own way,” I mimicked his voice. “Okay, Chief, if you insist. Full tariff it is. You have to be my doubles partner in the Seattle Dart Classic. I don’t mind being carried by someone who can hit an out-dart. All I want is glory and a trophy.”

  Willie looked like I’d socked him with a bill for ten grand. “Man, you don’t come cheap.”

  “You’re the one who said you wanted to pay your own way. Pride costs sometimes. You also have to spring for my screw-top and raw vegetables while I’m on the case. That could add up.”

  “Just how much money you think a guy makes selling fish, anyway?”

  “Tut, tut, Willie. Let’s not be cheap. I won’t have it. You get what you pay for. You’re lucky I don’t drink corked wine.” I took a sip of beer. “Heap big warpath. Let’s do it.”

  Willie leaned forward. “Okay, Kemosabe, only I get to help. I can do legwork.”

  “Only if you tell me what Kemosabe means?”

  “It means chickenshit,” Willie said.

  “Well, I resemble that,” I said. “Now then, are you telling me that Melinda didn’t tell Marshall about the first two beatings? The guy just walks right in? She hasn’t changed the lock or anything?”

  “Who’d have thought it would have happened a third time? It’s been, what, six weeks since the first time.”

  Whoa! Melinda Prettybird had an active social life. “And the lock?” I asked. “Did you change the lock?”

  “That’s the crazy part. She’s changed the lock twice and he just walks right through. Tomorrow night I’m going over there and put some real locks on her door, maybe a couple of big old dead bolts.”

  “How bad was Marshall hurt?”

  “Broken jaw, a few loose teeth, eyes swollen shut. Shit, John, you should’ve seen him — his face looks like a plate of refried beans.”

  The memory of Melinda’s lovely brown eyes lingered with me. “The men around here would be a little better off if your sister weren’t so good-looking, Willie. What did the cops say? You did call the cops, I assume.”

  “Sure, sure, we called the cops.”

  “What happened?”

  “They went through a routine each time, you know. Both times they came back and said Mike Stark had an alibi. They said they don’t have any idea who else it might be. They said they’re doing their best. I always liked Mike Stark, Denson, you know that, but some guys bonk out when it comes to women. You just never know. When he and Melinda split, Mike said no other man would ever have her. No man. It all fits. He comes to pick up his kids; he knows who’s seeing his ex.”

  “Cops take things one step at a time,” I said.

  “Just because Mike got along with Rodney and me doesn’t mean Jack. He’s an okay guy but an asshole to Melinda. Melinda’s got some stories that’d make you shake your head. Hey, this’s all a matter of court record.”

  I read the note again. “I suppose it’s possible to interpret this a couple of ways.”

  Willie looked at the note himself. “Like how?”

  “Judging from the papers every day there’re a few salmon fishermen who don’t exactly love you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Willie said. “No reason for those guys to write little notes. It’s Mike Stark. It has to be. He doesn’t like the idea of Melinda’s having a boyfriend.”

  “Did the cops tell you what they did?”

  “Aw, come on, John. Do the cops do anything? I’m beginning to wonder if t
hey give a shit. So what if a squaw’s boyfriends get roughed up a little. You know how those things go.”

  I always thought Seattle cops were as honest as those in any large city. There were both winners and losers on the force, but it was hard to think Melinda had been treated casually because she was a Cowlitz. “I can’t believe they’re not trying,” I said.

  “The only thing wrong with my theory is Rodney says the guy isn’t Mike. He says it’s somebody else. He knows who it is.”

  “Ahh, brother Rodney knows who it is. Then there’s good news.”

  Willie sat back and sighed. “Bad, bad, bad news. Rodney says he’s gonna kill the son of a bitch.”

  I leaned forward. “Who? Who is he going to kill?”

  “He won’t say. That’s all I know.”

  “Maybe it’s Doug Egan,” I said. “You’re always talking about Egan’s stunts. From what you’ve been saying, Rodney’s lucky he hasn’t drowned out there. Maybe Egan’s upped the stakes. A little pressure on Melinda to get the Prettybird Fish Company out of their water.”

  “It’s Mike Stark,” Willie said.

  I knew a little about Willie’s fishing-rights lawsuit because he had gone over and over the logic of the Cowlitz case in our dart games. In the early 1850s, Governor Isaac Stevens signed various treaties to take care of the salmon fishing issue. The tribes in the center of the coast and in the north were taken care of first. In February 1855 Stevens met in council with the fish-eating tribes of the southwestern part of the state. The tribes didn’t have governments and chiefs in the usual sense, so Stevens, needing someone to sign his treaty, drew up documents appointing various tribal elders as chiefs. The Governor said he would be back the next day to collect the signed treaty. The Indians then set about to celebrate their good fortune of a guaranteed one-half of the salmon entering their fishing grounds.

  Alas, in the excitement an elder named Tleyuk, inspired by the paper appointing him Chief of the Chehalis, said the treaty was worthless. White men were notorious liars. What Stevens really had in mind was “relocation” to some awful desert where they would starve. The Chehalis, he said, would not participate.