Contract Killer Read online

  “My client may have to pay Judge Rappaport’s wife an interim sum until he returns or we know what happened to him. This is just a routine investigation. The company’s officers just want an idea of the possibilities. You know how it is.”

  “No use forking over a lot of money if you don’t have to, eh?” Jensen said. “Say, how would you like some apple pie with a big wad of ice cream on top? The sign outside says our pies are homemade, which isn’t technically true, but it’s close. We make ‘em in the kitchen.” Jensen closed his eyes and smiled at the thought of Foxx Jensen’s homemade pies. “No bakery crap. None of that. A couple of apple pie a la mode!” he called to his waitress. He said to me softly, confidentially, man to man, “I got me a kid back there with greasy hair and pimples, see, damnedest looking specimen you ever seen. But he carries his weight; he’s got a way with lard and flour.” Jensen glanced proudly in the direction of the kitchen. “We make him wear a hairnet, but I’ve never met the granny yet who could match his pies.”

  Having told me about his pies, Foxx Jensen was ready to talk business. He said, “What do you know about Indians, Mr. Denson? Do you know why they bury Nisquallys with their butts up?”

  I had to be Jensen’s kind of guy if I wanted him to open up. “Beats me,” I said.

  “Bicycle racks for Puyallups!” Foxx Jensen laughed a deep, rolling laugh. He accepted his apple pie. “Taste them apples. Don’t they smell sweet? Smell that cinnamon. ‘Course we have to charge a little for slices like this. If we didn’t people’d start coming in here with their runny-nosed kids. Say, do you know how to tell if a Cowlitz has been through your backyard?”

  “Haven’t heard that one,” I said. I’d have to remember these for Willie Prettybird.

  “Your garbage can’s empty and your dog’s pregnant.” Foxx Jensen laughed. His dog rolled over to better receive the heat of the fire.

  “Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to do the Prettybirds harm?” I said.

  Jensen wiped a residue of ice cream from the corner of his mouth. “Do them harm? The Prettybirds? I wouldn’t mind putting them in the happy hunting ground. What’re you thinking — someone might of kidnaped Rappaport and blamed it on the Cowlitz? Is that it? Why?” Jensen looked at me like I was nuts. “You want to know the truth? The truth is government never signed a treaty with the Cowlitz but the Prettybirds want to pretend it did. All Rodney wants to do is sit on his ass like the Puyallups and bitch about how he and his brother’re supposed to have the right to stretch their goddamn nets across the mouth of the Columbia River. Their ‘usual and accustomed’ fishing grounds. Ooohhhh!” Jensen shook his head angrily. “They want half the fish going to the Cowlitz. Half! Can you imagine that? Old Rodney can’t wait to have a bunch of boats out there scooping up fish. Well, those so-called treaties were signed a hundred and thirty years ago. Times change. Rappaport may be nuttier than a fruitcake, but he’s nobody’s fool.”

  “I suppose that is a lot of fish,” I said.

  “A lot of fish? You bet it’s a lot of fish! The Prettybirds’ve spent thousands of dollars on this lawsuit. You have to ask yourself why. Old Willie’s a clever son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. Might as well be white for the way he acts. What he’s got in mind, you see, is cornering the salmon market like some damn Arab sitting on all the oil. Hell, if Rappaport let the Prettybirds have their way, people in Portland and up in Seattle’d be paying fifteen bucks a pound so a bunch of Redskins could drive Cadillacs and sit around watching TV off satellite disks.”

  “They apparently do stand to make some money.”

  “You know, they scooped fish up in traps until we made them knock it off in 1934. Did you know you could catch every salmon entering the Columbia if you use traps? Every goddamn fish! We stopped that, and now they’re whimpering they’re entitled to half the salmon. I say again, they want half the fish? Half! Do you have any idea of how many people drive down here to have a good time with a fishing rod? Do you? Listen, this country belongs to us all. The salmon belong to us all. It’s a common resource. If you suspect the Prettybirds of being mixed up in this Rappaport thing, I can see why.”

  “Some threats were made on one of the Prettybirds,” I said.

  “Old Rodney, I’ll bet.”

  “This was told to me in confidence,” I said.

  Jensen finished his apple pie and cleaned his lips with his tongue. Jensen grinned. “It was Rodney. Listen, that young buck’s got his problems. A man with a temper like that gets himself in trouble sooner or later. People’ll only put up with that ‘Native American’ crap so long. If he keeps it up, it’ll come back on him, you mark my word. If you want to talk about the Prettybirds then you ought to be talking to Doug Egan. You want to talk hard-core, talk to Egan.”

  “He’s the commercial fisherman.”

  “Shit, Doug Egan ain’t no damn fisherman. You call that fishing! He’s no better than the Prettybirds. Rodney Prettybird at least gets out on the water once in a while. You say you want the truth, Mr. Denson? The truth is, Egan inherited his boats from his father-in-law. He’s got this wife with big tits, and he just fawns over her. He’s pussy-whipped, is what he is. Doug Egan corks Rodney Prettybird’s nets for the sole reason he doesn’t like competition. All his pissing and moaning about fishing being his way of life. You’d think he was born in the middle of the Columbia River bar in a squall. Balls! His old man managed a Fred Meyer’s in Portland. He grew up in Lake Oswego.” Jensen looked scornful. “It was his wife’s family’s way of life, maybe, but never his. He doesn’t care if the Indians have treaty rights on the Chehalis or the Nisqually or the Skagit or the Nooksack. That’s somebody else’s problem. Egan just doesn’t want ‘em down here in the Columbia. He thinks this is his water, brother, and don’t let him tell you any differently.”

  “I probably should talk to Egan.”

  “If you want the full range of possibilities.” Jensen lowered his voice and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “You should drive to Astoria just to take a look at Egan’s wife. Man, I bet she throws a wild screw. Beats me how she could marry a guy like that. Look, you want to know the truth about Doug Egan?”

  “Well, sure …”

  “Doug Egan’s a lying pussy.”

  “With a good-looking, rich wife.”

  “Oh, yes. She’s got bucks all right. And what do they spend it on? See if you can talk to him at his home, Denson; you’ll see what I mean.”

  “Good-looking house too, eh?”

  “House? No, that’s okay, I guess. Bit show-offy. It’s the fish I’m talking about. I won’t tell you though, you’ll have to see them for yourself.” Jensen slapped his thigh. George the dog, momentarily sated from the heat, wiggled for more attention from Jensen’s hand. “World is full of screwballs, Denson. Ain’t that right, George?” Jensen nudged the dog’s ear. The dog gave Jensen an adoring look. Jensen said, “Old George’s a hunter, ain’tcha, George?” He was proud of his dog. “Yes, he’s a smart one, he is.” He ruffled his ears for him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real hunting dog work.”

  Jensen beamed. “You should see George. He’s worked pheasants, chukkars. He once cleared a barbed-wire fence chasing a crippled honker. He’ll fetch a pintail from halfway out in the Columbia and not even be breathing hard. He’s a natural. Give me a couple hours and I’ll train him to fetch a paper, lead a blind man across the street, you name it. He was bred smart.”

  “I don’t think I’d ever have the patience to train a dog,” I said.

  Jensen said, “No problem with George. None at all. Hell, me and George’re inseparable. He goes everywhere with me, just loves the front seat of the pickup. Sits right up there. Ain’t that right, George?” Jensen grinned. He stroked George’s throat. George closed his huge brown eyes. The fire was warm. Jensen’s touch was gentle. George was in ecstasy.

  It was a fact that Foxx Jensen was proud of his dog. If he was a liar in other matters, he was a good one; I’ll give him that
.

  Before I left, I phoned Doug Egan’s home in Astoria and a deep-voiced man said sure, drive on over. He’d love to talk. He said he wanted me to meet his wife. “I’ll show you my fish. Everybody likes my fish. But you probably know all about them?”

  “Your fish?” This must have been what Jensen was talking about.

  “Sure! Some people from a Japanese television network came here and took pictures of them.”

  My stomach growled. I was hungry but I didn’t want to eat at Foxx Jensen’s. I wanted some privacy where I could think. I looked at my wristwatch. “Would it be okay if I got there, say, about three o’clock,” I said. I figured that’d give me enough time for lunch and the drive to Astoria.

  Egan said, “Sure, sure, Mr. Denson. Take your time.” These fishing folk were warm people.

  Two deep-voiced men in one day — first Poorman and now Egan. That was some kind of omen, I was sure of it.

  As I was driving out of Ilwaco I saw the other half of the omen get out of a car at a gas station and put on a big white Stetson. The little sport saw me and took his hat off quick as a ferret. What was Augustus Poorman doing in Ilwaco? He didn’t work for Hillendale’s, that was for certain. I’d been had. Just how, I wasn’t sure.

  16 - MR. AND MRS. EGAN

  It was hard to get Augustus Poorman and his white hat off my mind as I drove along the Washington shore of the Columbia River and crossed the bridge to the Oregon side at Astoria. The Lewis and Clark explorers spent a cold and wet winter not far from Astoria. Later, the small harbor just inside the mouth of the Columbia was the site of a trading post run by John Jacob Astor for the Hudson’s Bay Trading Company. Finnish and Norwegian immigrants eventually moved in, and Astoria became a fishing town. People fished there or worked in canneries that packed tuna and salmon.

  Doug Egan wasn’t a Finn or a Norwegian, but he earned at least a few bucks, judging from his restored Victorian house that sat high on a bluff overlooking the town and the river beyond. The house was freshly painted, a handsome thing, immaculately restored. But few houses could compete with Egan’s fish. The huge wooden salmon were something else again; I understood the curiosity of the Japanese television people.

  The salmon, sculpted by a chainsaw from huge logs of Douglas fir — each one was maybe ten or twelve feet long — were lined up in the center of a long, gently curving sidewalk, a series of terraces, actually, that rose slowly rather than quickly as stairs would. Each huge, twisting fish leaped upward to the next terrace, as though — like a real salmon — it was struggling to reach the fresh waters of its birth.

  This was the final act of life’s cycle for a salmon, a private moment carved by a chainsaw. But each fish was cold, inert, frozen in time — rather like an ice sculpture of a woman at the moment of orgasm. A visitor walked on one side of the fish going up, on the other side coming down. There were twenty of them.

  There were well-tended gardens of bonsai evergreens on both sides of the sidewalk or rapids or whatever it was supposed to be. I adjusted my Irish walking hat, turned my back on the rain that drifted in with the wind, and rang the doorbell.

  Doug Egan answered, a man with a powerful voice, heavy eyebrows, and a jaw that probably never looked cleanly shaved. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Denson? Get out of that rain. Brrrr! Here, let me take your coat. Annaliese! I want you to meet my wife, she’s wonderful.” I’d never seen, outside of television ads, a man as cheerfully domestic.

  Annaliese Egan, a tall blond woman with breasts like Cadillac bumpers, said hello, pleased to meet you, and took my coat and hat. It was hard not to stare. Nothing imagined by Vargas could compete with Mrs. Egan’s mammaries. They belonged in a museum. Up close and devoid of a tan, they must have looked like ski slopes.

  When Egan’s wife had disappeared, he said, “Finnish tits! Aren’t they something? She could float on her back in a typhoon.”

  I didn’t think I’d stared. I’d tried not to. I’d done my best.

  Egan laughed. “You were very cool, I have to hand it to you. But everybody wonders. You can’t blame them. I know I would. Before we go into my study, let me tell you about my fish.” We stood before the large picture window that overlooked the bluff with the fish and the river below. “Those are chainsaw sculptures, you might have heard of them. A lumberjack in Clatskanie did these. He cut the trees, hauled in the logs, and buzzed ‘em into fish. The damnedest thing you ever saw.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, and meant it. They were beautiful in the way my stuffed-bulldog doorbell was beautiful, but I don’t think Doug Egan looked at it that way.

  “You know, the art instructor over at the community college said these were indig — indig — what the hell is that word? — kind of art.”

  “Indigenous,” I said.

  “That’s the word, in-dig-en-ous.” Egan pronounced it slowly. “The art instructor said baseball started at Cooperstown, jazz started in New Orleans, and chainsaw sculpting comes from right here in Oregon. This guy in Clatskanie is one of those great big lumberjacks, you know, with corked boots and suspenders. He came out here with a grin on his face and went bbbzzzttt! bbbzzzttt! bbbzzzttt! with his chainsaw on those logs — sawdust flying — carving salmon while his little girlfriend looked on, as proud and pleased as she could be. The art instructor said this lumberjack’s a chainsaw Rodin.” Egan made the chainsaw sound by buzzing his lips. He obviously took pride in his imitation. He pronounced Rodin Ro-din, as in no sin.

  “Well, sure.”

  “You know, after he was finished with the fish, I had to have a chainsaw, too. Went out and bought me one. Cutting a fir tree’s like going through butter.” Egan liked to make chainsaw noises. He went, “Bbbzzzttt! Bbbzzzttt! Bbbzzzttt! You got yourself three slices of wood. Damndest things.” He led me into his study, which was decorated with photographs of weathered fishermen on their boats and repairing their nets. We could see Egan’s famous fish leaping their way up the hill to our left. Annaliese brought us coffee. Any more coffee and I was going to get the jitters. I was determined not to so much as glance at Mrs. Egan’s deservedly renowned chest.

  “The damn things cause her back problems,” Egan said, when she was gone. “Boy, I miss her, you know. I’ve been spending most of my time in Seattle lately, on this Cowlitz suit. We’ve filed a brief as friends of the court.”

  “We?”

  “The commercial fishermen’s association. Somebody’s got to protect the public interest.”

  “Judge Rappaport had a life insurance policy payable to his wife,” I said. I let Egan finish the sentence.

  “And you’re with the insurance company.” Egan’s deep voice was remarkable.

  “Yes, I am. You should be on the radio with a voice like that.”

  Egan laughed and smoothed back his eyebrows with the tips of his fingers. “That’s what they say. Listen, Mr. Denson, if you people suspect foul play, I’d take a long, hard look at Willie and Rodney Prettybird. That’s if I were you. Yes, sir.”

  “I want to talk to everybody involved, Mr. Egan.”

  “You know if the Prettybirds get treaty rights down here, they’re going to start putting people out of business. That’s what happened on the rivers on the Washington coast. In 1974 George Boldt gave the Indians half the fish in their ‘usual and accustomed’ fishing grounds. The do-gooders just love to throw around that ‘usual and accustomed’ crap.” Egan exhaled between puffed cheeks. “Usual and accustomed! You want to talk about usual and accustomed? My wife in there, Annaliese, well, let me tell you her family’s been fishing in Astoria for a hundred years. The courts all of a sudden handed the fish over to the Indians. Do you know what Boldt did? Do you?” Egan leaned toward me, his voice getting deeper, gruffer.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “He damned near killed the fishing industry in the state of Washington, that’s what he did. Before you know it, we’ll all be starving to death on bottom fish. The poor bastards in Washington had to go to Alaska. It just god
damned near killed off a way of life.” Egan looked at my coffee cup, which was half empty. “Say, what do you say we fix these up?” He slid open the door of a teak liquor cabinet and spiked our coffee with some Wild Turkey whiskey.

  I couldn’t believe he’d used Wild Turkey in coffee. “What happened in Alaska?”

  “The Alaskan government put a stop to it. You had to buy a licensed boat to fish in Alaskan waters. Jimmy Carter’s people budgeted some money to buy the equipment of people who were put out of business, but that ended with Ronald Reagan. The noble Native American! Bullshit!” Egan looked out of the window at the rain and clouds that moved up river from the mouth of the Columbia. Egan said, “You talked to that old liar Foxx Jensen, I take it.”

  “Just this morning.”

  “He take you out on one of his boats?”

  “He has boats?”

  Egan stood and called in the direction of the kitchen. “Annaliese, honey, could we have some coffee in here.” Egan turned to me and lowered his voice. “Cheap cocksucker! He could have at least offered to take you out on the water. William ‘Foxx’ Jensen as he calls himself — with two phony X’s — has ten, count ‘em, ten boats out there dragging lures around for sportsmen.”

  “Well!” Curious that Jensen hadn’t told me.

  “He tell you about his little move to grab that cannery up there on the coast?”

  “That would be?”

  “SalPacInc, on the Quinault Reservation. Nobody knows how to kiss-ass better than William Jensen. Why do you suppose they call him Foxx? For years, he’s been giving discounts to bankers who want to try their luck with the chinook. The old Foxx loves his bucks, loves ‘em. He sits there in his restaurant scratching his goddamned dog — probably sleeps with the damned thing. He got some of those money boys to go in with him to buy out SalPacInc.”