“Just some doodah I need to take care of in town,” he replied. He looked up at the sunlight breaking on the mountain, his cheeks bright with aftershave. His hair was freshly combed and clipped, his shoes buffed. He wore a pair of pressed slacks and a crisp new sport shirt.
“How about some coffee?” I said.
“I’d better run. Check with you later.”
“What are you up to, Clete?”
“Why do I always feel like you’re trying to staple my umbilical cord to the corner of your desk?”
“When will you be back?” I asked.
“Does anyone at your meetings ever say you have a control problem?”
By three that afternoon, he had not returned. I tried his cell but got no answer. I drove three miles down the highway to the little service town of Lolo and saw his convertible parked outside the town’s only saloon. He was at the far end of the bar, hunched over his drink, perhaps twenty feet away from a table full of bikers who were half in the bag. The bikers were talking loudly, obviously getting Clete’s attention, although they were unaware of it.
I sat down next to him and ordered a glass of ice and carbonated water. “What are you drinking?” I said.
“A gin gimlet,” he replied. “It’s summertime, so I’m having a gin gimlet.”
“You look like you’re shitfaced.”
“I had the top down.
It’s windburn. Dave, will you get off my back?”
“It’s the Wellstone woman, isn’t it?” I said.
“She called me on my cell. She wanted to retain me.”
“For what?”
“To find an old boyfriend. It’s not an unusual situation.” My eyes were boring into the side of his face. He took a sip from his drink and balled up a napkin. He looked over his shoulder at the bikers. “Can you guys hold down the noise?” he said.
The bikers turned and stared at us. They were stone-faced and head-shaved, unsure which of us had spoken, their eyes taking our inventory.
“We’re just having a drink here. How you guys doin’?” I said.
They went back to their conversation, the tenor of their voices unchanged.
“Has this got something to do with the man who was watching her in the saloon?” I said.
“Jamie Sue used to—”
“Jamie Sue?”
“That’s what I said. Jamie Sue used to sing with a guy who went to prison. He tried to stop a pimp beating up a hooker outside a nightclub. He ended up putting a shiv in the guy,” Clete said. “She thinks he’s out now and maybe hanging around. She’s afraid her husband’s security people might bust him up.”
“You believe that crap?”
“Come on, Dave.”
“You stop jerking me around. You tell me what happened today.”
“I met her for an early lunch at this joint on Flathead Lake. We had a couple of drinks and took a boat ride. The water was blue as far as you could see, you know, like you’re out on the Pacific Ocean rather than a lake. Man, she looked fine, too, sitting on the bow of the boat with her gold hair blowing in the wind.”
“Yeah, Jane Powell on a yacht. Get to it, Clete.”
“We went back to the joint at the marina and had a couple more drinks. Then she put some money in the juke and asked me to dance. She felt so little inside my arms. Then I felt this wetness on my shirt. She was crying. She denied it, but she was crying.”