Part 6 (1/2)

Gavin Toomey, a local miscreant best known for poaching violations and his palpable hatred for the federal government, sat alone at the opposite end of the bar. Toomey actually noddeda discreet greeting.

Butch Toomer, the former sheriff who was recalled by angry voters for accepting bribes, looked at him coolly and raised his beer bottle in greeting. Toomer would be pleased McCann was back because McCann owed him.

And Sheila D'Amato, the dark-eyed former vixen who had shown up on the arm of a reputed mafioso en route to the park only to be dumped on the street after an argument, met his eyes while wetting her lips with the point of her tongue.

She was with him, for sure. Good enough for now.

McCann said with a tone of triumph, ”West Yellowstone's most infamous resident has returned.”

Someone in the back mumbled, ”Let's see how long he lasts.”

A few men snorted in a.s.sent.

McCann visualized the room standing en ma.s.se and charginghim. He inconspicuously lowered his right hand and brushed the dead weight of the .38 in his jacket pocket with his fingertips.

Les Davis, owner of the Conoco station, said, ”I don't think you're welcome here.”

”So get the h.e.l.l out,” another man rasped.

McCann found his voice, said, ”We don't want this to get out of hand.”

Davis mumbled something inaudible.

”We can be friends or we can be enemies,” McCann said. ”I'd prefer to be friends. That way none of us winds up in court.”

He turned to the bartender. ”I'd like a cheeseburger, medium rare, and a Yellowstone Pale Ale.” His voice didn't quaver and he was thankful.

The barman attempted to stare McCann down, but he couldn't hold it. Sheepishly, he glanced over the bar at the still-silentcrowd. They were all watching him to see what he'd do.

McCann said softly, ”Are you refusing me service? I'd hate to bring a discrimination suit against this place since everyone loves it so much.”

”Give him some f.u.c.king food,” Butch Toomer growled from his corner table. ”The man's got to eat.”

The barman looked down, said, ”I just work here.”

”Then place my order.”

”I don't think that's such a good idea.”

McCann nodded his appreciation to Toomer, who raised his beer in silent partners.h.i.+p. Sheila was practically devouring him with her dark, mascara'd racc.o.o.n eyes. She smiled wickedly at him, her eyes moist. And not just her eyes, he hoped.

”Tell you what,” he said to the barman, ”I'll order it to go. You can have someone bring the order to my office. That way your patrons can reel their eyes back in.”

”Good idea,” the man said, visibly relieved.

As he opened the door, McCann shot a glance over his shoulder at Les Davis and his crowd of burghers and fought the impulse to say, ”Losers.”

On the way to his office two blocks away on Madison, McCannbought two six-packs of local Moose Drool beer from the dingy convenience store and carried them to his office. He fished the gun from his pocket and placed it on his desk, then sat in his chair and waited for his dinner to arrive. His nerves were still tingling.

The Journal Journal reporter had made fun of his office location too, that his practice was on Madison Avenue, but not reporter had made fun of his office location too, that his practice was on Madison Avenue, but not that that Madison Avenue. This Madison Avenue, in West Yellowstone, Montana, saw more wandering elk on the sidewalks than it did men in three-piece suits. Madison Avenue. This Madison Avenue, in West Yellowstone, Montana, saw more wandering elk on the sidewalks than it did men in three-piece suits.

There was a huge pile of unopened mail on his desk and he rifled through it. Hate mail, mostly, he a.s.sumed. He swept the pile into the garbage can. He'd done the same with letters sent to him while he was in jail.

The only letters McCann took seriously were from other lawyers threatening civil actions against him on behalf of the murdered campers. McCann knew they'd have a good case. Luckily, he thought, it could take years to get to trial, and he didn't plan to be available when and if it did.

While he waited, he imagined hearing the sounds of a mob building outside on the street. Pitchforks and torches being raised. Guttural shouts morphing into a chant: ”Justice . . . Justice . . . Justice . . .” Then the door would burst open and dozens of dirty hands would reach for him across his desk. . . . Then the door would burst open and dozens of dirty hands would reach for him across his desk. . . .

So when there was a knock on his door he gripped the .38 with one hand before reaching for the handle with the other. Sheila D'Amato stood in the threshold with a large foam containerand a tray with two tap beers in mugs covered by plastic.

”Why you?” McCann asked.

”I offered.”

”I don't remember ordering two beers.”

”I thought maybe I'd drink one with you.”

He nodded, let her in after checking the street to confirm there was no mob, and shut the door behind them. He gestured to the sack with the six-packs. ”I've got more.”

”What you did to those people in Yellowstone,” she said, ”it was just so baaaaad baaaaad.” Her eyes glistened as she drew out the word. ”And the way those people reacted in Rocky's-wow.”

Wow, he knew, was probably the best she could do.

She drank beer after beer and watched him eat. He was grateful for her company, he admitted to himself, which was proof of his desperation.

He'd represented Sheila after she was arrested for shoplifting$200 worth of makeup from the drugstore. That was when she'd been around town for a few months, long enough that merchants had learned to watch her closely. He employed a ”high-alt.i.tude” defense, claiming to the judge that Sheila's brain was out of whack because she came from New Jersey and her brain had yet to adapt to the alt.i.tude and lack of oxygen. It made her forgetful, he said, and she had simply forgotten to pay the clerk. The judge was amused with the argument but still would have convicted her if the drugstore owner hadn't forgotten to show up and testify. Sheila credited McCann for her acquittal.

Sheila D'Amato admitted to McCann after the trial that she was getting old and her clothes were too tight. All she wanted was her old life back, before she'd been dumped. She was pathetic,he thought, but he enjoyed her stories of being a kept woman in Atlantic City, being pa.s.sed from mobster to mobster for fifteen years. She claimed she hated Montana and all the tight-a.s.sed people who lived here. She'd left town with men a few times since her arrival, but had drifted back after they cut her loose. She said she didn't know why she kept ending up here.

”Do you plan to stay around?” she asked him. Sheila had an annoying little-girl-lost voice, he thought.

”Why are you asking?” But he knew why.

She shrugged and attempted to look coy. ”Well, everybody hates your guts.”

”Not everybody,” he said, saluting her with his beer bottle.

”Don't flatter yourself,” she said, letting a little hard-edged Jersey into her voice, but c.o.c.king her head to make sure he knew she was teasing.

”I won't be here long,” he said. He knew not to tell her too much. But she could be of use to him, even if he couldn't trust her. She probably didn't trust him either. They had that in common.

”Where will you go?” she asked, trying not to be obvious.

”Someplace warm.”

”What's keeping you?”

That, he couldn't tell her. ”I'll leave when the time is right.”

She nodded as if she understood. He drank another beer and she started to look better.