Skookum Summer by Jack Hart

Author:Jack Hart [Hart, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780295804996
Publisher: University of Washington Press

25

Most of the loggers who'd attacked Rush Creek were out on bail by the time I'd finished my story and made a final check with the jail. Theoretically, they faced serious assault and arson charges. In fact, Klahowya County justice wasn't going to come down terribly hard on some local boys who got carried away with a bunch of long-haired meth dealers. Like small-town journalism, small-town justice didn't necessarily operate with cold impartiality.

The phone on my desk rang just as I was handing my copy off to Marion for editing. The sound of Mark Judd's voice reminded me that he was out of work, too. “Sorry,” I said. “This is a rough break.”

“What? The layoff? Fuck that. Twenty-six weeks of unemployment ain't bad. Trout season's long gone by the time that runs out anyway. In the meantime, I fish every day until the rains come, and then I'm off somewhere with some goddamn sunshine.”

“I'm glad you're putting on a brave face. But the whole town's practically in mourning. This sucks.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I didn't call so that you could hold my hand while I blubber into my hanky. Drop your cock and grab your socks. I'll be over in ten minutes.”

One of the Hmong he'd talked to on Cutthroat Creek road had tracked him down through the mushroom buyer and called him. The shroomer was excited, Mark said. Talking fast. Barely understandable through his accent. But he made one thing clear. He'd been shrooming up the Scatter Creek drainage and found something other than morels and boletes. “You go!” he'd said. “You go right now!”

“If it's so damned important, why didn't he call the cops?”

“These guys don't truck with cops. Shit, back where they come from, everybody was shootin' at ’em. Vietcong. NVA. Cambodians. Everybody. Think about the shit you're in when your only friend is some guy from the CIA. And you ain't sure about him. These be hill people, Little Brother. Don't read. Don't write. Don't trust nobody.”

It was five minutes, not ten, when he pulled up in front of the Echo and honked. I ran out, climbed into the Ford, and Mark stomped on the accelerator, throwing gravel before the wheels bit into the Front Street asphalt, squealing.

“So how was the big weekend with Sandy?”

“A guy could get used to that big-city stuff. We hit three clubs Saturday night. Every one packed. And rockin'. We got back to the hotel at 2:30.”

Mark turned up the Longmont Grade. “I'd been in Seattle with Sandy Harper, I'd a been back to the hotel a whole lot earlier than that.” He laughed loudly as he crested the hill and turned out toward the federal highway.

“How'd you feel the next mornin'?” Mark asked.

“Like sleeping in,” I said. “But we got up, dressed to the nines, and went for brunch at the Olympic. Geez. You should have seen the food. And not a pair of corked boots in the place.”

“Yeah? No corks? That's goin' a little too far. Them fancy hotel people afraid the spikes gonna tear up their pretty floors? What then? Back to bed?”

“Nah,” I said.

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