Hunter's Moon by Chuck Logan (english novels to read .TXT) 📕

“Watch it, Tad. He’s dangerous,” said Bud.

With his free hand, Harry pulled Tad Clark close and his HUNTER’S MOON / 153

face, with the scabs streaked across his nose and cheeks, could have modeled one of the Algonquin warrior masks Clark had hung on the wall.

He whispered in Clark’s ear. “I’m his best friend. See. He’s under a great deal of strain because his life just blew up in his face and he’s been drinking. I’m taking him where he can get proper attention.

And I’m about out of patience. Call off the tribe or I swear to God I’ll pop out your left eyeball and skull-fuck you to death.”

Tad’s large eyes turned to Bud. Bud sagged and his swollen lower lip trembled. “I can’t let you go up there, Harry. It’s my responsibil-ity.”

Tad Clark stepped back. “Where are you taking him?” he whispered.

“Saint Helen’s. There’s a bed reserved on the CD ward. That’s not for broadcasting, you understand?”

“You’re the one who saved his life. You shot the boy,” said Tad Clark. “Your picture was in the paper.”

“Okay, it’s all over, folks. Out of the way,” said Harry.

Bud went docilely. Harry collared his arm around Bud’s shoulder and walked him to the lobby where he pried Cotter’s money and his car keys from Bud’s hand and left them with Bennett at the desk.

“Take it easy, asshole,” muttered Harry as they walked out into a blast of snow.

Bud began to shake. “Harry, one of us has to stay straight. When I’m fucked up I might marry the wrong person. You…” A violent spasm of shaking ended his sentence. His teeth chattered. “No shit.

I think I might have a touch of the DTs.”

At the curb, Harry reached in the backseat, pulled out his parka, and threw it over Bud’s shoulders. Then he helped Bud into the cramped front seat and got behind the wheel.

“Jesus,” breathed Harry. He wiped his palm across his forehead.

“Almost made it,” said Bud. “Would have if I hadn’t ordered a drink—”

154 / CHUCK LOGAN

“The papers,” ordered Harry.

Bud reached under his sweatshirt and pulled out the legal document. An unhealthy glaze of spoiled meat slicked his face as he rolled his eyes and said, “I’ve never seen you in a suit before. You look good.”

26

The storm dumped on St. Paul and it was twilight at noon. The streetlights switched on and the edges of buildings turned grainy at 100 yards and the street became a skating rink. Cars skidded. The drivers, descendants of Scandinavian berserks, looked up and grinned.

They were a block from the hospital when Bud quipped, “Heads up, gook in the open.”

Harry hit the brakes and just missed hitting a short brown man who tried to cross against the light on one leg and a crutch. The Hmong tipped over in a light jacket and one dilapidated tennis shoe and a safety pin fastened his empty flapping pantleg and long black hair streamed around his square, lined face as he plopped on his ass in the snow. He cocked his head and fixed Harry with onyx eyes and raised a wrinkled hand in a disturbing gesture. Harry averted his face from the black shaman gaze as a crowd of pedestrians rushed into the slippery street.

“No shit. That’s Billy Tully,” said Bud, suddenly energized as he recognized a pin-striped rhino with a shock of white hair who lumbered from under a restaurant awning to the cripple’s aid. Harry groaned. The one-legged Hmong had to fall down in front of McDermit’s, where the Democratic party faithful ate their long lunches.

It was a small town.

“This’ll just take a second,” said Bud briskly. Manic, he surged out the door. Harry immediately was out after him, poised for another escape attempt. Bud and Billy Tully outdid each other, helping the guy to his foot, handing him his crutch.

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“It’s Harry, right, we’ve met. Party at Tim and Dorothy’s,” Tully said smoothly under his breath as he deftly shook Harry’s hand in the commotion. His Scotch-gored eyes took in Harry’s battered face and the spectacle of a shorn Bud Maston appearing out of the snow in a baggy sweat suit. Unfazed, he inquired, “So how is our boy doing?”

“Shit,” muttered Harry. “I’m trying to get his ass to Saint Helen’s to take the cure. It’s turning into an all-day job.”

“You did good up there. We won’t forget it, son,” said Tully. He patted Harry and the Hmong on the shoulder simultaneously. “Now let’s get Bud off this street full of voters, shall we?” Harry was for that. He clamped a hand on Bud’s elbow as cars honked their horns and people gathered.

Tully turned to Bud and a sirloin grin parted the webbed capillaries of his face. “Christ, Bud, you look like you been shot at and hit.” He winked and wheezed as he handed the stoic Hmong a business card.

“Well I have been, Billy, I have been,” said Bud, gushing sweat that steamed in the blowing snow, oblivious that a watery nosebleed crept down his upper lip and reddened the horror-show stitches in his purple, swollen lower lip.

Caught in the conjunction of a gathering crowd and Bill Tully, the ultimate fixer, the grotesque stump of Bud Maston’s amputated ambition waved out of the delirium tremens and the snow came down like the confetti of the victory parade he never had and he threw his free arm around the Hmong’s shoulder and hugged him like they were old asshole buddies.

“No, Bud,” hissed Harry but Bud had already launched into his best Bud-Maston-Cares baritone: “This man fought for America and we bugged out and hung him out to dry. I’ll bet he swam the Mekong River to get out of Laos. With one leg. And now he can’t even get benefits from a veterans hospital.” He paused for breath and shot a quick aside to Harry in a low voice. “You have any money, so he can take a cab?”

“Fuck me dead.” Harry dug out the roll