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Washington State was beautiful in Autumn.
The weather was fucking awful, but it was still beautiful.
Beneath the thick canopy of grey storm clouds, the forests of the Olympic Peninsula’s northern slopes were a riot of colour. A wondrous collage of yellows, reds and oranges, amidst a sea of lush green that was all the more vivid amidst the gloom of an impending downpour. In the morning, the air was alive with birdsong, while the evenings rang to the haunting chorus of the Roosevelt Elk that grazed across the land.
Unfortunately, now there was only the roar of the Chevrolet Suburban’s engine as it navigated up the winding dirt road.
I watched it come from the rocking chair on my balcony, hoping they were just some thick-as-shit ramblers that had got themselves lost on the Clallam Bay Trail, but I wasn’t that hopeful. The trail started a good 10 miles down the Strait of Juan de Fuca Highway, in the so-named town, and never left the highway.
Even Ray Charles couldn’t miss the signs.
Then again, I didn’t have visitors.
You don’t go through the hassle of leasing land on the Makah reservation if you want a roaring social life.
The Tribal Council’s price was extortionate, but it was worth it. No visitors. No nosy neighbours. Not even the odd Jehovah’s Witness trying his luck with the ‘heathens’.
The community and I had an understanding. If I left them alone, they’d leave me alone. Apart from my occasional trip up to Neah Bay for supplies, they had practically no idea I even existed. Which worked just fine for me.
Which begged the question, whose SUV was that driving up my driveway?
Well, there was only one way to find out. Maybe they were just going to ask for directions. They clearly couldn’t read. I’d put up Private property signs everywhere.
I met them at the door just as the Grey Suburban pulled up. The passenger door opened, and King Kong, dressed in a poor fitting black suit and shades, stepped out. One look had my mind jumping to the Remington 870 12Gauge and the SIG 9mm in my weapons locker, just out of sight of the barn doors and just out of reach.
Then the Driver’s door opened and this time Donkey Kong stepped out, done up in a matching costume. Maybe Ray-Ban had a two for one sale on. Then he stepped round to open the back door, and King Louie stepped down. Middle-aged and smaller, but dressed in a much nicer suit than his pair of gorillas, this guy was clearly the money.
No shades though, maybe Ray-Ban didn’t have something to go with the Harris Tweed. Probably for the best. Sunglasses would suit that pudgy face and bald pate encircled by tufts of curly ginger hair about as well as tits on a bull.
“Mr Greystoke?”
He said my name without a stutter, but his voice trembled all the same beneath that smooth, business-like manner. He was nervous.
Good, he should be. I didn’t like uninvited guests.
I ignored his question, and his minders, and looked him dead in the eye. “If you’re lost, the highway is back that way, past the keep out signs.”
His sallow face dropped, his business-like mask faltering slightly as he licked his lips, but he kept on. “Ah, no, no we’re not lost, Mr Greystoke.” He extended his hand, a bold gold signet ring dressing one chubby sausage finger. “My name is Ritter, Jiles Ritter, and I have some business to discuss with you.”
I glared at him until the hand dropped back to his side. “Well, I don’t want any, and I’m not buying.”
“I’m not here to sell you anything, Mr Greystoke. I’m buying.”
“Well, I’m not selling.” Bored with conversation, I turned to head back inside. “Be sure to use a low gear when the track goes down the hill or your brakes will go.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Donkey Kong stepping forward, no doubt having half a mind, in more than one sense, to stop me. I steeled myself to put the Gorilla down, knowing I’d need to do it fast, before King Kong could join in. But then Ritter got a word in first. “Mrs Bourne recommended you. Says you’re just the sort of man I’m looking for.”
I paused mid-step and threw a curious look back. “Elvira Bourne?” I waited for him to bite. It was easy to pick a name out of a glossy magazine full of the rich and famous. In my line, I could have worked for any of them.
He looked confused for a moment, as if trying to place the name, then embarrassedly corrected me. “Err… Elizabeth, and her ex-husband.”
Ahhh… now it all made sense. Mrs Elizabeth Bourne, or rather Crane, as she now was. She’d needed my help a few months ago persuading her philanthropist husband, who was to music what Harvey Weinstein was to films, to give her a divorce. An easy enough task in itself, but not, however, when you considered the ironclad prenup, the young and then lovesick, soon to be Mrs Bourne had signed without a second thought. She’d needed a way around it.
The terms were simple enough. The then Mrs Elizabeth Bourne got nothing unless her husband did something stupid and got it splashed all over the tabloids. Scandal and humiliation were the cancer of the rich and famous. It had been my pleasure to facilitate it, with the help of two call girls with dreams of being photographers, a farmer, or rather a few of his barnyard pigs, and a healthy but non-threatening dose of drugs that would put Mr Bourne out like a light, and hard as a rock.
No doubt the newly single, and very grateful, Mis Crane had recommended me after hearing about whatever trouble this guy had got himself into.
“Come inside.” I was about to lead him in, then paused, thought better of it, and glanced back over my shoulder. “Just you, the Gorillas stay outside.”
