A Far Gone Night (15 page)

Moon produced a minor choking sensation and beat gently on his chest. We ignored the big Ojibwa.

“You mean your ‘bona fides’?” I asked.

Bunza
shrugged. “
Somethin
’
like
that. Anyway, Thomas, what are you boys
doin
’ here tonight? This is a long way from
Rockbluff
. You
gonna
start
comin
’
reg’lar
, like that blond
depity
you got down there?’

“Blond Deputy Sheriff?
From
Rockbluff
?
Who would that be?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like ‘dope’ or ‘mulch’ or something like that,” she answered, shifting in her chair and looking toward the ring. “He’s here nearly every time I am.
Practically a regular.”

“
Doltch
?”
I asked.

Bunza
spun around on her chair, jiggling. She adjusted her top. My right eyelid began twitching. “That’s the one!” she said. “He might even be here tonight. I saw him earlier, I think, but not lately.
Musta
left about the time I noticed you boys. He comes by here and has a few then heads up to the casino. Maybe that’s where he went.”

Moon and I exchanged glances.

Bunza
continued, looking me in the eye. “If you ask me, he’s getting’ in deep with the craps. If you’re
winnin
’ at the tables, seems like there’d be a smile on your face.
Even if you’re
breakin
’ even or just
losin
’ a little.
But his face gets longer ever’ time I see him.”

She leaned forward and whispered, “I think he’s in over his head.
Can’t even pay for private lap dances anymore.
It’s that’s serious.”

“Wow,” I said.

The announcer came back to the side of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the Pony Club’s exclusive extravaganza to determine the Minnesota Mud-Wrestling Champion. To the winner gets five hundred dollars in cash and any other folding money, Ben Franklin’s or better, please, that you, our discriminating audience, can tuck into the winner’s thong.”

Whistles added to the earlier song of hoots and hollers. And boot stomping, too. The crowd, which had doubled in size from the earlier match, whipped into a frenzy of mud wrestling cognoscenti, anticipating the festival of flesh about to be offered up to their eyes and libidos. The announcer broke into the raucous cacophony of eager fandom. “In this corner,” he intoned, beckoning to an emerging
Dorie
O’Dowd, cleaned up and wearing a new orange
day-glo
bikini, “The Undefeated.
The Dangerous.
The Delightfully-Endowed.
Dorie
.
O’Dowwwd
.”

Dangerous
Dorie
put her hands on the top rope surrounding the mud pit and attempted to vault over and into the ring in a flagrant display of athletic intimidation. She did not quite make it, her trailing leg hanging up on the rope, but she saved herself from total embarrassment by clinging to the top rope and planting both bare feet in the mud, after which she strutted around the mud pit, performing bumps and grinds that would shock a lobbyist.

When the noise abated, the announcer continued. “And in this corner, also undefeated, I present the Voluptuous. The Erotic,
The
Lovely-Limbed.
Bunza
Steeeeeele
!”

Bunza
, who had left our company to stand by the mud pit, accepted her introduction by placing just one hand on the top rope and vaulting into the ring, executing the maneuver the delightfully-endowed
Dorie
O’Dowd had failed to perform. Score one for
Bunza
, who adjusted her top again.

The crowd erupted into an avalanche of adoration for
Bunza
, the obvious fan favorite of Minnesota mud wrestling. They began chanting, “Bun-
za
, Bun-
za
, Bun-
za
!” I felt compelled to join in, yet restrained myself, drawing on my reserved upbringing as an Iowan. But I nearly lost it when she paraded to the center of the ring, spread her legs to shoulder width, looked over her right deltoid at our part of the crowd, and flexed her
glutes
together, then one at a time, then together again. She repeated the moves three more times, once to each quadrant of the crowd. I was immediately reminded of Fire Bear and the tobacco thingy, something I did not understand. But I understood what
Bunza
was up to. And so did
she
.

The decibel level in the Pony Club began to reach painful levels, experienced only once or twice before in my lifetime, and only in combat.

When she had her back turned to
Dorie
, the doubly-endowed one made a move, rushing toward
Bunza
to deliver a blind haymaker to the back of
Bunza’s
head. But the inimitable Ms. Steele sensed the charge and dropped to all fours, tripping
Dorie
and sending her headfirst into the slop.
Bunza
came to her feet and laughed and pointed at her opponent. And that was only the beginning of a performance that is burned into my memory forever, to be retrieved and enjoyed from time to time for the rest of my days, when life seems gray and gloomy.

Bunza
toyed with
Dorie
, much like a cat messes with a mouse, flipping it into the air, batting at it, letting it “get away” only to be caught from behind and dragged back into a vortex of humiliation and, ultimately, defeat. When
Bunza
had given the crowd a lengthy performance that had them begging for even more, she pulled off
Dorie’s
top and, simultaneously delivered a vicious clothesline across
Dorie’s
throat, dropping her into the slime, coughing and struggling for breath, her hands clutching at her throat. At that point, still holding onto
Dorie’s
bikini top,
Bunza
reached down and yanked off her rival’s thong, stood up, and then tossed each part of the bikini into a different section of the salivating crowd. Then she turned, placed her foot on
Dorie’s
bare chest and held her there while the ever-vigilant referee counted to three.

As the berserk crowd heaped praise on
Bunza
, she reprised her four corners
glute
flexing, adding in a double-biceps pose that rivaled anything that Arnold Schwarzenegger performed in his Mr. Olympia prime. The announcer beckoned her over to the side of the ring, proclaimed her championship, and handed over five one hundred dollar bills, which
Bunza
accepted after giving the announcer a significant, and lengthy, deep kiss. Then she paraded around the edge of the mud pit and allowed men to tuck folded Franklins into the front of her thong while she stashed her cash in her bikini top. I was having trouble breathing at this point.
Bunza
stepped through the ropes amidst wild applause while the announcer, barely recovered from her affections, announced that Lola the Pole would be performing in thirty minutes.
Bunza
disappeared into what must have been the ladies’ dressing room.

“Your friends are interesting,” Moon said as I turned back toward our table.

“An eclectic array of individuals.”

“That, too,” he replied.

I was going to add to our lengthy verbal exchange, but just then a man approached our table, more or less gliding across the room to where he now stood.

“My name is Ted
Hornung
,” he said. “I own the Pony Club. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

T
ed
Hornung
wore gray flannel slacks, a pale blue shirt with button-down collars, and a black and blue-striped silk necktie pulled into a perfect Windsor knot. Fit-looking and trim, his short blond hair clean and professionally cut, and his round, Harry Potter eyeglasses emphasizing bright blue eyes, Ted
Hornung
came across as an earnest Rotarian. Clean shaven, white-toothed, and a winning smile all worked together to make me dislike him immediately.

“My niece was Cindy Stalking Wolf,” Moon said.

Hornung’s
face showed no recognition. He said, “And who are you?”

Moon stood up. “I am Lunatic Mooning, and you know who I am. My associate is Thomas O’Shea.”

His
associate
?
We would have to chat about that, I thought. Maybe get on the payroll.

“Of course, I do know who you are,
now
. Your
name
comes to mind. Perhaps it would be more, um,
private
if we talked in my office? Would that be okay with you gentlemen?”
Hornung’s
voice was soft, mellifluous, the voice of a radio announcer.

Moon looked at his associate. I shrugged. He nodded at
Hornung
and the man set off with us trailing along behind his shiny, tasseled loafers.

Hornung’s
office was even more pleasantly appointed than he. And I realized as he closed the heavy, oaken door behind us, that the office was sound-proofed. No noise from the Pony Club invaded
Hornung’s
private space. We walked into a thickly-carpeted room with a desk; two love seats; a pair of upholstered chairs, one gray, one blue, facing his desk; and a giant, blank HD television screen. The walls were paneled with solid wood I did not recognize. I strolled about, absorbing the ambiance.

Oil paintings that looked like original landscapes adorned two walls, along with a love-me wall with a framed B.A. from the University of Minnesota and an M.B.A. from the Wharton School. Several awards from various civic clubs were also framed. A “Man of the Year” for two years ago from the
Chalaka
Tribal Council was prominently displayed under a tasteful little spotlight. While Moon took a seat, I wandered over to a book shelf loaded with hardbacks next to a baby grandfather clock in working condition. I saw volumes by Dumas, Shakespeare, de Sade, and even James Patterson before
Hornung
interrupted me.

“Not enough time to read, unfortunately,” he said, noticing my perusal of his bookshelf. “Work keeps me busy, and of course, my small activities for the betterment of our community.”

“Of course,” I said. “I have the same problem.
Little league, Toastmasters, quilting bees.
One simply must do what one can to enrich others’ lives.”

“Please have a seat, Mr. O’Shea,” he said, his voice warm and friendly.

“No pictures of family,” I said, sitting in the other upholstered chair, the blue one next to Moon.
Hornung
reclined behind his desk and looked at me.

“I have not yet met the right woman,” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Maybe this isn’t the best place to find the bride of your dreams,” I said.

“You have a point,” he replied with a short, practiced laugh.
“Now, as to your purpose.
I do not know who Cindy Stalking Wolf is. Why should I?”

Moon said, “She’s from here.
Ran away a while back.
Murdered and dumped into the Whitetail River. Found in
Rockbluff
, Iowa a few days ago. You know everything that goes on up here. Tell me what you know about my niece.”

I wished Moon hadn’t said
murdered
even as
Hornung
extended his hands and held them out, palms up. They looked soft. “Boys, you flatter me. I wish I could help, but I don’t even recognize her name, whatever,” he said in a sing-song voice that could only be interpreted as mocking.

“I don’t have time for this,” I said, “so let’s expedite things.”

I got up, stepped past Moon, walked over to the seated
Hornung
, and slapped him hard across his smug face. His Harry Potters shifted. I removed them and tossed them onto the desk. Then I picked him up by his Windsor knot and slapped him again and shoved him back into his pricey desk chair. He looked stunned, even as his right hand moved slightly forward and started to slip under the edge of his pretty desk.

I grabbed his arm and pulled it back, then pushed his hand onto his desk and pinned it there with my right hand. After that, I brought my left forearm down across his right forearm. His scream of pain would not be heard out in the Pony Club.

“You broke my fucking arm!” he screamed. I slapped his mouth, then bent low and looked under his desk. The little button was there, alright. I looked back at
Hornung
. A serious rivulet of blood was slowly sliding down the corner of his lips and onto his chin. Pretty soon it would mess up his shirt.

“I have no patience with people like you,” I said. “I have no interest in going through a little verbal dance while you stall us. Life is short and I want you to understand that I am going to be direct with you until we know what you know about my friend’s niece. I’m not even going to ask you if you understand. Now, tell us what you know about Cindy Stalking Wolf. Did you make her into a prostitute? Hook her on free drugs, treat her nicely, pull her in,
give
her money? Maybe offer her to men who like young girls?”

Teddy’s face had gone sullen. He had his left hand on his right forearm, I guess trying to protect it from further encouragement from me. Moon stepped forward, coming around the chair and taking up a position on Teddy’s left.

“This is going to be a painful evening for you, Teddy,” I said, “unless you open up, because you have lots more bones that can break, and I swear to God, I’ll break every one until I hear what I want to hear.”

“Okay, okay. You’ll find out anyway.
Fucking thugs.
Shit! Okay, besides what you see out there,” he began, starting to gesture with his right hand, yelping in pain, pulling his arm back against his body, “I run prostitution.
Nothing with young girls
.
Traditional stuff, you know, women for men or women and anything they want to do and both agree to. Softer stuff, like lap dances, private massages, pharmaceutical-enhanced encounters.” He glared at me.
Nothing
with underage girls.
Nothing like
that
! Is that expeditious enough for you?”

“What do you think, Moon?” I asked, keeping my eyes on
Hornung
.

“I think he might be holding back,” he replied. He slowly reached across Ted and took the broken forearm into hand.
Hornung
yelped and lost a little color in his face.

“I haven’t even applied pressure yet, and he’s acting hurt,” Lunatic said to me. “Imagine what he’ll do when I give him a good squeeze and quick pull.” He turned to
Hornung
. “So, Ted,
if
what you say is true, and you don’t know anything about my niece, who would? Surely someone knows what happened to her.”

Hornung
looked at Moon, then me. Neither one of us was smiling. I think he could tell that we were concerned.
Hornung
looked defiant, angry. His hesitancy to provide information used up the last of my patience. I slapped him again—hard. His chair spun to the left. Moon stopped it, turned it back toward me. Ted’s mouth was bleeding freely now. The lovely shirt was a lost cause.

“Marty Rodman,” he said.

“Tell me about Marty Rodman,” Moon said while I placed
Hornung’s
spectacles very gently back on his face.

“He recruits young girls.”
Hornung
wiped his hand across his mouth, looked at the bright crimson smear on his palm. “He takes runaways, treats them nicely for a while, gives them things—clothes, nice dinners, earrings. Shit like that. He sells them to chi-
mooks
who want a little ‘strange,’ if you get my drift.”

I said, “’Strange’?”

“You
know,
something different than the fat wife, or the frigid bitch, back home. Rodman hangs around the casino and talks to men and pretty soon finds out if they’re interested in a Chippewa girl. If the tourist is interested, Marty takes it from there. Cheap hotel usually, but he has a brothel back in the woods—nice place for the more classy clientele and more attractive girls,”
Hornung
said. He wiped his face again. “Shit! You’ve ruined my shirt now,” he stated the obvious, looking down his front.

I looked at Moon. “I’m starting to like Mr.
Hornung
more and more. He’s a great source for elusive information, and that’s so cool.”

“Are you going to fuck off now?”
Hornung
asked,
his voice petulant and
pissy
.

“One more question,” Moon said. Ted looked at Lunatic.

“What’s that?”
Hornung
asked, grimacing as he moved his right arm a little, still cradled in his left.

“Do you know what happened to Cindy Stalking Wolf?” Moon asked.

“I told you I don’t even know who the fuck Cindy Fucking Stalking Wolf is! Fucking morons!
Coupla
assholes! Don’t you listen, man?”
Hornung
said. He was starting to really interest me. Typically, people I rough up tend to lose their attitude, display a little healthy concern about their well-being and future prospects. This guy was turning into one pissed-off smartass.

“I do not like your tone.” Moon clamped down hard on
Hornung’s
broken forearm.

“
Shit!
”
Hornung
shouted
,
leaning his body toward where Moon had the injured extremity in what I imagined was an impressive grip. Moon let go.
Hornung
held his arm against himself, rocking back and forth and moaning and muttering. His mutters were shocking, drifting into profanity. He took a deep breath. “Last I heard, Rodman had his hooks into her and she wanted out of the life.”

I took a quick step toward
Hornung
and drew back my right hand. He started to put up his hands to protect himself, but that only made his broken arm hurt more. Guess he forgot it was fractured.

He said, “Please, that’s all I know! I promise!”

I looked at Moon. Moon looked at me. We both looked at Ted
Hornung
, sitting erectly now in his nice desk chair. We believed him.

“Thanks for the tip, Mr.
Hornung
.” I stepped back. “And thank you so much for saying ‘please.’ I knew you would eventually revert to your Ivy League background.”

Moon came around the back of
Hornung’s
chair and stood next to me. I continued. “I’m a little concerned about you, though. Your complexion, where it isn’t bleeding, is a little pale. Are you okay, Teddy?”

Hornung
said nothing, but his look probably should have been registered as a weapon. The dude was not contrite, not one bit.

Moon said, “If you touch that little button under your desk before we’re long gone, we’ll come back and abuse you.”

“And no fair calling Marty Rodman.
That would push me over the edge if you warned him. And when I get pushed that far, I tend to be rude,” I said.

Hornung
nodded weakly and looked down. We left his office and walked across the Pony Club floor toward the main door. The big albino held out a hand as we approached and pointed off to his right.
Bunza
Steele was waving at us from across the room, coming our way. We stopped. She had cleaned up and was dressed in a leopard-skin body suit. It looked like a second skin. Men were watching her. Women were watching their men watching her. She walked like she knew she was being admired. She came up to us.