Hunter's Moon by Chuck Logan (the false prince series txt) 📗

a smile that flickered through chinks in his dignified bearing was the afterburn of a life spent attracting lightning bolts. He wrote history in his retirement from government service.

Harry kissed Dorothy’s savaged cheek. He loved these people unconditionally.

“First time he called he was looped. He called again before dawn.

That time he was playing whirlwind, organizing the hell out of everything,” said Harry.

“Full of plans,” said Randall. He leaned the rifle against the wall.

Harry popped his Zippo and lit a cigarette.

Dorothy, a fierce former Pall Mall addict, shook her head. “You stay in shape and still smoke.”

6 / CHUCK LOGAN

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harry.

Randall snuck a drag from Harry’s cigarette and said, “So Bud took a wife on the sly.”

Harry nodded. “Big stagy wedding next month for the cameras.

Christ, I’ll have to buy a suit.”

Dorothy ruffled Harry’s longish brown hair. “Good idea, you’re the only guy we know who doesn’t own a real suit.” She cocked her head. “Be happy for him. Don’t blow it all out of shape.”

Skepticism lined Randall’s face. He didn’t share Dorothy’s enthusiasm. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“I couldn’t help him when he came apart. Maybe I can do something this time. I owe the guy. The AA thing. He went the extra mile for me back when,” said Harry.

“That was years ago. And you quit going to AA,” said Randall.

“I’m still sober. Bud isn’t.” Then Harry laughed. “Gun phobia, huh? He said that?”

The faint smile wetted Randall’s lips. “I figured you’d want iron sights.”

Harry nodded. “Never liked scopes.”

“It’s an old, long-barreled Remington ought-six. It shoots dead flat at two hundred yards. You still remember how they work?”

Harry smiled. “Like riding a bike. It’ll come back.”

They did not undo their coats; just dropping off the rifle. Randall paused. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Harry shrugged, “Good. Never better.”

“You feel strong?”

“Hey, I feel all right, Randall.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but you and Bud never did fit as close friends.”

“He lacks discipline,” said Harry, nodding in agreement. “Like his pockets. No bottom. He never learned to set limits.”

“One question. If you started drinking again and developed a wild hair to go hunting, do you think anybody’d go with you?”

HUNTER’S MOON / 7

Harry tried to stare down Randall’s ice-blue eyes. He dropped his gaze first. Randall squeezed his shoulder and said, “Watch yourself, son.”

3

Harry called it Das Wortfarben— the word factory.

Ten years ago, the paper had been a real factory with brawny printers and clattering Linotype machines raising an industrial racket below the newsroom. Now it was mainly phony smiles, the plastic patter of computers, and death by memo.

Harry’s boss, Arnie Cummings, ran art and photo and was real enough. A fatback Atlanta boy by way of L.A., Arnie looked strangled by his tie as he came across the newsroom and thumped a big knuckle at Harry’s sternum. Hug and push was his style. Harry shoved the hand away.

“Must be nice to know people,” Arnie drawled. “We’re short-staffed as it is.”

“Sorry, Arnie, it came up sort of sudden.”

Arnie glowered and shoved his thumb toward the ceiling in the direction of publisher country. “You got today and tomorrow off.

And Monday. Next time come to me first, Harry.” He slapped a pay envelope against Harry’s chest. “Walked it through payroll myself.

Be here on time Tuesday. Whitetail, huh?” He smiled reluctantly.

“Go on, get outta here.”

Franky Murphy, a general assignment reporter, fell in step with Harry as he passed the bulletin board.

“Cummings fucking with you?” asked Murphy. He was a wiry, acne-scarred man with a ’50s flattop and laser-blue eyes behind wire-rim glasses. Not a friend.

“Nah.” Harry kept moving toward the elevators in the lobby.

Murphy followed him. Harry pushed the elevator button.

“So you’re going hunting with Bud Maston, huh?” asked Murphy.

8 / CHUCK LOGAN

Harry squinted at him. “How—”

Murphy shrugged. “He was in town yesterday. Saw him at lunch at McDermit’s. He was asking about you.”

“Asking you? About me?”

“Yeah, you know, how you’re doing. Hey, I didn’t know you were in the service with Tim Randall, the writer. That’s kinda interesting.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What the hell was Bud doing in town yesterday?”

“Wouldn’t say,” Murphy purred, then he cocked an eyebrow, “but he left with Bill Tully. Maybe he’s thinking of dipping his toe back in the political sewer. Hear anything, let me know,” said Murphy.

“Yeah, sure,” said Harry, getting on the elevator. It rankled some, having Bud’s style of doing things back in his life so fast. Bud tended to forget that not everybody had his long reach.

Well, shit. Here comes the fucking bride. Harry went directly to Dayton’s department store. With a smile, he picked out a black, double-breasted suit.

Later in the day Harry came out of a sporting goods store laden with shopping bags. A cold wind whipped the Minnesota Buck Permit in his hand. He still didn’t believe he was going hunting after almost twenty years.

Back home, he looked down from his window at foundries of office lights that burned in the gray afternoon. Arctic air had emptied the streets and turned the sky to stone.

His eyes sought out a particular building, and a specific lighted window on the seventh floor. With an ironic smile he touched the dry fronds of his one houseplant, a spindly areca palm that he always forgot to water; probably because Linda Margoles, the last woman he’d been involved with, had planted it in his bachelor pad like a green expedition flag.

He genuinely enjoyed the company of women and they, in turn, liked him. The problem was making it last.

HUNTER’S MOON / 9

Linda was on his list. He’d left her for last, after buying warm socks, sturdy wool trousers, the deer license, a Buck knife, and a first-aid kit. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Law offices,” answered a legal secretary.

“Linda Margoles,” said Harry.

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Harry Griffin.”

“Harry,” said a wary voice.

“The plant you gave me is dying.”

“Like relationships, Harry, they need nurturing to grow. Remember?”

They had been serious until she’d rushed it and laid a baseline for mapping the future