Bitterroot by James Lee Burke Read Free Book Online Page A

yourself down without being invited?” he said.
    “I need some help, sir. If I’ve intruded, I’ll leave.”
    “You that private detective my film agent hired?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Got some ID?”
    “Are you serious?” I asked.
    He thought about it and let his eyes rove over my face.
    “I guess that Southern-fried accent didn’t come out of Laurel Canyon,” he said. “Tobin Voss is on the right side, but he’s busting up the wrong people. Over-the-hill meth heads aren’t the problem in Montana.” Then he raised his voice and looked in the direction of the group dressed in stylized western clothes. “California douche bags buying up the state with their credit cards are a different matter.”
    “You know a guy named Wyatt Dixon?” I asked.
          “No. Who is he?”
    “An ex-con from Texas. He seems to be buds with this militia leader, Carl Hinkel.”
    “If Hinkel had his way, the rest of us would be bars of soap.”
    “You know this Earth First group?” I said.
    “The first line of defense against the dickheads— those are Los Angeles dickheads I’m talking about,” he said, his voice rising again, his eyes resting on the tourists, “who want to drill for oil in wilderness areas and denude the national forest.”
    “I see.”
    “You’re not convinced?” he said.
    “It’s been good meeting you, Mr. Girard. I read a couple of your books. I admire your talent.”
    He seemed to look at me with a different light in his eyes.
    He said, “Holly and I are having some people over tonight. It’s a publication party. A collection of essays done by local writers on the Blackfoot. Bring Tobin Voss or whoever you like.”
    “That’s kind of you. Tell me, Mr. Girard, why would a fellow’s film agent want to send a private detective after him?”
    “Man claims I set fire to his convertible outside the Polo Lounge. But don’t put any credence in that. The poor guy’s unbalanced. He’s trying to set up 900 toll numbers for Charlie Manson and the Menendez brothers.”
    “This is your agent?”
    “Not anymore,” he said, his eyes smiling.
     
     
    “COME WITH US,” DOC said to his daughter Maisey that evening.
    “Holly Girard looks like melted wax somebody put in the refrigerator,” Maisey said.
    “I don’t want you here alone,” he said.
    “Steve is picking me up. We’re going to the movies. If you don’t trust me, then stay home.”
    “What time are you coming back from the show?” Doc said.
    “Maybe you could put an electric monitor on me. The kind that criminals wear when they’re sentenced to home arrest.”
    “How about it with the histrionics?” Doc said.
    “How about it yourself, Dad? You’re the selfish one. You give up nothing and want me to give up everything.”
    Maisey’s face had the bright shininess of a candied apple. The skin above her upper lip was moist with perspiration, like a little girl’s.
    Ease up, Doc, I thought.
    He looked out the front window at the twilight in the hills and the black swirl of the river as it made a bend and flowed deeper into woods that had already gone dark with shadow.
    “We’ll be back by eleven. Can you do the same?” he said.
    “I don’t know. Kids in Missoula fill condoms with water and throw them at each other’s cars. Can I give that up for my father’s peace of mind? Gee, I’m not sure,” she said. She fixed her hair in front of the mirror and looked at her father’s reflection and raised her eyebrows innocuously.
    I went outside and waited for Doc by my truck. Through the front window I could see him and Maisey arguing bitterly. When he came outside he tried to be good-natured but he couldn’t hide the strain in his face.
    “They say a father has a few rough moments when his daughter is between thirteen and seventeen. I think it’s more like being rope-drug up and down a staircase on a daily basis,” he said.
    “Who’s the kid she’s going out with?” I asked.
    “He lives up the road. He’s a good boy.