of the mix and what do you have? A little fishing village, right?”
“That’s about it, yeah.”
“Try it this way: take out all the businesses that don’t depend on visitors, what’s left?”
“Okay, I got it,” he said, just enough annoyance in his tone to tell me he’d gotten it the first time.
“I know there’s some wealthy people here. Has to be, to afford some of the houses you see once in a while. But people like that, they don’t have to
buy
local. Maybe wouldn’t even want to.”
“So what you’re saying, we know Homer didn’t do it. Add the runaway kids to that list. And probably throw in the permanents, too. I can’t see some circuit riders stopping off just to kill that particular guy. What’s that leave?”
“One more thing, for starters,” I said.
“What?”
“We’re talking about a killing, not an accident.”
“So?”
“The dead guy, he couldn’t have been out of prison long.”
“You’re thinking a shot-caller from that same joint put out a ticket on him?” Mack said, like he was thinking out loud.
“Maybe. But I don’t know of any big White Power operation anywhere around here.”
“Me, neither. Eugene wouldn’t be such a good place for them, either. But Vancouver—not Canada, in Washington, just the other side of the bridge from Portland—that’s pretty close, only a few hours away. Or, you want to go far enough northeast of here, there’s all kinds of …”
“Okay. But we
still
need to get a look at the dead guy’s prison record. Not just what he went down for, what he got into while he was inside. Those tattoos—they’ll tell us something. At least one thing, for sure.”
“What?”
“Whether they were there before he went in. Or if some were there already but others got added. This isn’t California—race war isn’t on the menu every day.”
“So?”
“So he wouldn’t necessarily need a gang to stay safe while he was locked up. Guy was well put together, not a natural target. And we know ‘hate crime’ means he did something that would carry status with some convicts. But if he was down on the prison books as ‘affiliated,’ he could have been involved in something during his last stretch that’d carry past the walls.”
“Revenge?”
“One kind or another, maybe. There’s almost no blacks around here. Plenty of Mexicans, but I’ve never seen ink on any of them.”
“They’re not migrant laborers. They live here.”
“So?”
“So how many have you seen with their shirts off?” he said, almost defensively.
“Faces and hands, I’ve seen. And plenty of those. No tears on their faces, no numbers on their forearms, no
pachuco
crosses.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. Meaning he didn’t know what I was talking about, but it didn’t matter.
“The dead guy might have told some stories, like I said before. Or maybe he was supposed to pick up a package and turn it into money. Could be he did that, only he kept the money for himself.”
“You think that’s likely around here? Meth is
the
drug—and the local stuff is supposed to be so good, people actually drive down from the north just to buy. But that’s all home-brewed. Heroin is starting to make a little comeback, only not enough for a big sale, not here.”
“Yeah. Any package would be powder, anyway … and that market’s not here. Still, that’d be a reason. Maybe not the best one, but …”
“What?”
“If this guy had been told where a few keys were stashed, and he grabbed it for himself, he’d deny it as long as he could. This isn’t a movie set—they’d have him shrieking in five minutes. Once they checked on his story—found either the powder or the cash—they’d kill him right there. Wherever they’d already taken him to.
“So why walk him out on that cliff? A gunshot would carry like a sonic boom. They couldn’t rely on weather—nobody around here can—so they’d have a whole mess of porous rock to scrub down if they clubbed him to
“That’s about it, yeah.”
“Try it this way: take out all the businesses that don’t depend on visitors, what’s left?”
“Okay, I got it,” he said, just enough annoyance in his tone to tell me he’d gotten it the first time.
“I know there’s some wealthy people here. Has to be, to afford some of the houses you see once in a while. But people like that, they don’t have to
buy
local. Maybe wouldn’t even want to.”
“So what you’re saying, we know Homer didn’t do it. Add the runaway kids to that list. And probably throw in the permanents, too. I can’t see some circuit riders stopping off just to kill that particular guy. What’s that leave?”
“One more thing, for starters,” I said.
“What?”
“We’re talking about a killing, not an accident.”
“So?”
“The dead guy, he couldn’t have been out of prison long.”
“You’re thinking a shot-caller from that same joint put out a ticket on him?” Mack said, like he was thinking out loud.
“Maybe. But I don’t know of any big White Power operation anywhere around here.”
“Me, neither. Eugene wouldn’t be such a good place for them, either. But Vancouver—not Canada, in Washington, just the other side of the bridge from Portland—that’s pretty close, only a few hours away. Or, you want to go far enough northeast of here, there’s all kinds of …”
“Okay. But we
still
need to get a look at the dead guy’s prison record. Not just what he went down for, what he got into while he was inside. Those tattoos—they’ll tell us something. At least one thing, for sure.”
“What?”
“Whether they were there before he went in. Or if some were there already but others got added. This isn’t California—race war isn’t on the menu every day.”
“So?”
“So he wouldn’t necessarily need a gang to stay safe while he was locked up. Guy was well put together, not a natural target. And we know ‘hate crime’ means he did something that would carry status with some convicts. But if he was down on the prison books as ‘affiliated,’ he could have been involved in something during his last stretch that’d carry past the walls.”
“Revenge?”
“One kind or another, maybe. There’s almost no blacks around here. Plenty of Mexicans, but I’ve never seen ink on any of them.”
“They’re not migrant laborers. They live here.”
“So?”
“So how many have you seen with their shirts off?” he said, almost defensively.
“Faces and hands, I’ve seen. And plenty of those. No tears on their faces, no numbers on their forearms, no
pachuco
crosses.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. Meaning he didn’t know what I was talking about, but it didn’t matter.
“The dead guy might have told some stories, like I said before. Or maybe he was supposed to pick up a package and turn it into money. Could be he did that, only he kept the money for himself.”
“You think that’s likely around here? Meth is
the
drug—and the local stuff is supposed to be so good, people actually drive down from the north just to buy. But that’s all home-brewed. Heroin is starting to make a little comeback, only not enough for a big sale, not here.”
“Yeah. Any package would be powder, anyway … and that market’s not here. Still, that’d be a reason. Maybe not the best one, but …”
“What?”
“If this guy had been told where a few keys were stashed, and he grabbed it for himself, he’d deny it as long as he could. This isn’t a movie set—they’d have him shrieking in five minutes. Once they checked on his story—found either the powder or the cash—they’d kill him right there. Wherever they’d already taken him to.
“So why walk him out on that cliff? A gunshot would carry like a sonic boom. They couldn’t rely on weather—nobody around here can—so they’d have a whole mess of porous rock to scrub down if they clubbed him to
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