Rough Country

Stone Lake, but Slibe Ashbach turned into the driveway in his pickup, bounced down past the garden, and rolled to a stop fifteen feet from the kennel. He climbed out and Virgil said to Slibe II, “Nice talking to you,” and walked over to his father. “Dropped by to return the rifle.”
    Slibe took the gun case, looked at Virgil a little too long, then said, “Clean bill of health, huh?”
    “It’s not the gun that killed McDill or shot Jan Washington,” Virgil said.
    Slibe turned his head toward his son a bit, then asked, “They was both shot with the same weapon?”
    “We think so,” Virgil said. “That’s what the lab people tell us.”
    “Told you it wasn’t me,” Slibe said. Once again glanced toward his son and then asked, “So what’d the dunce have to say?”
    The Deuce backed into the kennel and out of sight.
    “We were talking about Indian trails,” Virgil said.
    “Mmm. Well, he knows them,” Slibe said. He hefted the gun: “You done with us?”
    “Not completely,” Virgil said, with a smile. “Me’n a friend are gonna go see Wendy tonight. He’s sort of a big shot in the country music world, wants to take a look at her.”
    “Yeah, well,” Slibe said, and he walked up to the kennel door, then looked back and said, “You know what I think about that horseshit.”
     
     
     
    HE DISAPPEARED into the barn, after his son; Virgil waited for a moment, thinking they might come back out, but then he heard them knocking around, and doors started opening down the side of the barn, and fuzzy yellow dogs began moving into their separate cages.
    Virgil turned and left. Fuck ’em, he thought, I know where they are if I need them .
    Nothing to do; nobody to talk to—Sig was working, Zoe was pissed off. And he had things to think about, so he went back to the motel and took a nap.
     
     
     
    GOT UP GROGGY, looked at the clock: time to move. But toothpaste was critical, he thought, smacking his lips.
    Virgil and Jud Windrow hooked up at the Wild Goose at ten minutes to seven, found a booth, talked to Chuck the bartender for a couple of minutes, were comped the first two beers on grounds of good-bar fellowship, and paid for two more before Wendy went on.
    Virgil had briefed Windrow on the exact nature of the band, the crowd, and the bar, and when Wendy and the other women climbed on the stage, he said, “They got a good look. That dyke vibe works. Is that black eye from the fight?”
    “Yeah. You’ll notice a big scratch healing up on Berni’s cheek. . . .”
    Wendy growled into the microphone, “It’s been a heck of a week, so instead of getting everyone riled up all over again, we’re going to start out slow. So grab a hunny-bunny and let’s do the ‘Art ists’ Waltz.’ . . .”
    They did and Virgil watched Windrow sit back in the booth, a skeptical sideways tilt to his head, and watched the skepticism drain away as Wendy did a number on him. When they finished, they went into some soft-rock bullshit that Virgil didn’t know, and Windrow leaned across the table and said, “She can do it.”
    “You think?”
    “Oh, yeah. Gotta do something about the drummer,” he said. “She sort of hits around the beat, but not exactly on it.”
    Virgil nodded. “Everybody says that, but she and Wendy are, you know, whatever.”
    “She’s the one who punched her out?”
    “Yeah. Right in this very booth,” Virgil said.
    Windrow did a low coughing laugh, like a bear, looking at Berni pounding away on her drums, and said, “I could get a big old hard-on thinking about that. Wish I’d been here.”
    “No, you wouldn’t. This wasn’t a wrestling match, this was like watching a couple of bobcats go after each other,” Virgil said.
    Windrow turned back to the band, listened for a bit, then asked, “The first song—where’d they get that? Is that local up here?”
    “She wrote it,” Virgil said.
    “Better and better,” Windrow said. “Gotta do something about the drummer.”
    “Somebody told me that she’s okay as a backup singer, and her tits are good enough to put her out front, singing. Maybe with a tambourine or something,” Virgil said.
    “Could do that, if you had to keep her,” Windrow said.
    Wendy finished the bullshit soft-rocker and looked out over the crowd at Virgil and Windrow, and said, “Here’s another one of ours; we were just working it out today . . . it’s called, ‘Doggin’ Me Around.’ ”
    She had Windrow playing the air drum before she