The Grasshopper Trap Page 10

  “There’s the bee tree!” I shouted, pointing to the silvery snag. The level of enthusiasm was instantly restored and everyone leaped from the truck shouting orders and advice, for that is the favorite activity of bad company.

  “Fire up the torch,” yelled Pinto Jack.

  “Make the cheesecloth hood,” shouted Rancid.

  “Gimme my ax,” cried Murph.

  “My goodness,” said Howard. “This is so exciting it gives me goosebumps.”

  The first order of business was a lengthy argument over how to chop down the tree.

  “Notch her on the back,” yelled Pinto Jack. “That will drop her alongside the road.”

  “And on top of my truck,” shouted Murph. “No sir, she’s got to drop downhill.”

  Without anything being settled, Murph, Pinto Jack, and Rancid, all of them still shouting and arguing and calling each other names, went off toward the tree, carrying the ax, the heavy clothes, a lantern, and the smoky torch. Presently the ruckus died down, only to be replaced by ominous, hollow sounds of chopping. It occurred to me that Rancid, caught up in the wave of enthusiasm, had forgotten his own maxim of letting someone else do the dangerous work.

  Fat Edna’s cigarette glowed in the dark as she, Howard, and I stood listening to the attack on the bee tree.

  “I sure hope nobody gets killed this time,” Fat Edna said.

  “How’s that?” Howard asked. “Pardon?”

  “Or maimed,” Fat Edna added, looking at me. “You remember poor old Wally Jackson the time we tried to rope the bear that got into Murph’s hog pen?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Lefty Jackson.”

  “Lefty?” the man in the white suit said.

  “And poor Harry Logan at the chainsaw races?”

  “Yeah, Stumpy Logan.”

  “Stumpy?” the man in the white suit said. “Maybe we should …”

  Suddenly the chopping ceased. “Ow!” somebody yelped, off in the darkness. And then somebody else shouted, “More smoke! More smoke! Ow! Ow!”

  “I thought something like this might happen,” Fat Edna said.

  Rancid, Pinto Jack, and Murph rushed past us in a tight little cluster, slapping and howling. Then we too were caught up in a roaring tornado of angry bees.

  “Ever’body into the truck cab!” yelled Rancid.

  I was the last through the door, scrambling in on top of Fat Edna. Rancid fired up the truck, cut a U-turn, and we roared off down the mountain, dispatching bees as best we could in tight quarters. A catastrophe was in full progress.

  “We missin’ anybody?” Rancid asked. “Ow! Gol-durn bee! Whar’s Murph? Ah don’t see Murph!”

  A muffled sound came from under Fat Edna. “I’m still here, but I’m going fast!”

  “The man in the white suit!” I said. “He’s not here!”

  “Good gosh almighty,” Rancid said. “The pore devil will git hisself stung to death!”

  “I knew something like this would happen,” Fat Edna said. “I just knew it!”

  “Aaaaa,” said Murph.

  “What’s that ahead?” said Pinto Jack.

  The beam of the truck’s single headlight illuminated a tall white figure sprinting down the road. Howard! I rolled down the window and yelled at him to jump on the running board. He jumped, hooking one arm over the door. Crouching on the running board, he screwed his face into a terrible expression as we roared into the first turn. Years later the image of his face at that moment would wake me in a cold sweat from my worst nightmares.

  “Ever’body hold on, Ah got to hit the brakes fer the next tarn,” Rancid said. “We’ll never make it at this speed!”

  The muffled voice of Murph came from under Fat Edna. “What brakes? This truck ain’t got no brakes.”

  We hurtled around the curve, bounding over rocks and brush and small trees, Rancid wrestling the steering wheel as though it were a crazed beast. Then we shot over the brink of the last and steepest grade and plummeted toward the bottom of the mountain.

  “We got her made now,” Rancid said. “Leastwise, iffen we don’t hit too hard.” Then he glanced at the stranger, whose face was knotted up in one of the worst grimaces I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. “You done real good, feller,” Rancid complimented him. “Ain’t ever’body could survive a ride like thet, with nothin’ more to stand on than a runnin’ board.”

  “What runnin’ board?” Murph croaked. “This truck ain’t got no runnin’ board on that side.”

  Nobody at Fat Edna’s ever again saw the man in the white suit. If he did pass through town, he chose not to stop by the tavern for a nightcap. Rancid said he sort of liked the stranger, too, but that there was something odd about him. Although I didn’t say so, I knew what it was. Howard just wasn’t cut out for bad company.

  The Case of the Missed Deer

  The sun spread out against the western sky like a drop of blood on a blotter. The frozen ground under my feet felt like frozen ground, which was strange, since frozen ground usually feels like peanut brittle. I felt like a cigarette. If you don’t know what a cigarette feels like, you probably don’t read private-eye novels. Fictional private eyes often feel like cigarettes. Many of them even think like cigarettes. That is because private-eye novels are often written by persons who write like cigarettes. It goes with the territory. I should know. I write private-eye novels.

  That’s why I was surprised when this outdoor editor called me up.

  “McManus?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said, cradling the phone with my shoulder while I ground out a cigarette in the palm of my hand.

  “What’s wrong?” the editor asked. “Why the screech?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Why I’m calling,” the editor continued, “is I want to hire you to write a hunting article.”

  “I get fifty dollars a day plus expenses,” I said.

  The editor laughed. “I heard you did humor, but I had no idea you were that funny! See if you can work some great jokes like that into the article.” He hung up, chuckling.

  Business had been slow lately. By “lately” I mean the last fifteen years. I decided to take the job.

  The best part of writing a hunting article is the hunting. The writing comes later. That’s when this business gets rough. I can’t count the times I’ve stared into the cold muzzle of a blank sheet of paper. I won’t even tell about the dangling participles that keep slipping up on you. And the commas! God, how I hate commas! Then there are the semicolons, the commas with the dots over them. I’ve never yet seen a semicolon that could be trusted. If you don’t have guts enough to rub out a semicolon when you see one, you don’t belong in this business.

  As soon as the outdoor editor had hung up, I put on my hunting togs, slipped a gun into my shoulder holster, and headed for the door. My secretary, a tough blonde broad—or a tough broad blonde, to be more accurate—yelled at me.

  “Hey, Nick, your gat is showing!”

  I made a swift check of my person and immediately detected the cause of her alarm, at the same time allaying my own worst fear.

  “That’s a problem with these shoulder holsters,” I said. “They’re just too short for a rifle.”

  “What are you going after this time—deer?” Stella asked.

  “I’m glad you asked that, sweetheart,” I said. “I’m going after deer.”

  “Get lost!” she riposted.

  That’s how I came to be standing behind a tree on a mountainside, running a surveillance on a clearing directly ahead of me. The sun was no longer like a drop of blood on a blotter. It was more like a smear of orange marmalade on burnt toast. The frozen ground still felt like frozen ground, but I now felt like peanut brittle. It was cold.

  Doc Watson accompanied me on the hunt. He is not a real doctor but a Ph.D. in economics. Despite this handicap, Doc has a tremendous sense of humor. Whenever people hear him referred to as “Doc,” they assume he is a medical doctor and start asking for advice. Ol’ D
oc loves to string people along, sometimes telling them that the prime rate is too high and may cause their business to fall off. This almost always scares the bejeebers out of them. As a joke, he once performed an appendectomy. It was hilarious.

  “Something’s wrong here, Doc,” I said. “I was supposed to meet a deer in this clearing and it hasn’t shown up.”

  “Three deer have already walked across the clearing,” Doc said.

  “How come I didn’t see them?”

  “Because you’re standing behind a tree.”

  That’s the kind of mind Doc has—sharp! He can analyze a complex situation instantly. Moving only six inches to one side, I discovered that the trunk of the tree no longer blocked my vision.

  “Well, I’ll be danged,” I said. “The solution was so obvious. Why didn’t I see it?”

  “Possibly it’s because you had your mind on other matters,” Doc analyzed. “On the other hand, it’s probably because you’re dumb.”

  On the far side of the clearing, the brush parted and a nice buck stepped out. He was a big old fellow, and I could tell he had been around and knew the score, which was Deer—15, Me—0. That is why he sauntered casually along, broadside to me and no more than fifty yards away. He was close enough that I could see the smirk on his face. Such insolence in a deer is unforgivable, and I decided to settle his venison right then and there.

  In a smooth, swift motion, I brought the rifle to firing position, neatly dislocating my left shoulder. In my haste, I’d forgotten to remove the rifle from its holster. Shrugging off the pain, I danced around yelling and cursing.

  “Good thing I brought my bag with me,” Doc said. “I may have to remove that shoulder if it becomes inflationary.”

  I gave Doc a hard look. He was standing there smugly eating a sandwich.

  “Just for that, I’m going to waste that turkey,” I snarled.

  Doc looked startled. “Why don’t you waste the pastrami instead? I’m eating the turkey.”

  With a sardonic laugh, I snatched the sandwich from his hands and ground it under my boot. Instantly I felt better.

  “Let that be a lesson to you,” I told Doc. “And if you don’t shut up, I’m going to waste your fruit drink and pudding cup.”

  Doc has no stomach for violence, although his liver enjoys a Clint Eastwood film from time to time. He walked off a ways to pout.

  Surprisingly, the deer was still standing in the clearing watching us, his smirk now transformed into a broad grin. I settled the crosshairs of the scope just behind his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger. It was an easy shot. So easy, in fact, that there was no way I could miss. Afterwards, I even felt a little ashamed. The least I could have done was to give the buck a sporting chance. That would have explained the miss. But to miss him while he was just standing there grinning at me! It was humiliating.

  “What’s the score now?” Doc asked.

  “Deer—16, Me—0,” I said.

  “And you have to write a hunting article about this,” Doc said. “How are you going to do that?”

  “With great difficulty,” I said. “But I’ve got to do it.”

  Driving back to town, I told Doc about the kinds of atrocities editors had committed on writers who didn’t get articles in on time. He shuddered.

  “Maybe you could just make up something,” Doc said. “That’s what we economists do. Heck, just say that you got the deer. Who’s to know?”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “But I think I’ve figured a way out of this mess. I’ll just tell the truth.”

  “It’s easy to see you’re no economist,” Doc said. “What’s your angle?”

  “Well,” I replied, “I thought I’d start off with ‘The sun spread out against the western sky like a drop of blood on a blotter.’”

  Character Flaws

  As an outdoorsman, you frequently run the risk of finding yourself locked into a week-long stay at a remote hunting camp with a person you barely know. By the end of the week, you know the person very well indeed, and may fervently wish you didn’t. This problem can be avoided by putting any new acquaintance through a series of psychological tests to determine his mental and emotional shortcomings, just in case you are ever forced to spend a week with him at a remote hunting camp.

  Before committing yourself to a hunt with any new acquaintance, you should first take him on an overnight camping trip, one of the very best of all psychological tests. Then note the following indicators to his qualities as a hunting-camp companion.

  Grub can be an excellent indicator of flawed character. For example, if the fellow cooks up a supper consisting of fried wieners, fried cabbage, fried potatoes, fried beans, fried bread, and fried custard, he is obviously all right. Give him five bonus points if, as a final course to the meal, he serves individual bowls of Tums with whipped topping.

  On the other hand, if the chap attempts to feed you something like boiled beets, he should be regarded with suspicion. Clinical psychologists universally interpret the act of serving boiled beets to armed men as evidence of a massive psychological disorder. The man obviously has no inkling what the mere sight of boiled beets can do to the morale of exhausted hunters who have spent the day tramping up and down mountains in a freezing rain. Under such circumstances, a small serving of boiled beet cubes once caused Retch Sweeney to sob uncontrollably for over an hour. The perpetrator of the crime was quite upset by the incident, as he probably would have been even if Retch hadn’t been twisting his arm.

  Green hash provides another good test for character flaws. Cook up your own special recipe and serve it to the subject. (Since you are on a camping trip lasting only a couple of days, you may have to use green food coloring, rather than allowing the green to develop naturally, as it does in the typical hunting camp.) Note the reaction of the subject to the green hash. Does he politely gobble it down without complaint? Does he jump back and hit at it with a stick? Such nuances of behavior can tell you much about the individual’s character. Obviously, no rational person will eat green hash, nor will experienced hunters. Keep in mind that if you decide to conduct the test with naturally green hash, any subject who eats it won’t be available for the hunting trip anyway, thus saving you the embarrassment of telling him he can’t go. A get-well card is optional.

  The subject’s response to discomfort should be carefully noted during the test camping trip. Does he howl and yelp over every dozen mosquito bites, moan all through the night because his sleeping bag is wet, complain bitterly because the campfire smoke gets in his eyes, and so on? Or does he cheerfully accept these discomforts as a matter of course? As the true outdoorsman knows, anyone who cheerfully accepts the discomforts of camp as a matter of course is absolutely unbearable and should be rejected without question.

  Check to see if the individual has a sense of humor. In the middle of the night, seal him in his sleeping bag by placing a few wraps of duct tape over the bag’s zipper. Then slosh him with a pail of cold water and yell, “Run for your life! The dam broke!” When you present him with the prize for “fastest hopping in a sleeping bag,” does he smile? If so, it is probably safe to let him out of the sleeping bag. Whether you wish later to spend ten days in a wild and remote area with this individual is up to you.

  The prospective hunting-camp companion should have a sense of modesty. Nothing is quite so embarrassing as having a member of the group running around stark naked. For this test, hide the subject’s clothes in the typical manner associated with most hunting camps. Then note carefully whether he wraps himself in a towel before chasing you with a hatchet.

  Does the subject willingly jump in and do his share of the camp chores? Such people generally turn out to be excruciating bores, as well as making all the other hunters in camp feel guilty.

  Is the subject particularly keen on hunting? Check this out by questioning him thoroughly. I have on occasion been in hunting camps where one individual would insist upon going out hunting every day. As another hunter once commented, �
�What does Joe think we come all the way out to this hunting camp for, to hunt? The guy’s weird. Now whose turn to deal?”

  (Oddly, many nonhunters think the reason hunters go off to remote hunting camps is to hunt. Your wife, for example, may express surprise when you reply to her question of whether you had any luck, “Not bad. I won thirty bucks.” Since the expression of her surprise will consist only of a very slight elevation of one eyebrow, you have to watch closely for it.)

  Storytelling skill ranks as one of the most important qualities in a prospective hunting-camp companion. The test consists of asking the subject about one of his scars. Suppose he replies, “You mean this little scar on my thumb? I got that on a broken bottle when I reached into a grocery sack. Why do you ask?” Then, of course, he flunks. Any halfway decent storyteller should be able to get at least twenty minutes’ worth of story out of any scar. Technique should also be studied. In response to the inquiry regarding the scar on his thumb, does the subject stare off into the distance as if reflecting on the miracle that the thumb is still attached to his hand? This indicates that he is making up a really good story about the scar, complete with gory details. Hunters like a story with lots of gory details, even though they are not going to believe a word of it. WARNING: Any hunter who can go for more than two hours on a single scar should be considered for rejection. He is too good and will demoralize his companions to the extent that even the fellow who had his leg half gnawed off by a panther will hesitate to mention it.

  Is the subject overly cautious? Does he bring along an extra set of clothes in case he falls in a river or something? A hunter possessing this absurd character flaw should be shown tolerance and invited along to the hunting camp. Making allowances for such a hunting companion is always desirable, although not to the extent that he varies from you by more than one size either way.