The big seven, p.1
The Big Seven, page 1
The Big
Seven
Also by Jim Harrison
FICTION
Wolf: A False Memoir
A Good Day to Die
Farmer
Legends of the Fall
Warlock
Sundog
Dalva
The Woman Lit by Fireflies
Julip
The Road Home
The Beast God Forgot to Invent
True North
The Summer He Didn’t Die
Returning to Earth
The English Major
The Farmer’s Daughter
The Great Leader
The River Swimmer
Brown Dog
CHILDREN’S LITERATURE
The Boy Who Ran to the Woods
POETRY
Plain Song
Locations
Outlyer and Ghazals
Letters to Yesenin
Returning to Earth
Selected & New Poems: 1961–1981
The Theory and Practice of Rivers & New Poems
After Ikkyū & Other Poems
The Shape of the Journey: New and Collected Poems
Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry, with Ted Kooser
Saving Daylight
In Search of Small Gods
Songs of Unreason
ESSAYS
Just Before Dark: Collected Nonfiction
The Raw and the Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand
MEMOIR
Off to the Side
Jim Harrison
The Big Seven
A Faux Mystery
Grove Press
New York
Copyright © 2015 by Jim Harrison
Jacket Design by Charles Rue Woods
Artwork by Russell Chatham
Author photograph by Wyatt McSpadden
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Text on page 335 from Nightwood by Djuna Barnes, copyright © 1937 by Djuna Barnes. First published in the United States by Harcourt, Brace & Co., 1937. Second American edition published by New Directions, 1946. First published as New Directions Paperbook 98 in 1961. Reissued as New Directions Paperbook 1049 in 2006.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-8021-2392-3
eISBN 978-0-8021-9212-7
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
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Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
For Peter Lewis
Chapter 1
Sunderson must have been about ten and was burning up with fever from strep throat and still had to go to Sunday morning Lutheran service. His mother had her antennae out for malefactors and only Berenice who had broken her leg tobogganing had recently succeeded in avoiding church. It was dreadfully boring and that particular week they had a visiting pastor from Escanaba who was far too loud to allow Sunderson to drift off into a doze. He was thinking of the sausage and pancakes that he would have at home after the service and the likelihood of going ice fishing with Dad in the afternoon. The pastor’s resounding basso boomed out the Seven Deadly Sins: Pride, Greed, Envy, Lechery, Gluttony, Anger, and Laziness. On the way home in their old Plymouth with the bumpers and fenders rattling with rust he asked loudly what “lechery” meant and his dad said, “You’ll find out when you’re fourteen,” a typical answer wherein all life was an unearthed hostage to the future. He had a clue because the high school girls referred to the male gym teacher as a “lech” and there must be a connection. When they got home he checked the dictionary and found out that lechery meant unrestrained sexual desire. He couldn’t totally leave it alone and at breakfast asked if the sins were deadly how soon would you die? What if you just forgot and committed one, did you deserve to die? The doctor’s son had the best bicycle in town and you would die if you wanted it. At his age this was less abstract than sexual desire. When you looked up the teacher’s legs under her dress in fourth grade could you drop dead? Could just looking be lechery?
It must have been thirty years before he figured out that it had been the high fever that made the experience so vivid if not lurid. There had been a surreal light cast over the service which made it permanently memorable though also confusing. If Mary Magdalene could be forgiven for being a whore why must others die for visiting her? It was confusing but then he couldn’t remember paying any attention to anything a pastor had said before this point. He didn’t get to go ice fishing because of the fever but had been forced into church. This was the kind of injustice that weighs heavily on children who collect injustices for later possible use.
Fifty-some years later he was brook trout fishing well up the Driggs River west of Seney when his cell phone made a modest gurgle. He knew from experience he was out of reliable range but saw from the screen it was his beloved Diane, his ex-wife, with whom he was still in contact. She blurted “call now” before the connection died so he quickly got out of the stream and hiked to his car knowing the state highway a dozen miles south would be his first point of reception. He worried all the way there because Diane rarely called and only if it was very important.
It was half an hour before he could get through—the curse of the cell phone was its convenience and frequent use. The news was bad indeed. Their adopted daughter Mona had taken off from the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor with a rock band from LA headed for New York City. Diane was overwrought and confused and wouldn’t stop talking about the semester being nearly over and Mona losing credit and all that work. Sunderson said goodbye and called Mona’s roommate Emma, a case where the name didn’t fit the big rough-and-tumble girl from East Detroit. The news from Emma was grim. The band members were “lowlife scumbags” but currently hot. She offered to go along if he was going to New York City looking for Mona. His heart jiggled left and right with a tinge of pain. He loved this lost girl, his neighbor for most of her life, abandoned by her parents, then adopted by him and Diane simply because they all liked each other and thought they might as well become a family since her own parents were utterly indifferent.
In a little less than twenty-four hours he had hit LaGuardia then a small hotel with no name on it that Diane loved on Irving Place a couple of blocks from Gramercy Park. He restrained himself from asking if the hotel had a bar because he was crying out of fear for Mona and the bar was only another inept compulsion of his. In the landing pattern his seatmate pointed at the gap of the missing towers as if by knowing he was part of history. A writer-drunk-sportsman over in Grand Marais in the U.P. believed a giant aviary should be built in their location in memoriam but the real estate turned out to be far too valuable whatever that meant. Memory has no enduring value?
Never having been in New York City Sunderson felt profoundly out of context, as they say, at the hotel desk where a fey and elegant young man seemed to wince at his dowdy and rumpled clothing. “Business or pleasure?” the young man asked with a smile. “Neither,” Sunderson said. “My daughter has been kidnapped and I’m looking for her.” That put a stop to everything except the figurine of a toy poodle in a diamond necklace on the desk seemed to yap.
Sunderson’s room was named after Edith Wharton whom he slightly remembered from American literature in high school. The rooms were expensive by his motel standards but then Diane had wanted him to be comfortable and there was an indication of her having spent time in this room. He was too hungry for his habitual nap which put him in a small dither. The cab had been trapped at a bridge and he sat there craving a cigarette. They were stopped so long he stepped out on the bridge, had a quick puff and got vertigo from the height. The cab nudged forward a few feet and he tossed away the barely started cigarette and jumped back in, feeling foolish when they stayed stationary. With cigarettes up to eight bucks a pack it was such a waste.
He went down the stairs to the Spanish restaurant next door called Casa Mono which featured small and medium plates. He liked whenever possible to order what he had never eaten with an air of authority. He ordered a bottle of fine Priorat red wine, some cuttlefish, razor clams, a softshell crab, a piquillo pepper stuffed with meat and roasted. He ordered a second bottle of wine, first calling Diane on his cell because he didn’t want booze to be obvious in his voice. She told him to check the messages on his cell, which he never did, because Emma had called with the name of the bar on the Lower East Side where the band regularly hung out. Sunderson was so pleased to be eating such delicious food and drinking this superb wine that he had been devouring it. The lunch crowd wa
After a two-hour nap he awoke feeling a crunch as if none of his body parts knew how to work together. He drank a two-ounce vodka shooter from a tiny bottle in his briefcase kept for such emergencies, a kind of motor oil, as it were. He had three cups of expensive coffee on his post-nap stroll thinking it was cheaper to have a Saturday night drunk in the Upper Peninsula than to try to wake up in New York City. At the third coffee shop he talked to Emma who added another bar as a band hangout, more specifically a favorite of the drummer, who Emma had learned was Mona’s post-concert inamorato. This second bar was in the Carlyle hotel where the drummer’s mother lived upstairs.
In the third coffee shop the young woman next to Sunderson was a tad homely but friendly. She was working on her laptop and she was kind enough to look up photos of the band, which was called Arugula of all things. She said that they were “scumbags” or so she had heard and that the two bars he had to check out were practically at opposite ends of Manhattan.
The first bar was called Toad in the Hole and Sunderson reflected on entering that it smelled like a very dead toad in a very shallow hole. The bartender’s face was gray and flaccid and an immensely muscled man was sitting in the middle of the bar monopolizing the area, so Sunderson took a stool closer to the door, generally a good idea for safety’s sake.
“I’ll have a double Beam with water on the side. I heard the band Arugula hangs out here?”
“I don’t talk to cops,” the bartender said, pouring light.
“I retired two years ago. When am I forgiven?”
“You guys are like marines. You never get over it.”
“I’m their spokesman. What do you want?” The other patron swiveled toward him on his stool and Sunderson noted that his huge upper body was out of balance with his long, very thin legs.
“You don’t look like a spokesman,” Sunderson quipped.
“Fuck you kiddo.”
“Your drummer left a mess behind in LA. I’m looking into it for a friend.”
“Lorin is too careful. He even goes to church.” Sunderson had the sudden idea that if he had problems with this guy he’d use a Munising High linebacker trick. You come in low and drive a shoulder into the knees. Bones would crack like timber logs, no question. He doubtless carried a pistol but you can’t aim well with broken bones.
“I’m telling you he committed a felony. Your drummer Lorin boffed an underage girl in Westwood.” The girl from the coffee shop had mentioned Lorin’s taste was an open secret and Sunderson figured he was on safe ground improvising.
“I never heard of the word boffed.”
“To be more exact he fucked her in the ass in his BMW after choir practice.”
“He was avoiding a paternity suit. She probably told him she was nineteen.”
“A nice check for the parents or cash and he can avoid a felony charge.”
“I’ll pass on that news.”
“I’d be in a hurry if I were you.”
“We leave on a European tour tomorrow.”
“Lorin is not going to Europe. We either work this out or he’s in jail.”
The bartender called the big guy Ben. Ben made a cell call and walked to the door for privacy. The bartender poured Sunderson a freebie glad to be in on a hot secret.
“He doesn’t know about any girl, you made that story up,” Ben came back.
“He can save that for the judge. Everybody is innocent but I’ll take fifty thousand by midnight.” Sunderson mentioned his hotel and then walked out and hailed a cab.
He spotted Lorin the minute he entered Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle. He looked like a young girl about twelve and was close to being a dwarf, maybe about five-foot-six when he got up for the toilet. He was sitting with an older woman who resembled him and was likely his mother. Sunderson abruptly turned his head away because Mona came in through the lobby door. His tummy quivered at the sight of Mona wearing fancy clothes he had never seen before. He of course had to stop this trip to Europe. He took out his pocket notebook and wrote “you’ll be arrested at the airport” on a page, gave it to the bartender with twenty bucks, and pointed out the recipients. He quickly walked out through the Madison Avenue entrance thinking his nap hadn’t covered the duress of this trip.
Back at the hotel after a slow and expensive cab ride he took off all of his clothes, had a bourbon shooter and a shower, and called Diane. He explained he had seen Mona at the Carlyle and explained what he was doing with the blackmail project which frightened her.
“You always played it legal,” she said.
“But I’m not a cop anymore,” he replied.
“Why didn’t you confront her?”
“Wrong time, wrong place. She has to be alone. She looked in love with the fucking dwarf.”
“Then it’s hopeless. You remember how much my parents didn’t want me with you?”
“I got the feeling she is staying with the mother.”
“It’s a hotel for very rich people.”
“Then security is tight. It will have to be outside.”
“What if she goes to Europe tomorrow?”
“I guess I’d have to follow. It would be harder.”
On his way back downtown he stopped back at Toad in the Hole on an oblique hunch. Huge Ben wasn’t there but the same bartender was. He brought Sunderson a free drink for the hot statutory rape info which he had sold to a gossip columnist. Sunderson tried to ride the newly found goodwill.
“Why Europe?” he asked. “I thought all the money was here.”
“Lorin wants to take his new girlfriend to France for a week. He’s the boss. He wants a break before they start a ten-week tour. Their tour schedule is on their website.”
Up in the room he called the nice girl from the coffee shop. She was surprised to hear from him and said she would fax the schedule to him at the hotel. Within minutes there was a knock on the door. A five-buck tip and he had the schedule which wasn’t immediately useful except that they were leaving tomorrow afternoon for a sixty-day stint and the singer had tweeted, whatever that was, about Air France. He felt once again that it was irksome to be computer ignorant. Even Indian grannies in the Upper Peninsula were hot on emailing each other. Looking at the tour dates he wondered what was the human toll to be in Hamburg, Germany, one day and Stockholm the next.
He took a break and walked ten blocks to take in a movie called Melancholia and then was pointlessly angry when he disliked it. Planets were bent on colliding and some rich Swedes were having a wedding at a country house. The world would be destroyed so that meant the end of brook trout fishing and Diane. Two unbearable things not to speak of Mona who had fallen for a midget. It was sad to ponder the idea that one had virtually no control over the main feature of one’s life. When he was Mona’s window-peeking neighbor of course he loved her. How could you not? Bright girl with lovely supple body is friends with and spied upon by retired state police detective during her yoga and other matters. He slowly became her dad and now she had fled the university for Sodom and Gomorrah.
On the way back to the hotel in midevening he stopped at an upscale cocktail lounge and the Big Seven arose again. He wondered what had made him demand the blackmail money and concluded he was jealous of the dwarf. All of the men in the lounge were uniformly beautifully dressed and he felt darkly envious at their clothes, far beyond his budget, and the splendid women the clothes doubtless attracted. He wondered what it felt like to look expensive. He ordered a dry martini and it cost fifteen dollars, a stunning amount.
“Back home this same drink is three bucks.”
“Where’s that?” the bartender who was also dressed nicely asked.
“Way up in Michigan.”
They then launched into a fishing discussion. The bartender was from Maine, also a fine brook trout state or so Sunderson had heard. The bartender, somewhat of a hick, had come to New York City as his own father had done in the fifties but found it was unlikely that he would find his fortune while tending bar. Sunderson felt a bit sad at the whole thing perceiving the boy wasn’t “quick” enough to make his “fortune.” He should clearly be back in Maine wading a trout stream. Of course that was where Sunderson ached to be himself. He suddenly had what he thought was a bright idea, to wit, pretend to be a detective from LA and try to make an appointment at the Carlyle with the diminutive mother of the dwarf drummer Mona was in love with.
