Hidden Summit
Page 24
“Where’s home?”
“Sacramento. How long you been up here?”
“Jeez, seven or eight years now. Best move of my life,” Jack said.
“You get a lot of bikers through here?”
“Just now and then,” Jack said with a shrug.
“I’m surprised you don’t get a lot of big groups. The roads up this way are just the kind riding clubs go looking for. In fact, that’s what I’m doing—scouting. We have a group ride coming up and I’m putting together a plan for a road trip. From the mountains to the coast, challenging roads, incredible views. I don’t get this far north too often.”
“You’re welcome to spread the word, as long as we don’t attract gangs,” Jack said.
“I don’t belong to a gang and I don’t hang with ’em.”
“Some of the riding clubs can get a little wild, can’t they?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe. What’s wild?”
“Get drunk, start fights, tear up the town,” Jack speculated.
“That sounds awful,” he said. “I wouldn’t hang with a group like that. That sounds like jail time and a big fine, not to mention a bill for property damage.”
Jack grinned. “We don’t look much alike, but it turns out we think a lot alike.”
“Looks like you just got out of the service. Seven years up here, you say?”
“I guess it’s always going to look that way,” Jack said, running a hand over his head. “Twenty in the Marine Corps. You get used to combing your hair with a washcloth and it’s hard to change. You do any military service?”
“I did not,” he said. “And I thank you for yours.” He put out his hand.
“My pleasure to serve,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “I’m Jack.”
“Walt.” Preacher came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl and basket of bread on a tray. Walt actually rubbed his hands together. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
That brought a slight smile from Preacher. “I’ve only made this once before, but it was a hit.”
“No menu, huh?”
“I can’t keep this kitchen on budget if I cater to the town. I do try to keep in mind what the hunters and fishermen like, but that’s so easy it’s almost embarrassing. It’s wet and cold—they have favorite stews, soups, chili, and of course, they want something like their kill or catch—venison stew or chili, salmon or stuffed trout.”
While Preacher talked, Walt dipped his spoon into the bouillabaisse. The first sip of the creamy broth had him rolling his eyes back in his head and humming with approval. “When’s hunting season?” he asked. “I don’t hunt, but I eat like a champ.”
“You cook?” Preacher asked.
“Not at all. The two best things about riding are the views and finding the best places to eat. There are hidden gems like this place all over California—the back roads. My wife won’t even ride with me more than once every couple of weeks anymore—she loves to eat as much as me, but says I’m making her fat.” He shook his head. “Women are funny that way.”
“I have a wife and four sisters,” Jack said. “There’s a lot of talk about butts and thighs.”
“I hear a lot about that, too,” Walt said, dipping into that bouillabaisse again. “I don’t know what she’s worrying about, but whatever makes her happy. Look at me? Am I Tom Cruise or something?” He fished out a scallop and popped it in his mouth.
“Happy wife, happy life,” Preacher said.
“Preacher, this is inspired. You have a gift.”
Jack and Preacher both watched as Walt fished a lobster tail out of the stew and halved it with his spoon.
“There’s this little hole in the wall in Paradise owned by this Hungarian guy. He and his son do all the cooking. It’s amazing—one of my favorite places. Pull up to it and you think it’s a shack, a lean-to. Inside? Crystal and white tablecloths and the best food I’ve ever eaten. Then there’s a really small restaurant in Napa I love. I think they only seat about a dozen patrons, but it’s fantastic. Fancy and pricey, but they earned it.” He chewed, swallowed. “That’s pretty much my hobby—road trips and restaurants.”
“I could get into that,” Preacher said.
Walt grinned. “Get a little more hair on you, you’d be a natural.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” Jack said. “But I’d sure like to hear about your bike club.”
“Well,” he said, chewing, swallowing. “Well, I’m associated with a few bike clubs through the shop. This group I’m scouting for—they’re a little rough around the edges—these are not IBM sales reps out for a weekend ride. They take their bikes and rides pretty seriously, and they’re safe as babies, but I think they’ll appreciate it if you act a little scared when they show up.” Then he grinned and went after the stew again.
“Might have to practice that,” Preacher said, and Walt chuckled through his mouthful. Preacher gave him a half smile. “Give him a discount, Jack. The man shows the proper reverence for my work.” Then he went back to the kitchen.
“There should be four to six of them in this group,” Walt went on. “We’ll be back about a month from now. We can camp, but if there’s lodging around here that would make for a good base, point me to it, will you? These guys are not as into the restaurant part of the trip as I am. I’m planning on spending some quality time with Preacher.”
The door to the bar opened, and Conner came in, dragging off his hat as he entered.
“There are some cabins along the river, owned by a friend of mine. I have no idea how booked he is. Conner here stays in one. Conner, meet Walt. Walt here is a front man for a group of riders, checking out the area for a road trip.”
“Hey,” Conner said, putting out his hand. “Where are you from?”
“Sacramento area. You?”
“Colorado,” he said a bit uncomfortably. “Road trip, huh?”
“We do that kind of thing a lot,” Walt said. He dove into his stew again. When he came up for air, he asked Jack to write down some directions to the cabins for him and Jack slipped down the bar a bit where he had a pad of paper and began writing.
“And what do you do when you’re not planning a road trip?” Conner asked.
“Work in a bike shop. Big surprise, huh? I’m pretty good with a wrench. You?”
“Build and remodel kitchens and bathrooms. I’m pretty good with a hammer and saw. That your bike out there?”
“Not exactly,” Walt said. “I’ve been working on that bike for a customer. Kind of a pet project. I’ll be riding my own bike when we come back up here, but I told my customer I wanted to take his bike out on the road for a long ride before turning it over. Good thing I did, too. That bike isn’t ready.” He plucked out some fish, ate it, wiped his lips and beard with a napkin. “Gave me a pretty good ride, though. I’ll give him a break on the repairs.”
Conner tried to keep the suspicion from his eyes. “I took a friend’s bike out on some back roads along the Pacific cliffs recently and I have to say—I liked that. If I wanted to buy a good bike and was willing to go to Sacramento, where would you recommend I shop?”
Walt stood up to reach inside the pocket of his jeans. He had chains around the heels of his boots, a long chain connecting the wallet in his back pocket to a belt loop and keys attached to the opposite belt loop. He pulled out a pretty limp business card, worn from a long ride in the pocket of his jeans, and handed it to Conner. It said, Walt Arneson, Maintenance and Sales, Harley-Davidson.
“Call me at that number. I’ll meet you at one of the dealerships and show you some good stuff.” Then he put out his hand. “I’m Walt. And you’re?”
“Conner,” he said. “Conner Dan…Conner Danforth.”
“Look forward to it, Conner.” Then he turned back to the bar and put his hand out to Jack. “Thanks, man. That was outstanding. Thank Preacher for me.” He took Jack’s directions to the cabins, stuffed it in his pocket and shook his hand. Then he pulled out his wallet and put a couple of twenties on the bar.
“Whoa,” Jack said. “Put one of those back and I’ll get you some change.”
“Keep it,” Walt said. “The company was almost as excellent as the food. See you in about a month.”
“We’ll be here,” Jack said.
Walt left, and it was only a moment before the loud rumble of the cycle filled the afternoon.
“Okay, that was a little weird,” Jack said. “Your last name is Danson.”
“Yeah. Right at the last minute I didn’t feel like giving him my name.” Conner shrugged. “He looked a little, I don’t know, like a Hell’s Angel or something.”
“Yeah, he looks that way but I didn’t get a bad vibe off the guy. He’s got a job, he loved Preacher’s bouillabaisse, in fact, he was a nice guy for a big, hairy, tattooed biker. But then, I’ve gotten used to all kinds of strange characters up in these mountains.”
“Did I offend you?” Conner asked.
“Well, no. But that was a little weird. That you would be skittish like that. You got me and Preacher if you get scared.” And after saying that, Jack grinned.
Conner slapped a hand against his chest. “Oh, man, I forgot about that. Next time I’ll remember and offer the strange dude my phone and social security numbers.”
“Wiseass. You in here for a reason?”
“A beer, if it’s not too much trouble. You want ID?”
Jack served him up a beer. “You and Leslie going out to Dan and Cheryl’s this weekend for their housewarming?”
“Absolutely. I was wondering, what do you think I should give them as a gift? Do you think they’d like some good wine?”
Jack grinned. “Nah,” he said. “Dan has an occasional beer and as far as I know, Cheryl doesn’t drink alcohol.” The door to the bar opened, and the first of the dinner crowd ambled in. “Something for the house. Or something nonalcoholic. Hey, folks,” Jack greeted the newcomers. He moved away from Conner.
Conner drove down the mountain in search of bars for his phone for two purposes—to call Katie and the boys and to call Brie.
“Hey, Brie, Conner here. This is probably nothing, but I ran into a biker at the bar—big, kind of scary-looking guy from Sacramento. He said he was scouting out the area for a road trip. I got his business card—he works for Harley-Davidson. He asked my name and I fudged it a little bit.”
“Did you get the impression he was looking for you or something?” Brie asked.
“Not really. But it seemed an interesting coincidence. Can you check him out, make sure he’s not a hit man or something?”
“Finding out who he is won’t be the same as finding out if he’s a hit man, Conner. Hit men usually have a nice, legitimate cover.”
“Jack liked him,” Conner said.
She laughed. “Jack likes most people. What’s his name?”
“Walt Arneson. And here’s the address and phone number.” He read it off the business card. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Oh, and before I forget, I explained things to Leslie. And I told her you were my contact in case she gets worried or needs to talk to a woman.”
“How’d she take it?”
“I’m a lucky guy,” he said. “She was everything I expected. Supportive and understanding, if a little shocked out of her mind.”
“Then don’t let her get away,” Brie said. “I’ll call Max with this name. He has detectives assigned to the prosecutor’s office.”
“Sacramento. How long you been up here?”
“Jeez, seven or eight years now. Best move of my life,” Jack said.
“You get a lot of bikers through here?”
“Just now and then,” Jack said with a shrug.
“I’m surprised you don’t get a lot of big groups. The roads up this way are just the kind riding clubs go looking for. In fact, that’s what I’m doing—scouting. We have a group ride coming up and I’m putting together a plan for a road trip. From the mountains to the coast, challenging roads, incredible views. I don’t get this far north too often.”
“You’re welcome to spread the word, as long as we don’t attract gangs,” Jack said.
“I don’t belong to a gang and I don’t hang with ’em.”
“Some of the riding clubs can get a little wild, can’t they?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe. What’s wild?”
“Get drunk, start fights, tear up the town,” Jack speculated.
“That sounds awful,” he said. “I wouldn’t hang with a group like that. That sounds like jail time and a big fine, not to mention a bill for property damage.”
Jack grinned. “We don’t look much alike, but it turns out we think a lot alike.”
“Looks like you just got out of the service. Seven years up here, you say?”
“I guess it’s always going to look that way,” Jack said, running a hand over his head. “Twenty in the Marine Corps. You get used to combing your hair with a washcloth and it’s hard to change. You do any military service?”
“I did not,” he said. “And I thank you for yours.” He put out his hand.
“My pleasure to serve,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “I’m Jack.”
“Walt.” Preacher came out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl and basket of bread on a tray. Walt actually rubbed his hands together. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
That brought a slight smile from Preacher. “I’ve only made this once before, but it was a hit.”
“No menu, huh?”
“I can’t keep this kitchen on budget if I cater to the town. I do try to keep in mind what the hunters and fishermen like, but that’s so easy it’s almost embarrassing. It’s wet and cold—they have favorite stews, soups, chili, and of course, they want something like their kill or catch—venison stew or chili, salmon or stuffed trout.”
While Preacher talked, Walt dipped his spoon into the bouillabaisse. The first sip of the creamy broth had him rolling his eyes back in his head and humming with approval. “When’s hunting season?” he asked. “I don’t hunt, but I eat like a champ.”
“You cook?” Preacher asked.
“Not at all. The two best things about riding are the views and finding the best places to eat. There are hidden gems like this place all over California—the back roads. My wife won’t even ride with me more than once every couple of weeks anymore—she loves to eat as much as me, but says I’m making her fat.” He shook his head. “Women are funny that way.”
“I have a wife and four sisters,” Jack said. “There’s a lot of talk about butts and thighs.”
“I hear a lot about that, too,” Walt said, dipping into that bouillabaisse again. “I don’t know what she’s worrying about, but whatever makes her happy. Look at me? Am I Tom Cruise or something?” He fished out a scallop and popped it in his mouth.
“Happy wife, happy life,” Preacher said.
“Preacher, this is inspired. You have a gift.”
Jack and Preacher both watched as Walt fished a lobster tail out of the stew and halved it with his spoon.
“There’s this little hole in the wall in Paradise owned by this Hungarian guy. He and his son do all the cooking. It’s amazing—one of my favorite places. Pull up to it and you think it’s a shack, a lean-to. Inside? Crystal and white tablecloths and the best food I’ve ever eaten. Then there’s a really small restaurant in Napa I love. I think they only seat about a dozen patrons, but it’s fantastic. Fancy and pricey, but they earned it.” He chewed, swallowed. “That’s pretty much my hobby—road trips and restaurants.”
“I could get into that,” Preacher said.
Walt grinned. “Get a little more hair on you, you’d be a natural.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” Jack said. “But I’d sure like to hear about your bike club.”
“Well,” he said, chewing, swallowing. “Well, I’m associated with a few bike clubs through the shop. This group I’m scouting for—they’re a little rough around the edges—these are not IBM sales reps out for a weekend ride. They take their bikes and rides pretty seriously, and they’re safe as babies, but I think they’ll appreciate it if you act a little scared when they show up.” Then he grinned and went after the stew again.
“Might have to practice that,” Preacher said, and Walt chuckled through his mouthful. Preacher gave him a half smile. “Give him a discount, Jack. The man shows the proper reverence for my work.” Then he went back to the kitchen.
“There should be four to six of them in this group,” Walt went on. “We’ll be back about a month from now. We can camp, but if there’s lodging around here that would make for a good base, point me to it, will you? These guys are not as into the restaurant part of the trip as I am. I’m planning on spending some quality time with Preacher.”
The door to the bar opened, and Conner came in, dragging off his hat as he entered.
“There are some cabins along the river, owned by a friend of mine. I have no idea how booked he is. Conner here stays in one. Conner, meet Walt. Walt here is a front man for a group of riders, checking out the area for a road trip.”
“Hey,” Conner said, putting out his hand. “Where are you from?”
“Sacramento area. You?”
“Colorado,” he said a bit uncomfortably. “Road trip, huh?”
“We do that kind of thing a lot,” Walt said. He dove into his stew again. When he came up for air, he asked Jack to write down some directions to the cabins for him and Jack slipped down the bar a bit where he had a pad of paper and began writing.
“And what do you do when you’re not planning a road trip?” Conner asked.
“Work in a bike shop. Big surprise, huh? I’m pretty good with a wrench. You?”
“Build and remodel kitchens and bathrooms. I’m pretty good with a hammer and saw. That your bike out there?”
“Not exactly,” Walt said. “I’ve been working on that bike for a customer. Kind of a pet project. I’ll be riding my own bike when we come back up here, but I told my customer I wanted to take his bike out on the road for a long ride before turning it over. Good thing I did, too. That bike isn’t ready.” He plucked out some fish, ate it, wiped his lips and beard with a napkin. “Gave me a pretty good ride, though. I’ll give him a break on the repairs.”
Conner tried to keep the suspicion from his eyes. “I took a friend’s bike out on some back roads along the Pacific cliffs recently and I have to say—I liked that. If I wanted to buy a good bike and was willing to go to Sacramento, where would you recommend I shop?”
Walt stood up to reach inside the pocket of his jeans. He had chains around the heels of his boots, a long chain connecting the wallet in his back pocket to a belt loop and keys attached to the opposite belt loop. He pulled out a pretty limp business card, worn from a long ride in the pocket of his jeans, and handed it to Conner. It said, Walt Arneson, Maintenance and Sales, Harley-Davidson.
“Call me at that number. I’ll meet you at one of the dealerships and show you some good stuff.” Then he put out his hand. “I’m Walt. And you’re?”
“Conner,” he said. “Conner Dan…Conner Danforth.”
“Look forward to it, Conner.” Then he turned back to the bar and put his hand out to Jack. “Thanks, man. That was outstanding. Thank Preacher for me.” He took Jack’s directions to the cabins, stuffed it in his pocket and shook his hand. Then he pulled out his wallet and put a couple of twenties on the bar.
“Whoa,” Jack said. “Put one of those back and I’ll get you some change.”
“Keep it,” Walt said. “The company was almost as excellent as the food. See you in about a month.”
“We’ll be here,” Jack said.
Walt left, and it was only a moment before the loud rumble of the cycle filled the afternoon.
“Okay, that was a little weird,” Jack said. “Your last name is Danson.”
“Yeah. Right at the last minute I didn’t feel like giving him my name.” Conner shrugged. “He looked a little, I don’t know, like a Hell’s Angel or something.”
“Yeah, he looks that way but I didn’t get a bad vibe off the guy. He’s got a job, he loved Preacher’s bouillabaisse, in fact, he was a nice guy for a big, hairy, tattooed biker. But then, I’ve gotten used to all kinds of strange characters up in these mountains.”
“Did I offend you?” Conner asked.
“Well, no. But that was a little weird. That you would be skittish like that. You got me and Preacher if you get scared.” And after saying that, Jack grinned.
Conner slapped a hand against his chest. “Oh, man, I forgot about that. Next time I’ll remember and offer the strange dude my phone and social security numbers.”
“Wiseass. You in here for a reason?”
“A beer, if it’s not too much trouble. You want ID?”
Jack served him up a beer. “You and Leslie going out to Dan and Cheryl’s this weekend for their housewarming?”
“Absolutely. I was wondering, what do you think I should give them as a gift? Do you think they’d like some good wine?”
Jack grinned. “Nah,” he said. “Dan has an occasional beer and as far as I know, Cheryl doesn’t drink alcohol.” The door to the bar opened, and the first of the dinner crowd ambled in. “Something for the house. Or something nonalcoholic. Hey, folks,” Jack greeted the newcomers. He moved away from Conner.
Conner drove down the mountain in search of bars for his phone for two purposes—to call Katie and the boys and to call Brie.
“Hey, Brie, Conner here. This is probably nothing, but I ran into a biker at the bar—big, kind of scary-looking guy from Sacramento. He said he was scouting out the area for a road trip. I got his business card—he works for Harley-Davidson. He asked my name and I fudged it a little bit.”
“Did you get the impression he was looking for you or something?” Brie asked.
“Not really. But it seemed an interesting coincidence. Can you check him out, make sure he’s not a hit man or something?”
“Finding out who he is won’t be the same as finding out if he’s a hit man, Conner. Hit men usually have a nice, legitimate cover.”
“Jack liked him,” Conner said.
She laughed. “Jack likes most people. What’s his name?”
“Walt Arneson. And here’s the address and phone number.” He read it off the business card. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Oh, and before I forget, I explained things to Leslie. And I told her you were my contact in case she gets worried or needs to talk to a woman.”
“How’d she take it?”
“I’m a lucky guy,” he said. “She was everything I expected. Supportive and understanding, if a little shocked out of her mind.”
“Then don’t let her get away,” Brie said. “I’ll call Max with this name. He has detectives assigned to the prosecutor’s office.”
