Schooley tapped the hood of the first car.
“This one ran into a tree,” he said. “Can you believe it? There are like three dozen trees in all of Perkins County and the kid finds one. Got his license like two weeks before the accident. Old man is fit to be tied. This one”—he pointed at the pickup—“I don’t know what happened here. Owner comes in and says fix it. He’s going to pay out of his own pocket; says he’s not going to bother his insurance company. I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good, can it?”
“Probably not.”
“This one hit a deer.”
Schooley stopped next to a very nice 2009 Nissan Altima Rogue S—at least it used to be nice before the deer smashed its front right quarter panel all to hell. The passenger side fender had collapsed against the tire, shredding it as well. From the look of the damaged rim, I guessed that the owner had tried to drive it for a few miles anyway. The windshield was also broken. Lines like a spiderweb flowed from a single impact crater on the passenger side. Some of the glass at the point of impact was stained with what I strongly suspected was blood.
“It belongs to the banker,” Schooley said. “He’s really angry, and I don’t blame him. Had me tow it in Wednesday a week ago and told me to fix it, but I can’t fix it until I get the parts, can I? I used to work with a guy who was pretty reliable at getting me what I needed, only he went bankrupt. Now I need to go through these other parts guys, except they only ship up here once a week to keep costs down, and I missed the last shipment. Wasted a week. It’s harder and harder to do business, I’m here to tell ya. I should get the parts tomorrow, but that doesn’t make Kampa any happier. I don’t suppose you need any work done.”
“Sorry.”
“What do you need?”
“I need some battery acid.”
Schooley glanced at my car.
“Not for the Audi,” he said. There was alarm in his voice.
“No, no, no. Something else.”
“Are you going to do some tanning?”
Tanning? my inner voice said. What the hell is tanning?
“I thought I’d give it a try,” I said aloud.
“Yeah, a lot of people around here come in looking for the sulfuric acid they put in batteries for their projects. What kind of fur?”
“I thought I’d start small.”
“Goat?”
Why not?
“Yeah,” I said.
“I hear you,” Schooley said. “If you don’t know what you’re doing, just starting out, it’s always best to go with something inexpensive. I knew a guy, ruined a perfectly good antelope. Now, if you tan the deer that Kampa killed…”
“Maybe I should. What happened to it?”
“Hell if I know. Probably still in the ditch up on White Buffalo Road. So, tell me, what recipe are you using? Pickle tan?”
“That’s what was recommended to me.”
“Gotta be careful with that. Sulfuric acid works fine if you keep it to about eight ounces per two gallons of water. The salt—that’s what you gotta watch out for. What kind of salt are you using? Rock salt?”
“That’s what was recommended.”
“I wouldn’t risk it.”
“Why not?”
“Rock salt doesn’t dissolve all that well. It’s gonna be rough, gonna tear up your fur. Want my advice?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Use about two pounds of nonionized salt. It dissolves much better in water; it’ll treat the fur a lot less harshly, I’m here to tell ya.”
“That’s good advice,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“No extra charge. I’ll be right with ya.”
Schooley went inside his shop to retrieve my acid, which confirmed a theory that I’ve believed since I was a kid—if you speak and act confidently, you can get away with the most amazing bullshit.
The final city council member I wanted to see shut down his riding mower when he saw me walking toward him across his enormous lawn.
“Lookin’ for someone?” he said.
“I’m McKenzie.”
“The real deal this time, huh? I’m Len Hudalla.”
He offered his hand, and I leaned across the riding mower to shake it.
“I heard you were making the rounds,” Hudalla said. “Figured it was only a matter of time before you got to me. Learn anything interesting?”
“One or two things.”
“Old man Miller says to cooperate, so I’ll cooperate. I gotta tell ya, though—I don’t know squat.”
I asked him a few questions anyway. Turned out he was right.
“T’ be honest,” Hudalla said, “I kinda hope you don’t find the money. It’ll give us an excuse to fire that asshole Gustafson.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Sonuvabitch arrested my kid Friday night.”
