On the Bourbon Trail – chapter five

"I thought you said you don't like dogs."

"I don't like mean dogs. This is clearly not a mean dog – just look at that tail wagging."

The mutt being discussed, big and rangy, canine engines on full, had come barreling around the corner from the back of the house the second Raylan and Tim had stepped out of the car at the front. Tail like a propeller spinning out of control, the dog danced rather than ran, its hindquarters pulled into a bizarre version of a samba by the torque from the tail. When they saw the dog coming at them, the two marshals had stopped their approach, a sound bit of caution, routine, but what wasn't routine was that Tim hadn't pulled his sidearm and climbed the car at the first glimpse of the tongue and the teeth.

"A wagging tail don't necessarily mean he's not going to rip your throat out. Maybe he has nerve damage and he can't stop the wagging." Raylan wiggled his hand back and forth in imitation while keeping an eye on the dog's progress across the grass to the car. "Or maybe he's happy 'cause he likes biting people and he thinks you're kindly offering yourself up to feed his oral fixation."

"Then again, Raylan, maybe he's just a nice dog."

The dog finished its approach as Tim finished speaking. It jumped up when it reached them, not slowing first, and knocked Tim back into Raylan. Tim, grinning as Raylan shoved him upright again, took a knee, bringing himself to the dog's level, and accepted a good licking.

"See?" he said, ruffling the fur around the collar. "Nice dog."

"If you say so."

When Tim finally pushed it away, the dog turned to Raylan and stuffed his head in Raylan's crotch, the wagging tail keeping up its side of the samba routine.

"Nice dog," said Raylan, sidelong and long-suffering look at Tim, then he absently patted the dog's head using the hand that still held his sidearm, focus now back on the house. "Nice doggie. Now go on. Git."

It didn't git.

"C'mon boy." Scooping up a stick from the side of the road, Tim threw it across the yard and the dog chased it. "Now that's a proper dog," said Tim. "Licks, fetches, wags his tail."

"It's a she."

"You would be the one to notice."

The dog brought the stick back and dropped it at Tim's feet. Obliging, Tim picked the stick up and threw it again, and off ran the dog into a rollicking third verse of her samba with Tim chuckling amused at the contortions. The chuckling stopped abruptly and the sidearm came out when the door to the house opened and a frown and a shotgun walked out onto the stoop.

"This is getting to be a habit," said Raylan. "What's with this state and shotguns?"

The dog showed its loyalty then, drifted back near the porch steps and sat on its haunches, tail still wagging, flattening the grass in an arc behind it.

Tim eyed the figure at the door, lowered his Glock just a bit, twitched, said in an undertone to Raylan, "Is it Hallowe'en already?"

"No. That was two weeks ago."

Tim nodded.

"Why d'you ask?"

"She's dressed up like Courtney Love. Thought maybe it's Hallowe'en."

"She does bear a strong resemblance. Wonder if the Courtney Love attitude comes with the appearance. Ma'am?" Bringing up his left hand in a curt wave, Raylan turned his attention to the owner of the shotgun, brushed his jacket aside with his gun hand and tipped his hip forward to show the star on his belt, called across to the house. "US Marshals. Could you please put down the shotgun so we can have a friendly conversation? Just a few minutes of your time."

The woman lowered it about as much as Tim had lowered his gun – not much. "What d'you want?"

The voice made Raylan pause.

"I always suspected Courtney Love was a man. Now I'm sure of it," said Tim in a whisper.

"Maybe she's an alto."

"You mean a baritone."

Raylan gestured between himself and the house. "Can we come a little closer? Then we won't have to yell across the yard at you."

The baritone growled back. "If that's what you want."

"Was that a threat or an invitation or a dare?" said Tim, grimacing.

"Not sure."

"I don't think I want."

"Fine, stay here then, Tim, and play fetch with your new friend." Raylan slipped his sidearm back in his holster and started across the grass. Tim followed, but Glock still out, eyes watching the barrel of the hostile shotgun for any sign of intent.

The dog's tail was still wagging.

"Nice dog you got," said Raylan, pleasant smile, easy stance at the foot of the porch steps.

"She's stupid, is what she is. Worst watchdog ever, playing fetch with Federals. I asked you what you want. So what d'you want?"

"We're looking for Teddy Newton. He around?"

"Haven't seen him in over a week. His rent's due."

"He and his cousin both room here?"

"That's right."

"Cousin around?"

"Haven't seen him neither."

"And his rent's due, too?"

"Good guess."

Raylan smiled wider. "I like that shade of lipstick on you."

"Don't flatter me. I know what you're thinking – it's weird, a man dressed up like a woman."

Tim stepped up, waded in. "I just think it's weird you going for Courtney Love and not, I dunno, around here, maybe Taylor Swift? Or Loretta Lynn if you wanna work the older crowd."

"You think I look like Courtney Love?"

"Yep."

Courtney set down the shotgun, swooped down the steps with surprising grace, took Tim's face in his hands, and planted a kiss on Tim's left cheek. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. That's exactly what I'm going for. No one around here even knows who she is. Everyone says I look like a bad imitation of Marilyn Monroe. But this here," a broad sweep of his hand, head to toe, a runway turn, "is Courtney Love. I mean, anyone could see that who knows her."

Tim, eyes wide in horror, was too stunned to reply, stood stiffly at attention with a slight lean backward, away from Courtney.

"Tim, now don't shoot," said Raylan, hand out, smirk out. "I still have some questions for, uh, Miss Love."

"Name's Kurt."

"I might've guessed."

"So what do you want with Teddy?"

Raylan started his list of questions about Teddy Newton and Kurt shrugged his way through most of them while Tim played fetch with the dog, whose name, it turns out, was Hole. The conversation ended the way the Marshals' conversations usually did, with a card given and a "Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else or you happen to see him…"

Kurt smiled and took the card on offer, picked up his shotgun and swished back into the house. Hole followed the Marshals to their car, tail still wagging, though more rumba now than samba.

"Tim, you got some lipstick…" Raylan gestured at his cheek over the roof of the car, then pointed at Tim. "It's a good color on you, though. Nice red."

"Shut up," said Tim, pulled his sleeve over his hand and started rubbing violently at the evidence.

"Lipstick and dog spit – how are you gonna explain that to your girl when you get home tonight?"

Tim got in the car and went on the offensive in response. "Teddy Newton works at the Buffalo Trace Distillery. Why do I get the feeling that this has nothing to do with whatever you're chasing this week in Harlan and everything to do with sixty-five cases of stolen bourbon?"

"How do you know he works there?"

"I read the theft report yesterday after Art and I got back from the tour, ran through the list of employees. What're you up to, Raylan?"

"Oh, just poking around. Don't worry – Art knows." Raylan pulled onto the road.

"He get another Marshal woody over this?"

"Sixty-five cases of missing bourbon will do that. Though I'm not sure about Art's motives – glory or an opportunity for some high-end drinking. Could be either, or both. Anyway, he and I agreed we should do a little picking at the haystack, just on the chance we get lucky. I asked Boyd about the theft yesterday – I was down in Harlan on other business, but it didn't seem right to waste the opportunity of seeing if he'd heard anything."

Tim twisted in his seat, curious, gave Raylan his full attention. "What did Boyd say about it?"

"He said, 'Well, Raylan, anyone who has ever indulged in the sweet respite of a sip of Kentucky's very own original homegrown drug, and here understand that I am not referring to marijuana but alcohol, knows about the theft of that venerable vintage, and will surmise without too much mental strain, as I have, that it was an inside job. You are going to have to find the bourbon to find the bandit; find the proof to find the proof, so to speak.'"

"You're actually quoting him, aren't you?"

"I couldn't make that shit up."

"Did he say anything else?"

"We discussed it. He made some suggestions, nothing the locals hadn't already come up with – stuff like looking into who has access to the warehouse, 'cause it was under lock and key and no sign of breaking and entering. And how would you move that many bottles, 'cause sure as hell the guy's doing it for profit not personal consumption. Anyway, he said that Teddy here used to haul weed for the Bennetts, though never got arrested or charged so no record, and now he works for the distillery. Once a thief…"

"Good theory, unless it was actually Art that stole it and he's got you chasing your tail to keep you off the real scent."

"That thought did cross my mind. He's still in my top five list of suspects."

"We should go check his basement."

"We're not far from his place."

They passed the turnoff to Art's neighborhood at that moment, two heads turning to look, eyes narrowed. But Raylan didn't stop.

"Art tells me you're off for a week starting tomorrow?"

"Yep."

"Why don't you wait a bit, chase this thing with me?"

"Nah, I got something that needs looking after."

"Now that sounds secretive."

Tim didn't respond.

"'Snipers are cowards' takes precedence over a gold mine of Old Pappy?"

"I admit, it was a tough call."

Raylan nodded, understanding. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"Save me a bottle."

"Can't promise you that, not if Art gets to it first."

"Greedy bastard."

"Kurt seems like a nice fellow. Warmed right up to you. Takes a different kind of brave to do that in a small town."

"What? You mean kiss a Deputy Marshal with his gun out, or dress like Courtney Love?"

"I mean dress like a woman with a voice that belies the lipstick."

"I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not."

"Are you quoting again?"

"Kurt Cobain."

Raylan gave some back. "I feel that sin and evil are the negative part of you, and I think it's like a battery – you've got to have the negative and the positive in order to be a complete person."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing. It's a segue."

"Who said it?"

"Dolly Parton."

"Nice bit of philosophy to live by. Are you explaining yourself for my benefit?"

"Didn't work on Winona, either. Anyway, I love that woman, Dolly Parton, I mean. She also said she never met a man she didn't like. I wish I could say the same."

Both men frowned as they considered the cross-section of the population that Raylan was referring to, that they routinely, as Deputy US Marshals, had to deal with.

"Yeah, he did seem like a nice guy," said Tim, "though I question his taste in role models. Courtney Love?"

"She's certainly a character."

"So's Daffy Duck."

"What's your point?"

"Better role model."

"Hm."

xxxxxxxxx