Chasing a Blond Moon by Joseph Heywood Page A

season shaping up?” Service asked.
    Zuiderveen shrugged and moved his hand away from Newf, who immediately poked his hand with her massive snout, demanding continued attention. “Probably be okay,” the bear guide said.
    Nantz went inside and came back with two beers. “You boys want to move inside?”
    â€œOutside’s fine,” Zuiderveen said.
    â€œToo chilly for me,” Nantz countered.
    â€œMind over matter,” Zuiderveen said. “And warm duds.”
    The retired Troop took a long pull on his beer and belched quietly. He was usually ebullient, the center of any gathering, but today he seemed pensive.
    â€œEverything okay?” Service asked.
    â€œIf you don’t count the fact they don’t make pantyhose in my size and that some scum-fuck is stealing bears, things are just peachy.”
    â€œI don’t care about your pantyhose problems. What about the bears?”
    â€œYou didn’t hear about Bearclaw?”
    â€œWe saw her last weekend. What about her?”
    â€œShe had a culvert trap out for a troublemaker over by Victoria and found it empty.”
    â€œTraps are empty more than filled,” Service said.
    â€œThere had been a bear in this one, only it was open and gone when Betty got to it.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œMonday night. An old boar has been marauding camps. She wanted to trap and move him.”
    â€œShe didn’t report it.”
    â€œI was with her,” Zuiderveen said. “She thinks it just got out.”
    â€œBut you think differently.”
    â€œNo evidence,” the big man said, tapping his nose. “Just this.”
    â€œYou know how smart bears are. Some of them just can’t be trapped. Why tell me?”
    â€œYou’re the guy-in-a-tie, and you know damn well that no bear is smart enough to get out of a culvert set once it’s inside.” Guys-in-ties was the sometime term for detectives.
    â€œI don’t hear anything to detect.” Bearclaw was the best when it came to trapping black bears.
    â€œThis isn’t the first culvert trap to be sprung,” Zuiderveen said.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œNo shit, yeah.”
    â€œWhat about others?”
    Zuiderveen grunted and chugged the remainder of his beer. “I’ve said my piece.”
    Service understood. Bear guides were highly competitive and some—like She-Guy and Griff Stinson out of McMillan—were fanatics about following the rules. Other guides were not, especially once the season began for running bears with dogs. But even Zuiderveen and Stinson wouldn’t rat on other guides. It was part of the strange code of the often zany outfitters. “Griff have similar suspicions?”
    â€œCould be,” She-Guy said.
    â€œWhat about Dowdy Kitella?”
    â€œFuck that little psychotic piece of shit,” Zuiderveen said, spitting out the name like it was poison. “He ever touches my baits, he’ll end up as bait.”
    It was not a threat Service took seriously. For all his reputation, She-Guy was essentially a gentle giant who loved to hunt bears. “Thanks for dropping by,” Service said. “I’ll give Bearclaw a call, see what she has to say.”
    â€œPush ’er a bit,” Zuiderveen said. “She doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”
    â€œI’ll remember that,” Service said, watching the giant amble to his truck and back out of the driveway.
    Early the next morning Service and Nantz were in the garage doing their morning weight regimen. “Do you think Nathaniel is on to something?” she asked as he spotted for her.
    â€œMaybe. He had to be pretty worked up to come all the way over here from Baraga.”
    â€œIf a bear gets into a trap and it’s faulty, it can get out, right?”
    â€œSure, if it was faulty, but Betty doesn’t use faulty traps. She’s the best at using culverts and she’s got a whole range of