The house itself—an ancient ramshackle two-story in need of paint and a new roof—was situated at the end of a dirt road in a weed-infested clearing surrounded by a wall of trees. There was no lake that I could see, only woods. I followed a worn dirt path to the front of the house and knocked on the door. Johnny Johannson answered it. He clenched his fists and went into a defensive stance at the sight of me. It had been weeks since he had seen me last, yet he still wanted to know, “You lookin’ for more?”

“Not me, sir,” I told him. “I figured I got off lucky the first time.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I’d like to speak with your son, James, if I might?”

“What for?” still on the defensive.

I showed him my photostat.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “Guy named Chip Thilgen. I was told James might know where I can find him.”

“James isn’t in trouble?” Johannson asked.

“Not that I know of.” I shrugged, acting oh-so-innocent. “Not with me, anyway.”

“That’s good, that’s good, ’cuz Jimmy, he’s had his share—if you know what I mean.”

I pretended that I didn’t.

“Is he around?” I asked.

“Well, now, I can’t say that he is,” Johannson replied. “He’s out”—Johannson gestured toward the trees surrounding his home—“workin’ his new dog. But I expect he’ll be back anytime now if you care to wait.”

I said I would and followed him inside.

Johannson offered me a cold beer, which I accepted, and led me to his workroom in the basement.

“You had me, you know,” he said as we descended the stairs. “Back at The Last Chance, you had me. With them moves of yours, you coulda killed me easy. A lot of them assholes be happy to see it, too.”

“Why didn’t you just stay down?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t give ’em the satisfaction.”

I watched in true awe as Johnny Johannson gave me a tour of his workbench. He was a flytier like my grandfather, and he had all his paraphernalia meticulously arranged—in direct contrast to the rest of his home. The benchtop looked like a surgical tray, filled with a scalpel, scissors, pliers, tweezers, a dubbing needle, a magnifying glass, single-edge razor blades, an emery board, an Arkansas point file, and an eyedropper. Three different-sized transparent plastic boxes labeled THREAD, FLOSS, and TINSEL were neatly stacked atop each other. Fixed to the wall above the bench was a large shadowbox with over two dozen compartments, the compartments filled with jars and paper bags, each labeled for capes, fur, hair, hackles, hooks, and so on. An English vise was mounted to the bench. It was exactly like my grandfather’s, and I told Johannson so.

“This is so cool,” I said aloud, and he smiled.

“Whaddaya think of this?” he asked after opening a large wooden box lined with foam and containing about fifty wet flies. He placed one of the flies in my palm.

“Very nice,” I said.

“What is it?” he asked, testing me.

I studied it carefully, examining the fly the way Granddad had taught me. The fly had a black wool body shrouded in deer hair and a fluffy turkey feather dyed black; the wing was extended about an inch beyond the shank, that straight part of the hook between the bend and the eye.

“I’d guess a black marabou muddler, except—”

“Except?”

“The hackle is dyed bright yellow instead of scarlet.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t the tail be scarlet?”

“I don’t know, should it?”

“It’s how my grandfather tied them.”

“Your grandfather still with us?”

“Eighty-six and going strong.”

“Keep the fly.”

“Thanks.”

“Give it to your granddad, and tell ’im he should experiment some.”

I smiled my sincere thanks. Johannson showed me more, demonstrating with surprisingly nimble fingers the proper preparation of deer tails; advising me how to select the correct thread for winding the hair. I’d been down there for nearly an hour when we heard three muffled shotgun blasts in quick succession.

“My son,” Johannson said. He sounded disappointed.

We went upstairs. Three more shotgun blasts greeted us when we stepped outside. They were coming from the side of the house facing away from the road. We made our way around slowly. I knew I wasn’t being fired upon, but the shots activated my internal fight-or-flight response mechanism just the same, and I instinctively searched my jacket pocket for the Walther PPK.

Jimmy Johannson was facing the forest, a twelve-gauge pump resting on his shoulder. He was scolding a black Labrador puppy at his feet. Next to the puppy was a small boy, a frail, skinny little thing dressed in dirty T-shirt and sneakers held together with duct tape. When Jimmy Johannson nodded, the child tossed a dog dummy with all his might at the trees. Johannson fired three shots in the air in quick succession. The dog flinched and cowered, and Johannson kicked it, cutting loose with a string of obscenities that did not seem to shock the boy at all.

“That’s no way to train a dog,” I said.

“Jimmy don’t mean no harm,” Johnny Johannson told me, but he didn’t sound convincing.

“Who’s the boy?” I asked as we approached.

“My grandson, Angel’s kid, Tommy,” Johannson said softly; then louder he called, “Jimmy! Man here to see ya.”

Jimmy Johannson glanced at me without curiosity and yelled, “Pull.”

Little Tommy heaved another dog dummy into the woods, and Jimmy fired three times. Again the dog cowered, and again he was beaten. I shook my head. The dog wasn’t frightened by the noise of the shotgun. He was frightened because he knew the shots would soon be followed by punches, kicks, and screams. I was tempted to tell Jimmy so but held my tongue.

“Whaddaya want?” Jimmy asked after he had finished assaulting the puppy.

“I’m a private investigator,” I told him and flashed my photostat.

“Minnesota license don’t mean shit in Wisconsin,” he informed me.

“Don’t mean much more than that in Minnesota,” I replied.

“So?” he asked. I could tell he was warming toward me.

“I’m looking for a guy named Chip Thilgen.”

Jimmy didn’t even hesitate. “Who?” he asked.

“Chip Thilgen.”

“Never heard of him,” he said.

“Sure you have,” Johnny Johannson volunteered.

Jimmy turned on him. “If I say I don’t know him, old man, I don’t fucking know him,” he snarled.

“I was told you and Thilgen were seen driving together just two days ago,” I lied.

“Who the fuck told you that?” Jimmy asked angrily.

“Does it matter?” I asked in reply.

“It matters a lot if some asshole is putting me with this Thilgen guy,” he said. “It matters a fucking lot if people are lying about me.”

“It could have been an honest mistake,” I ventured, not wanting to unduly anger a man with a loaded shotgun in his hands.

“Got that fucking right,” Jimmy spat.

“Tell me, then,” I asked cautiously, “where were you around noon the day before yesterday?”

“Right here,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Sucking on the welfare titty,” he announced almost proudly. Then, “Pull!”

Another dog dummy into the woods, another three shots. The dog laid at Jimmy’s feet and began to whimper even before the man hit him.

I had seen enough.

“That’s a piss-poor way to train a dog,” I told him.

“Who fucking asked you?” he snapped. Then, to prove who was boss, he clubbed the puppy with the stock of the gun.

“Sonuvabitch,” I muttered.

“I’ll show you how to train a dog,” Jimmy boasted.

He took two steps backward. The boy seemed to know what was coming because he dove out of the way. Jimmy pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. A round of six shot took the dog’s head off.

“Play dead!” Jimmy shouted at the corpse. “Play dead!” He laughed as if the sight of the headless puppy was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

“See? The dog’s trained,” he told me and laughed some more.