Author Archive for M. Toole

IN DEFENSE OF THE MOUNTAIN LION

by Rex Montaleone and Pauline Parvenu

     Now, let’s see…magpies, malls, misappropriations, moon pies, mountain lions…ah…mountain lions…much maligned mountain lions…The proud cats of the Rockies have been the victim of bad press for centuries even carrying a stiff bounty on their heads until recent years. The the adult cat, known as a puma, panther, cougar, catamount or El leon in other parts of the Western Hemisphere may be either a gray color or a reddish or yellowish color called tawny. It’s hairs are fawn-gray tipped with reddish-brown or grayish. He has no spots and in this way is different from his cousin the jaguar. The throat, the insides of the legs and the belly are white, and the tip of the tail is black. Some mountain lions are solid black but they are quite rare in the Southern Rockies.

     A full-grown animal may be over five feet long not counting the heavy tail which is usually two to three feet long. The heaviest lion on record weighs in at about 240 pounds. The body is slender and the legs are long. The head is round and rather small. As one can quite well imagine the mountain lion is a formidable foe on physical prowess alone. Combine his high intelligence and sly, methodical nature and any adversary could have a major donnybrook on his hands.

     Mountain lions have from one to five cubs at a time which can be very taxing for the female. If a hiker comes across a female lion with cubs the best approach is to wave his arms and make noise. You will then appear larger and more fierce. If this doesn’t work you might try running like hell even though the lion will probably see that as a sign of fear and attack immediately. One good idea is to bring along an ample supply of raw meat in your backpack which could serve as a diversion in a tight spot. Mountain lions are generally timid when in the proximity of man and are less likely to attack than other cats such as the smaller lynx or bobcat.

     Although mountain lions go to great lengths to avoid contact with man the population has grown steadily since the animal has been protected. Most Western states have a season on the lions but they are severely restricted. More cats are killed attempting to rustle livestock then are shot during bow and rifle season combined.

     The cry of the mountain lion is wild and terrifying. It sounds like a woman screaming in pain. The animal also has a soft whistle call that can be quite unnerving to potential prey. Mountain lions hunt at night. It’s chief prey is deer, followed by elk. On special occasions it kills a bighorn and if hungry enough will feed on small mammals, even skunks and porcupines. The cat generally keeps under cover while stalking its prey then suddenly leaps upon the animal breaking its neck and dragging it to the ground. Unfortunately most herd animals, including domestic ones, don’t have access to all this information or they certainly wouldn’t go out after dark.

     Imagine living life as a sheep, in the strictly literal sense. You have just finished grazing on the side of a hill and are set for some shut-eye. The shepherd is already asleep and the moon is full. Off in the distance you hear a shrill cry. The rest of the herd is tense. In the shadows you can see the silhouette of the predator, creeping his way toward your flock. What is he after? Surely the shepherd will protect his sheep. Wait! He’s looking right at you! No, this just can’t be. You’re too young to die plus you’re scheduled for shearing on Monday! Look at those biceps. Oh no. It’s too late. He’s stepped up his pace. His claws are extended. He’s in the air. He’s got you…

     How often do you think this bloody scenario occurs over the summer season when the woolies are up high and the mountain lion has expanded its hunting radius? Every night? Once a week? Once a month? Wrong! There are far more sheep killed on the highways than by the proud cats. Everyone, especially the crafty mountain lion knows that elk and venison are way better tasting than mutton. Lions who engage in this kind of roguishness are usually too old to catch anything else and are badly in need of a snack.

     The human reaction to mountain lion forays is to mount a hunting party or posse and go out after the lion. This generally results in a lot of senseless wandering around the hills at night with whiskey and loaded rifles. Which lion is to blame for the crime? Can these trackers distinguish between a lion who was home in bed at the time of the infraction and the feline rascal who raided the herd? It’s not likely. Therefore it’s the old solution of an eye for an eye and the only accomplishment is often one less lion and no increased security for the sheep. One of our neighbors placed a series of spotlights around her corrals in an attempt to discourage further onslaughts but the mountain lion in attendance simply used the light to scope out the fattest prize and then dined by simulated candlelight.

     Animal behaviorists stop short of suggesting that the mountain lions should police themselves regarding this grave matter. However, that is not a valid approach to the conflict. Many ranchers have employed llamas, dogs and high fences in an attempt to spare sheep a gruesome death but the cats are just to smart and too powerful. The core of the problem is simple enough: sheep look like lunch to mountain lions.*

     The cats sometimes kill calves and young horses. The largest variety of mountain lion has been given the scientific tag hippolestes, which translates as horse killer. This is a heartless misconception as more horses die each year of jockey abuse and rattlesnake bites than from lion attacks. Nobody calls the rattlesnake hippolestes. This, like most other things evolving from the human factor, is not fair.**

     As the mountain lion population increases so do these scrapes with the law. Efforts to pay the ranchers for losses have not worked. A plan to designate certain low grade sheep and cattle as official mountain lion cuisine has never gotten off the ground nor have the construction of mine fields since sheep are way dumber than most wild predators.

     Mountain lions do a lot of good when left to their methods. Many have helped control the poodle population even on redwood decks of the Front Range sprawl. That takes some guts alright! Unlike bears, lions aren’t proficient dumpster divers, unlike coyotes they won’t keep a camper up all night and unlike deer they do not loiter on the highways at dusk and dawn. Probably the most important contribution of the big cat is his inherent wildness. At a point where man is polluting his planet and manufacturing stress upon more stress, the presence of a beast like the mountain lion succeeds in giving us hope. Long after our species (and its livestock allies) has burned itself out, the mountain lion will be prowling these forests looking for a hot meal.

*Despite years of bad publicity there is no conclusive proof that the graceful mountain lion is a threat to livestock, unless of course he is hungry.

**The mountain lion is an extremely social animal and lives in a den with its family, or pride until the young cubs are old enough to hunt for their own food. Actually observing a mountain lion in the wild can be a thrilling experience depending on where you may lie on the food chain.

BLACK CANYON PAINTING GETS THUMBS DOWN

(Bostwick Park) A Department of Interior plan for the painting of the Black Canyon has been abandoned as of this morning. The overhaul had called for extensive scraping and painting over the winter.

     “They weren’t even gonna prime the thing,” said one local painter, “and the colors didn’t match up.”

     Rumors indicate that the USFS intended to paint the canyon in greenie green, a shade preferred by feds everywhere. Already the fall budget called for $1.2 million to be spent on paint and another $100,000 on drop cloths.

     “We had already lined up ladders, brushes and rollers,” said one proponent of the ordeal. “Sure, the project came in at cost plus but what do we care, it’s not our money. Waste would have been minimal or at least tough to detect since paint spilled into the river would have been in Delta by noon the next day.”

     Budgetary considerations had been established so as to assure the continued annual flow of tax money in years to come.

     “If we could have pulled this one off we could have secured funding to rewire Grand Mesa next summer and plumb the San Juans in 2001. Not since campground trash pickup coordinates were established in the Fifties have I seen a program with such potential. Sure, we’d have to relocate some of the more disruptive wildlife and change the curtains but that falls under the jurisdiction of land management. I don’t know why the public can’t mind it’s own business. Even the blueprints were the right color.”

– Jack Spratt

Behavior Mod Working on Highways

Western Slope police departments have been taking a new approach to the enforcement of traffic laws this summer. They call the program Positive Response Reaction Pacification but it’s really only simple behavior modification. It works like this:

A police officer observes a driver roaring through a school zone at 50 mph. The driver then runs a red light, makes an illegal U-turn, tears through an inhabited crosswalk and comes to a screeching stop in his front yard just inches away from a large elm tree. Does the officer pursue this reckless criminal and make an arrest? The answer is “No.” A second scenario goes like this.

The same officer observes a delivery vehicle proceeding at the allotted speed limit, signaling when appropriate, driving defensively and politely. He hits the flashing red light on the patrol car and swings into action.

Overtaking the delivery truck the officer vaults from the car and approaches the vehicle.

“Good morning, sir,” smiles the policeman. “I just stopped you to tell you that you are doing a fine job operating this rig. We appreciate safe, considerate drivers like yourself on our highways. Here i s a ticket for $25. Just send it in to the circuit court and they’ll send you a check.”

This shockingly innovative program has been in effect since April 1 and has cut the average officer’s work load by as much as 50%. Already it has lowered stress and complication due to messy fines and imprisonment.

“By rewarding positive behavior and ignoring the negative, we hope to educate the public and bring about a profound change in driver mentality throughout the country,” said Juan Concerto, one of the creators of the program. “Already we see sober motorists following squad cars around trying to catch the eye of the patrolman.”

Suspicious vehicles will still be stopped, according to Concerto, but “the PRRP Program is a step in the right direction,” he winked.

-Pepper Salte

Still in the Dark

With Back to Bed Fred, National Wool Census 

In a related development Colorado Senate appears primed to pass Over Easy Act. “We have noticed that uncompromised glee is missing from the American menu and we hope this restart might bring it back.”

Next time: Are gun lovers fetishists ?

Ropas Sucias

Deer Signs Stupid

Reasoning not because deer don’t read but because signs in English not Venison, a rare and ancient tongue not related to any other language than Ibioux . Even the elk, and especially the moose have no idea what the deer are saying either.

Mandate – what Donald of Orange will find out he does not have.

JC: Julius Caesar — Named as one of the the great fornicators of antiquity by historians, a plateau he inhabited until that bloody day in the Roman Senate.

The Denver Post: Awarded again for micro-coverage of the Denver Broncos and Adams County shootings.

Before we press on into the foggy leeway freeway that is called reality let us reflect for a moment on the two Giant Questions that no one has successfully undressed. Where did we come here from? Where do we go after this? Everyone from astro-biologists to strip mall preachers will present their side of this, the big story…

Genocide spelled backwards is ediconeg but in life’s unforgiving mirror it’s still GENOCIDE.

LIAR”S POKER

Polly Shell’s peekaboo pump hung for dear life on satin tapping toes keeping time to Miles Davis. Senses perched, peering from her loft office onto Market in the old warehouse turned bistro and baseball barrio, she sighed. She dangled her two pretty legs, assets often more valuable than four years of college in this hardtack profession.

     Scanning the files newly strewn across the floor she daydreamed.

     “Look at that…the Louise DeHaviland murder from 2001 and the abduction of Sara Inkworme up in Cheyenne. That was a strange one. That cowboy couldn’t have been more than 14. Both incidents remain unsolved. No criminals brought to justice like they’d have you believe on television.

     “Wow! There’s a quagmire of major proportion…the Jack Jameson murder. Talk was he wanted out but there was no getting out. Gangland stuff in the Rockies! No indictments at all. Pretty slick.”

     The voice of her secretary buzzed her back to the present.

     “You’re eleven o’clock, a Mr. Callow is here,” she said. “He reeks of cologne and he looks a little rough at the edges. Should I send him in or send him home with tips on personal hygiene?”

     Suddenly Polly Shell remembered the rude little man who had continually interrupted her investigation a few nights before.

     “Oh nuts” she thought. “I thought when I told him to call the office he would get the brush off. I guess I was too subtle.”

     “Yes, send him in,” she snapped, thinking she’d make quick work of the intrusion. She opened her desk drawer and checked her 45. Her secretary opened the door and escorted a wrinkled, yellowish, dwarf-like creature into Polly’s office. He was squat, small-boned and looked like he’d spent the night in a cave. His skin was blue-white like he had never seen the sun. He shook her hand without making eye contact.

     “Hello Miss Shell. I’m Leche Callow. You may remember me from Brennan’s. He flashed a seesaw smile, exposing a rung of jagged teeth that resembled the Sneffels Range or better a batch of half-broken yellow-green bottles from a carnival shooting gallery.

     Wondering what this repulsive little man could want she pretended not to know him.

     “I bought you a drink at  Brennan’s last Friday,” he pressed.

     “Oh, yes of course and thank you Mr…

     “Callow, Leche Callow Miss.”

     She looked at him waiting for him to state his business but he was busy eyeballing her from head to toe. His eyes then stuck on her cleavage. Even after all of her encounters with creeps in this shamus racquet this little man made her feel uncomfortable.

     “What can I do for you Mr Callow?” she asked finally.

     He continued to gaze, now stuck on her legs.

     Oh, sorry Miss Shell. I had hoped to talk to you about some urgent business, some information that might be of great interest to you in your capacity.”

     Callow had no idea where to take the dialogue. He had no information or good reason to be in her office unless infatuation served as the key. Yes, he had the hots and hoped that this face to face might help his chances of bedding this beauty. A constant flow of bad whiskey and cigars had clouded his lowlife judgment. He was delusional. His breath smelled bad.

     Dropping his eyes to the floor Leche Callow landed on the Jameson file, now resting on top of the others. He latched on to his only course of action.

     “It’s about the Jack Jameson case,” he said. “I know who killed him and did away with the body. If my sources prove true I may even be able to pinpoint the whereabouts of dumping.

     Polly looked right through Leche Callow not knowing where all of this gandering might take her.

     “Interesting?” she flinched, trying not to display her growing disdain for Callow.

     Do you? you loathsome little rodent, she thought to herself.

     “That case has been closed for almost a year,” she frowned, brushing him off again. “I doubt whether your information would bring it back to life.”

     “But I knew Jack Jameson and I know…

     “You knew Jack Jameson?” interrupted Polly now slightly more interested.

     “Well, not as a friend per say. None of us really knew each other. It was better that way in the business at hand. Nobody knew anymore than was necessary to conclude business. It was clear enough that they wanted to be rid of him because he wanted to quit the business and he knew every contact, every drop point, every route, every face…”

     “And what was that business? Mr Callow, if I might ask,” said Polly now growing anxious to get the little creep out of her office.

     “I’d rather not say although I have paid my debt to society for those transgressions and am no longer on parole,” said Callow, his swampy, minikin eyes drifting back to her topography, making her quite uncomfortable again.

     “Creep,” she thought as his gaze once again fell to the Jameson file in the pile on the floor.

     “We would, of course, have to go to the police with your story, if it can be verified. Can it be verified, Mr Callow?

     “With a few days I can put all the pieces of the puzzle together for you,” he said buying time. “Right now some of the details are sketchy. As you yourself said the case has been dormant for almost a year.”

     “I see. Let me consider al of this and call you.”

     “OK, said Callow a bit disappointed that she hadn’t taken more of his bait. “You can leave me a message at Brennan’s.”

* * *

     The email was unnerving on the heels of yesterday’s testimony. It said simply that the authorities were reopening the Jack Jameson case. Apparently the foolish rantings of an elderly convict were not those of an madman after all. Had his chatter led the harvest of a bound body buried near of one of the many Buffalo Bill landmarks in the foothills. 

     She read; The hoards of tourists visiting Bill’s graves, souvenir shops and playhouses over the summer reportedly squeezed the rocky soil forcing the stiff upward, exhuming it from its poorly concealed, shallow grave. It was then run over by a near-blind RVver and nibbled at by magpies before police and coroner arrived with coffee and pastries.

     She called a friend that she had once worked with in homicide. He verified that new evidence had emerged and that the cops had already dredged the lake netting a few trout and two more bodies, believed to be cement workers due to their odd and cumbersome footwear.  From early indications the primary victim had been executed and buried last year before the freeze. He would let her know more.

     “Too much,” she said to herself as she got off the phone. “Could that little creep really be legitimate?” After pondering her options she realized she had but one and called Callow at Brennan’s. They agreed to meet that afternoon.

     

Here

Two hours later she picked her way out of the bright sun into a dark tavern, trying to make out the shiftless figures humping the bar. It was 98 degrees out in the high desert day and the air conditioner was humming right along with Callow’s mouth. She then focused on her target sitting at the mahogany trough. He had seen her first, his catty peepers having adapted to the stale, dim light.

     “Hi ya sweetie,” he blasted in a loud voice that drown out the jukebox momentarily. “What are you drinking?”

     “Just coffee,” she whispered trying to tone him down and avoid further attention.

     One coffee!” he solicited. “You’re looking good,” he said shooting a shot of brown liquid and making a face. “Glad you could come,” he piped so the other boozers could hear him. “It’s about time this place exhibited some class.”

     “Is this a good place to talk?” she asked. “Is it private?”

     He stole a furtive glance and motioned for her to sit on the next stool watching her do so with great interest.

     “You want to get private, heh?” he asked loudly. “Intimate?”

     She quickly changed gears and sat down at the bar, the idea of sharing a booth suddenly making her sick.

     “With legs like yours you should never have to buy a drink…”

     She almost puked. Leche Callow was bad enough but some of the other mutants that bellied up at Brennan’s were even worse. One round-headed chubby chucklehead sang to himself, another worn woman fondled her rocks glass, wrapped in a frazzled bar napkin. Leaned against the wall was a stooped figure in a cheap checkered sports coat who hid his face in his Denver Bears’ cap, smiling and listening intently to a host of mindless confabulation, painfully short on repartee.

     “Bartender get everybody one!” screamed Callow drawing attention to his congenial juxtaposition with this lovely female. “Even Leper down there,” he squawked gesturing toward the checkered hump in earshot at the end of the bar.

     “You got any money, Callow?” was the response.

     Leche Callow pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapped it fondly and told the bartender to keep the change. He then turned to Shell with the amps of alcohol engaged.

     “Jack Jameson,” he smiled, “was killed by the local drug cartel. He had been in bed with the gangsters for decades and had decided he had had enough. He also had overdue gambling debts. I heard him talking to one of the bosses a few days before he disappeared. It wasn’t friendly.”

     “So the mob had a motive for killing him. He owed them money and he knew too much,” she ventured. “So many wrinkles on the boom-boom trail.”

     She could hardly believe she was in this ratty bar talking to this pathetic little twit as he wormed his way closer to her. She feigned interest not sure what to believe but unwilling to ignore this possible lead. Was it all coincidental that the case popped open right after Leche Callow’s claims? He could actually know something, she winced. He’s such a wretched little pigeon but I am not in the business of cavorting with choirboys.

     “Exactly,” he nodded. “And I know who pulled the trigger and where the deed went down,” lied Callow. “The shooter was from right here in town which seemed odd since they usually brought someone in from Phoenix or Kansas City to do the dirty work.”

     “Are you willing to talk to the police?” she pressed him.

     “I don’t like police. You can do my talking for me. I have names. People like Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan,” he name dropped far too loudly, claiming he had met the two in jail.

     The conversations at the bar had already returned to the weather, the Broncos and the government with everyone talking at once in slurred monotone…all except for the lump under the Bear’s cap who just listened as Callow’s afternoon lies got bigger and bigger.

* * *

     “This Callow is talking to the cops. Says he knows who killed that Jameson fellow,” said the checkered jacket hump named Raffini, running to the mob which had already gotten wind of the recovered body and the new status of the investigation. He had hoped to earn a few dollars for his information.

     The cartel had wondered what loose ends might be dragging and had already flexed some muscle on the street.

     “He mentioned Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan and said he knew who ordered the killing. ‘Said he knew Jameson from the I-70 operation. He was talking to some knockout babe in the bar who didn’t look like she belonged with him.”

     “We should done him years ago but nobody thought he was worth a bullet,” said one bow-tied boss in red suspenders . “Tell me, Raffini, where can I find the little stoolie? Where does he hang out these days? Maybe it’s time we shut the door on Callow and his big mouth.”

* * *

     The phone rang heavy on Sunday morning Polly Shell’s apartment. It was her friend in homicide who told her about Callow. He had been run over in the alley behind Brennan’s. Patrons said he had been in the company of two large men who bought him drinks then sat in a booth with him while he drank them. All seemed cordial enough but something just wasn’t kosher.

     The barflies told the police they then saw another man follow Callow out the back door of the tavern into the pitch black night. Then they heard a tires squealing and a loud thump. It had been Peg-leg O’Sullivan behind the wheel. One of the patrons identified him from a police photo. Another claims he saw the hit and run and watched Callow’s listless body fly up in the air and come crashing down. He said he then saw O’Sullivan jump into a car with Callow’s booze benefactors and speed away.b

     O’Sullivan was arrested the next day and after hours of interrogation he fingered the boss in the red suspenders and several other hoodlums associated with the murder of Leche Callow and Jack Jameson. He confessed that he had been the killer, had helped dump Jameson’s body and led the cops to the original murder weapon that he had chucked down a mineshaft at Idaho Springs.

    “It looks like we nailed the bad guys,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. Your conversation with Callow was the catalyst. We found your name and address scrawled on a pad in Peg-leg’s pocket. I’m afraid you were next. These scumbags were dialed in all right.”

     “Too bad about that little fella though,” said the detective “He may have been a lying punk but he turned out to be Jack Jameson’s best friend in the end. – Kevin Haley