Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [102]
Walking slowly from image to image, Alexis muttered approvingly as if he were at a Manhattan gallery opening. Then he took out his camera and began carefully documenting each work. It didn't take him long to locate the erotic art. One piece painted directly on the wall above the bar was of a slinky motorcycle chick. She was naked except for a black leather jacket and thigh-high boots, and there was a paw print tattooed on her left butt cheek. We consulted our animal tracks book and discovered that the print was of a tiger's front paw—and anatomically accurate.
“Yeah, baby, give me some of that interspecies luuuhhvv,” said Alexis, clicking his camera shutter. “It's getting a little freaky in Mole Creekie.”
We sat down and ordered drinks from the woman tending bar. Even though we were drowning in thylacine memorabilia, we weren't sure what to say. Despite the Planet Thylacine decor, the Tiger Bar wasn't giving off an outsider-friendly vibe.
“Nice pictures,” we said to the bartender.
She nodded noncommittally. We noticed that all the bar patrons were women. They looked tough.
“Do you get a lot of people asking about the tiger in here?” we asked.
“Mmhuhm.” She didn't elaborate.
Behind the bar, a pile of caps and T-shirts were for sale. They were black with orange lettering and insignia. Beneath the words “Mole Creek Tiger Bar,” a mother thylacine and her cub stood next to a tuft of grass. We bought one of each, and the bartender started to warm up.
“Been to the caves?” she asked.
“Yeah.” We got the feeling that every ear along the bar was cocked in our direction. “We're actually researching Tasmanian wildlife, particu-larly…um…the thylacine and its history—”
She cut us off. “You better talk to Trudy then.”
The barkeep pointed to a woman at the other end of the bar. She was somewhat heavyset, with dark, short-cropped hair, and looked to be in her late thirties. We had noticed her before and thought she had been giving us the eye while we looked at the tiger art.
We walked over and introduced ourselves. Trudy was drinking Jim Beam Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey and Cola. It was a mixed drink that came in a can. For about a minute, there was complete silence. The small crowd at the bar looked at us expectantly.
“So, you're the person to talk to about the tiger around here …”
She seemed embarrassed. “Yeah.” There was a brief awkward silence.
“We like the art.”
“It's all right,” she said and twisted uncomfortably in her seat.
“Are you affiliated with the research center next door?”
“That's temporarily closed.”
“So …are you a tiger hunter?”
“Yeah …the thylacine … yeah …”
“Have you ever seen one?”
Trudy laughed nervously. “It's a really hard thing,” she said. Then she paused for a long time and took a sip of her drink. “People who have seen them—probably people like me—won't actually tell anybody. But they are definitely out there.” She paused again. “They're in areas people wouldn't expect.”
It was obvious Trudy had a story to tell. We figured if we wanted to hear it, we should attempt to appear more nonchalant. “So are you from around here?” we asked.
Yes, she said. She was from the Mole Creek area. And tigers were in her blood. “My grandfather was one of the old snarers … and he used to watch the little fellows for days on end near their den.”
She admitted