Mission

by Paul Forrester-O'Neill

  He saw the oil on the hands first, then the grim line of mouth. He adjusted himself by the porch-way as the man got closer, as the blades of grass flickered around his feet and the birdsong fretted. Five paces from the steps to the house he stopped. His hands went into his pockets and he spat out onto the path.

  “I warned you, fella. You ignore me at your peril. You ask anyone, they’ll tell you the one thing you don’t do is fool around with Lee Shaw. Y’understand me?”

  John stayed root-still.

  “Now, I don’t want to make your life any shittier than it already is, but if I have to, I will. You owe Sophie money. Either you or your father, I don’t care, and if you don’t pay up like a decent man, I’ll hurt you. And don’t for one minute think I won’t.”

  John took a breath in. “How many weeks’ work?” he said.

  “The last five she was here. Plus gas. Plus wear and tear. Plus errands.”

  “My father wasn’t around for half that.”

  “Not my problem. Sophie cleaned up. Sophie did her work.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s with us. My wife is her sister. I’m acting on her behalf.”

  “You got legal proof of that?”

  “Don’t fuck around with me, boy. Now, what’s it to be?”

  John stepped those two paces forward from the threshold of the door to the edge of the steps.

  “This is my land, Mr Shaw, and I will not be preached at by you or by anyone else, so the way I see it is this: You’ve got two options. One, I’ll give you the money for three weeks’ work and the whole thing is done with. Or, I’ll give you the five, and it’s not.”

  “Give me the five, and I’ll tell Sophie you wished her well.”

  John turned and walked back into the house, closing the door behind him. A minute later, he was out. In his hand was an envelope and, as the birdsong chattered and rang out, he walked down the steps, stood in front of the squinting man, and gave him the money.

  “I’m a man of my word, Mr Shaw,” he said.

  He watched the man take the money, put it in the pocket of his jeans, and go. Over the top of Rupture Hill came a flock of whipped-white clouds in a scoot of feather and fluff, and, further east, beyond the upturned bowl of Blessings Point, many miles away, there was a single, puff-balled harbinger of rain.

  A month later, after Vincent’s reply to his second letter of understanding, he sat at the kitchen table and wrote the third.

  Dear Mr Clay,

  It is with great pleasure that I can inform you that your application has been successful, that the other two interested parties clearly did not share your hope and ambition, and that I am now in a position to forward you the more detailed surveys and maps, the contacts in relation to the purchases of the land, and, as promised, the further information that may guide your plan of action.

  It is important here to say that the existence and whereabouts of the gold is by no means common knowledge. Indeed, you are now the sole bearer of the most valuable information and, as such, the methods of acquiring the land will need resolution, guile and discretion. Might I suggest that the reasons you give for buying the sections of land are veiled for as long as possible so as not to arouse suspicion, and might I also suggest, for similar reasons, that the sequence of buying the land be given consideration.

  The purchase of the larger tract of rough terrain, formerly part of the Cassidy land but recently sold to the Land Management Agency is the most suitable starting point. The reasons are two-fold. One, it will attract little attention. And two, the head of the Agency, Ted Mallender, is the most influential man in the town but, for all his advocacy of civic pride and belonging, he hides a streak of raw enterprise. The reduced price paid by the Agency will give him the kind of leverage he relishes and he will see the opportunity either to make good money on the sale, or to take a keen interest in whatever ruse your project assumes. Either way, you will need to play him at some point. I suggest an appeal to his ego, to begin with at least.

  Second, the timber mill. According to evidence, there is a rich seam underneath where the mill was built, and so it may be worth monitoring its financial decline. Potential for sale would be greatly improved should the mill fall to its knees. Or, given the time-scale of such an eventuality, not be there at all.

  Third, the Cassidy land itself, supposedly the location of the larger deposits. The cheap sale of the rough terrain implies one of two things: either Mr Cassidy, an outsider who acquired the land on the death of his estranged father, knows nothing of land costs, or he is eager to sell. However, rumour has it that he is an obdurate young man and, as such, however tempting it may be to approach him first, an initial, direct contact, without the foundations of previous purchases, the potential ally of Ted Mallender and the support of the townsfolk, is likely to be both unsuccessful and damaging. In terms of the townsfolk, Mr Clay, the people of Mission are like most small-town herds, basic and gullible. They are bullish when feeling powerful, but cowardly and deferential when not. Given the right approach, you will be able to use them as you please.

  Finally, it only remains for me to wish you every success, and I look forward to my own remuneration.

  Yours

  Four months later

  The low-slung sun of a late afternoon in January. The dazzled white-lime and corn husks of the prairies and fields to the south, the land hard and rutted, ridged in places by snow.

  The two men sat on the train, Vincent next to the window, watching the landscape pass and Lester Hoops, his accomplice, slavering on a health-kick plum and trying to gather the juices from his chin. Lester had hit fifty and was overweight by at least thirty pounds. His nose was bulbous and riddled with rivulets of claret and his hairy ears were as though moulded from clay by a large-thumbed boy with neither the skill nor the patience to glaze them. His hair was a thinning sawdust colour that tried to hide a hummock scalp and both the collars of his shirt and the cuffs of his jacket were on the cusp of fraying. To Vincent, though, he was the most reliable man he’d ever met.

  The town became visible, slewed in the bay of the foothills whose shoulders bore the winter brunt. Closer in, as the train slowed, there was the river’s bend and those southern neighbourhoods spread like old men’s fingers, with their bone-coloured housing, the cuticles of owned land and that gentle rise back to the town with its two crossed streets and, across the bridge, the migrant shacks, and the stacks of the timber mill.

  “Here we go, Lester, my friend,” said Vincent, standing, “Are we ready?”

  Lester nodded, an ungathered trickle of plum sap on the jut of his chin.

  They got to the Station Hotel as the light drew in. Vincent, in his pale-grey suit and spruce-green shirt, did what he always did when he first arrived in a new place. He became porous and smart. He spoke briefly to the clerk, tipped the bellhop, commented on the chill of the day, the good size of the adjoining rooms and, while Lester flopped shoeless on the bed, he walked over to the window, opened it and looked out.

  He could see the whole of the street, the long spine of the cross from the intersection at the top to the rail-tracks at its foot. He could see the sidewalks and the stores, the stretch of covered arcade and, most of all, he could see the people. He watched always for first impressions, the movement of faces, shoulders and hands tapping into him like semaphores. He watched for pace and texture. He watched for the spectrum of hot and cold, for regularities and habits. And then, while Lester slept and snored and dreamed happily of his eightounce steak, he unpacked his valise and propped up the photograph of his fake wife on the bedside table, just as he always did.

  Sizzlin’ Steve’s was as slack as most Tuesdays in the heart of winter. The Mallenders had just left, Lily shimmering in Christmas jewellery and Ted in steak juice and suspicion. So, too, had Ned Scarratt and the two young officers who spent most of the time sneaking disbelieving glances at Rita Mahoonie and her plumped cleavage as she sat at the window table with the suited foreman of the
timber mill, Dan Cruck. Neither they nor most of the adult population with half-decent eyesight could believe that Rita and Dan were an item, that they had been since early December, since John Cassidy’s idle suggestion to Rita that she deserved a man with prospects. It was a win-win situation for all. Rita, even though she had to suffer Dan’s pillow talk of fragile infrastructures and poor safety standards, at least got to sniff the aroma of sophistication once in a while, usually on the linen of out-of-town hotels and the tables of low-lit restaurants, while Dan got to have roller-coaster sex most nights, and, of course, John Cassidy got exactly what he wanted from Rita, whether she knew it or she didn’t; regular bulletins on the state of the mill.

  Vincent and Lester found a corner table out of earshot of the small coterie of bank clerks and the birthday party of three. They ordered steak and fries and a couple of beers. Vincent sat straighter. Lester hunched, his neck sticky inside the collar of his shirt. Every once in a while, Vincent reached across and picked up one of the toothpicks.

  “This is the big one, Lester,” he said, removing a scrap of steak, “this is the best opportunity we’ve had for a long time. Better than the asset stripping, the land for land’s sake, the bought-up lots in the middle of nowhere. Better than all the short cons, the race-tracks, the street tricks. Better than them all.”

  “If it’s for real?”

  “If it’s for real, Lester, you think my very thoughts. If it’s for real. Correct.”

  Vincent laid the toothpick down on the table, angled the steak knife across the plate, and leant forward.

  “I have only one question,” he said, “everything else, the existence of the gold, the whereabouts, the volume, the ownership of the land or otherwise, is superfluous. It means nothing until that question is answered. You know what it is?”

  Lester held his silence and stopped chewing.

  “What does the writer of the letters gain? If it’s not for real? That’s what I ask myself? What the fuck is the point?” He paused, shook his head. “And I don’t see it,” he said, “I’ve looked. I’ve examined every suspicion I have, but I don’t see it. I don’t see where his gain is if it’s not for real. And we take risks. This is the nature of what we do. For how long now?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years. And every time is different. And every place is different. And we play it always as it comes. You see a card, you play a card. And so on.” He licked at the relish on his lips. “What was it my father used to say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Eye on the prize, boys.”

  “What else?”

  “Eat or be eaten by.”

  “And?”

  “Treat failure as an impossibility.”

  “And what is our motto?”

  “Carpe diem.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Carpe diem.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  “Seize the day.”

  “Exactly,” Vincent said, picked up the steak knife and dug it hard into the meat. “Seize the goddamned day.”

  The party of three left after nine, taking half the cake with them, leaving only an out-of-town couple en route to the coast, one of the bank clerks and Vincent and Lester almost done.

  “We need two things here,” Vincent said, leaning back in his seat, his spruce-green stomach rising and falling like kelp on a tidal swill, “you know what they are?”

  Lester leaked out a steak-scented sigh through pursed lips. “Spades?”

  “Not yet spades.”

  “Diggers?”

  “A plan of action is one. Something to go to the Land Agency with. Something credible. Something that makes this Mallender guy think. You know what else?”

  Lester frowned, the deep-set lines as if cut into his brow.

  “Hearts and minds. You know what that means? It means we don’t upset anyone, we don’t say boo, we don’t move, until we have to. We go and see the land. First thing. We go out there, out to this Cassidy land. We take a good look. We find out who and what we’re dealing with.”

  The town, on that Wednesday morning, went about its regular business. The train from the south was due, so folks were down at the station waiting to go to Serpentine mainly, or sometimes further west and beyond. The signage was being repainted on Smithson’s loan company and, in Archer’s chandlery, a handful of farm labourers on their fortnightly trip to town, stood and weighed up, literally, the pros and cons of jig-cutters and buzz-saws. Further on, Mae Chattus, of Chattus’ Buttons and Bows, sat on a three-legged stool and waited for any one of her dozen customers to call in for whatever yardage of material and, in Ike’s barber shop, the talk, as it had been those last few weeks and months, was the perilous state of the timber mill. Old men with pale-grey hair thinner than one of Mae’s cotton strands sat on those red leather chairs, some of which swivelled and some of which didn’t, and allowed their husky bulletins of second-hand news to flit from one shiny surface to the next, until they fell, superseded, to the floor.

  Elsewhere, the police department building was home once again to garrulous Judd and Gerty Snipe and their two teenage sons, and across the street, the older and less salacious cousin of Rita Mahoonie tried with cold fingers to use the key-cutting machine, wondering whether the widower ten years her senior she was cutting it for was trustworthy, or whether those envelopes of high-denomi-nation cash she’d found in his apartment were signs of something different.

  Parker’s was busy. Over the winter months there were always a few epidemics of stock-piling, usually kick-started by old Mr Par-ker himself who used any hint of a quiet period to drip-feed his ‘concerns’. He was shrewd. He’d stand behind the counter in his collar and tie and sprinkle those words of wisdom over his customers. Not his words, you understand, but words he’d heard from those sages of all things meteorological; the farmers. And those gentle, knowing aphorisms were all he needed to get people thinking, to get them feeling prepared and to get those shelves of processed foods and soups moving again, based only on the fur-change of a piebald’s flanks or the drift of cattle to the lower ground.

  Towards the end of the street in the new red-stone building the surgery was closing, Dr Stone having dished out his quota of diagnoses for the day. No sentence was longer than an expelled breath. There were no words of comfort, no hands across the desk. He delivered verdicts, none of which were connected to him, none of which he ever felt because, for Abraham Stone, the jury of life with its freaks and its foibles had made its decision and there was nothing he could do. So why would he weep?

  He stood in the prime of his life, with the photograph of his wife and two smart sons there in front of him on the deck of the Vancouver ferryboat, and opened the drawer enough to glance down and see the five-figure cheque from an emergent east coast pharmaceutical company. Why, indeed, would he weep?

  Back towards the intersection, past the LMA where, in spite of the purchase of the land for what amounted to peanuts and Jorge’s dismissal with no more than a Christmas card, Ted still hunkered down in the smaller office, and where Doug’s New Year had been bolstered by a couple of after-work beers with his new acquaintance, John Cassidy, the rumour mill that was Sylvie Buckle’s beauty parlour was getting up a lacquered head of steam.

  On that particular day there were any number of topics to choose from; the regimes of personal care, for one, the tips and techniques on anything from calories to cuticles. You could’ve gone north with the extensions and streaks. You could, thanks to Rita and her modish mid-wave, have sashayed around the lack of investment at the timber mill and how concerned Dan was with the state of the roof especially in the light of rumoured spring rains. Or, there was Jake Massey and his drinking bouts, or the sighting, more than once, of Delilah Morris out at the Cassidy homestead, the owner of which still attracted more attention than most and about whom it was said on a regular basis; he was a convert, an acolyte, a man who had ‘Blessed are the meek’ tattooe
d across his back, who had found forgiveness in his heart and would go to church every Sunday come rain or shine and stand in the shadows at the back. Or, he was a bumpkin, a simpleton, a savage. He was a trickster and a sham, a man who stole women’s jewellery, who had unpaid debts, who, from his wastrel father and great-grandfather had inherited nothing but card-cheats and a crooked little finger on his left hand. He had, it was true, the black suit of a mortician and the white gloves of a strangler. And his face gave nothing away.

  Or, you could’ve pecked and clucked at the tumbled feed of Lily Mallender’s life. You could’ve noticed the batteries she bought from the hardware store, or how neglected her winter lawns had got, or the way, whenever she was at Sizzlin’ Steve’s with her gastric husband, she let the steak juice run from her mouth and never used a napkin to wipe it clear. Or, there was the commercial fact that, from the pharmacist’s shelf, those bottles of peppermint mouth rinse never moved an inch.

  Vincent Clay sat in the window seat of the coffee house at the crux of the two main streets and watched the unfolding with flat dispassion. He watched the behaviour of people, their actions and reactions as if they were marionettes pulled this way and that by the wishful and the dutiful and most things in between. He watched how they moved, how they crossed the street or walked the sidewalk, how they stopped to speak. He heard what came out of their mouths; the taste of the coffee, the strength, the sweetness, the frothiness, the rate at which it cooled. He watched how the young waitress with the pigtails deferred to the surly, older waitress who had bitterness in the tiny pull of her lips and who, in turn, deferred to the manager every time he appeared, doused in his bachelor’s aftershave. He saw how Rita Mahoonie’s cousin walked away from the key-cutting machine with misgivings seeping from every pore, how the stock-pilers came out of Parker’s, put those goods in the trunks of waiting cars and drove away like they were better or smarter or wiser than most. He watched it all, broken down into moment by moment, one enacted thing after another.