Roughnecks

by James J. Patterson

  “You got a card?”

  “Sure. Tell you what, Zak, let’s go get a couple of those bacon and egg sandwiches.”

  Back inside, the meeting was breaking up and everyone was standing about eating, sipping coffee, and talking loudly when Becker led Zak over to Lottie’s hospitality table. There was a giant bowl into which people had tossed their business cards, some handmade. He fished out several and said, “Take these with you. These are the folks who can make your lives a lot easier over there.”

  Back outside, Zak leaned against Lottie’s Suburban, smoked a cig, and flipped through the cards. Barber shop, refuse hauling, game butcher, police, clinic, power and electric, propane, sewage, savings and loan, and several members of the mayor’s council.

  “Watford is run by the mayor and the mayor’s council,” Lottie explained, as she gave him a ride back to the park. “They have equal authority so no one person can just make decisions without the others. I was hoping to introduce you to Adam Nossiter, but actually Scotty Becker is perfect. He’s low key, gets things done, never quarrels. Best of all, he’s always around but never a pest. I mean, had you not told me, I wouldn’t have known he was there, but he’s always about.”

  When they arrived back at the Airstream, Jon and OK were gone, and as Lottie dropped him off, her eyes were twinkling.

  “Your buddy OK has been a regular at the club lately, Zak. He and my Julie seem to have hit it off, but we haven’t seen you around.”

  “Oh I’ve been workin’ nights, it’ll only last another few days. Yeah, I’ve been missin’ the club, don’t worry, I’ll be in. By the way, I hope OK is behaving himself.”

  “He’s smarter than the average bear around here, that’s for sure,” she winked.

  About six hours of blissful dreamless sleep later, the door to the Airstream opened and OK, Jon, and Marty came in.

  “We’re run off,” Jon said as he handed the sleepy man lifting his head from the pillow a beer. “Blackie’s back to drillin’, they got themselves another toolpusher. Tiger’s comin’ in next week, it’s official. Blackie’s gonna twist off from Challenger to go work for Tiger and says we all got jobs! So this’ll be our last chance to head’m back to Scobey and pick up our checks from Bomac! But we can leave that till morning. C’mon sleepy head, we’re on days off, let’s go get drunk!”

  XIX

  Zak didn’t drive directly to Scobey, Montana. He left Watford City early and he drove directly to Bomac 34 instead. It was a late autumn, early winter’s day. A light snow had fallen in the night, and gave the entire scene a bright, glowing contrast to the gray overcast sky that reached far and wide blurring the horizon. On the drive up, light flurries animated his views and gave him a warm memory of childhood excitement and possibilities of adventure that made him smile.

  When he got near to location, the Jeep, Tatonka, had a slow slippery climb up to the hole on the hill.

  To his amazement, there was a giant roadwork Caterpillar, a quarter-of-a-million-dollar piece of machinery, perched at the top of rig road with a long industrial cable attached, pulling a thirty-thousand-gallon water hauler the last leg up the hill in the snow. Zak four-wheeled around the giant water truck and pulled up next to that big Cat, put his hard hat on his head and got out, lit a cig, and just watched those boys get it!

  “Hey Zak!” he heard a familiar voice rising above the racket to see George Cleaver crunching his way through two inches of snow toward him, a walkie-talkie barking in his hand. They shook hands warmly.

  “George!” Zak gestured to the Cat pulling that water hauler up the hill. “This has got to be your finest hour!”

  “Yeah, that Caterpillar foreman overheard us on the CB radio having trouble, and before we knew it there comes this big rig up the hill, like the cavalry. Frank hired ’em out for the remainder of the hole. He talked that foreman into plucking a bunch of guys with roughneckin’ experience from a few other outfits too, and we were back up’n running in no time!”

  They chatted amiably for some minutes, both discreetly avoiding the Crawdad Incident. Zak filled him in on the situation back in Watford, and George shook his head with a grin when he heard about Tiger Mike rolling into the area.

  “Driller Rory is still here, Hale Parker, and some of the others. Those boys don’t have much faith that Tiger’s gonna come through, and Rory, stubborn old cuss that he is, says he don’t wanna work on no new iron. Shit,” George spat into the snow, “what’re ya gonna do.”

  In a drawer in that toolpusher’s trailer, where George said it would be, was an envelope marked, “Jesse’s Crew.” Zak plucked his check from the bunch as well as Freddy’s and Marty’s.

  As he was turning to leave, Zak noticed a shoebox full of Bomac Drilling Co. stickers sitting on a file cabinet. He rubbed the dust from his hard hat with the sleeve of his coat and ever so carefully stuck one on the back. After admiring his work, and proud of what it took to earn it, he grabbed a few more stickers for Jon, Marty, and Freddy before stepping outside.

  He then took one last look around. He saw Samson up in the derrick, but no one else he knew, so he decided not to linger. He wheeled down off the hill and continued on to Scobey, Montana.

  A hot shower and a shave, a good meal, a real bed, and a night away from the Watford City circus suddenly had great appeal and so he checked in at the Pioneer Hotel.

  An hour later, he was scrubbed and clean of face, and settled in at Simone’s. Stragglers from lunch were just finishing up. Others were burrowed in at the bar for the long haul.

  Zak was finishing his first beer and thinking of just chilling for the rest of the day, hoping maybe to see Jon and Mary Ellen, when in walked Sam.

  She breezed in through the kitchen, as usual, and was all smiles and pretty as can be. Her long black hair with a new tinsel-like streak of silver hung over her left shoulder, curling down in a silken coil gathered at the top of her breast by a piece of purple yarn that matched the stitching in her lacy billowing blouse. She wore deep blue stretch pants and tall furry boots and she seemed very pleased to see Zachary Harper. She pulled up a stool beside Zak, her perfume washing over him in a euphoric rosy-vanilla haze, her beads and bracelets clattering musically.

  “It’s my day off, sweet man,” she smiled flirtatiously, and tossed a look at Hal, the barkeep, who reached not for her usual jug of house red but for a rich ruby port, and poured her a small glass.

  She was full of questions, her voice deep and sonorous, her accent, which Zak always presumed was French, or French Canadian, now had a deeper, more sultry tone; sardonic, world weary. There was an extra something going on in the back of her throat. He thought she even rolled an R. Eastern European?

  “And how is poor Freddy?”

  “I’m not sure, he’s been gone for a while.”

  “You must make him understand that we miss him. What about Jesse?”

  “Jesse’s okay, I think he’s on the verge of retirement.”

  “Well, it’s been hard for him, but he will find his way. And what about Skidder, Archer, and their crazy crew? The Parkers? The cowboys?”

  “Everyone is scrambling for winter quarters.”

  She really did lose a pile of customers when everyone twisted off. Zak sympathized.

  “So let me get this straight,” she tapped his wrist with her long purple talons. “There’s a big fight out at the rig, so everybody gets angry and quits. Then you go, and abandon your friends here in Scobey,” she made a little pout, “and everyone follows you like the Pied Piper down to Watford City. All of you heroes get jobs on the same rig so you can continue your arguments down there, instead of here?”

  Her brow wrinkled with displeasure but the twinkle in her eyes told him she was playing.

  “No, no, no,” Zak was embarrassed nonetheless. “You see, initially, I went down to Rapid City to pick up a derrickha…”

  “Let’s not
quarrel, dear,” Simone said soothingly, gently play acting. She placed her hand on his wrist. She brightened as their eyes met.

  This foolishness is nice, thought Zachary Harper. He noticed she wasn’t wearing as much makeup as he remembered. Still pretty, younger than he thought, maybe forty-two? She had crow’s feet that made her big black eyes soft and mirthful. The lines on her face weren’t angry ones, they were smiles, and those smiles were alluring in all their different aspects. Only her tone of voice said it might be, and was in some ways, a mask.

  “When I heard that you were gone I was actually a bit fearful we might not see each other again,” she said so offhandedly he thought it might be true. “It would make sense, after all,” she shrugged, as if conversing with herself.

  “That would have been my loss,” Zak replied, “but I would never have left without saying goodbye, you’ve been a terrific help to me.”

  “Well,” she sighed with relief, “you are here now, and it is, after all, my day off, and I must hurry home. I’m going to cook a big lamb stew, and promised Corey to give him some tomorrow. Now, won’t you be a dear and help me carry some groceries out to my car?”

  “Well sure,” Zak followed her through the kitchen. Yes, the accent was definitely French, he reassured himself.

  “My house is about ten minutes from here,” she explained as he carried a big box and followed her with some groceries to her truck parked out back. It was a Dodge Ramcharger that had clearly died and come back to life somehow. Yes, there were men in her life a-plenty.

  She shifted a grocery bag from one arm to the other as she unlocked the gate at the back of her outfit. She then leaned in to place her bag inside and Zak admired her hips. Someone, not saying who, could become rather devoted to that, he thought.

  “Zak, if you’re free today,” she said as she shut the back gate and, moving toward the passenger door, pulled it open, “why not ride out with me? You can help make the stew. Wouldn’t a home-cooked meal be nice? I’ll bring you back later. Hop in!”

  He did and off they went.

  Simple as that.

  Yes she had rooms and an office above the bar and she stayed there most nights, but the house was a lifesaver when she needed to get the bar out of her system for a spell.

  “It is just a cottage, but I love it,” she explained as she operated the vehicle’s standard transmission with both hands and feet, and she looked quite youthful doing it, almost giddy. Zak breathed a happy sigh as he watched the rolling landscape pass and he cracked his window, felt the cold prairie air in his face, scented with gasoline, carbon dioxide, and her perfume and port. About ten miles west of town they pulled off the road, snaking up a long winding drive that led to a small house with a blue roof halfway up a hill that could be seen from quite a distance.

  Simone’s cabin was a small one-bedroom affair, nestled into the side of the hill. They grabbed the box and bags from the back and she opened up the house, turned up the heat, and lit a couple of coal-oil lamps.

  Zak set down his box as she got settled, and he went and stood before the large living room window. The endless view from up on that hill was spare of trees or much variation but impressive in its depth and distances.

  In a corner there was a sewing station, and Zak noticed quilts of all shapes and sizes, made of all manner of remnants, tossed over chairs, spread across the bed, over the back of the couch. The sleeping area was one step up with a curtain pulled back. The décor was spare, which was a bit of a surprise considering the ornate style in which she had decorated her bar.

  “I’ve come to love this view, you can see so far,” she appeared at his side and handed him a goblet of homemade plum-red wine. “Look,” she pointed to a big gray weather pattern off to the left that appeared as though the sky was falling, then she pointed to the right where clouds were parting and rays of sunshine were beaming down. “I can watch the clouds for hours.”

  The wine had a sweet, velvety texture, with a peppery finish. It was delicious.

  Her arm slid around his waist, his around hers. Their personal contact was even more intoxicating.

  “A great place to sit and read,” Zak said.

  “Yes, or to sit and let your mind go empty, like the view. Do you like the wine?”

  “Pure ambrosia,” he smiled.

  When Zak admired the small paintings at either side of the window, primitive but pleasant renderings of woolly evergreen mountains and deep blue-green lakes, she smiled.

  “My mother painted those from memory of where she grew up in the province of Quebec. When the view of all that nothing starts to get to me, these can chase away a dreary feeling, give me peace.”

  They melted into each other’s arms for a long, sensuous embrace. He buried his nose in her neck, her hair, and he squeezed her. He took a delicious, deep breath, and he made a growling, purring sound of pleasure that she responded to innately, squeezed him back, and gave him a little nip on his neck.

  Then she put down her glass and took his face in her hands and smiled warmly, her deep dark eyes happy as they drank in his. Whatever she had been looking for, whatever question was in those eyes, had been answered affirmatively he could tell. They embraced again, her sumptuous body now fitting the contours of his own, and she kissed his neck, then she smiled, and kissed his lips with a short quick peck.

  She took his hand and led him to the kitchen area where he helped her unload the groceries and they laid out the ingredients for their dinner.

  “One thing I love about living here, yes, the people can be crude, but they each have a skill, and each skill when joined with the others becomes a skill for the survival of all. One can fix your car, another can build a front step, others can keep the cold from getting in or the heat from getting out. Most of the men are good with their hands, and the women are too. Yes, I have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Well, they have a lot to thank you for, Simone. I mean, think about how dreary this town would be without your generosity, the way you take care of us roughnecks, your cooking, and well, without your beautiful self, my dear.”

  “Well, everyone works hard.” She smiled over her shoulder, thanking him for the compliment as she set up a cutting board and started placing vegetables and knives on it. “And unlike in some small towns, I like the fact that everyone knows each other’s business, it keeps us safe.”

  “Safe? From who?”

  “From each other I suppose. Or mysterious strangers,” she winked. “Oh, there always is a dark river beneath the surface of human doings, but you mustn’t let it get too deep, too dark, or too fast running. So you must have contact, there must be empathy, there must be mutual need and respect, so that the rumors will die as soon as they fly.”

  “Is your mother still with us?” Zak asked with a look toward the paintings by the window.

  “She is always with me, but no, she passed on several years ago. That’s when I left Quebec and came here. Lilly and Hal joined me shortly after I took over the bar. I don’t think I could have managed early on without them.”

  “Why here?”

  “I want to ask you that question.”

  “I suspect our motivations aren’t too very different,” he answered cryptically, which seemed to satisfy her.

  He was chopping onions and she was mashing spices with a mortar and pestle. She set Zak to work carving a slab of lamb into little square chunks.

  “Mother and I owned a small bistro in Montreal. One night a very pleasant Yankee couple, elderly, came in and sat down. Graham and Nora Cheetle were their names. We had the most delightful conversation. They had never tasted real French food, French wine. They wanted some of our recipes. They said they were from a small town in Montana. Showed me a picture of the saloon they owned. The Corkscrew Gulch Saloon. I don’t know of a Corkscrew Gulch. But it looked so far away, so small and peaceful. So, after Mama was gone, I sold the bistro
and I got in the car and drove straight here.

  “They hired me without question, to cook and tend bar at first. Then they retired and put me in charge. First Mrs. Cheetle died, then he not too long after. They left me the bar, the truck, this little house.”

  “What a change that must have been.”

  “A welcome change. At home the Quebec separatists had come out of the hills, out of the woodwork. They loved our little bistro, it was out of the way, small tables, dark booths, jazz on Thursdays and Sundays. They had been stirring up trouble for a decade or more, but now they whipped themselves into such a frenzy there was a real crisis, an uprising it was called. Living in their own angry little world, they thought they could usurp the mighty colossus the state had made. Idiots they were, to be sure, but beautiful idiots. Beautiful, talented idiots.

  “Then some people were kidnapped, a British consulate, a labor minister or councilman or some priests, or whoever it was they hated. Others killed and were killed. I don’t think any of the real criminals were at our bistro, but they sympathized. So the military took over and roamed the streets for a while, searching homes, making arrests. Many of my people are from the old country, Zak. Soldiers in the street are something we don’t like to see.”

  “How did you manage to stay out of it?”

  “I didn’t! The police came to talk to me several times. Then the soldiers came too. They would say ‘What do you know about your customers?’ I would say ‘I know that they all hate you.’ ‘Why?’ they would ask, and I would say, ‘Why does anyone hate anyone? Because they are not like them!’