The New Guinea Job

by Vince Milam

  White supremacists. American Nazis. Trash. They had moved onto the property adjacent to Irene. A few miles from Marcus’s land.

  “How?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Inheritance. Since old man Tannenbaum died several years ago, it’s been in probate limbo. Six sections.”

  Out West, you measured large tracts of land in sections—square miles. Marcus shifted, moved his legs farther from the iron stove. “I checked with the county. A distant nephew appears to have a claim. At least on part of it.”

  “So they let him squat on the property?”

  Marcus shrugged, sipped his beer, and puffed cigar smoke.

  “Where are they from?” I asked.

  “Back East.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re staying away from this situation.”

  “I’ll find out tonight. At dinner.”

  The wooden legs of his chair scraped the well-worn timber floor. He stood. “Let’s talk outside.”

  Two more beers placed on the bar, a couple of jokes exchanged, and Marcus snagged the long-necked bottles. He signaled toward the door. The wraparound porch offered a lee side from the wind, with weathered chairs collected from someplace other than a bar supply outfit.

  “So a nasty piece of work appears with his trash friends. Is that it?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. Irene’s house is only a mile or so away. She heard noise. Shooting, banging. So she drove to her fence line, crawled through, and had a look.”

  “And?”

  “Checked the scene with binoculars. Saw a couple of flags. Swastika. White Nationalist.”

  “Great.”

  “She called the sheriff. Then me. Then the sheriff again.” Marcus shook his head.

  “Why?”

  “To tell him she’d called me and never mind.”

  Stillwater County. Two thousand square miles. Nine thousand people. The town of Columbus held a quarter of them. And here came a call from a rancher. Nazis. An event. The county sheriff wasn’t going to never mind.

  “So the sheriff dropped by your place first,” I said.

  He smiled and tugged his jacket tighter. The wind whipped past the corners of the small building. Sagebrush swayed as a herd of mule deer grazed a quarter of a mile away.

  “Now I know why you command the big bucks,” he said, a wry grin and raised eyebrows my way.

  “Super sleuth. And let me expand on my assumption. You and the sheriff. Separate vehicles. Drove the half-dozen miles around to the entrance road. To Naziland.”

  “Why, I might hire you next time I lose my car keys.”

  “And entered the little compound from heaven. The county sheriff. And a black guy.”

  “We weren’t well received.”

  “I’m stunned.”

  “The sheriff later checked the man’s story. He is a distant relative. With a claim on a portion of the property.”

  “Kick him off until probate gets settled.”

  “County attorney said it would be a protracted legal battle. County can’t afford it.”

  He relit his cigar. Crackling gravel announced another pickup truck’s arrival. Marcus and the driver exchanged waves.

  “Describe the operational area,” I said.

  “There is no operational area, super sleuth. I’ve explained that.”

  “Fine. Give me a verbal home tour.”

  He shook his head and shoved the Stetson farther down. “Old man Tannenbaum’s shack is still there. And the outhouse.”

  “He used an outhouse?” More than a tad challenging when nature called on a twenty-below winter day. It didn’t take a great deal of imagination to picture Mr. Tannenbaum. Tough as boot leather, stubborn as a mule.

  Marcus laughed. “Tell you a story. The old man explained a few years ago he couldn’t understand young people. That would be anyone under fifty.”

  “Whippersnappers.”

  “What baffled him, and I quote, ‘They’re building houses where they cook on the outside and shit on the inside.’ End quote.”

  I laughed. Man, it was fine being back with Marcus. I wished, again, he’d visit me during winters. An offer often made. He could flee my way and we’d cruise the Ditch, Florida bound. He always played the cattle-need-looking-after card. Not if he’d hire local help.

  “All right. An old shack and an outhouse. What else?” I asked.

  “They towed three trailers. Which have seen better days.”

  “How many of these new neighbors?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who isn’t getting involved.”

  “Enquiring minds want to know. And I’ll find out at dinner.”

  “You’ve said that more than once.”

  “A polite gesture due to your aged state.”

  Tossing lighthearted words didn’t lessen the hurt. My brother. A situation. And here I was, obscure and unknown among the community. Perfect pain medicine.

  “Five. So far. The sheriff and I were informed as many as twenty could show up.”

  “Everyone likes a party. Especially wing nuts.”

  “The sheriff and I agree on one thing. They’ll get bored. Not a lot of trouble to stir out here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry this mess showed up on your doorstep.” I raised my bottle in his direction. “A true pain, uninvited.”

  His tight smile reflected hurt at violation of his life philosophy—leave me alone and I’ll return the favor. But he’d remain adamant I leave the situation alone. His problem. Not mine.

  Marcus was local and obeyed laws. But the gaggle of newly arrived trash represented trouble at the law’s fringes. Trouble for my blood brother. And Irene. My mind relegated this situation to the “Let Marcus handle it” zone, as he’d insisted.

  My gut—hard and definitive—said, “Fix this.”

  “They may hang out until fall,” he said, closing the conversation. “Winter will send them packing.”

  “Okay.”

  He threw another hard look my way. Next to me stood a man of character, commitment, and action. A leader. One we respected, loved. And a man we’d follow into hell and back. Now handcuffed. Social strictures, community mores, local law. He’d never know how much this situation disturbed me.

  We drained the beers and headed toward his ranch house. Elk steaks. Good wine. Better company. And an embryonic plan forming at Case Lee’s trash removal service.

  Chapter 19

  Miriam’s parked pickup greeted us at Marcus’s house. She’d let herself in. Her dog, Dity, scooted from the dog door and inspected our arrival. Jake bounded from Marcus’s SUV, stub tail wagging, and rushed over to the Aussie cow dog. A warm greeting on Jake’s part. Dity, disgusted at Jake’s affections, stood stoic and took it. Then she threw a dismissive eye toward us, turned, and returned inside to join Miriam and await instructions.

  “A sight for sore eyes!” Miriam said as I strode in. “My own private man of mystery. Where you been off to? Timbuktu?”

  “Something like that. How’s my Miriam?”

  We hugged, teased, and laughed. Marcus joined her at the island counter, crafting a salad and skewered veggies for dinner.

  “How about kicking off a fire in the grill,” Marcus said. “And one in the fire pit.”

  The outdoor patio contained both. Jake joined me for the fire-making endeavors. Dity appeared, reviewed my efforts, and headed back, the dog door slapping. I passed muster. After a few minutes, grill kindling and fire pit logs popped and crackled.

  Irene arrived. The pickup she’d purchased last fall showed signs of ranch-work wear, with streaks of caked mud body-plastered past the wheels. She wore a big smile and a Stetson, flat-brimmed style. A braided horsehair hatband, ranch coat, jeans, and boots rounded out her attire. She carried a bottle of wine.

  “Between you and Marcus,” I said, smiling, “we have the makings of our Montana spring collection catalog.”

  “Said the tough guy who flees at the first sign
of cold weather.” She slammed the door shut, teeth flashing, and approached. A moment of awkwardness, eliminated when we hugged and she kissed my cheek. She looked fine and smelled of coconut body wash and outdoor clothing. Her countenance—assured and animated and observational—intrigued as usual.

  “Wait!” she said, darting back to the pickup. “A new addition.”

  The door swung open and she said “C’mon.” A small dark head peered out, sussed the immediate area, and leapt down. Young—maybe ten months—the pup looked like a mix of Border collie and heaven-knows-what. It approached, tail wagging. Once over its initial hesitation, it rubbed against my legs. Jake bounded up. The two had met and tore off chasing each other and playing.

  “Meet Kismet,” she said. One hand offered the presentation as the pup tore around the gravel drive.

  Kismet. Fate, destiny. “Cool name. Cool dog.”

  “She’s a handful. And a delight.”

  “You look great, by the way.”

  “Even with my rustic wear?”

  “Especially in your rustic wear.”

  She smiled, eyes questioning, and shook her head. “Sometimes I think it’s the whole Georgia gentleman thing you’ve got working. And sometimes I think you’re sincere.”

  “You looking great falls into the sincere category.”

  “Well, I’d sincerely appreciate a glass of wine. Join me?”

  I did. The kitchen conversation was animated, dinner preparations under way. Jake and Kismet tore inside several times, checked current affairs, and flew back out. Dity watched them. I swear the cow dog raised one eyebrow during their dashes.

  The elk steaks, marinated, sat on a plate achieving room temperature. I asked how the winter went. A valid question and worthwhile discussion. From forty above to twenty below in one day—and caring for livestock throughout—made weather an elemental factor in people’s lives. It mattered, and affected everyone.

  “A bit severe,” Marcus said. “Lot of snow. Several blizzards.”

  “How’d you hold up?” I asked Irene. It was her first winter on granddad’s inherited ranch.

  “The wind threw me,” she said. “I’d dress for the cold, but the wind—it cuts.”

  “I bet.” I’d experienced it more than once. And bitter doesn’t come close to describing the howling frozen wind rushing across these prairies.

  “And this whole spring snowstorms thing takes getting used to.”

  “Official mud season,” Miriam said. “Forget about keeping things clean.”

  “Your cattle fare okay?” I asked. Her small herd—far less than her property’s carrying capacity—required daily tending. Chop ice on frozen water tanks so they could drink. Toss hay, every morning. Wrestle it from the hay barn and load a flatbed hitched to a tractor. And navigate through the snow for feeding time.

  “They all made it. And new calves now. Still can’t believe seeing baby calves with ice on their backs.”

  “You’ve got sturdy stock,” Marcus said.

  “And a sturdy neighbor.” Irene shifted sides of the kitchen island and hugged Marcus. “This guy covered for me when I was in SoCal.”

  “So you fled?” I asked, smiling.

  “For work, oh thin-blooded one. I still check in with the company on occasion.”

  “How was the LA weather?”

  “Brutal. Now stop with the look.”

  We laughed. Miriam threatened me with a kitchen spoon and tossed in, “Leave the girl alone. She did all right.”

  Irene worked at a pharmaceutical research company. They let her work remote, analytical deep-dive stuff.

  Marcus clapped his hands, rubbed them, and announced, “Steak time.” We gathered fresh drinks and moved outside.

  “You want yours burnt, I suppose?” he asked me. It galled him. A sincere bewilderment at my well-done meat preference.

  “I’ve advanced past you primitives. And have learned to make good use of fire.”

  We continued our chat about weather, dogs, trucks, and cattle prices. Irene—her analytical brain tackling the variables of Montana life—had gotten into the lifestyle. A challenge for her, perhaps. One she faced undaunted. Miriam encouraged and supported her. Marcus made the perfect neighbor. I could see her settling. Fine on one hand, and good for her. But this wasn’t my turf. Never would be. And that little fact laid a crack between us, one which could develop into a chasm.

  The steaks were beyond good, the company warm and loving and fun. A great evening.

  “So where were you this time?” Irene asked. “What parts unknown?”

  “I’ve gone over that with him,” Miriam said. “The man clams up about such things. But I doubt it was someplace you’d want to spend your vacation dollars.”

  Marcus tried a change of subject and mentioned movies. I joined his thread. Irene wouldn’t shake her original question.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Southeast Asia.”

  “Big area.”

  “Yeah, it is. So what is the deal with all these comic book movies?”

  “Do you ever worry about tropical diseases?” Irene asked, undeterred.

  Comparisons flashed. Unfair juxtapositions of Rae and Irene. So different. Rae soothed, nurtured, and pulled me along. Oil on rough water. She calmed and comforted. Irene wasn’t built the same way. But people are different; strengths and weaknesses spread across the spectrum. I tried, failed, and tried again shutting the Rae door.

  “So far no issues,” I said, and lifted the wine glass. A salute to good health.

  “He did deal with an arrow stuck in his chest,” Miriam volunteered.

  “Miriam.” Marcus had clearly shared with Miriam and just as clearly asked her to keep it among themselves.

  “Not a big deal,” I said.

  Irene laid her knife and fork down, lifted her wine for a sip, and eyeballed me over the rim. “Did you cut it out with your Bowie knife, Batman?”

  “Tongue depressors. Administered by a fine gentleman of the highest caliber. Not a big deal and we can move on.”

  “Fine. Denial is a normal emotion. I understand,” Irene said, cutting steak.

  She still owned the edge, the ability to rub wrong. It was built into her personality. Then she surprised the hell out of me. Out of all of us. Her knife and fork clacked back on the plate and she cast an open, pained expression toward her friends.

  “I know I do that,” she said. “Sorry.”

  She addressed me. “The whole analytical approach thing. And subsequent bite. It’s not conducive to friendly conversation. And I catch myself right in the middle of it. Stupid.”

  “I accept it as part of you,” I said. “No judgment.” Not true, but her conscious identification of the trait stood admirable. And I’m no pure-as-the-driven-snow conversationalist, either—having driven a stake through a concerned conversation from friends about my arrow wound.

  “We all carry baggage,” Miriam said. “Don’t beat on yourself. Plus, these two guys open up about as easy as oysters. Neither of them will ever win an emoting contest.” She raised a lone eyebrow toward Marcus.

  “I don’t get the comic book movie thing, either,” Marcus said.

  Miriam and Irene burst out laughing. I got it. I think.

  “Part of the baggage is the clinical research thing,” Irene said. “I’ve trained my mind, and sometimes it drifts into the interpersonal. Relationships.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said.

  “But some of the time it’s a barrier, tossed on the relationship highway by me and me alone. A concrete barrier. I have to stop it.”

  “Each of us has protection mechanisms,” Miriam said. “If you don’t, you haven’t lived much of a life. Anyway, that’s how I see it.”

  “Speaking of which,” Irene said. “What about these two guys? It seems less like a protection device than a long, long hallway of well-locked doors.”

  “Both of these jokers are a mess. An absolute mess. Can’t fix it.”

  I glance
d toward Marcus. He returned a noncommittal stare and said, “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you both know Case and I are sitting here. And can hear what you’re saying.”

  “We’re talking about Irene,” Miriam said. “And her relationship with Case. Right, Case?”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re uncomfortable,” Irene said. “Let’s shift gears. Talk about something else.” She shot a smile my way. “But I wanted to lay it out there and apologize. It’s not an attractive trait.”

  “It’s all right. Honestly.”

  “There’s a lineup,” Marcus said, his second attempt at changing the subject. He pointed his fork toward the great-room kitchen. The three dogs sat at attention, seven paces away. Two knew better than encroaching on the dining area while we ate. Kismet had snuck over twice, been disciplined, and now pressed against Jake, waiting. The three held rapt attention toward our eating habits.

  “At least Kismet learns,” Irene said. “The second or third time. She’s hardheaded. I would know.” We laughed, wine passed around, and compliments to the chefs. The salad—endive and walnuts and blue cheese—was a great match with the rich elk meat.

  “So Case, you’ve heard about the new neighbors?” Irene asked.

  “A bit. Marcus filled me in.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Not much to think. Trash. I suppose as long as they don’t bother you, not much can be done.” Not true, but Marcus’s hard stare required such an answer. The guy could still turn on the laser eyeballs when needed.

  “Winter will take care of it,” Marcus said. “As much as it irritates me, it’s best waiting it out.”

  “You don’t know that,” Miriam said. “They get enough of those idiots to show and you’ve got critical mass for staying put.”

  A valid point, and one I’d considered. Best to stop these things before they found roots, grew.

  “Ignore them,” Irene said. “That’s my plan.”

  Miriam, Montana born and bred, held a different approach. “Let’s buy one of those drones I see people play with. The helicopter things. Radio controlled.”

  “Why spy on them?” Marcus asked.

  “Spy? I’m talking about dynamite, airmail delivery. Light up a few trailers. You’d know how to rig one of those, Marcus.”