by L. J. Martin
I decide to leave my new armor off the broken wrist as DiAngelo’s, at lunch, is not a trouble spot. In fact, I doubt if it's one at 2:00 a.m. closing time.
There's a tire shop a half block from DiAngelo’s, so I open the Wells Cargo and unload my Harley, lock things back up tight, and have to use starter fluid to get her fired up. I'm beginning to hate cold weather.
I slip and slide my way to the tire shop, realize I'm going to need a full face mask under the helmet if I don't want to freeze my nose off, and leave the Harley to have studs put in the tires so I don't upend my bike and bust my ass on every corner.
Now it's time to see if my scumbag appearance fools anyone. The good news is my bruising and knots are gone, except for some puke-yellow tinges.
It's a little late for the lunch crowd, but the same bartender, who was there the last time I was in, is working the bar, with only three others bellied up. One of them is Detective Tony DiAngelo, and he's drinking a cup of coffee at the bar chatting with the other two guys.
He eyeballs me like I'd just crawled out of one of the dumpsters out back, but shows no signs of recognition and doesn't come down to throw me out of the joint. The bartender wipes the bar on the way down to where I've seated myself on a barstool, doesn't look happy, but asks, "What can I get you?"
"What's the…the soup today," I say, keeping my voice gravelly.
"Minestrone, as usual, and we got split pea."
"Coffee and split pea," I mumble, without any politeness.
"You got it," he says and moves away as if he wants no part of me.
Detective Tony downs his coffee, and I can feel his eyes bore into me as he passes behind. I exchange glances with him in the mirror behind the bar.
As I'm spooning my soup and fighting to chew some great French bread, I realize that my face is already getting a little tender from the two times I've bleached my beard out, but I'll soon solve that problem.
I return to the camper, the Harley gripping the icy road enough to give me confidence about riding it, and feeling I'm home free with the disguise.
Bolting my armor back on my forearm over the cast, I wrap it in gauze to hide the spikes. I'm getting closer to the point I'll try it out on some dope dealer's hard head or across the soft flesh of his throat.
10
I dress layered up with Under Armour long johns, a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and my leathers. I’m pleased to find a knit face mask in my gear. I push the sleeve of the Under Armour and sweatshirt up over my elbow; luckily my leather jacket is loose enough to fit over the cast and iron work. Donning my helmet with its Plexiglas shield and some heavy-duty rider's gloves with gauntlets damn near to the elbow, I hope I'll stay warm as I set out on a mission of discovery. I picked up maps of the primary fields where Owens-McKittrick has rigs working—mostly Billings, Golden Valley, McKenzie, and Williams counties in North Dakota—and have what we think must be Speck's home and office located on a map.
There are RV's, campers, and trailers everywhere as I head out One hundred thirty-sixth street northwest to the north of town. I soon locate what turns out to be a double-wide a quarter mile east of the road, a luxury unit in both size and condition compared to most, where the GPS says Speck's Apple computer is to be found. There are a few lots with RV's and trailers a quarter mile north and east of Speck's place, but it's basically alone with nothing closer than a quarter mile. There are no outbuildings, but the place is well maintained; the parking area has been recently plowed. It's mid-afternoon and the trailer is surrounded by eight vehicles, mostly four-wheel drive late model pickup trucks. There's a service station and mini-market a quarter mile back on the corner of one hundred thirty-sixth, so I return there, fill the Harley, get myself a cup of lousy coffee and perch out near the country road to recon the mobile home for a while. No sign of life. But if it's full of boys who work most of the night selling dope and women, who must be the working girls, it's likely they're still sacked out.
I decide to check out the oil fields, and see if I can spot some Owens-McKittrick rigs and get a feel for things. I'll swing back by the mobile home on my way in.
Even as warmly as I'm dressed, I soon decide the Harley is a lousy idea. I feel like my hands are frozen to the grips by the time I get a few miles out of town and turn toward one of the areas Owens-McKittrick works. I spot a rig painted red-lead bright orange. There're three guys working the service rig. There’s a guy in a pickup watching, with the windows rolled up, and him drinking from a chrome-colored adult version of a sippy cup.
I idle up beside him, and he rolls the window only half-way down. He's wearing an Owens-McKittrick emblem on his hard hat; gray-streaked red hair strings out from it. His beard, a week's worth, is red as well, but streaked with gray; his face is round, and his nose and cheeks either show an alcoholic splotching or he's just come in out of the cold.
"What's up?" he asks.
"You hiring?"
"You worked a service rig before?"
"Nope, but I was a roustabout on a drilling rig down near Bakersfield for a couple of years, and in Wyoming before that." And was, before I went in the service.
He digs around and hands me a business card. "I don't hire. The office does. Go see them. Unless you come up as a mass murderer, you'll get hired."
"Thanks," I say. "How about if I am a mass murderer?"
He laughs and grunts out, "So long as you didn't kill your co-workers or your boss, you'll still get on."
I glance at the card, "You Ian McCuen?"
"Yeah."
I offer my hand. He looks a little put out, but rolls the window down the rest of the way and shakes with me.
"I owe you a tall cold one," I say and settle back on the Harley.
"Make it a short strong one, and you're on."
"You got it." I use one of my aliases. "I'm Dick Strong."
He nods, and the window goes back up. I've worked around enough tool pushers to know they're best at sitting in the truck watching other guys work and enjoying the fact they finally got off the drilling rig floor—or in this case, service rig.
The worst thing about using aliases is remembering who you were when you met someone. I carry four driver's licenses. My Nevada alias is Richard Head, since I have a twisted sense of humor—aka Dick Head, a label assigned all of his jarheads by one of my long-ago drill instructors. I also have business cards and a driver's license as Toby Ornot, Grubner Security, with a Salt Lake City address. I, many times, introduce myself as Toby Ornot to be. I smile as I change driver's licenses in my wallet. Another is John Meoff, my friends call me Jack, with a Ventura, California address. Peter Long is a Florida license as is Dick Strong, both of which are likely to cause comment when introduced to the ladies, but I play it straight, no pun intended. My only legit license is Mike Reardon, Sheraton, Wyoming.
After I used Dick Strong, I remember that that's the name I gave Travis Speck when I talked to him at the bar. I'm going to have to change names if I've changed identities.
I check out another three fields until I'm damn near frozen to the marrow, then head back to the mini-market near Speck's trailer to warm my hands on lousy coffee and check out the double wide again.
I glance at my phone and see it's 6:00 p.m. by the time I get settled back on the Harley to watch the mobile home, now there are only four vehicles parked in its lot. I'm about ready to head back to the camper, pick up some clothes and go to Anytime Fitness to shower and dress for a big night on the town, when a black crew cab pickup in the lot pulls from the parking lot to up near the door. Three girls run out and load up.
Firing up the Harley, I head back to a parking place near the door of the mini-market and watch as the black Dodge heads our way. I dismount and head inside when the truck pulls into the lot and up to the gas pumps. I watch as a medium-size muscle fuck who's driving gets out, hands one of the girls a credit card through the window and heads inside. She gets out, and under her overcoat, which flares in the breeze, I can see she's dressed much as my new
girlfriend Vanna was. She works the pump, then jumps back inside while the truck fills up.
Oh, my buddy Pax is good. I have a picture of the guy who's pushing his way in the door. He's one of the V guys Vanna mentioned, but his real name, at least the name he was booked under, is Vlad, not Victor or Vasily. He buys a twelve pack of cheap beer, starts out, then returns to the separate area of the store where the hard liquor is kept. There he asks the young lady behind the counter something, and she fetches him a fifth of cheap whiskey. By the time he's back to the truck, he's popped the cap and taken a deep slug, and the girl has jumped back out into the cold and re-seated the nozzle. They fire it up, head out, and I follow.
The girl behind the counter calls after me as I push out the door, "No more coffee?"
I wave over my shoulder and mount up, wait until they're a block down the road and follow.
It's good and dark when he drops the first pair of girls off downtown on one of the side streets—but a busy one with a line of cheesy bars—then heads four more blocks down the same drag and deposits the second pair.
I'd like to get back and get to the shower as I haven't enjoyed real hot water since leaving Vegas, but I'd also like to watch the girls and maybe talk to one as soon as the other is picked up by a John. I'm sure I won't learn anything other than the price for a 'round the world' should I try and talk to them together. I back the Harley in between a couple of trucks, walk across the sidewalk and duck into the dark doorway of a building that's boarded up and looks to have recently had a fire. I stand and watch while the cold seeps into my bones.
I'm just about to head out and come back later when a beat-up Dodge truck slows. The girls both flash their overcoats open and give the driver their most seductive looks and a glance at the goods. He speeds off, but in moments, I can see he's circled the block. He stops, trades words with the girls. The taller of the two climbs in, and they're gone.
It's time to chitchat with another hooker.
11
I park a half block away from where the girl has retreated into a doorway to get out of the wind, and I wander down on foot.
She's lighting up a smoke as I draw near. Glancing up, she sees me coming and drops her hands, hiding the smoke behind her. I wonder if a hooker who smells like a Camel—the cigarette, not the animal—has a little more trouble attracting a John than one who smells like Corral Number Five? Or I should say even Chanel No. 5.
"Hey, darling, what's up?" I ask as she steps out of the doorway.
"Workin' hard for the money," she says, again attempting a seductive look. As she gets more into the light, I can see she's Amer-Asian, or Euro-Asian, and pretty exotic looking for a working girl. She's got an accent, but I'm not good enough with the Asian ones to spot the origin.
"How much money you working hard for?" I ask, like I'm interested in plying her wares.
"You a cop?" she asks.
I step back and spread my arms a little. "Do I look like the friggin' fuzz?"
"Got to ask. It's two hundred for the standard, a hun for a hummer, so long as I'm not away from my corner more than twenty minutes."
"Hell’s bells, girl, that's way better than union contract."
"And I'm way better."
"What's your name, baby doll?"
"Well, it's not Baby Doll. It's Tiffany, ‘cause I shine like a diamond."
"So, Tiffany, what's my price? Forget those other prices. I'm a working stiff."
"Why, honey, the last guy said my little sweet-thing was like a mare munching oats. He said I wasn't charging enough. I got her shaved so there be no bristle, and the tight little thing is soft as a sow's ear. That last trick asked me to marry him three times in his twenty. So, like I said, it's two hundred for a standard, missionary style, nothing kinky, or a single Ben Franklin for me to play you like a juice harp—so long as I'm not gone more than twenty minutes."
"Your daddy got you on a string, or what?"
"No, but he's got some serious hardware for any John keeps me beyond the time."
I laugh, then get serious and ask, "I don't imagine you've seen my ex-wife, Vanna, around?"
Her face falls and her tone goes nasty. "You are no John. Get the fuck away from me before I buzz my killer man up and he hardwares your dumb ass."
I shrug. "I was just wondering how my ex, Vanna, was getting along."
"I do not know no shit about no other girls. Particularly no black bitch. Get away, you don't want your knees broke or your pencil dick shot off."
Again, I shrug, then spin on my heel and head back for the Harley like I'm worrying about her pimp showing up to break my knees. I fire it up, head to the camper to put this damn freezing-ass ride away, and head to the gym for a hot shower and a shave, if my face can take it. I've got a plant-on goatee that I won't have to keep bleaching. It's next in my bag of tricks.
It's plain that Vanna did work the street here. I never mentioned she was black.
Although that last trick, looking for my ex-wife Vanna, worked about as well as an Obamacare website.
I go back to the camper and pick out some clothes that will fit over my cast and armor, then head to Anytime Fitness for a short workout, a shower, a shave, and the application of my new decoration, a goatee.
The place is crowded, so I skip pushing weights as it's probably better if I rest the wrist anyway, but shower for thirty minutes on their gas bill and shave, trying to keep from engaging anyone in any kind of conversation I return to the camper and spend an hour applying my new scraggly blonde goatee and mustache. In addition to my custom sunglasses, I have a pair with non-prescription lenses, purely for disguise, and pull on a Carhartt stocking cap, with the stringy blonde hair hanging out of the rear, sides, and bangs. I'm ready to give it the true test—Big Rosie's.
This time I drive the van, which no one should tie to me. I park in front and wander in, head hanging down, as mousy as a big guy can be. Buck Owens and the Buckaroos are knocking down Tiger by the Tail loud enough to drown out a passing freight train, and the place is, as usual, elbow to elbow. I elbow my way to the bar and take up a position at the barmaid's station. A tall Indian kid works the other end of the bar—a handsome kid. He could be Iron Eyes Cody's grandson.
The old redhead, Maggie, as I recall, is working my end of the bar. If she doesn't make me, no one will. She gets within ten feet and stops short. I haven't yet met her gaze and still don't, but she comes my way a little more slowly.
"What's it for you, bub?" she asks.
"Tall Greyhound, please," I mumble without looking up.
"Speak the fuck up," she commands.
"Tall Greyhound," I say louder, but still don't meet her eyes.
"You a local?" she asks.
"Omaha, Nebraska. Come to get some work."
"Ain't ever'body," she says and moves away to mix my drink. It's all I can do not to Cheshire grin, but that might give me up.
I throw a five on the bar. She returns with the drink but just stands there. I give her my back and take a sip, then feel her whack me on the back. Still without looking up, I turn and semi-face her.
"You must be a Nebraska corn-shucker, motherfucker. This is Bakken county. The drink is seven bucks. And speak the fuck up, I can't hear shit over that country crap."
I put two more on the bar, saying nothing, and she snatches them up. "Thanks, Midas. Don't bust your tight ass," she says with a growl and stomps away.
Again, I want to smile, as I seem to be home free with my shaggy and stringy blonde hair and bad excuse for a goatee and stache.
Careful not to meet her gaze, I look over the crowd. In the very back corner, seventy-five feet from me, I see three guys in a booth. One of them looks like the guy who came in the mini-market and bought the bottle and twelve pack. The second is tall and thin and the third guy is sitting on the outside of the booth with one of his massive cheeks hanging over the edge. If he doesn't go four hundred, I don't know my heavyweights.
I start across to make a pass by them to make su
re it's the boys Vanna was talking about, am elbowing my way through five couples on the dance floor—out of the hundred or more in the bar there's not more than ten women, including Maggie and two barmaids—and bump into a guy who's working his way to the other side of the room.
"Watch it, asshole," he snaps, and I keep my eyes down.
"Sorry, man," I say.
"You fuckin' well should be."
I glance up enough to see the guy I seem to see everywhere. It's Tony DiAngelo, only this time in plainclothes. Still, I bet he's working as he's dressed like he just climbed down from a steam tower or off an oil rig. I'm not surprised when he goes the same way I'm heading. He slips into a booth, one that will hold four, but has the only two women in the place without men clinging to them. He sits with his back to the corner booth where the Ruskies are sipping and shooting the bull.
Since I've decided he's a good guy, and since it pays to have friends carrying shields, I decide to rat myself out. I move straight to the booth and plop myself down across from him and next to an Indian girl who looks like she could kill and eat a grizzly for breakfast.
"Hey, man, I didn't mean to bump into you out there. Can I buy y'all a drink?"
Since I'm speaking in my normal voice, he eyes me carefully, then says, accusingly, "I know you."
12
DiAngelo is looking across the table like he'd like to pull on me.
"You do," I say. "But let’s talk about it later."
"You were in the club today, but I know you from the hospital."
"You do," I repeat. "But let’s talk about it later."