Thin Gray Lines

by Mark Hazard

  Where Rodger’s face was open and handsome with a charming smile, hers was pinched and sour, skin prematurely wrinkled, hair frizzy and burned from repeated harsh bleaching. They didn’t make sense as a couple. Rodger was tall, tough and confident, a former high school quarterback and Marine. Most successful men his age would avoid a fistfight out of cowardice or maturity, but he’d throw down if only to prove he still could. And after he won, he’d go home and feel most comforted being bossed around by his mean, ugly wife. Arlo had a cousin who was in school to be a psychologist. Next time he went home, he’d have to ask him about that. Maybe there was a name for the condition.

  “And when do you buy the big steaks?” Rodger asked. “At some point, you have to admit there were no WMDs.”

  “They’re there. That Saddam was a shifty fucker. He’s got ‘em squirreled away somewhere. You watch.”

  “Pick a date.”

  “What?”

  Rodger hung an arm over the back of his chair. “Pick a date. If by that date they haven’t found WMDs, you buy the steaks. If they find them before then, it’s on me.”

  Arlo was thinking of a day when Randall walked in, hat in his hands.

  “Did you find the drop?” Iris asked.

  “Ja, I did.”

  “Good. Arlo. Take care of that.”

  Arlo turned the TV off and edged past Randall, subtly shouldering into him.

  “It’s just…” Randall regained his balance. “It’s just there was an error with the beacon.”

  Iris regarded him over her glasses.

  “I told Chito to place it five hundred paces south of the tractor barn. I swore I said south. But it’s my responsibility. I know that.”

  Iris removed her glasses. “Arlo, stop. Out with it, Randall.”

  Arlo had already stopped, filling the doorless entry to the dining room.

  “The package landed on old man Phillips.”

  “On his house?”

  “Ja, miss. And on his person. In his bed.”

  Both Iris and Rodger slowly got to their feet.

  “Freak accident,” Randall said.

  “Is he dead,” Arlo asked.

  “He’s still in his bed,” Randall said. “It flattened him.”

  Arlo’s mouth hung open. “How the fuck, Randy?”

  “I was busy prepping the seeders all day. I told Chito where to put the beacon, but he misheard me.”

  “Chito?” Arlo issued a blank look to Iris.

  “One of the regulars,” she said. “He and two others stayed on through the winter.”

  “He’s illegal, right?” Arlo asked.

  Everyone looked at Randall. He squeezed his hat brim tighter. “Ja, I know the rules. He’s illegal.”

  “You were never supposed to delegate that,” Iris spat.

  “I understand, boss. I buggered the dog. I know that. I never should have delegated.”

  Iris clutched her chin and angled closer to the windows with Rodger joining her. After they conferred a moment, she looked back. “Did anyone see you come back from the Phillips farm?”

  “No,” Randall lied. “Just me and Moses.”

  “I don’t like Moses,” Arlo said. “He’s another shifty Mexican.”

  “Shush,” Iris said. “Moses has been with us longer than either of you.”

  “And I’m pretty sure he’s Salvadorian,” Rodger said to no one’s interest.

  “Moses isn’t the problem,” Iris said. “Chito have any idea what that beacon is for?”

  “No, boss.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Randall paled. “Ag, man. We were in a rush. I haven’t collected it yet.”

  “You should have,” Iris said. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”

  “It’s not like you to make mistakes,” Rodger said in a more fatherly tone.

  “Not with the farm equipment anyhow.” Iris’ words were laced with a little more venom than usual.

  “That’s all behind us,” Rodger said.

  Arlo had to clamp his tongue down to keep from laughing. He still found Randall’s previous tryst with the Tanner’s sheepish daughter hilarious for some reason. The pious White African and the pretty little Eeyore going at it in every outbuilding on the property, and thinking they were keeping it hidden no less. Hilarious.

  “I’ll get it now-now,” Randall said.

  Iris made perilous eye contact with Arlo.

  “Yeah. I’m on it,” he said.

  “No.” Randall snatched Arlo’s elbow.

  The bald gangster threatened his life with a glance.

  Randall let go. “Please. Don’t be rash. Chito doesn’t know anything. He’ll never touch the beacon again. I’ll change the place I store it.”

  “We only hire illegals for one reason,” Arlo said. “And this is that reason.”

  “You can’t do this. It isn’t Christian. God will judge you.”

  “If there’s a God, he isn’t looking at Walla Walla,” Arlo said. “I don’t care what he or the Easter Bunny thinks. I only care about protecting our shared endeavors.”

  “I know you like to think you’re not a part of this,” Iris said. “But you are, Randall. You stick to your farming all you like, but you don’t get to pretend.”

  “Fine.” Randall stiffened his jaw. “God will judge us. If I let you kill a man over my mistake, he will judge me.” He jacked a thumb into his chest, muscles in his face quavering from desperation. “It’s on me.”

  Iris looked to Arlo then her husband. Rodger shrugged his wide shoulders.

  “Keep a very close eye on him.” She walked around the table and lowered her voice. “And keep in mind, Randall, I’m the one who makes you legal, here. I can make you illegal, too.”

  Iris walked out with Arlo.

  “She didn’t mean that,” Rodger said. “Tax season has her in a mood.”

  “I’m really sorry, sir.”

  “What about Olive?”

  Randall froze. “Olive, sir?”

  “Didn’t she have that open house today? At the Phillips’ house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She did. That poor girl can’t catch a break. She hasn’t closed one deal since getting her real estate license. I was really hoping this would be her first.”

  “You arranged it, sir?”

  Rodger blanched. “I may have made a stipulation in our purchase of the Phillips farm that we weren’t buying the house. Not doing the work for her, you understand. Just teeing her up.”

  “I understand.”

  “And if it doesn’t sell for a fair price, I planned on buying it as an investment. Maybe to use it for quartering staff. Wouldn’t that be an upgrade from the bunkhouse?”

  “I’m happy to be in the bunkhouse, sir. Would Mrs. Boss be happy with you helping Olive?”

  “This blood feud between them has to cool sometime. Until then… When you care about someone, you do what you can whether you get credit for it or not, and no matter the risk.”

  “Very good of you, sir. Mrs. Boss’ angry side is a helluva risk.”

  “After a while, your ass builds up a callus.” He clapped himself in the rump and laughed. “Hopefully that’s the end of the drama. I’m excited to start the planting. I’m sick of looking out my window and seeing thin gray lines stretching to the horizon. I want to see green lines!” He smiled wistfully. “I don’t think there’s any crop funner to grow than onions.”

  “Reckon not, sir.”

  “What do you call them, again? In your language?”

  “Uie.”

  Rodger laughed again. “Gets me every time. That’s not a word, it’s just a grunt.”

  “It’s a grunt that means ‘onions,’ sir.”

  Randall bobbed his head politely and left.

  TEN

  Oswaldo waved to Randall as he marched from the big house, but Randall had his gaze pinned to the ground before his feet. Oswaldo thought of yelling for his attention so he could ask a work question, but if
the boss was in one of his troubled moods, it was best to give him a few minutes to snap back. He always snapped back.

  Oswaldo entered the Tanner farm’s worker bunkhouse to find his cousin, Jorge, sitting on his cot playing solitaire with his headphones on.

  “Why aren’t you sweeping out the seed barn?” He snapped his fingers until Jorge took off his headphones and asked again.

  “Randall told me not to.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. He just said to stay out of the seed barn.”

  “There’s nothing else for you to do? Where’s Chito?”

  Chito poked his head out from a cupboard under the kitchenette. “I’m in hiding.”

  “Get out of that cupboard, pendejo.” Jorge swept an arm.

  Chito shook his head.

  “He’s afraid of that big Italian guy,” Jorge said. “The gangster from New York.”

  “You mean the Distribution Center Manager,” Oswaldo said with a stern look in his eye.

  Jorge laughed. “Sure, cousin.”

  “He’ll kill me,” Chito whispered.

  “Don’t be stupid.” Oswaldo walked to his own bed and sat, whipping his hat off. “Why would he kill you?”

  “He killed that Guatemalan guy.”

  “That guy got fired.”

  “He disappeared.”

  “He went to work elsewhere, or he went back home.”

  “I’m not getting killed,” Chito said.

  “You’re going to get fired for hiding in a fucking cupboard.” Jorge was the biggest man in their extended family, etched with tattoos and veiny muscles. He stood and jabbed a finger at Chito. “If you don’t get out, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Chito slinked out of the cupboard onto his hands and knees.

  “What’s really got you upset?” Oswaldo asked.

  “I killed the neighbor,” Chito said.

  “Didn’t you see the firetruck?” Jorge asked Oswaldo.

  “I saw it. Old men pass away.”

  “Something fell on him. It went right through his roof,” Chito said. “Randall told me to put this fence post out by that end of the farm, then the next morning there was a hole in the roof and the man was dead. I think something fell on that house.”

  Oswaldo made sure the door was locked and stepped within inches of them before speaking. “Be very careful what you say. This is the best job we’re ever going to find.”

  “Exactly, cousin,” Jorge said. “This place pays too well. Maybe it’s time to admit why.”

  “They pay well because we break our backs,” Oswaldo said.

  “Every farm pays you to do that. Here we’re expected to not see certain things.” Chito dusted himself off and stood up. “Why do you think that gangster threatens to kill us every time he sees us near the distribution center? He only knows three words in Spanish. I kill you.”

  “Tony Robbins says you have to increase your expectations of life.” Jorge sat back on his bed, tapping his CD player. “He says Arnold Schwarzenegger became the Arnold we know because he had higher expectations for his body and his life.”

  Oswaldo bent at the waist and pursed his fingers. “What the fuck are you talking about? You and your stupid fucking Tony Robbins.”

  Jorge went on unfazed. “For Arnold to become the best body builder in the world, he couldn’t look in the mirror and be content with his big muscles. He couldn’t look in the mirror and only see what he liked. He had to see where he lacked to see what was possible. Same for us.”

  “I’m going to smack you.”

  Jorge stood again and got face-to-face with his older cousin. “We have to be like Arnold. We have to actualize. And that requires courage. It requires upsetting our comfort, our good jobs.”

  Oswaldo swung an open palm, but Jorge ducked it.

  “Look at reality, man.” He ducked Oswaldo’s backhand too and danced away on his toes, shadow boxing.

  Chito stepped between them. “Oswaldo is the smartest here. And the hardest working.”

  “And the ugliest,” Jorge said.

  “But Oswaldo, how smart are you if you can’t see what is going on here? What this place is?”

  “I see.” Oswaldo lowered his hands, then shot them out. “I see everything you two see and more. None of that bothers me. What bothers me is this Tony Robbins putting stupid ideas in your head, when it was full of stupid to begin with.”

  “Every few nights,” Chito said softly, “we hear the plane.” He made a soft purring sound and cruised his hand over their heads. “Now we know what that plane does. And we know how Randall tells the plane where to drop the cargo.”

  Oswaldo’s gaze flitted back-and-forth between them.

  “They don’t collect until first light.” Jorge smiled. “We could be in Canada by the time anyone realizes the cargo is missing. It’s a huge country. We can hide.”

  “Or we can drive for a day straight and be back in Mexico,” Chito said. “As long as we get a head start, we’re safe.”

  “It’s not like they’re going to call the cops on us,” Jorge said.

  Oswaldo blinked fifteen times in rapid succession. “You two are far stupider than I ever thought possible.”

  “So, you’re in?” Jorge said.

  Oswaldo pursed his mouth then threw his hat on the ground and cursed himself. “Yes, of course, I’m in.”

  ELEVEN

  Near North Bend on I-90, the windows started to fog, so Corus reached for the defrost knob. In the console, he spotted a yellow note fixed to something plastic. It was a CD in a sleeve. In Chu’s handwriting, the note read, “Mandy Mix.”

  Corus frowned and slipped it into the CD player.

  Nearing Ellensburg, two hours later, he was on his third listen, mouthing the words to a song, when he pulled off for gas. After getting the pump going, he ran inside to empty his bladder and returned with a bottle of water and some beef jerky. He did a double take at the man who had pulled into the pump behind him. Tired and unkempt, he leaned stoop-shouldered against a two-seater pickup, tie loosened, collar undone, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “Pineda?” Corus stepped closer. “Deputy Inspector Pineda?”

  Pineda looked up and took a couple seconds to register Corus’ face now that he was out of uniform.

  “Oh shit,” he said with alarm. “Whaaa…”

  Pineda had taken a dislike to Corus immediately, while questioning him at the hospital about the melee with Ferdinand on Whidbey Island. They hadn’t had any contact since then except the odd dirty look from Pineda.

  Corus’ first thought was that the man must be on vacation, but he was wearing his cheap, rumpled work clothes.

  They stared at one another. Instead of giving Corus another of his dirty looks, Pineda seemed surprised to see him.

  “Wait a second,” Corus said. “Did Ruiz send you to babysit?”

  “What? Um…” Pineda stood straight. “Huh? I uhh…”

  “Keep an eye on us, make sure we didn’t make any noise?”

  Pineda’s blank eyes searched the immediate area, and he scratched his stubble for a while. “Well, you see. What had happened was… Uhh… Ruiz.” He relaxed once he said it. “Yeah. She sent me. She’s not the trusting type.”

  “I should have expected this, frankly.”

  “Where’s Jameson? I thought you’d all be in his ride.”

  “Ehh. Jameson…”

  Corus was willing to lie to Pineda for his senior partner, but to what end? Pineda didn’t seem all that smart, but he had eyes.

  “Jameson is turning this into a save-his-marriage kind of thing. He’ll be occupied. Good for the department, really.”

  “Jameson’s about to get a divorce? I didn’t know that. Shit.”

  Corus looked from one vehicle to the other. “Now that we’re on the same page, should we leave a car here and save gas?”

  It was the logical move, but he regretted asking before the words finished leaving his mouth.

  “No.” Pi
neda was so brusque it took Corus aback.

  “I mean…” Pineda extended both arms and smiled, a show of warmth Corus didn’t know he was capable of. “That does seem smart given the situation. Right? Yeah.” Pineda maintained his nervous smile.

  “Mine has more room. I’m happy to drive,” Corus said. “I don’t know this area at all. Is there a safe place to park yours?”

  Pineda scrunched his chin into the folds of his neck. “I got a cousin in Ellensburg. Follow me?”

  “Sure.”

  Each man got in his vehicle quietly swearing to himself.

  A few miles east of Ellensburg, Pineda cleared his throat. “Is this a Nissan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good gas mileage?”

  “Pretty good. How about that pickup of yours?”

  “Good. Those folks at Datsun make a quality product for cheap.” Pineda offered up his palms. “I could afford more, but why spend the money?”

  It was undeniably awkward riding with Pineda. The man had an aura about him, something off-putting that irritated the follicles of the hairs on Corus’ body. And yet, Corus was aware he gave people a variety of impressions, not all good — many downright awful, and he didn’t always understand the difference. For that reason, he had to allow for the possibility of second impressions.

  “How long have you been a cop?” Corus asked.

  “Eight years. Got promoted last year.”

  Silence stretched out.

  “From around here?” Corus asked.

  “Tacoma. You?”

  “Lived in Seattle during high school.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sammamish.”

  “Oh, right on. Right on.”

  When they neared Vantage, and the grade down to the Columbia River crossing got steep, Pineda asked, “Do you hold your breath across the bridge? I do. Make a wish.”

  “What do you wish for?”

  “You can’t ask that. It won’t come true.”

  “I thought that was just for birthday wishes.”

  Pineda considered that with a jolt of his head. “I always wish for a million dollars.”

  “Inflation never makes that number any less alluring.” Corus chuckled. “Hey, maybe if we wish the same thing at the same time, it’ll force multiply.”