Tucker Peak

by Mayor, Archer

  “We can tell Lester to put him under the microscope.”

  We were walking down the same path the van had taken earlier, and now paused in the last of the alleyway’s deep shadow.

  “It’s none of my business except for how it affects the job,” I said finally, “but how’re things between you and Willy?”

  She stayed staring out at the empty road, looking suddenly small, thin, and vulnerable. It wasn’t the first time she and I had discussed such a personal subject. There was a father/daughter element to our friendship that encouraged it, and which I used occasionally to check on her well-being. Having been abandoned by her real father at an early age hadn’t done her later dealings with men much good.

  “They’re okay.”

  “He’s not easy to get along with,” I prompted.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Meaning you’re having some problems?”

  She looked at me then. “Not really, which I guess is good news. I don’t know why, but when it’s just the two of us, it’s incredibly easy. He’s peaceful and quiet and supportive—and funny, if you can believe it. But outside of that, he’s like Jekyll… or Hyde… whoever the monster was, and that’s when all of a sudden I get the shit end of the stick. Makes it kind of tough to adjust, you know?”

  “So there was nothing to the sun-tanning crack?”

  Her expression showed her doubt. “Ever since I went undercover, dyed my hair, he’s been a little weird.”

  “Jealous?”

  She nodded. “Probably. Fits some of the other comments he’s made.”

  “You’re an attractive woman, Sam, and you’re strutting your stuff right now: tight jeans, nice tan, ski instructor reputation. All of a sudden, you’re not one of the guys toting a gun and busting bad guys. It’s the first time he’s seen you out of context—probably makes him feel vulnerable. I doubt he considers himself a chick magnet, so he’s totally amazed that you two have become so close—”

  She stuck her lower lip out thoughtfully. “It’s too bad.”

  “You going to do something about it?”

  She suddenly smiled and spoke more confidently. “Nope. He’ll just have to get with the program. I put up with his crap. He can put up with some of mine.”

  I patted her shoulder, satisfied for now that her emotions weren’t threatening her job. At the moment, hers was hardly the most dangerous of undercover assignments, but as a friend and a boss, I’d have been remiss not to inquire. “Good. Keep me up to date. You better go first.” I nodded toward her Jeep, parked in the gas station lot.

  She hesitated briefly. “You don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

  Got it,” I told her, primarily to keep her happy.

  She checked up and down the road and then jogged into the light toward her vehicle, her blonde hair suddenly glowing in the night. Willy Kunkle was a lucky man, I thought—which only made me more confident that I was right about what was bugging him.

  · · ·

  It was past one in the morning when I parked outside the maintenance shed out of sight of the base lodge behind a strategically planted screen of evergreens. This was where the tourists weren’t supposed to wander—a floodlighted enclosure of oil-stained packed snow and scattered equipment ranging from snowmobiles to grooming machines to bits and pieces of chairlift paraphernalia, all looking like a dented, scarred, and rusting factory graveyard.

  As I crossed toward the shed, hoping to fish casually for information from the night creatures inside, I heard the distinct combination of rattling, roaring, and the high-pitched whine of an approaching big groomer. I stopped and watched an enormous Bombardier round the corner, its lights and oversize flashing caterpillar tracks making it look like a mechanical bug from a futuristic nightmare.

  Engine still running, the vehicle stopped outside the building’s double bay doors, and a large, heavy, wild-haired man dressed in filthy insulated coveralls and a mustache the size of a horse’s tail emerged from the cab above the tracks and swung down onto the ground.

  “Hey, Max,” he called over to me, using my cover name. “They throw you out of the Butte?”

  Bucky Arsenault was one of the chief groomers, a veteran of twenty years or more whom I’d only met a couple of times, and then only briefly, the night and day shifts having different hours and different cultures.

  “Threw myself out,” I answered him. “Not my kind of crowd.”

  He nodded. “Know what you mean. I don’t even go there no more. What’re ya doin’ up here?”

  I shrugged. “Too early to hit the hay. Thought I’d shoot the shit a little with whoever’s in there.”

  Bucky looked at me doubtfully. “You know those guys?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t want to. Trust me. Bunch of teenage, dope-smoking losers, if you ask me. You don’t seem the type.” He hesitated a moment and then said, “How soon you want to go to bed? Got a few more hours in you?”

  “Sure.”

  He jerked a thumb at his noisy rig. “Climb in, then. I’ll show you the real mountain. I just gotta grab something from inside. Won’t take me a minute.”

  The Bombardier’s cab was surprisingly new and modern, given Tucker Peak’s overall shabbiness. Seated in a comfortable, upholstered chair, surrounded by sound-deadening glass and faced with a console and steering mechanism reminiscent of a spaceship, I was forced to take the intergalactic metaphor even further when Bucky drove us out of the compound, up the nearest slope like a rocket gathering speed, and straight into the black void of night. Pressed back in my seat, watching the moonscape of contoured snow unfold before the groomer’s powerful lights, I was surprised by how utterly foreign it all looked, how unlike the familiar, placid web of trails I’d observed the first time I’d driven over the access road and seen the mountain spread out before me.

  Crawling across the same geography at night as though in a heated cocoon, I found the impression completely different. The ground was misleadingly at odds with my perception of it, looking flat in places where our machine would lurch into a depression or suddenly attack an incline. Trees, chairlift towers, and spindly snowmaking water hydrants—tall and thin like metallic storks surrounded by nests of heavy collision-dampening bumpers—all sprang out of the blackness like colorless specters and vanished with equal suddenness. And through it all, like an electronic conscience rambling about whatever came to mind, the radio on the dash muttered barely audible, nonstop scraps of dialogue.

  “Rumor has it you were here before the mountain was,” I said to him, not as loudly as I would have thought necessary, given the roar of the engine outside the cab.

  He laughed. “Feels that way.”

  “Must’ve seen a lot of changes.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He reached under his seat, pulled out a Styrofoam cup and delicately spat a glob of tobacco juice into it. “Started out, we’d groom with homemade tillers pulled by anything that’d work: caterpillars, tractors, whatever. Dangerous and stupid, I guess, and more hassle than it was worth, if you ask me, but it gave the mountain bragging rights and brought in skiers.”

  “Bragging about a groomed mountain, you mean?” I asked.

  “Yeah. It’s always something: the grooming, the number of trails, the snowmaking percentage, the extra-attentive employees. Now it’s fast quads for chairs, slope-side condos, and a lot more non-skiing stuff. That’s why they built the nightclub and’re shootin’ for a golf course and that hotel, lucky for you.”

  “I don’t mind the work,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll always get it at a mountain resort, all the way to when they declare bankruptcy. Just how the business works. It’s like building a house of cards—you only stop going when the whole thing falls down.”

  An artificial snowstorm sprang into our lights without warning, sparkling like a meteor shower. Underneath it was a fresh mound of sugary snow as tall as a house. Bucky stopped his machine shy of the actual downpour. He keyed the mike and exchanged a few qui
et words with someone. Almost instantly, the snow stopped and a bundled-up, apelike creature in a hard hat and wearing several white reflectors sewed to his clothing appeared on a snowmobile—a “sled” to its users—and careened recklessly in our direction, coming to a halt beside Bucky’s door.

  He opened it up to the cold night air and waited for the man to clamber up onto the treads beside him. Wind and noise filled the small cabin.

  “Thought you were supposed to be done up here,” Bucky said.

  Only by the cab’s interior light could I see that the white reflective tape on the snowmaker’s uniform was actually bright yellow, yet another illusion created by the Bombardier’s harsh lighting.

  “Don’t get your shorts in a twist,” he answered. “You can have at it right now. Goddamn cheap-piece-of-shit nozzle froze up on me. Screwed up my schedule all to hell. It ain’t as much as the boss wanted, but she can fuck herself if she can figure out how.”

  Bucky laughed. “Linda’s the best boss you’ll ever have, man or woman. You just don’t know what you’re doing out here.”

  The man swatted him on the arm. “Fuck you and this bucket of bolts. Some of us’re doing men’s work out here, not running a taxi service. Who’s your fare?”

  Arsenault didn’t even look at me. “Lambert—carpenter—new guy. I’m showing him the scenery from the best seat in the house.”

  The snowmaker leaned across and spoke to me directly. “Anytime you want to get away from this bunch of pussies, let me know. You won’t know mountain work till you spend a night with us.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up. “You got a deal.”

  The man jumped down, fired his sled up, and raced away. Moments later, dragging a snow gun still attached to its length of hose, which whipped back and forth like a lassoed anaconda, both man and machine slithered into the night, the sound of his machine’s high scream drowned out by the Bombardier’s steady rumble.

  Bucky dropped the wide plow ahead of us and began the complex task of spreading out the enormous pile of artificial snow, talking all the while.

  “Very crude bunch, snowmakers. You might want to watch out before you accept that invitation.”

  I studied his profile, unable to read his expression under the huge mustache, and then decided to take a chance. “Isn’t that where you started out?”

  He laughed. “We were all gentlemen back then. Never used such language.”

  “Oh, right. I really believe that.”

  “Yeah,” he conceded, laughing. “I’m too old to make snow now, but I did love it. Almost makes you feel like God.”

  I let a moment’s silence elapse before asking him, “You said the resort’s doing more and more non-skiing stuff. Any resentment there from the employees—against all the fat cats moving in with their toys and money?”

  He cut me a quick look. “You writing a book?”

  I realized my mistake. “Maybe just talking about myself,” I said to cover. “I been out of work for months. I come in here, see all the fancy cars, condos, and cash being kicked around. Kind of pissed me off.”

  Again, it was the wrong choice of words. His expression displayed a deepening suspicion. I began thinking I was more tired than I’d thought.

  “What d’ya want?” he asked me. “You’re gettin’ some of it. I pick up a communist or something?”

  I ducked in another direction, feeling increasingly off balance. “Shit, no. But I heard cops were asking about a bunch of burglaries—talk they might’ve been inside jobs. Made me wonder what was up.”

  Luckily, he followed my lead and got me out of trouble. His voice became sad and his demeanor philosophical. “Yeah, you’re right,” he conceded. “Shouldn’t be so sensitive. Old guy like me lives in the past too much.” He waved a hand at the void around us. “All this used to be about skiing, and maybe breaking even, if you didn’t pay yourself much. I don’t know where you’re from originally, but I was born in New Jersey. Came up here as a kid whenever I could, did anything they asked me just so I could ski. We were all like that—ski bums working for peanuts and day passes. You ate, slept, skied, got laid if you were lucky, worked when you had to, and skied again as soon as you could.”

  He shook his head, repeating, “But you’re right. That’s all gone and buried. Now it’s a rat race like any other, maybe worse since this is a one-company town, like the lumber camps a hundred years ago. I heard about those burglaries—made me sick. That’s why I snapped at you just now, all that bullshit about us against them. But that’s the way it really is. I’m just kidding myself—maybe some of the employees are ripping off the condos.” He paused before adding, “Everything’s gotten upside down, like with those protesters that’ve been in our face the last few days. We used to be the ones wearing the white hat—good for the economy, good for unemployment. Back then, people knew that cutting ski trails opened up a more diversified environment. All sorts of animals started campin’ out here because of that combination of slope and forest. Now we’re just nature killers.”

  Throughout all this, we’d been crisscrossing the wide trail, spreading the proud snowmaker’s artificial product as if it had suddenly appeared from heaven. The ironies and contradictions of Bucky’s dilemma were just as palpable and confusing.

  “Not that I think they’re totally off base,” he added as if I’d challenged him. “It’s gone way beyond cutting down a few trees. I can’t say the TPL, or whatever, are wrong about using water the way we do. It looks okay to us, but what do we know? Or care? We’re not talking skiing anymore. It’s just about money.”

  He abruptly stopped his machine and twisted around in his seat to stare at me. “I changed my mind. You’re not a writer. You’re a goddamn shrink. How’d you get me to say all this shit, anyhow? I was a happy man before I met you.”

  I looked at him, slightly at a loss. He was right about my being subversive, after all, even if he had my profession wrong. It made me feel like I’d robbed him of something irreplaceable.

  Happily, he then reached across and punched my shoulder. “Lucky thing I don’t give a good goddamn, huh?” And he burst out laughing.

  But I wasn’t so sure. What he had laid out in his rambling, curiously effective way had struck me as a parable for many of society’s ills, far beyond this small, struggling commercial enclave. And his final ambiguity about what it all meant and where it might be heading struck a deep, resounding chord.

  Chapter 8

  ONE OF THE MANY DISADVANTAGES OF LIVING IN TUCKER PEAK’S employee housing was that I’d been given a roommate, a concept I hadn’t thought possible for several decades, aside from having briefly lived with Gail. Fortunately, he was an older man, a kitchen worker named Fred who didn’t favor loud music, didn’t snore too loudly, and wasn’t too much of a slob. He did come from the old school, though, that dictated regular bathing to be antithetical to proper thermal insulation during the winter. As a result, he smelled bad enough to make my eyes water.

  He wasn’t in the room much, however, and was already gone when I woke up from only four hours of sleep the next morning.

  But not for long. He came banging through the door just as I was pulling on my pants. “Max, come outside. You gotta see this.”

  I looked at his wide, excited, bloodshot eyes and decided not to argue, pulling my boots on without socks and my coat without a shirt, all while Fred stood before me, literally dancing from foot to foot, chanting, “You won’t believe it, you won’t believe it.”

  It was, admittedly, a sight to behold. Standing at the edge of the employee parking lot, the only vantage point from which the mountain was visible around the bulk of the “Mountain Ops” building, were most of the dorm’s inhabitants, many of them half dressed as I was, and all of them staring at a pop artist’s dream from the 1960s. Blotching the mountainside across several of its broad trails were a series of large yellow stains, looking exactly like oversize urine deposits. The very snow Bucky and I had been pushing around last night, but whose color we could
n’t discern in the artificial light.

  “Ain’t that too much?” Fred asked, pounding me on the back. “That marketing bunch must be smokin’ something harsh.”

  · · ·

  The marketing bunch, of course, were fit to be tied, which is exactly what the Tucker Protection League protesters had intended when they’d drilled holes through the ice of the existing snowmakers’ source pond the night before and injected untold gallons of nontoxic yellow dye. Not only did the end-result supply its own highly suggestive message but also, if the mountain managers wished to continue making snow (since the pipeline to the second pond hadn’t yet been laid), they’d have to live with its being yellow until the water’s spring-fed source diluted it back to normal.

  Not that alternatives weren’t quasi-hysterically considered. As I walked around the base lodge—and the glassed-in, futuristic scale-model fantasy of itself that sat smack in the middle of the lobby like a wedding cake—I overheard heated discussions ranging from adding another color to the yellow to make it more attractive, to importing snow from other places until the crisis passed, and finally—the winner—to making the best of a bad situation by using the camera crews the protesters had already summoned to launch a reverse-spin publicity spiel about being the most colorful resort in Vermont. A contest was even suggested in which people would be issued additional dye of all colors with which to paint the mountain psychedelically from top to bottom.

  The fevered pitch of the debate was such that not only was I totally ignored as I moved along the executive hallway with my bag of tools but also I finally got to see Conan Gorenstein, the reclusive CFO, step out of his enclave to join in some of the chatter. A pale, bald, retiring-looking man, he didn’t last long and disappeared after offering a few totally ignored suggestions.