Tom followed Victor around the end of the counter and through the doorway. The hall wasn’t very long. They could hear voices at the end, coming from an office. Victor paused at the doorway and poked his head inside. The sheriff sat behind his desk and the other guy stood on the opposite side of the room. The talking stopped for a second and Victor filled the silence by saying, “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff, your deputy sent us back.”
“Oh, I was just leaving anyway,” the other guy said. Victor smiled at him too, not knowing who he was, although, in Victor’s assessment, he didn’t look like a cop. “I guess I’ll just leave this with you,” the man said, and held out a large backpack with dirt and scuff marks all over it. “I’ve gotten everything I can off of it, so you don’t have to worry about losing any evidence now.”
“Thanks, Paul. I’ll just keep it with all the other stuff in my unsolved mysteries file.” Paul and the sheriff both laughed. Then Paul set the backpack on the desk and made like he was leaving.
On his way to the door, he said, “Wish I could be more help. But there just wasn’t anything on it. I think the dent in the frame is the only thing of any value.”
The sheriff continued sitting. He turned the backpack over once or twice, reflecting on it. Victor could see what Paul was talking about, a deep curve in the metal tubing of the frame. Without thinking, he blurted out, “Looks like someone took a baseball bat to it.”
The two men just stared at him. The sheriff smiled and rubbed his fingers along the indentation. “I suppose it does, but that only narrows it down to about a hundred million bats in the world.” He grinned back at Victor, wondering who the hell he was and what he wanted. Then Mickey stood and leaned across the desk, sticking out his hand. “Okay, Dr. Kramer, thanks for bringing this by. Let me know if you think of anything else on this.”
Paul shook Mickey’s hand and headed for the door. “Will do, Sheriff. See you at the game?”
“I’m sure you will.” Mickey watched Paul squeeze by the two guys in the hallway. The two guys were obviously from out of town. The first guy, the smart one with all the opinions, came right in and stuck his hand over the desk. “Victor Jones, Chief Security Officer for Southwest Petroleum. This is my assistant, Tom Crossly.” He motioned back behind him at the other guy.
Mickey shook the outstretched hand. Victor’s grip struck him as a little too firm, too aggressive, trying too hard to make an impression. Mickey released his hand first, letting Victor feel good about himself, and then remained standing behind his desk with his hands on his hips. “What can I do for you folks?”
“Well, we’re up here because of an oil theft.”
“Oh?”
Victor knew he had the sheriff’s attention. Any crime involving the town’s major employer was going to grab him, as it would any small town cop. “It seems we’ve got ourselves some folks who think they’re real clever.” Victor pulled back the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk and prepared to have a seat. “But they’re not clever enough, if you know what I mean?” Victor raised his eyebrows as he sat.
Mickey watched the performance with a mixture of interest and dread, a kind of loathsome fascination. He had seen it before: a pseudo-charismatic leader and his apprehensive and possibly dull assistant sent from the mother ship in Long Beach to demand some kind of private security detail from the local police. It was a tactic that curried much greater favor back when the town was not besieged by layoffs and desperation and the crime and cruelty that went with them.
“I guess I don’t know what you mean,” Mickey responded. After all, Mr. Jones had not said anything of substance, so far.
“Well,” Victor began slowly, turning slightly in the chair and scratching at his thigh. “For the last couple weeks we’ve been monitoring what we thought was an oil leak. Turns out it’s an oil theft right out from under our nose. We’re not sure how they’re doing it, yet. All we know is that we’ve got a problem out at the Monarch facility.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, what we do when we have a leak is we place some kind of radioactive substance in the oil. I don’t know exactly what it is.” Victor laughed and leaned forward, “Hell, I’m just a retired law enforcement guy myself, I ain’t no scientist. But anyway, they put this stuff in and then trace the pipeline for the oil leak. You know, looking for radiation. But in this case, we had a truck full of the stuff get delivered right down to the intake yard in Long Beach. The sons of bitches are stealing the oil and selling it right back to us.”
“How do you know it’s the same oil?”
“Because we’ve only put the radiation in the Monarch facility. It’s the only place it could have come from.”
“I understand that that’s the only place radioactive oil could have come from your facility, but how do you know the oil that was sold to you didn’t come from some other facility?”
Victor was visibly confused. The guy behind him, Tom, grinned a little as he leaned against the doorway. Mickey figured he had to spell it out for Victor. Perhaps his skills had rusted a bit in retirement.
“Look,” he began, “you said that you trace leaks with radiation. How do you know other companies don’t do the same thing? That means there’s at least as good a chance that the contaminated oil came from some other company’s facility. Unless you have something more than that, I’m afraid I can’t be much help.”
Victor scratched behind his ear like he was doing a magic trick, looking for the trump card he kept back there. When he spoke again, he did it with a smile, but not a happy one. “Now Sheriff, you don’t think I’d come in here without a better case than that, do you? Hell, I’m a retired field agent. I spent twenty years with the Bureau.”
The comment struck Mickey as an overt affront and he tried to disregard it. Any agent who was any good wouldn’t retire at twenty; and one with any sense wouldn’t mention the fact at the first opportunity. Just exactly what kind of man this Victor Jones was remained to be seen, but Mickey feared he was a pompous hothead, a man with more testosterone than sense who tended to embellish his own experience.
“Well, as an experienced agent, I’m sure you can understand that I’ll need more to go on than that.” Mickey sat back down and leaned back in his chair, studying the guy. A real asshole. Agent Asshole.
Then Mickey smiled and shrugged. “If there’s something going on, I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But we’ve had a body turn up and even a simple murder investigation is pretty taxing on the resources of a town like this.” Mickey grinned and laced his hands behind his head. “We ain’t exactly the F-B-I around here. With the layoffs and all there’s hardly any taxes being paid in this town anymore. Shit, I only have three deputies, and I can’t even afford to pay them for all the overtime they put in. Hell, we’re working all the time just to keep the meth users and the ornery drunks from killing each other in the streets. To make matters worse, two days ago we had a murder out on the edge of town. Some poor hitchhiker got beat to death.” Mickey pointed at the backpack on the desk. “As you so astutely observed.”
“Well now, Sheriff, the bank account where the money was wired is based out of the local bank here. I think that’s pretty strong evidence that the guys we’re after are right here in Nickelback.”
“I agree. But you don’t know who they are or how they’re doing it. And just because the bank is here, doesn’t mean the crime is being done here. Like I said, it could be from some other refinery where they’re also testing for a leak. This used to be a little boom town. There’s lots of oil outfits who have accounts open at this bank.” Mickey was enjoying the look of shock on the smug bastard’s face. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but he really didn’t have the time to deal with Southern Petroleum’s problems. And he wasn’t particularly interested in helping retired field agent Victor Jones as a matter of principle.
“Sheriff, I really don’t know what to say. We’re talking about serious felonies here. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of oil
being stolen.” Victor hesitated for a second, he knew it was bullshit but added it anyway. “This is an oil pipeline we’re talking about here. This could be linked to terrorism, for all we know.” It was worth a try. No local cop wanted to be at risk for blowing something like that.
“Be careful not to hurt yourself when you stretch like that, Mr. Jones.” Mickey smiled and resisted the urge to wink at Victor. Then he let out a deep breath and placed his palms down on his desk. “Sorry I can’t do much for you, boys.” Mickey checked his watch and stood. The conversation was over. “But it’s the end of the day, after all. And besides, in this town, Thursday night is baseball night.”
XXII
“You want a ride in my bitchin’ Camaro?”
Hank leaned out the window, grinning at Janie as she locked the door to the real estate office. He pulled up when he saw her come out, leaning over the passenger’s seat to shout out the window. He wasn’t waiting for her. He wasn’t even thinking about her. Other than flipping through the thin file of old listings she’d given him. Other than questioning himself about his motives in spending the night with her in the first place. Other than questioning her motives in leaving in the middle of the night, without so much as good-bye. Other than that, she hadn’t crossed his mind all day. And then he was driving down the street, minding his own business, and there she was coming out of her office.
She turned as he pulled up. He could see her stifle a smile. “Nice car. Isn’t that Justin’s?”
“That might have been his name. Whoever’s it was, it’s mine now.”
She swaggered across the sidewalk and leaned in the passenger’s side window. “You sure know how to impress a girl. A sweet ride like this and all.”
“Shit.” Hank sat back upright in his seat. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Janie poked her head inside. “You actually get around to look at all those houses?”
“Sure did.” Hank tapped a finger on the file between the bucket seats. “It’s a great little town you got here. Can’t imagine why the real estate market isn’t more active.” Janie grinned at him and Hank was suddenly out of things to say. He smiled awkwardly and then did the only thing he could think of to do: revved the motor a few times, and asked, “So you want to go hit the town? What is there to do around here on a Thursday night, anyway?”
She opened the door and climbed in. “You like baseball?”
The diamond was behind the city building, a block off Main Street. When they got there the lights were not yet on, but a crowd already filled the two small sets of bleachers. Each head donned a hat and sunglasses, the outfit of anyone who cared enough about themselves to try to deal with the sun. They watched their children and talked among themselves while kids in uniforms scampered around. The children chased each other, guzzled soda, swung bats wildly, tossed balls aimlessly, and otherwise waited impatiently for the main event of the week to begin.
Hank parked the Camaro in the lot and the two of them got out. “Quite a crowd for a little league game.”
“There’s not much to do around here.” She walked close to him. He could feel her warmth, even in the ninety-degree air.
“Town this size could hardly keep a league going.”
“I think there’s barely enough kids to make four teams. They try to take them to Barstow a few times so they can play with other kids, but mostly they just play each other over and over again.” Janie studied the spotty grass, as though looking for something in the dirt that showed through between the patches of green. Then she added, “It’s tough growing up in a town like this.”
“And tough to stay, I’d imagine.” Hank gave her a smile as he said it, and then wondered why he’d said it at all. She didn’t seem to have a response and they walked to the bleachers in silence.
They found seats and waited for the action to start. Hank wished he’d brought a hat. The heat was incredible. He watched the kids running around, unaffected by it, and wondered where they got all the energy. And then the coaches started signaling for everything to start, for the kids to gather around them.
Hank watched the teams form up, clustering around their coaches. It could have been a scene in any town in America: children and parents and a community coming together around the great American pastime. But there was something odd about the scene. Hank couldn’t place it at first, staring at the coaches, feeling heat flush through him. And then it came quick, like an electric jolt, a charge of recognition. There he was, Howie Lugano, standing fifty feet away.
Hank went over it slowly, methodically, unfolding the realization with care to make sure it wasn’t a mistake. The dark hair. The thick eyebrows. He’d put on a little weight, sure, who hadn’t? But it was him, right out in the open, a hundred people watching, and he wasn’t even trying to hide. Howie Lugano—“Homerun” Howie—mob killer and all around asshole, had become a little league coach.
It was unbelievable at first, until Hank thought it through. They’d given him a new name, new history, new everything. He had no reason to be looking over his shoulder, and after four years of the quiet life, he’d become accustomed to living without fear. But that was going to change.
Hank waited for the right moment, an idle spot in the conversation, and then asked, “Who’s the coach of the red team? You know him? What’s his story?”
Janie looked up. A smile flashed across her face. “Oh, that’s Ron Grimaldi. He moved to town a few years ago. He bought my parents’ old house. You probably saw it today. It was in the file I gave you.”
Of course it was. It was all coming together. It was almost going to be too easy. Hank knew it wouldn’t take long to find a guy like Lugano in a town like Nickelback, and here he was, less than forty-eight hours into it, and he knew where Lugano lived. He wondered what else he could find out.
“Which house was it?”
“The brick rambler, out on the edge of town. The one with the chain link fence around the backyard? You remember that one? Anyway, he just showed up one day, said he had a job at the refinery and needed to get settled in. Naturally, I steered him toward my parents’ old house. My mom had just died, and I wasn’t interested in living there anymore. He didn’t seem to care much about the price, which was nice.”
Hank remembered the house. Four small bedrooms, two baths, living room, and dining room, all on one floor. It was a traditional 1950s layout—all the bedrooms on one end of the house, off a long hallway—garage on the other end, off the kitchen. The country was littered with houses just like it. It would be easy to get into. Better yet, it would be easy to get out.
“He moved here for a job at the refinery? I thought they were laying people off?”
“Oh they’ve laid damned near everybody off. He’s just one of the lucky ones.” He thought he heard some contempt in her voice. She looked around, and then said, “Most of the people here are the people who still have jobs. They can still afford uniforms for their kids. This town doesn’t have much longer to go before it’s nothing but retired people living on pensions and the few places that stay open because of the National Monument. Then, when all the old people die, there’ll be nothing left.”
That sounded about right to Hank, from what he’d seen of the place, which was just about everything. He was tempted to ask again why she stayed, it was a natural question, but he was too focused on Lugano. “He lives here alone?”
“You seem awfully interested in the baseball coach.” Janie squinted at Hank and grinned. She hadn’t answered the question, and it was the one he needed answered most.
“Oh, I just think it’s interesting. I mean, I understand why you moved back from San Diego, but I’m just curious why a guy would move out here. It’s even stranger if he dragged his family out here too.” He watched her face. She smiled slightly and glanced back over at Grimaldi.
Then she said, “He lives alone. No family.” Janie shrugged, and then added. “I guess he moved out for the job. People got to work.”
“Yeah,” Hank smil
ed at her, “we’ve all got jobs to do, that’s for sure.” Hank thought about the sheriff’s description of the town on the drive in from the car wreck. A lot of drug operations. He wondered what kind of work Lugano was really into. Doing whatever he did out at the refinery would have to drive a guy like him crazy. Hank was surprised he still worked there at all.
Hank let a minute pass and they watched the teams take their positions. A swell of voices began roaring encouragement to the kids. Everyone was waiting for the first pitch. When it came, it was a high, slow arc over the plate. The batter hit a grounder down the first base line and took off running, practically alongside the skipping ball. He was out, but he never really had a chance.
Hank said, “Maybe he’s into drugs. Moved up here to run one of those meth labs everyone is talking about. I hear they’re quite a money maker, if you can keep from poisoning yourself or blowing yourself up.”
Janie raised her eyebrows. “Not that I’m aware of. But then, I’m not exactly plugged into that scene. As far as I know, he really does work at the refinery. Maybe he likes to go climbing in the monument. I don’t know.”
She shook her head and shrugged a little, wondering if she was protesting too much. The suddenness of the comment had made her breath catch slightly. In fact, a meth lab was exactly what Grimaldi had been thinking about. She’d actually discussed it with him. Why the hell would that be the first thing that popped into Hank’s head?
She turned to him and smiled. He sat there watching the game—or was he watching Ron?—as though the meth lab comment were the most natural thing in the world to suggest. And maybe it was. It was just a joke, after all. Clearly he had meant it as a joke.
Hank leaned over and broke her trance when he said, “He looks like a pretty good baseball player.” She glanced at Hank. He grinned back at her and added, “He looks like a real natural with a bat in his hand.”
After that, Hank figured he’d better drop it. When they found Lugano dead in his living room, the last thing he wanted was Janie reporting to the sheriff how interested he was in Lugano—or Ron Grimaldi—whatever they would call him. Hank smiled. At least they gave him an Italian name. It was a hell of a lot better than Hank Norton, but he only had himself to blame for that. He liked to make up forgettable names.
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