*
Four hours later, he was still looking along the Little Muddy River. Maybe looking for Handy, but also maybe taking time to think. How much longer could he deal with being here? He was dying inside without Dee Dee and his daughter, but flying home would take a big chunk of his savings, and he didn’t have a clue if they would even be happy to see him. Now trouble was hounding him when all he had wanted was a fucking Diet Coke. Trying to imagine if he’d had taken that job with her dad. God knew what Lee thought of him now. Either that he had manned up and taken care of his family big time, or he had run off like a coward. Lee would always find a way to make it the latter. So, no, he wasn’t going back, not until he had enough experience here to get on with the offshore rigs, maybe. Still, every week, he emailed Dee Dee ads for trailers, houses, jobs, all that, but she still hadn’t said a word about any of them. He would say, “You see that one I sent?” and she would say, “Nice. You know how much the electric bill is right now?”
Jesus, the Little Muddy River was a muddy little fucker. The overgrown grass along the banks was caked in mud, pushed flat by the wind. The banks were flat, nearly level with the road. The river was low right then, a long drought. There were some spots where Ferret wasn’t sure if it was flowing or not, but then it widened out again. Some guys were fishing, for fun or for lunch, or the only meal they would get all day. Where could guys living in their cars even cook it?
His cell phone rang. He cringed, remembering that he was running low on pre-paid minutes. Needed to load up.
It was Good Russell. “Pancrazy says you’re off looking for Gene Handy?”
“Want to see how he’s doing.”
“Why you want to get all up in his business?”
Ferret didn’t know what he meant. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. If I was him, I’d want someone to check on me.”
“He’s not you.”
“Maybe not, but I am. He’ll understand.”
A sigh. Some music in the background, some bright and cheery country. Was he already at the bar? “Listen, where are you?”
Ferret looked around for street signs. “Hang on.” Took another half mile to find one. He told Good Russell.
“Okay, so, I’ve never been to his place, but in between here and Montana, on the river, you’re looking for an old Explorer, like, real old. Red.”
“How do you know?”
“You know how it is out here. You hear things.”
Ferret didn’t buy that, but he wasn’t going to bring it up. Maybe it had to do with meth. He didn’t know Russell or Gene Handy well enough to say. If the other guys wanted to snort crank, drink themselves into a coma, whatever, that was fine. That might have been the sort of life Ferret would’ve had if the band had worked out. Instead, he had a paranoid wife, a six-year-old he hadn’t seen in way too long, in-laws who pitied him and who probably hoped their daughter would wise up and mail him divorce papers.
He thanked Good Russell and kept on along the Little Muddy. Driving out here, sky all around, it was weird. He hadn’t got used to the big sky. In Alabama, if he looked left or right or up, there were pine trees. Something he had never thought about before. If he wanted to see what was on the other side of the pine trees, he had to go through them, around them. In North Dakota, it seemed like the only trees were the ones people planted around their houses to keep the wind and snow away, or in town to pretty up things. Otherwise, he could see forever, and when he got up to speed under that panorama, he felt as if he was lifting off in an airplane.
Right at twenty-seven miles, he found the red Explorer parked in a grove of trees across the street from a gravel parking lot next to a long-closed family restaurant. The bottom half of its sign was still mounted on the roof, but he couldn’t figure out the name from those half letters. There were a handful of trucks and cars in the lot, more oil workers either stuck here or close to giving up.
Next to the red Explorer was a dirt bike lying on its side. Nearby, a circle of ash, a heap of burnt sticks and branches. An old webbed lawn chair, frayed and faded so that the colors were all shades of gray. Ferret parked on the shoulder of the road, got out, and walked up to the truck. He hoped Handy was here. Hoped he wasn’t dead. All the windows were rolled up. Jesus, must be like an oven inside. A couple feet away, he looked through the back window and saw Gene Handy lying on his back, eyes wide open, aiming a big-ass pistol at him.
He ducked and clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Swore he saw Handy squeezing that trigger.
But when nothing happened, he opened his eyes and shouted, “Gene? It’s just me.”
Still nothing. Good or bad, he couldn’t say.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake, Gene, I come out to check on you.”
From inside the truck, “Well, who in Hell told you to do that?”
“Can I stand up now?”
Ferret heard the back hatch click. It swung upwards, Gene Handy following, unfolding like a daddy long legs, He sat on the edge. He wore sweats and a faded INXS T-shirt. Barefoot. Smelled like he hadn’t bathed since the beatdown. Still had some bruises, scabbed-over cuts. His cheeks were puffy. But the man was clean-shaven, as usual. No idea how he was able to keep that up out here. His hair, obviously a homemade cut. Short all around the sides and back but with the top just long enough to make a straight line right above his eyebrows. Most of the time, he was either wearing a hat or had that part spiked. Now he looked weird, a man with a child’s haircut. Ferret glanced past him, saw that he’d been lying on a shiny sleeping bag, dirty pillow with no case, and at least a foot and half of clothes, magazines, fast food bags, and empty bottles—water, beer, Sprite—everywhere he wasn’t sleeping.
Handy lifted a sandwich bag full of pills. He reached in for a few and popped them into his mouth. Dry swallowed. “Want something?”
Ferret looked at the bag. All sorts of shapes and color. “What are they?”
“Tramadol, Rimadyl, tastes like liver. Whole bunch of shit. I know a guy who knows a vet. For the pain.”
“You know, I can buy you some Aleve or something.”
Handy stretched his arms out in front of him, cracked his knuckles. “You found me. Talk.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t be staying now that I’ve been found. No offense, but it’s not like I get to deadlock the door every night.”
“You know, we can get one of the doubles at the camp. I don’t mind sharing.” Ferret would’ve preferred it. Might keep him away from delivery women. “I mean, if it’s money—”
“Did you want something? Is there a reason you hunted me down like this?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have come. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and turned towards the river. It reminded him how much he missed living close to the water. There wasn’t enough of it up here like there was down south. “Checking on you. Those sons of bitches gave you a bad one. Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow. The vet told me to rest, that’s all.”
“Good, that’s good.” Nodding. “I didn’t get to say, like, thanks, you know. After the other night.”
“Those guys were pricks. You didn’t deserve it.”
“Still, though, thanks.”
“And you ran off those fuckers who beat up on me. We’re even. Get it?”
Ferret shook his head and smiled and turned back to Gene Handy. “Shit, it’s not about even. It’s not about anything. Trying to be friendly is all.”
Gene Handy shrugged. “You’re not bad at it.”
“I mean, why’d those guys...it’s none of my business—”
“No, no, go ahead and ask.”
“Why’d they do that to you? What did you do?”
Gene Handy grinned. “What do you think I did?”
Really? Ferret was going to go off, like, this was all bullshit.
Gene Handy tossed a wave at him. “I’m kidding, just kidding. They owed me a favor. That was all.”
&
nbsp; “So, what, they double-crossed you?”
“Nope. That beating was the favor.” He hopped off the back of the truck. It bounced up a good half a foot. The man was way dense, like a black hole of muscle. “You feel like something to eat? You can buy me a burger.”
“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
Gene Handy nodded. “Let me get a bath first.”
He reached back into the truck, dug under the piles of empties until he found a bar of soap that looked as dirty as Handy smelled. He headed across the road to the river while leaving Ferret standing by the truck. Ferret watched the man strip down and walk into the river. He waded further out until it was waist high, then dunked under. Ferret thought for a moment it looked like Gene Handy was baptizing himself.
*
On the way to town, Ferret chattered away because he was nervous. He told Gene Handy what he’d found out about Glen Ramsey, the Baptist, and how he wanted to lay low. Talked about his wife, how he wanted her to come up, get a job, bring Violet. Getting her away from her parents would be the best thing that could happen for her.
A half-hour later, they sat in Hardee’s with big burgers and curly fries. Gene Handy ordered three for himself. Halfway through the first he started talking.
“I need money. I mean, I’m getting paid real good, same as you. That’s not it. I need more. Need to sock it away and get moving.”
“I get it.”
Shook his head. “Not the same thing. You’ve got family. You need to keep your nose clean, get back to them as soon as you can. Me, what I got to do, I’m okay with a dirty nose.”
“You don’t have any kids?”
Ferret thought Gene Handy wasn’t going to answer for a moment. The man was still mostly wet. Shirt stuck to him. He wore the same clothes, had put on some work boots before they left. Cleaned up, even this little bit, Handy’s scars and bruises looked even creepier. Handy dragged a few fries through ketchup, ate them, and sucked down half a Sprite before looking up, sort of, and saying, “I can’t say.”
“What’s that mean?”
Another long pause. A sigh. “I mean I’m pretty sure I don’t, unless there’s a woman out there who never told me. You know what I mean, right?”
Ferret didn’t, but he nodded. “So you need money. How’s getting your ass kicked help with that?”
“Jesus. Really, Finn?”
Ferret wiped his hands on a napkin. Balled it up. “Sorry.”
Gene Handy finished the first burger. He looked around. An older woman at the next table, her husband off getting more soda pop, gave Handy a tsk-tsk sort of look. Handy nodded at her, said, “How do you do?”
Then he ignored her. “So, thing is, I don’t know how much you know about what goes on other than drilling out there. Or if you want to know.”
“I’m not that naïve. I know things.”
“So, okay. Pancrazy is supposed to be good at taking charge. I heard from some guys who used to work with him. He’s not doing the same sort of thing here as he was before, but he’ll find a way to take advantage. Maybe if I can keep my ears open, I can help him with that.”
“Right, right,” Ferret said. “I don’t get it.
“Getting friendly with Pancrazy isn’t easy. It takes a special something for him to notice you. Like being in trouble with a biker gang.”
“Damn.” Made sense now. “They beat you up—”
“Because I asked them to.”
“How did...how did they...did they owe you a favor?”
Gene Handy wiped mustard off his lips with his palm, rubbed it on his sweats. “Too many questions.”
“It sounds like a cool story, that’s all.”
“Cool?”
Ferret shrugged. “I didn’t know about this stuff. I didn’t know Pancrazy was some sort of gangster.”
“You know how favors work. I did one for one of theirs, they do something for me, they ask for another, and so on. Same with Pancrazy. I bet he offers to do me a favor real soon.”
Ferret was getting into it. Gene Handy was nuts. “So, is this like drugs? That’s what it is?”
Gene Handy gave Ferret the stink eye. A long one while he chewed his burger. Then, “We’re in public, buddy.”
“Nobody heard—”
“Never assume that. Never.” More fries, more Sprite. “Thanks for dinner. Appreciate it, man.”
Handy pushed back from the table, shoved the third burger into his pocket. Ferret asked him to wait, but the big man kept going, dropped his extra napkins on the table where the old couple sat. Said, “Your husband looks like a messy eater.”
Ferret was barely half into his burger. He always ate too slowly when he was talking to someone. He wrapped it up as well as he could, carried it with him outside. Handy was already out to the road, probably going to look for a ride back to his truck. No way he could walk all the way to the river, all twenty-seven miles. Ferret caught up. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. It’s not something I hear about every day.”
“It’s all good, kid. Forget I said anything. Really, forget it.”
“I won’t tell. Who do you think I am?”
Gene Handy stopped and turned around. “That’s just it. I don’t know. And I don’t need to know. Go call your wife.”
“Come on. I’ll give you a ride back. That’s the least I can do.”
“I’m telling you, Finn, forget what I was talking about. It’s the pills. I shouldn’t have said anything. Thanks for the grub. Don’t let yours get cold.”
He kept on going. Right across the street, into traffic, a car slamming on brakes and honking. Gene Handy didn’t stop, the lights of the gas station parking lot casting two different shadows of him on the concrete.
Ferret watched until he couldn’t see Handy so good anymore, then went and sat in his car, finished his burger in the parking lot. On the way back to the camp, he called his wife, talked about not much until he ran out of battery mid-sentence.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gene Handy was back to work on the fourth day like he’d promised, and Pancrazio kept an eye on him. He looked like hell, bruised and lumpy, the purple fading to yellow and brown.
Pancrazio called him into the office before lunch. The trailer was on its last legs—you could see sky through the top corners, ground under the seams on the floor. The window unit was either broken or useless, the glass above it blocked out with cardboard. Pancrazio’s desk was particleboard from Target, the chairs donated by a school. It was all Pancrazio’s doing. He told the executives that the men wouldn’t feel right in a high-tech, Mr. Clean sort of room. Pancrazio didn’t even want them thinking about a fine office and what was in it because that made them three things: jealous, intimidated, and ambitious. Fuck all that.
Gene Handy sat across from Pancrazio and tried to hide the hurt, it was obvious. No need to call him on it, though. Not the way Pancrazio wanted to set the tone.
“Can’t have something like that happen again, you understand.”
Gene Handy nodded. “It was stupid. Real stupid. I’m sorry.”
“I mean, for Christ’s sake, the bosses want you gone.”
Gene Handy didn’t look up. It was funny how the threat didn’t faze him. Pancrazio had expected some pleading, the same as when he recruited others, like Bad Russell, who would be perfect if he wasn’t such an idiot.
“You hear me?”
Handy nodded again. Shrugged. “All I can say is...yeah. I can’t make promises.”
Was he trying to get fired?
“Listen.” Pancrazio leaned forward, elbows wide on the desk. He spoke at a confidential volume. “I understand, too. Even with all this money getting thrown at you, the rent’s still too high, the food costs plenty, it’s almost like pennies are all you have left by the time Obama gets his cut. Then your goddamned past mistakes look you up and ask for even more. Believe me, I’ve seen it plenty of times. You’re no one special.”
“I don’t want to be a burden. I’m pretty sure they won’t come back.”
“What, you already paid them off?”
That got Gene Handy to look at him.
Pancrazio went on, “What if we can pay them back, make them happy, make you happy, even make me happy, all at once?”
“I suppose.” Losing his attention again. Gene Handy was staring at his thumb now, index fingernail picking away at the skin, already raw and bloody-looking. “Like I said—”
“What did you do to get a bunch of redneck bikers after you, anyway?”
Gene Handy shook his head. “I’d rather not say.”
Pancrazio laughed, shook his head. “Guess I’ll go ask them.”
That brought a deep sigh from Gene Handy. He stood and said, “If you need me to quit, I mean, it’s okay, you know. I can get on somewhere else.”
“Sit your ass down, kid.” Kid. Right. Maybe the others, but not Gene Handy. Man was a hard fifty if not older. “I’m not done.”
Gene Handy stared at the wall behind Pancrazio a long moment but then sat again.
Enough patty-cake. “You can bounce around Bakken all you want, but I know people. I can make a few calls. You’ll be bouncing more than you want to. You’ll run out of places to hide. So hear me out and stop playing the pussy.”
Gene Handy had a stare on him for sure. Pancrazio didn’t like it. Dead stare, impossible to read. Where had he seen eyes like that before? Maybe Handy had learned that in prison. If Gene Handy was really as badass as Gene Handy thought he was, he wouldn’t have sat back down, though.
“I want you to tell those fucking motorcycle fetishists, eh, you tell them I want to talk with them about you. I want to talk with them about you and about clearing the air. Can you do that? You know how to get in touch?”
Worm Page 4