Good Russell said they were done, and there was another round of applause. Bad Russell walked back to the driver’s side and opened it, leaving Ferret with goosebumps all over. He couldn’t help but grin, though. He hoped he never made these guys want to get back at him for anything.
The gay kid had gotten dressed and was leaving with the waitress, her arm wrapped around his and her head on his shoulder. Ferret thought, you know, if he was that kind of guy—married but “on a vacation” like half the guys up here—he would ask that girl out for a drink. If he was that kind of guy. He wasn’t though. That, he was goddamned certain of.
Good Russell came over and wrapped his arm around Ferret, gave him a big squeeze, and said, “Want some fried chicken? On me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pancrazy met the Sons of Silence on the soccer field behind the new middle school building site, about one in the morning. Slow Bear was on the roof of one of the temporary classroom trailers, listening in with earbuds jacked into his phone. He needed both hands free for his hunting rifle—30.06 with a scope that let him see cricket legs—his finger off the trigger. No fucking way he was going to shoot anyone with this thing, his older brother’s gun. His brother had died in Iraq. He took the gun but hadn’t fired it since. But if following this dumbass Pancrazy around while he talked to bikers or some shit might require a few warning shots, sure.
“—going to pay off whatever Gene Handy owes you by letting you have an exclusive out here. We’re talking thousands of customers. Thousands. And they’ve got money to burn.”
[Laughs, muffled. Two SoS guys murmuring to each other.]
“Seriously. You take it all except my expenses for a whole month.”
“Six months.”
“I can’t do this without help. I’ll have to pay these guys.”
“That’s your problem. You don’t know how much Handy owes us anyway.”
“Enough to drive yourselves out here twice now. Enough that you’re talking to me.”
[Sigh.]
Or maybe the sigh was Slow Bear. He lost track.
The bikers, five in all, were youngish, except for the two doing the talking. The main guy was the Indian Pancrazy had described, the one on the motorcycle who had spoken with Gene Handy before letting his guys beat him down. The bald one looked like one of the beaters. These others, though, all late teens, early twenties, packed solid and giving their best rap video staredowns.
Across from them, Pancrazy’s back-up was those damned Russell idiots, plus the new guy, big guy, the one causing all the trouble. Gene Handy. Of course Slow Bear had heard of him. The white man who could take a bad beating, then still get up and order a beer like nothing had happened. So they said.
The trailer’s roof had been warped in the summer heat, and even the slightest motion made it warble and pop. Slow Bear was prone like an Army sniper. He was recording the conversation, but Pancrazio didn’t need to know that. He thought Slow Bear was a greedy idiot and that money was enough to keep him loyal. He was right, sort of. Pancrazio didn’t need to know that someone else was promising Slow Bear a bigger payout.
[The Indian stalled, shrugged, and turned it over to one of the younger men. Surprise, surprise.]
“We’ll let you know. Don’t wait by the phone.”
“Shit, man.”[Pancrazy, raising the volume? Losing control?] “I know what I’m doing. You know this is a good deal.”
“I said we’ll let you know, because right now, I don’t know you. The only reason we came out here was because you told us you wanted to pay off Gene Handy’s debt. Do you have it? Do you have the money on you?”
“Listen—”
“Do you have it right now?”
[Grumble. Pancrazio shook his head.]
“Then what’s to keep us from taking Handy with us right now? That’ll settle us, won’t it? Better, how about I cap his ass and leave the clean-up for you hick fucks?”
[He pulled a pistol and stepped closer to Handy, barrel in the big man’s face. Handy didn’t even blink. Shit.]
“Wait, goddamn it, listen to me.” [Pancrazio stepped in front of Handy, hands raised. He had balls, that was for sure.] “Real money, man. We’re talking men who’ll pay twice as much as it’s worth. You won’t even remember Handy’s name in three months.”
Slow Bear hadn’t told Pancrazio where he would be during the meeting. He wondered if any of the roughnecks had seen him. How many shots could he get off before they realized? No, really. That wouldn’t help him. None of them had reacted by pulling guns of their own, not even the Russells, who were obviously packing. They always were. Slow Bear’s neck was starting to hurt. He hoped they shut this shit down soon.
[The new spokesman for the Sons turned back to the Indian, confided so softly that Slow Bear couldn’t even catch the whispers. A few nods. Then...]
“We’ll give you two weeks. Someone will be in touch. You try to burn us, I swear. Don’t even try.”
And soon the Sons roared out of there, kicking dirt all over the soccer field, and the hicks started laughing and going “Whew” and talking about how those leather-wearing faggots weren’t so badass. Pancrazy told them to shut up. Told them they all had to be careful. The sort of money they were going to make, this was nothing to take lightly.
“Don’t fuck up.”
One Russell—Slow Bear couldn’t tell them apart—told the other, out of Pancrazy’s earshot, “Shit, money I got. This here is for fun.”
Gene Handy left first after Pancrazio had asked him if he was alright, if he needed anything, and was he sure he wanted to be alone with these dildo bikers prowling around. Gene Handy brushed him off, got on his dirt bike, and whined on down the road, out of sight. They waited a few more minutes, then Pancrazio and the Russells climbed into an oil company pick-up truck, drove off slowly. Slow Bear let out a deep breath and laid the gun down. He was supposed to meet Pancrazio at his RV in an hour.
He lifted his phone and stopped recording. Then he scrolled through until he found the number he was supposed to call. Pressed the screen and waited a few rings. The man on the other end picked up. “You got it all?”
“Done.”
“Any problems?”
Slow Bear sat up. “Just damned uncomfortable. I’ll send you the recording.”
He hung up and sent a text with the recording attached. Then he climbed off the roof with the gun, slung it over his shoulder, and started for his car. Nothing weird about that, a man carrying a hunting rifle around, except him being an Indian, it made him fair game for the white guys packing. Slow Bear hoped no one fucked with him. He had enough to worry about tonight already.
CHAPTER EIGHT
First job: Ferret had to drive.
He took a piece of shit 1994 Mazda—definitely a working man’s car—from Williston to Fargo. No a/c. Only one speaker not busted. He dropped it off at a used car dealership across the Interstate in Moorhead, Minnesota, and was told to come back tomorrow morning. So he walked to a Super 8 nearby, a couple of fast food places on either side, and stayed the night.
The fast food from next door sucked, same as always, but at least it was from Taco Bell and not that rip-off joint Taco John’s that was all over up here. Jesus, these people liked tater tots with their burritos. So a good triple-steak burrito with nachos drowning in jalapenos and cheese goo, all paid for by Pancrazy, that was cool.
And the pool. Indoors, had the whole thing to himself, and it was fucking glorious, man. When was the last time he had swum in a hotel pool? When he was a teenager? On vacation with his folks? Sure as hell not since he had been married, not once while he and Dee Dee were dating. He owed her that, a night in a great hotel once she got the job. Probably not here, though. He was thinking down in the Black Hills, South Dakota. He’d heard about them but had never seen them. Mount Rushmore, too. How would the real thing compare to the photos? Yeah, once she got the job, that’s where he would take her. A whole weekend in a sweet hotel with a pool and a hot tub.
Funny. Ferret would never ever, but it was funny. And then he remembered Eddie Murphy doing James Brown, trying to get in the hot tub, and the guys coming out to help him offstage with a towel. “Hey, in the hot tub!”
When a fat tattooed guy with a small Styrofoam cooler came in, long shorts but shirtless, with a couple of loud kids with noodle floats, Ferret thought it might be time to head on to the room for the rest of the night. But after the dad boomed some instructions and got the kids settled, he tossed a thin hotel towel across a chair by the hot tub. He set the cooler down and opened it, pulled a can of Miller High Life out of ice and turned to Ferret.
“Want one?”
The pool rules said no alcohol. Ferret thought about saying, No, I’m just leaving, but no. He changed his mind. Why not? “Sure, man, thanks.”
So the fat guy gave him a beer and got himself one and waded into the hot tub, where he took up nearly the whole thing, his back to his kids, and talked to Ferret for a while. They talked about beer and the weather and football, because Ferret didn’t keep up with baseball anymore. The fat guy was in town with his girlfriend—those were her kids, not his—visiting her dad. They were from Kansas City, Missouri. Ferret told him he was in town to drop off his wife at the airport and would head back to Williston in the morning.
The fat guy leaned forward. “Is it true out there? You guys are really making bank?”
Ferret shrugged. “Better than I was down South, but not as good as I’m hoping it’ll get.”
“I should check that out. I’ve been out of work for, like, a year now.”
The girlfriend showed up in a little while in her one-piece red and yellow bathing suit, huge bath towel wrapped around her shoulders like a coat, with a pack of cigarettes and a thick historical romance. One of those moms who would never get into the water. Never.
Ferret kept talking about how he got his job, and he had another beer. The wife ignored them and sometimes shouted at the kids if they ramped up the splashing. It was all fine. And then Ferret thanked the man for the beer and got out, took another quick lap of the big pool, and dripped all the way back to his room. He thought about telling Dee Dee, but she wouldn’t understand. She would think he was rubbing it in. But one day soon, maybe in the Fall, he would take her down to Mount Rushmore, and, yeah, thinking about it made him smile. He called her later and acted like it was just another night at the man camp, and she was talking about the blouse she bought for the interview, and how she didn’t need to buy a skirt because it was on Skype. She could wear sweatpants.
“I’ll need long johns up there, right? Won’t we need long johns?”
Ferret lay back and used the pillow to hold the phone in place. Much better pillow than the one at camp. “Maybe,” he said. “We’ll find out together, that’s what I think.”
*
After a big pancake breakfast at Denny’s—man, when was the last time he went out for breakfast?—Ferret caught a cab back to the dealership where a totally different car was waiting for him, a Saturn coupe, silver. No questions. The secretary smiled and handed him the keys and passed over a packet of papers. He stared at it a moment before she said, “You know, in case you’re pulled over.”
How many people in this place were in on it? It was a larger operation than he had expected. Seriously. Every one of these employees, salesmen and saleswomen and staff and maintenance and mechanics, every one of them looked at Ferret and thought Mule. Every goddamn one of them. Made him start sweating out the endless coffee he’d gulped down at Denny’s.
He pulled out of the lot and onto the highway, headed west again, and for the first time this trip Ferret was freaked about cops. He tried setting the cruise, but got too frustrated behind old people in a Buick and slipped into the passing lane before retreating after nearly getting hit by a half-ton pick-up bearing down on him. Jesus. And yeah, there were cops. Sheriffs’ squad cars, State Troopers, city cops tailgating, brakelights popping on and off. He had to play cool without seeming too cool. He even passed one of the squad cars six or seven over the limit, because that’s what people do.
When the traffic cleared once he was out of town, Ferret finally set the cruise and had to force himself to keep his foot off the gas. He sat straight with his back off the seat, neck bent slightly up, and it was already beginning to hurt by the time he stopped at a gas station for a massive piss. He bought a bottle of water and some Reese’s for the road. He walked outside and dug for his keys but then stopped. He looked at the car. Clean, but obviously road-worn. What had they packed inside it? Under all the plastic and seat cushions and panels, what was in there? How much of a rolling felony was this thing?
For Dee Dee. For Violet. For us.
This one trip alone could help him pay first month, last month, and security deposit on the trailer he wanted to rent. Two bedrooms. If they had that second child, the kids would have to share for a while, but by the time it mattered, Ferret hoped they would already be done with this place, this Dakota shit, this fucking oil slick of a town. Almost forgot where he was for a moment. “This town” was still a long-ass haul down the Interstate. He needed to get a move on if he didn’t want to race the sun. He looked down at his water, then turned around and went back into the gas station, bought himself a couple of bottles of Dr. Pepper. Sure to be the first of many.
*
The road across North Dakota was a long, flat expanse. Not a lot to look at. Lots of farms. Lots of trucks hauling turkeys, blades for wind turbines, or frozen food. Otherwise, a whole lot of nothing. Ferret daydreamed he was down south on the bayou. The memory of dead-fish stink was worth the reflection of the sunset off the water. But he had to keep his eyes on the road, on the real sunset straight ahead, glowing orange and pink and purple up above but turning the horizon into black. Ferret’s mind, not so strong. He was blinking too much. He was tired of country FM, but felt lulled asleep by country AM. Classic rock was better, but was giving him a headache. He almost didn’t make it to the next truck stop, where he bought a burger and fries and more Dr. Pepper. Then a king-sized Snickers and three more bottles of Dr. Pepper and a topped-off tank of gas. The hot wind had picked up. Ferret shielded his eyes from the sun and the grit blowing around while the numbers blinked higher on the gas pump. He wondered if there was a secret compartment in the gas tank, too, packed full of meth or weed.
Seriously, though, how many of the guys Ferret worked with bought this stuff? How many loaded up on crank or crack while on the job? How many drifted off in a drug haze and ended up causing an accident? He’d heard some guys talking in town—a derrick falling over down the road, then an explosion somewhere else, then the derailed train that blew up, then these guys getting sick off fumes, not paying attention. Shit, there was enough to kill you on any given day without having to get wasted first.
Once off the Interstate north of Dickerson, the darkness grew deeper and the headlights barely helped, even on brights. He had to watch for deer, and that made him tense up even more, drop his speed, and grit his teeth because his neck ached so bad. There weren’t many cars out now. They would show up in clumps, along with more of those big-ass trucks, convoys coming from the Bakken, taking that sweet crude on down the line. Their headlights would blind him every time. How was he supposed to watch for deer and stay on the road and keep off the cops’ radar all at the same time and without any more Dr. Pepper or any fucking Advil?
He was still an hour outside Williston when the one headlight showed up in his rearview. He thought it was some lost cause in a beater heading to the “promised land” like so many other men, like
Ferret himself had. But the way it moved, swerving, closer and closer, seemed weird. Then he heard the engine. A motorcycle. Not a real good one, either. It came up fast, like reckless fast, and started to pass on his left. Fine with Ferret. He took his foot off the gas to let the guy go by faster. He didn’t want anywhere near this one. But the motorcycle didn’t pass. It matched his speed. The rider was waving at him, but Ferret didn’t dare turn his head. Shit. With all the traffic and deer-watching, he had forgotten about the drugs. Was this someone wanting to jack his car? Someone who would kill him for it? Ferret sped up. It didn’t sound like the bike was powerful enough to keep pace, so he laid the pedal down and forgot about the deer. The bike kept up for a couple minutes before it lost ground. Trucks were coming up ahead. The biker slipped in behind Ferret and kept on his bumper. Ferret was starting to sweat and the radio was lighting up his nerves and he was gripping the wheel too hard.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Get off me!”
The bike made another attempt at passing, its engine whining high-pitched and the biker still waving madly.
“For fuck’s sake.” Ferret couldn’t help but look, like a reflex. It was a dirt-bike, one he had seen before. The biker wasn’t wearing a helmet. Just a T-shirt that was too small for his frame—built like a goddamn Frankenstein.
It was Gene Handy.
Ferret pulled onto the shoulder and slid to a stop, sending up a dust cloud that rushed forward and hid Handy and his bike. But it cleared quickly and Handy had already dismounted and let the bike drop to the ground as he stomped back towards the car, braced his arms on the roof and fogged up the window. Ferret didn’t want to lower it. But he heard Gene Handy loud and clear: “The fuck are you doing?”
Thumped his palms on the roof.
“You hear me, you little bitch? Don’t make me tear this car apart!”
Ferret told him to step the fuck back. Told him he wouldn’t get out unless he stepped the fuck back. He thought of peeling off out of there once Gene Handy had backed up and started pacing in front of the headlights. But he couldn’t do that to the man. Not after everything that had happened.
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