by Alan Mulak
Gustaf muttered, “You are a rotten prick.”
"No, I'm not," Alex said, earnestly. "If I was, you'd be in jail right now. I've got enough evidence on you to charge you with grand theft. Really, I'm not a bad guy. In fact, I've been accused of being way too clueless, which in the past, has gotten me into a world of trouble, but this isn't about me. I'm just trying to help MacKenzie keep this ranch. If we turn it around now, no one needs to know about our little chat tonight. I think we can make it work."
A full minute of silence passed, and then Alex said, “Come on. I’ll help you carry these cases of wine back inside.”
Early Monday morning, the Slater Ranch hired hands gathered in the workshop as usual. The shop smelled of cigarette smoke, coffee, and linseed oil. There were five men present, ranging in ages from thirty-something to forty-something. All were dressed in the customary Colorado attire: boots, jeans, flannel shirts, and a mix of ball caps and cowboys hats. At eight A.M., MacKenzie and Alex walked through the door. MacKenzie said, “Good morning guys. Hope you had a great weekend. Now, before you head out and get busy, I want to introduce you to someone. A few weeks back, I hired Alex here,” she nodded in his direction, “to help straighten out the ranch’s finances.”
She paused, and the room was absolutely silent. “Alex asked me if he could have a few minutes of your time. So, without further ado, Alex, it’s all yours.” With that, she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Alex pulled a folding chair out from the wall, turned it backward, and sat down, elbows resting on the back of the seat. All eyes were watching him.
These guys could tear me apart. Or maybe – and more likely - just put the word out that I’m a royal shit-head and there goes my reputation in town. I’ve got a lot to lose here. But maybe, just maybe, if I play my cards right, I can win them over. Well here goes.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Let’s get right to it. I’ve gone over the books for the last three years. The news is bleak. Three straight losing years, and we’re well into the red again this year. If the trend cannot be turned around immediately, the bank will likely force MacKenzie to sell at the end of this year. When that happens, this lodge, the meadow, the hiking trails, this workshop, your jobs, and everything else will go away. Big money developers from California will turn this entire area into million-dollar condominiums. It’ll end up just like the ugly sprawl that infests the banks of the Animas River in Durango.”
He paused. No one said anything.
“So MacKenzie asked me to see what could be done. Being a number-cruncher, I got busy and entered all the expenses and labor costs into a program known as QuickBooks, and then took a look at the results. If you think of the business as a leaky boat, to stay afloat, you have to fix the leaks. The biggest leak was the kitchen operation, but I think we just may have plugged that one. We’ll see, but I’m hopeful. The next biggest leak is the Operations and Maintenance Budget. That’s you guys.”
Again Alex paused, and no one made a sound.
“At the top of the list is gasoline.”
All five guys made wry faces and suddenly took an interest in their shoes.
“The ranch has one pump out back, primarily for the pickup that hauls the horse trailer, the van to run into town, and a few lawnmowers. Yet, the gasoline consumption has been enough to drive to South America and back. At four bucks a gallon, this is a killer.”
Nothing.
“Next, major equipment. For example, three years ago, the ranch bought a wood-splitter. Last year, the ranch bought another: the 28-ton SpeeCo. A bigger machine with a bigger price tag. When last I looked, the new wood-splitter is gone.”
Silence.
“Over the last three years, seven chainsaws have been purchased. Good rigs. Husqvarna’s. When I came in this morning, I looked in the shed. There are only two up on the shelf. Then there are the thousands of dollars for hand tools. They too seem to have disappeared. Then I went through the time sheets, vacation and sick paid leave, and all that. The numbers are way off. Need I go on?”
Alex stopped talking and waited. Let’s see how this goes.
Finally, one of the two twin brothers, either Carter or Darby, no one can tell them apart, cleared his throat and said, “So what are you saying?”
Alex was ready. Here goes. “I’m saying this; to save the ranch, and of course, your jobs, we have a major project to get started on. This year, for the first time, MacKenzie is going to keep the ranch open through the winter. She wants to grab some of the ski business from Telluride. In order to do so, all six cabins have to be winterized. Same with the lodge. This is a boat-load of work to be completed by Thanksgiving. You guys are good at what you do, and she needs you to roll up your sleeves and get to it. With regards to all the shit that went down over the last three years,” he paused, “it has to stop. She’s willing to move forward, as long as you guys agree to play it straight. No questions asked. What do you think?”
Another long, silent moment. Then Carter (or Darby) said, “Fair enough.”
Alex stood and paused again. “It would be a terrific show of good faith if the log splitter, chainsaws, and at least some of the tools magically reappeared by the end of the week. And as of today, the gas will be pumped by me or MacKenzie. No exceptions.” Again a pause. “After lunch, why don’t you guys drop by the lodge? I’ve got the plans for the winter project there, and we can spread them out and look them over. And,” once more Alex paused and waited long enough for the guys to look up, “I’ll buy you a beer.” That said, Alex turned and left the workshop.
The men sat silently for five full minutes. Scott, the horse wrangler and fishing guide, smoked another cigarette, the others, sipped cups of coffee. Finally, Mark, the long-haired landscaper and gardener stood. “I’ve got three kids. I need this job. If this ranch goes belly up, I’m screwed.”
The twins nodded. Carter said, “We’ve got a good gig here. I’d hate to see it go south.”
The other twin, Darby said, “Yeah. No way I want to start commuting back to Durango for work."
Larson, the oldest of the crew, chewed on a toothpick. “You guys believe that asshole?”
Mark whipped around. “Yeah, I do. I’m willing to take him at his word.”
Larson snorted. “A fucking accountant.”
Mark walked across the room and stood over Larson. “You know, I’m pretty fucking sick and tired of listening to you. I never felt right ripping off this ranch. If you’re not willing to straighten up, get the fuck outta here.”
Sensing a fight, the others stood and began to move between Mark and Larson. Mark said, “What do you guys think?”
The twins shrugged, and Carter said, "I need this job."
Darby said, “Me too.”
Scott nodded in agreement.
Larson looked from one face to the next. Then he took out his toothpick and tossed it on the floor. “Fuck you guys.” He turned, strode out of the workshop straight to his beat-up pickup truck, got in and drove off, kicking up gravel in his wake. No one ever saw Larson again.
15
Emotional Cornucopia
When Mike DuPont pulled his aging Isuzu Trooper to the curb in front of the Lowell apartment where Amanda Wolfe – the psychic - stood waiting, Heftig’s tail went into hyper-wag. And when she climbed into the car, he pushed his massive head forward and licked her ear with gusto.
Amanda reached back and hugged the dog, crooning, “I missed you too WoAnNi.”
"Well, I guess that answers the question about whether or not Heftig will remember you," Mike said. As he pulled away from the curb, he shot a glance at Amanda. Is that a touch of lipstick? She wore a long blue cardigan sweater, her habitual short black skirt with black leggings, and black leather boots. Her hair was still the same, wild curls, brown with streaks of white, but it looked less unkempt than it did when they had met eight months prior, during the previous winter.
They drove to Riverwalk P
ark along the Merrimack River, parked, and got out. A sign near the path read: Dogs Must Be Kept on Leash At All Times. Mike shrugged, clipped the leather leash to the ring on his dog’s collar, and then handed it to Heftig, who carried it in his mouth. Turning to Amanda, he said, “There, we’re legal. Ready?”
The October sunshine fired the maple trees, igniting the oranges, reds, and yellows. A squadron of single scull boats from the nearby university rowed by, cutting pencil-like wakes in the river’s surface. There were a handful of walkers and roller-bladers skating past, but mostly Mike and Amanda had the trail to themselves. At one point, they overtook a large oval-shaped woman wearing ornate sunglasses, ponderously plodding behind a minuscule, yappy dog. She was barking orders at her animal…Simon come…Simon, I said, come…I wish you would listen to me, Simon. The dog, ignoring the oval woman, seemed to want a piece of Heftig…barking and snarling, coming very close. Heftig, leash still in mouth, paused, casually lifted his leg, and then squirted a pint into Simon’s face. The woman swiftly reeled in the dripping Simon, had a few choice words for Heftig, who like Mike and Amanda, walked on nonchalantly.
At one point – after preliminary chit-chat had waned – Amanda looked at Mike. "You clean up well."
“How’s that?”
"Well, you cut your hair and shaved. You're wearing what looks to be a new shirt without burn holes. And I believe you've lost a pound or two as well."
Mike chuckled. “The lack of burn holes is easy to explain; I’ve cut way back on the cigars. I figured it just a matter of time before I set myself on fire, so I figured what the hell. And the pound or two…make that seven pounds. That’s from riding my bike to school.”
“School?”
“Oh, yeah, that too. I’ve gone back to school.”
Amanda stopped walking, "You have? Well, that's wonderful! What are you studying?"
“Business. I took three prereqs over the summer, and now I'm enrolled in a bachelors program."
“What sort of business are you dreaming about?”
“Not sure yet. Stay-tuned, but anything’s better than sharpening skates for rich kids.”
“Congratulations. Let’s sit.”
They chose a bench in full sun and settled down. Heftig placed his soggy leash on Amanda’s lap and leaned against her legs. She didn’t seem to mind.
“So,” she asked, scratching the dog’s ear, “what brings you all the way from Scranton?”
“Two things.” Mike, fidgeted on the bench for a moment, then took a breath and blew it out. "First, I believe I've found my pal, Rob Santos. Remember him?"
“Of course I do. Tell me.”
Mike, leaning forward, and with sudden excitement in his voice, began to tell the story of how he used a hacker to scan the invoices to locate Rob.
Face turned up to the sun, Amanda listened, and when Mike finished, remained silent. In a long minute or two, she opened her eyes and faced Mike. “So, you’ve located someone named Alex who buys the same fishing flies your friend Rob did.”
Mike sat forward on the edge of the bench. “I know it’s him. No doubt in my mind.”
“Okay. Now what?”
He sat back, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his arms across his chest. “I don’t know.”
“Quite a mixed bag of emotions isn’t it.”
“At first I was pissed. How could he run off and not tell me? What kind of friends are we, really? Then, I got past my snit and came to realize, if this guy went to all the trouble to fake his death and hit the road, there could be no strings left attached – none - and that includes me. So then, I started imagining a way I could contact him and meet somewhere out west for a week of fishing. You know, sort of like we just bumped into each other. Then I had this brainstorm. I’d send him an anonymous package with a Montreal Whore, Bitch Creek Nymph, and Henryville Special inside.”
“You’d send him what?”
“Those are my favorite trout flies. And he’d know in a heartbeat that the package was from me. But then I figured, that sort of contact might rattle him and cause him to do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe his knee-jerk reaction would blow the whole cover thing.” He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. But I do know…”
He paused, and stared off into the distance, well beyond the Lowell skyline, memories flooding back: annual twenty-hour drives to some remote trout stream in Montana, too much bitter highway coffee and way too many cigars, non-stop rock and roll on the radio, Rob’s easy demeanor and comfort with miles and miles of silence, his unconditional acceptance of whatever hair-brained scheme I dreamt up...
“…but I do know I miss my friend.”
Amanda reached over and put her hand on Mike’s shoulder. "All this information is still new, and you're trying to sort it out. It’ll take time. Sleep on it…don’t do anything rash. Maybe doing nothing is the best course of action at this time. This doesn’t mean he’s gone forever. He’s just gone for now.”
Mike nodded. “You’re right.”
“And what was the second thing?”
“Second thing?”
“You said two things brought you up here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mike paused for a beat then turned and faced Amanda. “I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
Two hours later at Filho’s Bistro in Groton, they sat at an outdoor table, sipping Bogle Chardonnay, nibbling on bruschetta. October was getting late in the year to be sitting outside for dinner, but Heftig was not allowed inside, so there they gathered: Amanda in her thick cardigan sweater, Mike in his polar fleece jacket, and Heftig under the table. They were done talking about Rob Santos’ disappearing act – at least for the evening. Now they passed the time telling their respective life stores, both the successes and the failures. For both, the future was a bit fuzzy.
After main courses of scrumptious pasta specials, and dessert – freshly made Tiramisu, of course – the wine bottle was empty. The sun had set, and it was getting cold. Clearly, the time to depart had arrived.
Amanda drained the last drop of wine from her glass and stood. "Remember before, when you were trying to decide what to do about your friend, I told you to sleep on it?"
“I do.”
“Want to?”
16
Trip Advisor
Ten months later, in the summer edition, Trip Advisor published its annual review of lodges and ranches in the American West. Here is what it had to say:
The Slater Ranch (SR) in Dolores Colorado has sprung onto the scene, moving up to number three in our Top Five Must Stay list. Additionally, the SR is number one on our Newly Renovated list. Tucked well off the highway, far away from civilization, and nestled against the Colorado Rockies, the SR is a full-service inn. Owner MacKenzie Ryan takes fierce pride in providing the complete spectrum of guest activities, aimed at creating a sensational Colorado experience. Starting with the epicurean delights prepared by award-winning chef Gustaf Lagerstrom, and then relaxing in the tastefully appointed and amazingly comfortable cabins and apartments, guests will quickly adapt to a luxurious but laid-back country lifestyle. For those who enjoy riding, horses are available to explore the miles of mountain trails. Closer to the lodge, a scant one hundred yards from the front porch, flows the Upper Dolores River, offering guests an opportunity to try their hand at fly fishing for rainbow trout. Additionally, there are bicycles to ride, mountains to climb, and even a large telescope to explore the light- pollution-free night-time skies. Then, when the day is done, an outdoor Jacuzzi awaits guests prepared to soothe their tired muscles. And as of last winter, the expanded service SR is now open year-round, putting the skier right in the middle of some of the best Alpine and Nordic skiing in the west. The only problem with the SR is the sudden popularity. Book early. The occupancy rate is above 90%! Kudos to MacKenzie Ryan and her staff for bringing the SR high up on our list of Must Stay.
17
Blue Eyes
With t
he Fourth of July weekend behind them, the Slater Ranch staff was breathing a collective sigh of relief. It had been the busiest but most profitable holiday weekend in the history of the ranch. The SR gross revenues had already exceeded the previous year, and it was only July sixth! Alex had been pulling together a plan to pay employee bonuses and institute a profit sharing program – both unimaginable just one year prior.
Alex looked up as MacKenzie walked into Alex’s office and plopped down into his guest chair. “You look beat.”
MacKenzie stretched her arms overhead, “I am, but it feels great. For the first time for as long as I can remember, I’m not worried about losing this ranch.”
“Congratulations. And I mean it. Well done.”
MacKenzie straightened up. “This turn-around is in large part because of you. I owe you big time.”
Alex shook his head. “I crunch the numbers, kick a little ass from time to time, and wade through tax documents. I’ll take credit for that. But you’re the heart of this ranch. You care about people, and it shows.”
MacKenzie sighed. “We can debate this all day, but there’s no denying, we’re in good shape because of the work you’ve done. And speaking of that, I want you out of here. You’ve worked long days and nights for two straight weeks, without a moment’s rest. I order you to take a few days off and go fishing, and I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll survive quite well in your absence. Plus, we’ve got some big wheel guest from France arriving. Apparently, he’s got limited mobility. We’ll have to see how well he gets around. I may need your help with him. But for now, go, get out of here.” She stood and turned off his desk lamp. “Go catch a few trout.”