by Rick Treon
Patty held up her left hand in the mirror. “Fiancé.”
The ring was decent enough, though Jones would’ve purchased a diamond twice the size and not even checked his bank account beforehand. “Oh, how wonderful. When’s the wedding?”
“We’re not sure yet. He’s still running the body shop and hasn’t found anyone to take over the day-to-day so he can focus on the business side of it. But when he gets someone groomed, we want to go get married in Mexico. Maybe take a cruise to get there.”
“If he’s making that much, I want my two hundred back.”
“Very funny. Okay, I think we’re done here. What do you think?”
Jones’ thick blond hair was cropped close on the sides but left long on top. Patty slicked it back with product, a classic fifties look.
Jones took out three hundred-dollar bills from his money clip. “Perfect as always.”
“You don’t count so well for a banker.”
“Consider it an engagement gift.”
Patty took the cash. “Frank, I can’t keep all of this. Just remember that generosity when you get the wedding invitation and list of where we’re registered.”
Jones stood and began walking to the front door. He knew she was being polite and had no problem pocketing an extra hundred. “We’ll see you in a couple weeks.”
Jones checked his gold Rolex Yacht-Master, a promotion gift from his uncles, as he walked to his silver Beamer. Twenty minutes until noon. With drive time, five hours was just enough for his last errand.
15
Despite doing the job for months, I woke up in pain every day. I’d gone from a job that required sitting on my ass all day to one that kept me on my feet for hours at a time. It was a shock to my body. During the Department of Transportation physical, which we all had to take before starting, the doctor said she’d detected some protein in my urine, which can happen due to sudden increases in physical exertion. She recommended I monitor the situation with regular tests. A lack of medical coverage for pipeliners guaranteed I wouldn’t.
My muscles were angrier than usual as I rolled out of my bed with about fifteen minutes before having to leave for Jorge’s house. Veronica was already dressed and sitting cross-legged on her bed, pounding on her laptop’s keyboard with a cup of convenience store coffee on the nightstand. I hadn’t heard her leave for an Allsup’s run. I’d have asked for an apple Danish. I preferred those to the burritos, but Jorge always insisted I eat real food rather than processed sugar.
I stumbled toward the bathroom, which was much roomier than Jorge’s. “You know, there’s a desk and chair right over there.”
She didn’t look up from her computer. “I hate sitting at desks.”
“That’s weird for someone who writes for a living.”
Veronica didn’t respond. I peeked at her screen. It looked like she was reading one of those Free Butch Heller websites, several of which had popped up when he was given his first stay of execution, thrusting the case back into the national spotlight.
“Does your editor know you’re trolling those sites as part of your research?” I made air quotes when I said research, since those sites were nothing but crackpot conspiracy theories, none of which came close to exposing the truth.
“I don’t use it, but it helps to know what people are talking about. I sometimes have to ask a source to refute one of the more plausible scenarios.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said over the sound of the flushing toilet. I walked toward the dresser, where my clothes were stowed in the bottom two drawers. “I’m going to get dressed. Don’t look.”
“Go back to the bathroom.”
I tossed the clothes onto the bed. “You can go to the bathroom if you want, but I’m paying for half of this room, and I’m going to use it to get dressed.”
I didn’t give her a chance to argue and pulled off the black undershirt I’d been sleeping in. She snapped her head back toward her laptop.
I wasn’t shy about my body. I was no athlete, but I’d never considered myself fat. I was built like the X-Men character Wolverine. I stood five-foot-ten in shoes, short for a Texas man. But what I lacked in height I made up for in strength. Though I was sore, my muscles were as large as they’d been since college. I was still carrying extra fat, but my naturally broad, squatty features masked that. So did the body and facial hair.
I realized how awkward the silence had become as I slipped off my shorts. “Find anything good on that site?”
“Sort of. Someone on the forum is saying they were with Heller when Summer was killed. That’s the first time I’ve seen that anywhere.”
It was also new information for me. I yanked up my boxer-briefs and turned to face her. “Are they staying anonymous?”
“Of course.”
I turned back around, hoping to hide my relief. “Yeah. It’s not as easy to lie about a life-and-death situation when your name is attached.”
“I guess you would know better than anyone.”
I froze. “What does that mean?”
“Just that you’ve testified under oath, so you know what it means to put your name on the line.”
I’d never met anyone who understood me like Veronica already seemed to—not even Jorge. I had put my name on the line. And in writing Cold Summer, along with the associated author events and interviews since, my name had become synonymous with the guilt of Butch Heller.
Veronica popped her head out from the backseat. “Are you sure you know where you’re going? We’ve been driving in the middle of nowhere for ten minutes.”
“Yeah, it’s a ways out here,” Jorge said. “But we’re getting close.”
As if on cue, we started down the final hill to Site Two.
“Oh wow, there’s a lot of people down there.” Veronica poked me in the shoulder. “Hey, time to wake up, Bart.”
I opened my left eye. She’d found an old ballcap in the back and put it on. “How are you a writer but also a morning person?”
“Because, unlike you, my writing job makes me show up on time and pays enough that I don’t have to do manual labor on the side.”
Jorge laughed. “Bro, she totally got you.” He held up his hand for a high-five, which Veronica enthusiastically reciprocated.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “So, Veronica, what you don’t have are a hardhat, face shield, safety glasses, and gloves. They’ll have all of that here for you. If anyone gives you shit for not having your own, tell them you left them in your car but got a ride from us this morning. You’ll probably go straight with the superintendent to fill out paperwork, watch a video, etcetera. Just fake it till you make it.”
“Yep,” Jorge said. “That’s what Beck’s been doing for, what, four months now?”
Veronica laughed. I leaned back and smiled, knowing she wouldn’t be laughing for long. Jorge suggested we introduce Veronica to her welder, who was calling himself Paul Henry these days. It was still weird hearing him swap out his last name for his middle. Then again, I wrote under my middle name, so who was I to judge? Paul probably wanted to distance himself from his newsworthy father.
“I apologize in advance for not knowing anything,” Veronica told Paul. “And thank you so much for agreeing to all of this.”
“Hey, we all had to start off not knowing anything. I’m just glad we could help with your situation.”
Veronica’s look said far more than words could have. She hadn’t heard the story we’d spun for Paul.
“Divorce is tough,” Paul continued. “But we’ll take your mind off of things and help you get enough money to rent your own place.”
Veronica kept staring at me as she spoke. “Yeah, it’s been rough.”
I tried to apologize with my eyes. “Looks like the tailgate meeting is about to start. We better head that way.”
Veronica’s presence was felt quickly, and most of the eyes were on her by the time Redbeard started speaking.
“Listen up. You new hires need to get with Jameson after
this.” He looked over at Jameson, who raised his hand. “Other than that, we’re going to keep rolling with the fabrication out here and excavation at Site Three. And, as always, stay safe. Anyone else?”
We all looked over at Zak. He looked like he wanted to speak but shook his head instead.
Veronica turned to me with wide eyes.
“Don’t worry.” I grabbed her by the shoulders to reassure her. I realized it was probably a mistake as soon as I did. But instead of pulling away or glaring at me, she took a deep breath and nodded.
I maintained my soft grip, excited she was allowing me in, even if it was only for a few moments. “Everyone here’s real nice. You’re going to watch a boring video but pay attention to the safety stuff. Then you’ll fill out a bunch of paperwork and get the rest of your PPE. We’ll be here to take care of you after that. I promise.”
Veronica took a deep breath and nodded, then joined three other new hires on their way to Jameson’s pickup. I wondered if the others knew why there were so many openings in the middle of a job.
“Hey Big Nasty, who’s the new girl?”
I turned around to find Zak’s helper, Jordan Washington—a six-foot-four black man with the soft voice of a sophomore reading aloud in his English class.
“Just a friend who needs a job. Since Paul had an opening, I figured I’d get her on out here so she could make some quick cash.”
“A friend. Right.”
Though I knew Veronica would hate it, my persona on the job was that of a horndog, so I had to play along. “I mean, we are staying in the same hotel room while she’s here.”
Jordan smiled. “You sleeping with her yet?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Jordan’s smile faded. “My wife would kill me.”
“Hey, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
He shook his head. “I can’t get another girl pregnant or catch something. I mean, not all of us can risk it by getting a blowjob from a stripper.”
We both laughed. That story, while not completely true, was how I’d earned my nickname.
Jordan and Zak were with Jorge and I on our previous job in western Oklahoma. We’d gotten rained out on a Thursday and left to run some errands in Oklahoma City. Afterward, when I thought we were heading home, Jorge pulled into the parking lot of a strip club. They left me out of the loop because I would’ve objected. But, since I was there and captive, I decided to enjoy myself. The girls were beautiful, and Jorge paid for my first lap dance.
The same stripper, who called herself Kandy with a K, found me again an hour later and I was more than happy to go back up to the VIP area with three hundred in my wallet. Jorge had paid me back that afternoon for his half of the rent for our RV space—I cut the checks because his wife kept theirs at home—so I had more cash to burn than usual.
I offered Kandy two hundred up front for whatever that would buy me. While she hadn’t given me a blowjob, she had used her hand while kissing me on the mouth and neck. When I’d re-emerged ten minutes later, she gave Jorge a kiss on his cheek, so I embellished to get a cheap laugh. I got a few more dances that night, and eventually Paul walked up. He was working on a different job nearby—there were more welders than gamblers in Oklahoma with the oil boom—and we reconnected. Jorge told Paul we were about to head to the job in Fritch, and Paul said he’d think about leaving and coming with us.
“Hey, I got an all-clear from the doctor,” I said. “Totally worth it.”
Coach Jorge walked over clapping his hands. “Come on Beck, we have a weld to finish.”
I looked back toward the new hires, who were staring at a laptop perched on Jameson’s tailgate. For a while, perhaps a few days, Veronica would be caught up in learning what to do out here. But then she would start poking around about Jillian’s—Sylvia’s—murder. I hoped Veronica would be subtle.
If not, all of this could blow up in my face.
16
Veronica jumped into the back seat during our afternoon break. She had a new hardhat with an orange decal on the side and a clear plastic face shield flipped up overhead.
“Well, that took forever,” she said. “Thanks for not telling me about the physical, by the way. I do love this thing, though.” Veronica flipped down the face shield hard, like a goalie waiting for the puck to drop. “And everyone’s been calling me Ronnie.”
“Good, you already have a nickname,” Jorge said. “It took Beck a month to get one.”
“Shut up.”
Veronica leaned forward between Jorge and me. “I thought Beck was your nickname?”
Jorge smacked my chest. “Tell Ronnie your real nickname.” He looked at Veronica. “It’s a good one.”
My face felt hot. I shot a look at Jorge, but it was too late.
“Everyone out here calls him Big Nasty.”
“What? Why on earth would they call you that?”
“It’s not important.” I flipped over my phone and tapped the screen. 10:13 a.m. “Time to get back to work.”
She grabbed Jorge’s forearm. “Not yet. You have to tell me.”
Jorge finally took pity on me. “I’ll tell you later. We have to get ready for a new weld.”
First up was cleaning the outside edges of the pipe and valve about to be joined. I used our grinder fitted with a tiger pad disc, its overlapping pieces of sandpaper forming stripes swirling around its center. Veronica jumped away from the sparks. I didn’t blame her. Though the face shield and safety glasses keep your eyes safe, I’d burned holes in two shirts my first month.
She was also shy when we ignited the weed burners, but Paul handed her the torch and had her finish preheating the steel.
“Why do we have to do that?” she asked after closing the valve on top of the propane bottle. “It’s already a million degrees out here.”
We all laughed.
“If you think it’s hot now, you’d’ve died out here this summer,” Jorge said. “It’s got nothing to do with the air temperature. If the pipe’s already two hundred degrees when we start welding, it’ll cool down nice and slow. If it’s cold, the weld will heat up the metal and make it expand fast. But then it’ll cool down and contract just as fast, and it could crack.”
Veronica looked like she wanted to ask another question, but Paul stopped her. “For the preheating to work, we have to start welding right away.”
Paul pulled out a handful of rods from the metal bucket near Veronica’s feet and handed them to her. “These are called one-eighth rods, or five-P rods. We’ll use them this first time around the pipe. Just hand me one after I toss the old one in the other bucket. Got it?”
She nodded.
“And you remember what I said about running my temperature, right?” Paul pointed to his remote—which looked like a giant kitchen timer, its red face demarking volts rather than seconds—secured to the pipe with magnets a few feet to his right.
“When you say up, turn the dial up five. Down is down five. If you say up or down ten, I move it up or down ten.”
“You got it.”
Veronica stepped in front of the remote. Paul pulled down his red welder’s face shield, put a rod in his stinger—essentially the clamp from the end of a set of jumper cables—and aimed it at the small gap between the end of the pipe and the end of the valve.
“Listo?” Jorge said, asking Paul if he was ready.
“Vamonos,” Paul replied. Let’s go.
Veronica looked surprised at how fluent Paul sounded. She’d yet to learn that Spanglish was the official language of pipeliners.
What followed was a sensory overload. Not only was there a bright blue light emanating from the end of the rod—looking at it could cause blindness—but smoke was rising from the pipe, bringing with it a metallic smell and taste. The chemical reaction caused a sound and the open end of the valve became a megaphone. Adding to the noise were both welding machines, which sounded like a pair of revving semi-truck engines.
I was about to ask Veronica if she was
okay, but I heard Paul yell, “up.” By the time she remembered what to do, Paul was screaming. She cursed and apologized.
“Congratulations,” I yelled. “You’re officially a helper.”
I untucked my shirt as I walked into the hotel room, ready to shower off the soot and dirt that always collected on my skin, in my ears, and up my nose. I turned around but didn’t see Veronica. I leaned out into the hallway. She was still halfway down the hall, tiptoeing on a bed of hot coals with no end.
I hurried to meet her, remembering how painful it was to walk after my first day. “Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”
She nearly fell into my arms. “Can you just carry me?”
“I could, but that wouldn’t help you in the long run. You have to walk in them as much as possible until you’re used to it.”
“Why does this hurt so much?” she groaned.
I helped her sit on her bed. “You’ve never spent that many hours on your feet, and those cheap boots don’t help. Give it a week. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know if I’ll make it a week.”
“Sure you will. After you learn the ropes a little bit, you’ll realize it’s the easiest money you’ve ever made.”
“I’m not here for the money, remember?”
“I do, but it might be a little bit before you can get anyone to talk to you about the murder.”
She let her right boot drop to the floor. “I’m better at this than you think. I’ll have what I need in a couple of days.”
“Do you have a deadline?”
She let out a loud sigh as the second boot dropped. “No.”
“You should take some time. Gather some color for the story.”
“You just want to keep staying in this hotel room.”
I laughed. “True. But I’ve also done this writing-about-crime thing, too. You want to impress your boss? Stick with us for a while.”