Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
EPILOGUE
NOTHING VENTURED
by
Roderick Price
Published by Roderick Price
Copyright © 2020, Roderick Price
Cover Design by Lieu Pham, Covertopia.com
Formatting by Guido Henkel
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CHAPTER 1
He had started collecting and caring for these Hudson automobiles in the late fifties. Frankly, Melvin Baker could never have afforded a new one, but when an old Finn up in Oulu had put his Commodore up for sale in 1958, Melvin had scraped together all the money he could and bought her for two hundred and eighty-five dollars. Hudson Automotive Company called it Pacifica Blue Green, so he called her the Green Hornet. Later he bought a couple of others under similar circumstances—even drove over to Lake Minocqua back in 1969 and bought a Commander off some smart-ass savings-and-loan guy from Chicago who had been keeping it at his summer house and wanted to get rid of it. Hudsons really were the best cars ever made—saddest day in his life when he heard they were going to stop making them. Even got one of his sons interested in collecting, but now the son had had an aneurysm and was laid up in the big Veteran’s Hospital down in Indianapolis. Melvin was alone. Every day, every night, every meal, Melvin was alone. Biggest event was walking out to get the mail; maybe drive the Green Hornet down to the convenience store to get an ice cream bar.
Larry Walker drove up the drive especially slowly that day. There were big old boxelder trees on either side of the road. Larry rounded the big overgrown patch of lilacs and parked behind the woodpile. It seemed to Larry like every house up there had a five-year supply of rat-infested wood that had been stacked up for the winter. For northern Wisconsin, Melvin’s house was a big one; old and unkempt. Inside it reeked of old newspapers, wet carpet and stale pipe tobacco. It needed paint. The rusted screens on the back porch were torn, waving quietly in the gentle breeze. Some of the outbuildings were in disrepair. While the barn was structurally sound, the Quonset-style tin roof was rusting and giving way to age. The windmill still pumped the water into an above ground concrete cistern that was oddly placed not ten steps from the front door. The old cistern was long ago covered with dark grapevines that would bear some beady little grapes in the odd year when late summer brought extra rain. Larry entered through the screen door onto the back porch. The back door was unlocked, ajar, but Larry knocked with growing impatience, waiting for Melvin to come to the door. What a rat hole. There were four feet of old newspapers stacked right by the door. The cold December drizzle was coming down more unequivocally now. The first time, Larry had just stopped by cordial-like and politely asked Melvin to sign up. Then he had tried to reason with the toothless old fool. Then last time he brought a bottle of Dewar’s and tried to drink him into submission. Larry had gotten belligerent; Melvin was going to sign the lease or else. Melvin was old, but he knew something was going on and he didn’t like it. Didn’t need the money anyway—could live just fine off social security, especially since Ma died from female problems. He was sitting on the biggest chunk of private land in the middle of Chequamegon State Forest and he knew it. Didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but it was his.
He was probably napping, was Larry’s guess. Larry could feel the steel on his handgun turning cold in the damp, December air. Larry leaned in over the threshold and called out for Melvin, but there was no answer. Melvin still had relatives—a son down in Indiana. Nobody around here even looking in on him. A dreary, darkening, late afternoon and Larry could smell death. It didn’t have to be this way. Melvin had had a choice. Larry tapped open the door a bit farther and called for him again, but no one answered.
As he turned back toward his car, Larry spotted a long, sliding door on one of the sheds that was cracked open, yellow light shining faintly through the opening. Larry moved quickly across the backyard and edged up alongside the doorway. AM radio was playing Jim Reeves, “Put Your Sweet Lips A Little Closer to The Phone.” The hood was up on one of the Hudsons; a long, brown model hunkered stoically at its station. A light was on under the car. Melvin was out in his shop. Larry could smell the Prince Albert. Larry’s grandfather had smoked it. The roughnecks down around Bastrop had smoked it too, back in the early-70s oil boom. They were living in those six-foot-high, metal culverts with the ends boarded up, making twenty dollars an hour, drinking Shiner beer, driving new pickup trucks and smoking Prince Albert. The car was up on blocks and Melvin was under it putting a new gasket around the fuel pump, the shadows jumping across the room from Melvin’s movements. Peering out from under the car, Melvin saw the stranger enter through the doorway and quietly shut the door behind him. He saw the sharp crease in the smooth slacks and knew immediately it was the guy from Texas back to put the squeeze on him. The guy just didn’t get it. Melvin didn’t need the money that would come from harvesting the jack pine and poplar trees by some big pulp mill company and he wasn’t interested in signing a lease to have somebody come in and clear off the timber. Larry could talk all day long if he wanted, but there was no way Melvin was signing a contract to do it. By now, Melvin knew that many of his neighbors had signed up and got a pretty nice chunk of change upfront from Larry as well. Melvin wasn’t driving a hard bargain. He simply was not going to sign. He pushed himself out from under the car. Larry was smiling.
“Melvin, how are you doing?”
“Doing okay, Larry, how are you?” Said Melvin. He actually kind of liked Larry—kind of a southern gentleman. Melvin felt a little uncomfortable in his oldest set of coveralls. Even by Melvin’s standards, they utterly filthy from top to bottom in grease and grime.
Larry spoke first. “Melvin, I’m getting in trouble with my boss and I need your help. I really need you to sign the timber
lease, Melvin. You’re the only one around here who hasn’t signed up and I’m afraid I am running out of time.”
“Don’t plan to sign it,” said Melvin, pulling his pipe from the top left pocket of his coveralls. “I like you a lot Larry, but I don’t want anybody tearing around on my land and I wouldn’t know what to do with the money if I had it.”
“Mr. Baker,” said Larry, quietly pulling the lease from his pocket. “You are putting me in a very precarious position. You’re the only landowner who’s surrounded by the state forest that hasn’t signed up. I really need your signature in order to get the company bonus that is coming to me under this program.”
Melvin glanced toward Larry and then looked down at his own shoes. “Nothing against you, Larry, but I’m really getting tired of you coming around my place, and I think you need to go.”
“Look, Melvin I like you really a lot, too. I am going to make you an offer, but I really don’t want you telling any of your neighbors about this deal. I am authorized to pay you twice the signing bonus we paid your neighbors if you will sign up today. Now if you tell them about this, they aren’t going to like me very much and they aren’t going to like you very much either, but I’m not leaving here until I get you signed up.”
They were now standing in front of the car less than six feet apart. Larry seemed different. Melvin could see how much pressure he was under. Larry threw the contract down on the hood of the car and handed Melvin a pen.
“Well, I would like to help you out Larry, but it’s my land and I just don’t want to sign,” said Melvin.
Melvin caught just a glint of silver from Larry’s oncoming hand and then heard the sickening sound of his own jaw cracking inside his head. Clumsily, as if in slow motion, he felt himself backpedal and crash into the heavy oak tool bench. His head slammed against the ancient steel anvil that was bolted firmly onto the top of the large tool bench. He went down flat on his back, staring strangely into the yellow light washing over him from beneath the car. Larry was standing over him, holding the gun he had used to strike him across the face.
“I’ve been patient with you up until now, old man, but now it’s time for you to do your part and sign the lease.” Larry gripped the gun tightly.
Melvin just lay there in disbelief. He had never been in a fight in his life.
Larry lifted his foot and stomped down hard on the old man, grinding his heel deep into the old man’s belly.
“I’m sorry I have to hurt you like this, Melvin, but you get up here now and sign this thing and I’ll get out of here.”
Melvin remained frozen with fear as Larry reached down and dragged him with surprising ease up onto the fender of the car. Melvin could feel the warm blood running off his lip, torn from the butt of the pistol. Looking down dumbly he saw his own blood dripping over the car hood as he lay over it, wheezing and feeling lightheaded. He was no match for Larry. Larry shoved the pen back into his hand and brought the cold barrel of the handgun up against Melvin’s temple.
“Now sign it, you old bastard or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
Everything was a blur. Melvin was hurt; he could feel the tears rolling warmly down his cheeks. He could barely make out the thick black signature line on the bottom right side of the contract, but he took the pen and signed. The rasp of the paper sounded deafening as Larry grabbed back the pen and paper and with his left hand folded it into the breast pocket of his overcoat. Melvin was now a liability. He could report Larry to the county sheriff. It would be clear that Melvin had taken a few blows. Melvin could go back on the deal, go to a lawyer or call a cop and say he was forced to sign. Larry moved the gun from his left hand to his right hand. There was only one thing left for Larry to take care of.
Halfway back to Deep Lake Lodge, Larry pulled off Forest Road 411, shut off his lights and drove the car slowly through the woods on an old, abandoned railroad grade that was now used only by hunters and fishermen. The moon that night wasn’t particularly bright, but once his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, he could move the car confidently, if slowly, over the hill and down the primitive forest road. Perhaps a quarter mile off the road, he put the car in park, left the engine running and pulled the heavy black duffel bag up into the front seat next to him. Easing out into the freezing night air, he carefully pulled the floor mats out of the car and laid them neatly side by side in the orange, leafy dirt of the old trail. He stripped off his blood-stained overcoat first, the blood-splattered shoes he had bought in Superior next, and then the rest of his clothes. He shivered uncontrollably in the night air as he rummaged through the black bag pulling out a complete change of clothes. He pulled on his favorite slacks, a sweater, and his lace-up shoes, then tucked his gun into his belt. Then he pulled on the topcoat he’d worn every day since arriving in northern Wisconsin. In a minute, he had everything else back in the bag, and with just four quick strides over to the old stump he had spotted the previous day, he dumped the bag, contents and all, and covered it with leaves. By eight in the evening, he had returned the rental car to the airport in Superior. By ten, he had made it back to the bar at the lodge in his original rental car. Along with several regulars, he took in the late news with a cold beer, some batter-fried cod and french fries.
Every day, Larry wondered how they would find the old man. Initially, he just assumed some passerby would see the fire and within hours everyone in the county would hear. On the fifth day, it was Willie Olson, the propane gas deliveryman, that didn’t get the answer he always had when visiting Melvin. Walking back around the outbuildings, he found the remains of the burned-out old shed, the car, and a half-empty bottle of booze just feet from the charred remains. Later they found Melvin—what was left of him—burned to death, probably in a drunken stupor trapped under one of those old cars he had been working on. Looked like he had been smoking a pipe while changing a gasoline fuel filter. Bad idea. With the fire, the autopsy was difficult. Melvin had been ill. He was ancient. Didn’t take very good care of himself. Always working on those cars. There wasn’t much to autopsy but the old coroner did find a bullet in the body. It was damaged, but it had survived the fire. The bullet appeared to be lodged in the abdomen. Hard to tell. Melvin had seen plenty of action when he was in the Army. That bullet could’ve been there for years. Murders didn’t really happen in this part of the state. The death was ruled accidental. It seemed nobody would ever discover the truth about the final fleeting seconds of Melvin Baker’s life.
CHAPTER 2
“Why don’t you be realistic—just for five minutes.” It was Sheldon Mack, chief environmental negotiator for Arbor Resources. Arbor was seeking to do a major expansion at a medium-sized refinery in Superior, Wisconsin. All of that shale oil coming out of North Dakota was creating a real opportunity for refining oil in the northern U.S. and they were in Superior at a hearing for the Department of Natural Resources.
“And in whose world should we be realistic,” asked Taylor, “your world or the world everyone else lives in?” Taylor glowered over her horn-rimmed glasses and looked down the full length of the conference room table to Sheldon.
“My world is the real world,” shot back Sheldon. “I live in the world where people have to put bread on the table and a roof over their head.”
“…and an environmental nightmare in their backyard,” continued Taylor.
“No, not an environmental nightmare,” bellowed Sheldon, “a comprehensive and responsible plan for managing environmental impact.”
“The people of the state of Wisconsin don’t want environmental impact, much less a plan for dealing with it,” Taylor interrupted. “Your proposal is neither comprehensive or responsible and the people of Wisconsin just won’t accept it. I can’t believe I made the trip up here to Superior to listen to the same old crap.”
Jansen, the Empire Oil representative, could not stay out of the fray any longer.
“To which people of Wisconsin are you referring, Ms. Thompson? Certainly, you
are not including the more than eleven thousand people in the Superior area who signed the petition to ask the DNR to grant the waivers required to expand the refinery?”
“I am sensitive to the economic importance of your facility to the people of northern Wisconsin. But I’m not about to mortgage the health and well-being of future generations of our people, our water, or our forests while big oil companies pillage our state,” said Taylor matter-of-factly.
“We are not pillaging your state,” said Sheldon angrily. “We have proposed more than eleven million dollars in environmental investments specifically designed to meet your concerns.”
Taylor was hot. “You know as well as I do that eleven million is the absolute minimum amount you think you can get away with to do business here and you are wrong. If you don’t get serious about making a commitment, I’m recommending to the governor that we shut this expansion down.”
“Shut us down? You can’t just shut us down! This would create three thousand jobs. And frankly, the area could really use it.” Said Sheldon.
“Not only can we shut this down, gentlemen—we will,” said Taylor. “Now, you boys better do some serious talking with your management before we get back together on the tenth. I don’t want to keep wasting my time. Thank you all for coming today. Unless there is something else, I believe we are adjourned.”
Both sides of the table had been lined with representatives from Big Oil, Big Labor and state government. With Taylor’s concluding remarks, a thunderous squeaking, groaning and grinding ensued as the more than two dozen big old leather chairs slid back across the old oak floors and people rose up from around the table. It was a show of the power—and the respect—commanded by Taylor Thompson, the Director of the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources. The entourage rolled out of the Douglas County Courthouse, a beautiful, brick-and-limestone building, constructed in 1919. As she exited the Belknap Street side of the Courthouse, the camera crews were ready. This afternoon, like so many others, Taylor was likely to be a good lead-in to the six o’clock news. She was not only flamboyant, but was also able to put environmental issues in a light that made them seemingly relevant to some of the most pro-capitalist, conservative businessmen in the state. Taylor Nicole Thompson, often called “TNT” by friends and foes alike, was always ready for a good fight—and a good show.
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