Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “It sounds like…fun. How far along are you?”

  “I’m on page nine hundred thirty-eight.”

  “So you’re…”

  “About halfway, I think.”

  Stan picked up his glass and drained it in one swallow. “Honey,” he called out, shaking his empty glass in the air. “So, what can I do for you, my young friend? I’m sure you didn’t drop by to ask me about my book.”

  “I was wondering if you knew anything about a little place off of Fremont called Ray’s Market?”

  “Ray’s Market,” he repeated, staring upward as he chewed. “No, don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “Really? Nothing? It’s across the street from Kitty’s.”

  “No, sorry, not that I can recall. Why do you ask?”

  “A friend of mine’s been seen going in there.”

  “So?”

  “So, I hear it’s not the kind of place she should be going into.”

  “Why? What kind of place is it?”

  I looked around to make sure no one was listening. Stan looked to see who I was looking for. “A front.”

  “A front for what?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me, and who’s behind it.”

  The waitress delivered Stan’s cocktail. He thanked her, and she left. He took a drink, this time a smaller one, and then wiped his mouth with the napkin tucked under his chin. “If you’re thinking the mob is running an illegal gambling den, you’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are.”

  “Are you sure? I have it on good authority that—”

  “Trip, it’s me you’re talking to. Your good authority is wrong. The families don’t do that kind of thing in Las Vegas because they don’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Stan put down his fork and lowered his voice a little. “Trip, do you know why the mafia moved into Las Vegas in the first place?”

  “To run the casinos,” I answered.

  “Right, gambling—legal gambling. They don’t need places like you’re talking about. Look around you, do you really think the families are going to waste their time on something as small-time as a storefront gambling den? Not having to operate such places is precisely why the mob settled in Las Vegas in the first place. You see, when Bugsy and Meyer built the Flamingo twenty years ago, it was because New York needed an alternative to Cuba. Fidel and his merry band of revolutionaries were on the rise, and the families saw the writing on the wall. Las Vegas was that alternative. This was their chance to do business legally right here in the good ol’ US of A. Oh sure, there might be some shady financing going on using union pension funds and such, but nobody cares much about that—unless you’re a Kennedy. And yes, there are some low-end boys dabbling in illegal strip joints like Kitty’s—a couple fellas from the Chicago Outfit are behind that place—but as far as illegal gambling parlors? No. And if someone is stupid enough to be doing that, and trust me on this one, it will be short lived…literally short lived, if you catch my meaning.”

  “What about the underground drug trade? I hear that’s the thing now.”

  Stan picked up his fork and made a sour face. “Highly unlikely. There are some young upstarts who’ve been trying to stick their toe in that cesspool, but thus far, the old bosses have vehemently opposed it and steered clear. No, if your market is something other than a market, I’m sure none of the families are behind it.”

  Stan went back to his lobster, and I sat back in my chair. As much as I was hoping he would shed light on things, he didn’t. Instead, I was forced to consider maybe Priscilla was wrong about Ray’s. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Rosie was wrong.

  “Thank you, Stan. I appreciate it.”

  “Not at all, my young friend. Just don’t go blabbing it all over town. Wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

  “Of course, lips sealed. And if there’s anything I can do for you—”

  “I hear Dino’s coming in this week,” he said with a sly grin.

  I nodded. “I’ll make sure two tickets are waiting for you this Saturday.”

  His sly grin became a broad smile. “One ticket will suffice.”

  “Stan, can I ask you about something else? Different subject?”

  “Of course,” he answered, tearing into his second lobster.

  “Have you ever heard of a place up in the desert called The Ranch?”

  Stan stopped mid-bite. He scanned the room the way I had done. “How do you know about that?”

  “A friend told me.”

  “What friend? No, forget I asked, I don’t want to know.”

  “So you have heard of it?”

  He wiped his mouth, looked around again, and then leaned in close. “Trip, I’ll talk to you all night about the mafia, the Chicago Outfit, or anybody else. Just not about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s off limits, even to me. It needs to be off limits to you too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Good, make sure you stay that way.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Trip. I don’t know how you know about that place, or what you know about that place. But the fact that you even know enough to ask me about that place puts you in danger. Grave danger. Do you understand?”

  “I’m already in danger,” I responded with more edge than I’d intended. I let out a long breath and ran my hand down my face. “Stan, in the last forty-eight hours, two close friends of mine have been killed, and I think I could be next. I won’t go into details because you wouldn’t want me to, but I think that place in the desert is at the center of it. So, if you can tell me anything….”

  Stan stared at me for a long moment—a long, silent moment.

  I added, “The police won’t even—”

  “Stay away from the police,” he said, cutting me off. He reached into his jacket, took out a pen and notepad. He talked as he scribbled, “Do you know where the town of Blue Diamond is?”

  “It’s about twenty or thirty miles west of here out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?”

  “Right. It’s on the Old Spanish Trail. Drive toward Blue Diamond. About halfway there you’ll come to a railroad crossing. There’s a dirt road next to it heading in one direction. Go down that road about a mile or so, then stop. You have a flashlight?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Good, you’ll need it. Get out of your car and start walking. You’ll see several No Trespassing signs posted by the Union Pacific Railroad. Eventually you’ll be greeted by some folks. Ask for Skipper. Give him this.” He tore the paper out of his notepad, folded it, and then handed it to me.

  “Who’s Skipper?”

  “The person who’ll answer the questions you shouldn’t be asking.”

  “Why will this Skipper person answer my questions and you won’t?”

  “Because Skipper doesn’t have anything left to…he just will.”

  I nodded and put the folded paper in my pocket.

  “And take off your sport coat.”

  “Why?”

  “Just take it off.”

  I picked up the glass of Irish whiskey, threw it back, and then stood. “Thank you, Stan. You’re a pal.”

  I offered my hand, but Stan didn’t shake it. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t want it to look like he’d passed on information to me, or if it was because his hands were dripping with melted butter. I prefer to think the latter.

  “Trip,” he said as I started to walk away, “I mean it, be careful. There aren’t many things in this city that scare me. But what you’re looking into…just watch your step, my young friend.”

  “Your tickets for Dean will be at the door this Saturday. Thanks, Stan.”

  And with that, I departed as another round of keno was about to begin.

  It took me driving over the railroad crossing twice before identifying the dirt road where Stan had instructed me to turn. Once I did
, I continued the requisite one mile before stopping. With a deep breath and more courage than I’m usually required to summon, I grabbed the flashlight out of the glove box, got out of the car, took off my jacket, and started walking.

  It was the antithesis of the Glitter Gulch. It was also the last place in the universe I wanted to be; in the middle of wide-open nothingness. Thankfully, the moon hung high in the clear night sky, keeping me out of total darkness, a true blessing from above given my flashlight only illuminated the terrain in front of me by a mere three feet at the most. I couldn’t see or hear anybody, but the smell of burning wood that permeated the air signaled human life must be near. I had no sooner made that calculation when two men suddenly appeared in my path. They looked as startled as I was.

  “Don’t hurt us, sir. We ain’t causing no trouble,” one of the men begged.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I replied.

  “Are you a bull?” the other man asked.

  “No, I’m a trumpet player.”

  The two men looked at each other, and before I knew it, another man appeared, and then three more men after that. Within seconds, more than a dozen men stood huddled together on the road in front of me. They varied in age from very old to one who looked to be a teenager. Some wore hats, about half had on old sport coats, and although their clothes were old and tattered, each man looked to be clean and relatively well kept.

  “My name is Trip Callaway. I’m looking for the skipper.”

  No one said anything.

  “Do you know the skipper?” I asked.

  Again, no response.

  “I was sent by a mutual friend, Stanley O’Malley.” I reached into my pocket and took out the folded piece of paper. “Stanley told me to give this to the skipper.”

  After more silence, a middle-aged man cut through to the front of the group. He was tall and lean, but not in an undernourished kind of way. He removed his wide-brimmed hat before speaking. “You a friend of Stan’s?”

  “Yes, a good friend. I was with him less than an hour ago.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Riviera, in the keno lounge.”

  He paused and then asked, “Is Stan winning?”

  “He’s eating and drinking…quite a bit, actually.”

  It wasn’t my intent, but this caused all the men to laugh.

  “Are you the skipper?”

  “Not the skipper, just Skipper.”

  I nodded.

  “Let me see that,” he said, pointing to the note in my hand.

  I handed him the paper. He removed bifocals from his shirt pocket, rested them on his nose, unfolded the note, and began to read. “Do you know what this says?” he asked, still looking down.

  “No, I didn’t read it. Stan wrote it to you.”

  “It says I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “It also says you’re okay, and I can trust you.”

  “That’s nice. I mean, it’s nice he said that.”

  He looked up and stared long at me, obviously sizing me up. Finally, he said, “You want a cup of joe?”

  “I’d love some,” I answered.

  “Come on, it’s this way.”

  With the others following close behind, Skipper led me off the road, through a forest of sage brush, and into a concealed clearing. The encampment was roughly a hundred-square-foot parcel consisting of tents, blankets, and sleeping bags. I straightaway noticed two fire pits burning strong. The one in the center of the camp had a steel grate fashioned above it supporting a tin coffee pot. The pit on the periphery had a large iron kettle sitting directly on the burning wood. I surmised this fire pit wasn’t for preparing food, based on the man in his undershorts dropping clothes into the kettle.

  Skipper said, “He’s boiling his duds. It helps prevent lice and fleas. If you’re going to be a part of this jungle, we require it. Go on, have a seat,” he said, placing a chair by the fire for me to sit on.

  “Jungle?” I asked.

  “It’s what we boes call our community.”

  “Boes?”

  “Hobos. That’s what we are.” Using a pair of pliers, Skipper picked up the coffee pot and poured the liquid into a tin cup. “I hope you like it black because that’s all I can offer,” he said, handing me the cup.

  “Black’s perfect.”

  As I took a sip, I could sense all the men looking on and eagerly awaiting my reaction. I can proudly report I made no face, no snorts, not a single thing to insinuate displeasure with my beverage. It was perhaps the most putrid thing I’d ever ingested.

  Skipper took off his hat, sat down next to me, and continued, “We’re not tramps, we’re not bums, we’re hobos. We work for a living.”

  Like a congregation responding Amen! to the preacher, all the men mumbled an affirmative to Skipper’s declaration.

  He continued, “Tramps only work when they’re made to, and bums don’t work at all, they live on handouts. We hobos work for our money, riding the rails from town to town, picking up honest labor where we can. This is our home base.”

  I pointed to the first two men I met on the road. “These two gentlemen asked if I was a bull. What’s that?”

  “A railroad security officer. They’re heartless thugs with no souls or an inkling of kindness for their fellow man.”

  Again, his congregation audibly responded.

  “The bulls don’t care if you’re causing trouble or not, which most of us boes never do. They just like beating us up for sport.”

  “Can’t the police help you?” I asked.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  Skipper explained, “To the law, we’re all nothing but a bunch of bindle-toting criminals. Yes, it’s illegal to ride the rails, but that don’t make what the bulls do to us right. Besides, we’re not hurting anybody or costing the railroad one fool dime. The only person we’re putting in danger is ourselves. No, sir, it’s not right. It’s just not right.”

  This elicited actual applause from his small but devoted audience. I nodded and choked down another sip of mud from my cup.

  “But you didn’t come all the way out here to talk about that. You want to know what I can tell you about Paradise Ranch.”

  I was momentarily taken aback. I knew he was referring to the same place Ken had called The Ranch. “So I guess Stan’s note said—”

  “Stan’s note didn’t say anything about it.”

  “Then how do you know that’s why I’m here?”

  “Because knowing about that place is all I’ve got that’s worth anything. Question is, why does a nice fella like you want to know about The Ranch?”

  I decided to give it to him straight. “A friend of mine said he worked there and was approached by Russian spies. I didn’t believe him, but now he’s dead, and I’m thinking I might have been wrong. I also think those same spies are now after me.”

  “Why?”

  “They think my friend gave me something. I don’t know what, but whatever it is, they’ve ransacked my home and threatened my life. That’s why I need to know about The Ranch. I need to know if it’s real or not.”

  Skipper leaned in. “Your friend actually told you he worked at The Ranch?”

  “Yes, he did,” I answered.

  Skipper shook his head and smiled. “Well, isn’t that something? He must have been plenty scared.” For a moment, he only stared into the fire. Then he stood, picked up the pliers, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat back down and then ran his hand through his bushy gray hair. “It’s a remote detachment of Edwards Air Force Base located about ninety miles northwest of Las Vegas in a miserable dry salt flat called Groom Lake. It’s situated inside the Department of Energy’s Atomic Bomb Testing Range, but the nuke boys have nothing to do with it.”

  “Who does?”

  “Guess,” Skipper replied.

  “Well, if it’s an airbase, I’m going to say the air force?”
/>
  “You would think, wouldn’t you? No, Area 51, as it’s officially known, is owned and operated by the CIA.”

  “The CIA?” I replied. “The spies?”

  “One and the same.”

  “How do you know? I mean, I’m not questioning you, but—”

  “Because they were my boss. I used to work there.”

  It’s possible I might have jolted back in my chair. “You were a spy?

  Skipper laughed. “Not everyone who works for the Central Intelligence Agency is a spy. I was what they called a security specialist. I made sure the people who didn’t belong at Area 51 didn’t get in and vice versa. I also made sure their clever little secrets stayed secret. By whatever means I had to.”

  “You mean…you’d kill people?”

  “I never had to resort to it, but yes, I was authorized to use deadly force if necessary.”

  “For crying out loud, what do they do up there?”

  “It’s a secret,” he answered.

  All the men around us laughed.

  Skipper continued, “It’s possible your friend was approached. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Russkies have tried to infiltrate Dreamland.”

  “Dreamland?”

  “Another nickname for Area 51. It has a few: Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Watertown, The Farm, Homey Airport. What was your friend’s name?”

  “Ken Baldwin. Did you know him?”

  “No, but I’ve been gone for a while. Besides, there’s hundreds of people working up there now. Was he a driver?”

  “A driver?” I responded.

  “That’s what they call pilots up there.”

  “No, he wasn’t a pilot, but he did work for Lockheed Aircraft.”

  Skipper smiled. “A Skunk Works’ brain, huh?”

  “A what?”

  “Skunk Works is an alias for the Advanced Development Projects division of Lockheed. Dreamland is their playground. Their job is to design and build the impossible, and let me tell you, they’re building some things up there that defy the basic laws of physics. Their work is highly classified and flies under the radar of all normal government oversight—pun intended. If your friend was working for Skunk Works at The Ranch, then yes, he knew some secrets, and he very well could have been targeted by the Russians. Especially since the whole Gary Powers incident.”