The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  Marcus, Catch, and Bo had stayed with Mom after the Hawaii job where they were nursed back to health. She’d known them for years and first commented on his graying hair then.

  “I think his on-again-off-again girlfriend is pretty much off.”

  “Well, he will have a hard time finding a woman out in the middle of nowhere among the bears.”

  The squeak of brakes outside announced CC’s bus. Tinker Juarez shot into the front room and leapt on the couch and stared out the picture window, his tail going a mile a minute.

  “Remove yourself from my furniture, Tinker Juarez!”

  “Does that ever work?”

  “No. But it makes me feel better. Go greet your sister, Case. And remember I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  We hugged and kissed, and I headed for the front door.

  Chapter 18

  I spent the next day with CC at the Isle of Palms Beach before the five-hour drive to Morehead City and the Ace of Spades. Crowds were sparse, the Atlantic calm, and the water bathtub-warm. We walked several miles along the water’s edge with occasional knee-deep dips and constant stops so Tinker—on a leash—could check out interesting dog artifacts like pieces of crab and several dead fish.

  “Thank you for the sunglasses, Case.”

  We’d spent almost an hour at a small shop selecting CC’s eyewear. I didn’t mind one whit, and I relished the opportunity to partake in a major CC decision.

  “You’re welcome, my love. Let me know when you’re hungry, and we’ll turn around and go get some beach food. How does a hot dog sound?”

  “Ooh. A hot dog. Can I get one with ketchup?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tinker Juarez would like his plain.”

  “Then that’s what Tinker Juarez will have. How are your feet?”

  We’d removed our sneakers, and I tied shoelaces together and strung our footwear over my shoulder.

  “Sandy. Why does Tinker Juarez smell all these things?”

  “Dogs like interesting smells. He must find those things interesting.”

  “I want to find a special shell. I want to give it to Mom. For a gift.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  She dug her toe along the wave line, a keen eye toward the mini-furrow created.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, still searching the sand.

  “I’m headed for a place called Nevada. It’s another state.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Not too far.”

  “Where’s your boat?”

  “The Ace is a kinda long drive from here.”

  “Is Nevada a kinda long drive?”

  “I’ll take an airplane, love.”

  She finished her inspection as another wave sent its sheen of water onto the wet sand.

  “I’m glad I have a home.”

  “I’m glad you have one, too. I’ve got a home, CC. It’s the Ace of Spades. You know.”

  “You said it is a long drive from here. And it keeps moving.”

  We strode along, often hand-in-hand, and kept an eye out for attractive seashells. It was a marvelous morning and early afternoon. The beach hot dog stand had a shaded awning with a few tables and chairs. A light breeze off the Atlantic kept the temperature and humidity from being too miserable. The hot dogs were excellent, CC’s with ketchup, mine with chili, Tinker’s plain. CC would break off pieces for Tinker and kept casting glances at my selection. She was too polite to ask, so I used a plastic knife and gave her half. The simple act lit up her face.

  “Will you ever have a home, Case? Not on a boat, I mean.”

  A thought she’d held onto for over an hour and a question I’d cogitated on more than a few times. I’d had a home with Rae in Savannah. A small, neat bungalow situated in a quiet neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if CC remembered it and wouldn’t pick at that scab.

  “Maybe one day. Tinker Juarez loves his hot dog.”

  “He loves chicken more than anything, but Mom says the bones will make him sick, and I have to be very, very careful. When is one day?”

  “I can’t tell you for sure, love. But it will be near your home, I promise.”

  “How close?”

  “Close enough so I can buy you ice cream often.”

  “Chocolate ice cream?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tinker Juarez likes vanilla.”

  “And that is exactly what he will have.”

  “And I will have chocolate.”

  “You will have chocolate.”

  I was grateful she’d moved on from the home discussion. The Ace didn’t hold the mobile advantage once required when I’d had the bounty on my head. But life on a boat, traveling the hundreds of Ditch miles, suited a shadowland existence. For how long was the big question, one highlighted by my relationship with Jess. To Jess’s credit, she never pushed the subject, although our patio discussion at her house pointed toward a required resolution.

  The previous night we’d dined out over Mom’s objections.

  “It doesn’t seem right,” she’d said. “Spending money to eat when we can do that here at home.”

  “It’ll give you a break from cooking.”

  “So you’ll go and pay some other person to do what I like to do. What do you think, Peter?”

  Peter Brooks had arrived late afternoon, looking natty in khakis, Polo shirt, and bright-polished loafers. He knew from long experience to remain without opinion regarding dining out and replied with a shrug.

  “How about some nice fresh grilled fish? A place with nuclear-powered AC?” I asked.

  Charleston was in the summer doldrums. Hot and sticky with shade-seeking slow movement—a legit strategy for preventing sweat-plastered clothing. I think the AC comment did the trick, and Mom relented. We had a great time. CC and I shared a peach cobbler with ice cream after the entrée, holding a joyous and brief spoon fight over the last crusty bit. CC won.

  “I read something about those mining operations you’re headed for,” Peter had said. “It’s a big deal, at least regarding the rare earth potential. I’d never considered those minerals until now. The article also mentioned the industrialist, Simko.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Peter had picked up a news blurb on the operations. Retired, he’d become a voracious news consumer.

  “Yeah, he’s a hardball operator. I don’t know who has the upper hand in Nevada, him or the Canadians.”

  “Who had the upper hand in Bolivia?” he asked.

  “It looks like the Canadians will come out on top down there.”

  Thin ice. Peter had a better than vague idea what I did for a living. Activities well beyond investigations. I had confirmed his suspicions when I last saw him. He’d helped change the dressing for a back wound I couldn’t reach. I’d asked him to keep it between us two. Now that he consumed so much news—including world events—there was a chance he’d gain greater insight into my business, or at least the aftermath. Most folks enjoyed discussing their careers and swapping work stories. It was the last thing I wanted. My professional and personal worlds maintained a steel-and-concrete separation barrier. Helluva way to live, but I wasn’t alone. The shadow world contained plenty in the same boat.

  That night I’d searched for news on Nevada rare earth mining. The first search result was an article detailing a meet and greet between the Nevada governor and Andris Simko, complete with a handshake and two-smile photo. I dug around for Exponent Mining’s publicity efforts with a focus on their activities at the state capital, Carson City. Nothing, nada. It was clear the Canadians didn’t play that game. The political intel prompted a quick deep-web note for the Clubhouse. I hoped Jules could root around on her personal sticky intel web and pick up a few rumors or hints or innuendos.

  Heading for Nevada. Issues?

  After returning from the beach and a hot dog lunch, I said my goodbyes with Mom, CC, and Peter and headed north. A long drive later I was on board the Ace and packed my r
ucksack with a hard eye toward weaponry. I’d catch a Salt Lake City commercial flight and make the three-hour drive into Nevada and the mining area. Checking weapons as luggage wasn’t a big deal—during hunting season the airlines handled tens of thousands of hard-sided cases filled with hunting rifles and shotguns. My selection wouldn’t point toward sport.

  Later I perched on the foredeck throne with a Grey Goose and ice. Lots of ice. Morehead City’s lights reflected across the water, traffic light as the town settled in for the night. I wore cotton gym shorts and flip-flops and nothing else. I hoped for an Atlantic Ocean breeze to cool things off, but no luck. The temperature had dropped into the eighties, but the humidity remained. A towel draped over the throne absorbed the sweat across my back. Jess rang me.

  “How is your family doing?” she asked.

  “Dandy. I was able to wrangle Mom out for dinner. Where the AC blew with arctic efficiency. Right now, I’m sitting on the throne nursing a drink with a towel under me collecting sweat. Where are you?”

  “First, I failed to emphasize how relieved I am you are back. These Case Lee contracts are a far cry from a real estate convention in Cincinnati.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Interesting people, chitchat regarding whose turf is whose, not great food. In many ways, same-same.”

  “I’m sure. I forgot to dig further on a serious question while you sat in the Atlanta airport. Did any firing pins strike primer while you were down there?”

  She asked if I’d fired any bullets. As an ex-cop, she was all too aware of firearm mechanics. I’d prepped for the question regarding violence and offered a half-truth.

  “I had to scare away a few highway robbers.”

  To my relief, she didn’t press that aspect. Whether she believed me or suspected much more would remain, at this point in our relationship, in the dark.

  “Well, I am glad you are back and sweating it out on your luxury liner. When are you Nevada-bound?”

  “Tomorrow. It shouldn’t take but a few days there. Where are you?”

  “Where summer is remarkably pleasant. It’s in the low eighties and cools off into the sixties at night. And it’s low humidity, which is weird given all the rain they get the rest of the year. Oh, and it is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. The emerald green here has a different shade and texture than what we have on the East Coast.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty stunning. When it’s not drizzling. You got any speeding tickets yet?”

  “A speeding ticket would necessitate me driving this rental car down a steep slope. I’m not sure if I should fill the tank with gas or feed the hamsters under the hood that power this thing.”

  “You don’t want angry hamsters. How’s the job going?”

  “Let’s see. There’s murder, familial mayhem, grand lies, and ugly looks. So it’s par for the course.”

  “Be careful.”

  “This coming from a man who uses Hoppe’s No. 9 as a cologne.”

  She referenced a popular gun-cleaning solvent. We chatted about our next rendezvous, her Scrabble games, and new purchases. Jess often admitted online shopping was a relief valve. Shoes were the current month’s flavor. It was a warm and comfortable conversation, just right.

  We signed off, and I made another drink, opened the laptop, and researched the upcoming operational geography. I’d driven through Nevada several times, impressed with both the varied terrain and isolation. Instances when dropping off mountain passes I could see twenty-plus miles stretched out before me with no other vehicle in sight. The big lonely existed in many places across the western states, with road signs stating Next Gas Service 100 miles, and Open Range Next 50 Miles. No fuel, wandering cattle, and you are on your own. Some folks, like me, relished the solitude. It frightened others.

  My operational area was no different. The tiny town of Montello, population fifty, was the takeoff point for an unpaved road through massive ranches and Bureau of Land Management federal lands. Thirty miles on gravel would bring me to KDB’s operations. Another fifteen empty miles would land me at Exponent’s site.

  Both mines operated within Elko County, which occupied Nevada’s entire northeast corner. At over seventeen thousand square miles, it was the fourth-largest county in the US outside Alaska. Both Idaho and Utah bordered it, and fifty thousand souls occupied it. The small city of Elko contained the lion’s share. Mining and ranching were the primary economic drivers in that neck of the woods.

  My soon-to-be turf sat at five-thousand-feet elevation, which, while hot in the summer, offered relief at night with temperatures dropping into the fifties. It contained several small mountain ranges with a few rising ten thousand feet. The remaining terrain showed signs on Google Earth of being rugged broken hills and plains. Sagebrush country. Lonely country.

  I checked messages and saw one from Jules in response to my “Issues?” email. It had taken twenty-four hours for her spiderweb’s tendrils to pick up vibrations, noise. She filled her usual brief and cryptic response with caution.

  High-velocity ones.

  So much for quiet times in Elko County. I absorbed her message with disappointment, not surprised, and pissed. Andris Simko was probably licking his wounds from the Bolivia defeat and had doubled down in Nevada. I wouldn’t pack light in the weaponry department.

  You’re on US turf now, you son of a bitch. My turf.

  Chapter 19

  A Raleigh, North Carolina, to Salt Lake City flight plus a three-hour drive landed me in Montello, Nevada, early afternoon. It was little more than a wide spot along Highway 233, and the stated fifty-person population seemed a touch inflated. A railroad track ran along the highway opposite the town. Smart money would bet it had more traffic than the hardtop, which remained empty as I parked and took a stroll. A few desultory trees and small shuttered brick buildings, a tiny motel, and a gas station that was closed even though the modest sign showed it was open. Plus a bar. Always a bar, the social hub for the few locals. And another base of operations.

  The motel’s roof sagged over the six available rooms. I wandered into the open office where a black cat perched on the counter greeted me with an unblinking stare. An old poster taped on a wall depicted a locomotive pulling a mile-long string of rail cars. Several years-old Field and Stream magazines lay scattered across the one table. There were no chairs. I rang an old-fashioned desk bell that sat forlorn near the cat. The single high-pitched ring created scuffling from a back room.

  The man entered the desk area wearing gray pants and what used to be a white T-shirt. He smiled, nodded, and asked if he could help. I took a room for four nights, letting him know my stay might be less or more days.

  “Not a problem,” he said, sliding a guest card toward me.

  It took him a while to find a pen.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  The cat, inches from my writing hand, didn’t budge. I gave the critter ear scratches, which it leaned into.

  “’Bout the same as always.”

  “Do you get much traffic here?”

  “I do alright when railroad workers repair a nearby stretch of track. Then there’s the fishermen.”

  “Fishermen?”

  I stood smack-dab in the middle of arid high desert. Not where you’d expect prime fishing.

  “Yeah. There’s a stocked lake ten miles away. A private lake. Must have big fish, because in the spring and fall I get anglers from Salt Lake City and Boise.”

  It must have been a great lake. Boise was at least a five-hour drive.

  “How goes the mining operations?”

  He shook his head, disappointed, and edged the cat away with his hand.

  “They stay at the sites. Both operations hauled in a bunch of trailers. They also hauled in fuel tanks, so our little gas store doesn’t see much traffic from them either.”

  “What about the bar?”

  “Yeah, they get customers. Not a lot, but those mining folks come in to wet their whistle every few days.”

  He stated the room
price, which wouldn’t cover the mini-bar tab in a large urban hotel.

  “That will be cash. I don’t do credit cards.”

  Paid up, I checked out the room and took a town walking tour. There were several seen-better-days houses and trailers. Someone had laid down asphalt on two of Montello’s city streets. Not a soul stirred, and not a vehicle passed on the highway. All the place lacked was a few tumbleweeds rolling down the streets. I stopped in the bar.

  It was dark, with a decent-sized bar top and a dozen tables. I became the sole patron. A gray-haired lady with a leathered face emerged from a tiny kitchen. The liquor bottle lineup behind the bar had a minimal selection. Grey Goose wasn’t among the choices. I ordered a beer, and she introduced herself as Martha.

  “Hi, Martha. I’m Case.”

  “What part of the world are you from?” she asked, pulling a cold one from a small refrigerator.

  “Back east. I’m here for a few days, checking on the mining operations.”

  “Are you some kind of reporter?”

  “Something like that. It looks like you serve food here.”

  Not a trivial statement—it was at least an hour’s drive to the next town that might have a restaurant.

  “I do. Eggs and sausage in the morning. You get two choices at night. Either a burger without fries or a steak. The supplier hasn’t been by in a while with the frozen fries, but I can serve a baked potato with either the burger or steak. The meat’s good, I can tell you that.”

  Martha spoke with pride, smiled, and lit a smoke. Several ashtrays ran the bar top’s length.

  “I bet. And I’m likely a regular customer for a few days. Coffee in the morning?”

  “You bet. As long as you aren’t looking for something fancy.”

  “Good to know, and I’m not. How’s business?”

  “I’ve had an uptick since the miners moved in. Some of those boys are rough stock, I’ll tell you. Particularly the foreigners.”

  Not a surprise. Miners could be a rowdy bunch, and both mines were foreign-operated. The bar’s door swung open, and a shaft of bright sunlight entered, along with a man in his midthirties. He wore pressed jeans, a neat shirt, and a holstered semiautomatic pistol at his side. Nevada was an open-carry state, but my head wasn’t prepared for an armed entrance given the relaxed environment. I hadn’t heard his vehicle’s arrival because the lone window-unit AC worked overtime, keeping the bar’s interior semicool.