by L. J. Martin
"No rockets or mortars, I hope."
"Homemade, if there are." I smile. Like I said, it's best he doesn't know.
"We've got a lot next to an equipment yard. A house burned down there two years ago, and we put in four RV hookups using the water and septic that used to serve the house. We've got one space there, and it's yours. Tell anyone who asks that you're renting. Amber will give you a map. Here's a little reading for you." He hands me an inch-thick binder.
"How do I keep in touch?"
"I've got a throwaway phone just for that reason." He hands me a slip with the number, then adds, "Mike, we've had three dozen deaths in the patch so far this year—a few of them related to booze or dope. More than a few of them at the hand of another human. Keep an eye on your six."
I smile and nod as if that goes without saying. "Nice seeing you, Colonel…."
"Oscar."
"Yes, sir, I'll try. You may not hear from me for a week or more."
"Don't get hurt," he says. "Some of these assholes play rough. I've had all the KIA's I want."
I laugh quietly. "If they didn't play rough, you wouldn't need me. I left the Queensberry Rules back in high school, as you well know."
I give him a sloppy salute that would have had me doing KP ten years ago, and head out to where the tall copper-blonde is working at a computer.
She looks up over half-glasses. "So, Mr. Reardon…."
"Mike."
"So, Mike, are you hired?"
I shrug. "Guess not, but I got a place to park my camper if that counts. I guess it pays to have served with the boss. He said you'd give me a map."
Giving her my most devastating smile, I take it from her well-manicured hand and start to leave.
"Hey, Mike, if you like a great steak, DiAngelo’s has the best Italian in North Dakota and great steaks."
"Thanks, I'll give it a try," I say and turn again.
And again, she calls after me, "And good music and a dance floor."
That stops me short. "And do you dance?" I ask.
"Like a dream. You?"
"Probably more like a nightmare, but I'm willing."
"See you around," she says and gives me a wink.
That calls for another smile in return. I give her a nod and head out.
The camper has electric jacks, so I have it off the truck, dropped, and the trailer parked next to it in minutes after driving to the east side of town and finding the place. I lock a ball into the hitch on the trailer to make it more difficult to steal, and sit a caltrop in front and behind each tire. If someone manages to get the trailer hooked up, both tires will instantly be blown. The snow hides the razor-sharp caltrops nicely. I keep a box of the devices under my seat just in case I'm pursued and want to put a stop to it.
One of the neighboring RV's is actually an old school bus with passenger windows painted out, obviously owned by a flower child—hard to picture one in the old patch—as it's covered with paintings and peace signs. Another is a forty-foot trailer with three cars parked next to it, and the third is a Lance camper much like mine. The forlorn foundation of the house is still on the front of the lot, and the rear is taken up by the RV's and a storage shed.
I can see that I'm not quite prepared. The water risers are covered with insulation and have electric heat tape circling them, not only above, but on into the underground portion. Won't do me any good to hook up without insulation and electric tape on my hose. I note that even the expandable sewer hoses from the other rigs are insulated. This means a trip to the hardware store before I hook up.
Good thing I made note of the Ace Hardware on Twenty-sixth Street as I did my quick turnaround last night. After not finding a place to hook up, I spent the night in their parking lot, until a cop rapped on my door, startling me awake like I was holed up in a bass drum. That was 4:00 a.m. He was kind enough to direct me to an all-night coffee shop but duty bound to run me off, informing me that the whole town would be covered with campers and trailers if they didn't keep a handle on things. It took me twenty minutes to get the ice off my windows so I could drive. Damn if Williston is not making Las Vegas look a little like Shangri-La.
I pick up heat tape, extension cords, a snow shovel, a small electric heater and—taking note of how my neighboring RV's are set up—a dozen bales of straw to rim the bottom of the camper. Then I spend another hour working my site down to the soil and rimming my temporary home.
It's lunch time before I get settled in enough so the cold doesn't shut down my living arrangements. I sneak out to see if the recommended DiAngelo's serves lunch—and they do.
The place is a little upscale for my taste, dark wood, red velvet, but if women like the beautiful Amber hang out there, I might make an exception. They do make a hell of a sausage sandwich, so I stuff one in. Since I don't plan to come face to face with any bad guys for a while, I knock down a half bottle, a split, of Zinfandel.
I've left the little electric heater working in the camper and expect it'll be toasty by the time I get back. Since it'll probably be nights I'm working, and I've enjoyed a fat sandwich and some good wine, I decide a nap is in order.
Tonight, maybe, I'll head back and cozy up to my new buddy, hatchet face.
3
It's 6:00 p.m. by the time I roll out of my cab-over bed and pull on a knit cap that covers the ears, a clean plaid hunting shirt, fleece-lined jeans, all-over new Under Armour long johns. My leather jacket and then a butt-length good-to-twenty-below North Face jacket almost completes the outfit. My .40 cal Glock and the proven-useful extendable baton clipped to my belt do so. Luckily, I can remove the North Face and the jacket still serves to hide the Glock. I'm so used to military-style boots that I almost feel naked without them, but I've bought a pair of thousand-gram Thinsulate hunting boots that are lots warmer. Although my crepe soles are quiet as hell, they're a little out of place in a steel-toe world, and low cuts are way too damn cold.
I have a concealed carry permit, issued by an old friend and schoolmate who's now the Sheriff of Sheridan County and who lives in my hometown of Sheridan, Wyoming. It allows me to carry, technically in thirty-six states, but it's not legal to have a loaded firearm in a place that serves booze. In fact, the baton is illegal in many states, even on the street, where the firearm is good to go. Only when the odds are very bad do I produce either. Then again, I don't want to take a knife to a gunfight. Been there, done that, and have an in-and-out scar in my side to prove it.
It's nice to have the truck free of the camper and trailer. There's a lot more spring in her step, but I'd rather be riding the Harley. I plan to get the tires studded so I have a chance on the ice. I'll take care of that tomorrow. But I still won't ride unless it's an emergency.
DiAngelo’s was such great food, I decide to try it again, and as I suspected when I had lunch there, it's an after-hours bar as well as a great restaurant. There aren't many neckties in all of Williston, but those that are worn here seem all to be gathered at the long dark wood bar, as are the women who might be attracted to the town's bankers, attorneys, and accountants. In jeans, plaid shirt, and hunting boots, I don't exactly fit in. But as I sip my beer, a few of the old boys from the oil patch begin to filter in, although even they aren't the oil-stained grease-spotted bunch that Rosie's attracts. These guys are middle management and above, some dressed only a step-up from my attire, but clean. The bar was only half full when I entered, but it's filled up. There's not an empty stool, and there’s a line of folks standing behind those sitting.
I'm deep in thought when someone pokes me in the ribs. I spin on the bar stool to come face to face with a beautiful copper blonde.
"Amber."
"The music doesn't start until nine," she says and gives me one of those brilliant smiles that would melt a weaker man but only makes my knees go a little weak.
"Love to try and stay off your toes, but I've got something scheduled." The fact is, the Colonel asked me to stay away from Owens-McKittrick, and I presume that meant from Owens-McK
ittrick employees as well. Damn it.
She laughs. "Didn't take you long to hook up in Williston, and with twenty men to every eligible female."
I can't help but grin. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but it's not that kind of scheduled entertainment. Can I buy you one drink before I get out of here?" She nods, and I ask, "What's your pleasure?"
"That might take a while to explain, but to drink, I'll take a Cosmo."
I turn and wave to the bartender. "Cosmo."
"Up or rocks," he asks. I didn't know they came on the rocks, but turn back.
"Up, of course," she says.
I slip off the stool. "Climb up here."
"I didn't come over to bum a drink or to run you off your seat."
"My mama, God rest her soul, would slap me silly if I let a lady stand while I sat on my lazy butt."
She climbs up on the stool and crosses her legs, showing enough perfectly tanned thigh that I get a jolt to my groin. I sigh deeply and silently damn Colonel Oscar Feuerstein.
"There you are, Amber!" The voice comes from over my shoulder and I turn to see a guy about my height, and as wide, dressed like he's modeling in GQ. He's eyeballing me like a bull at a bastard calf.
"Great, Tony," she says. "How are things at the PD?"
"Busy."
She nods to me but says to him. "Say hello to Mike."
The guy sticks out a slender but strong hand, and we shake.
"Tony DiAngelo," he says.
"Mike Reardon," I offer, not liking to give my real name, but Amber started it. Then I follow up, "DiAngelo, this your joint?"
"My old man's joint. I'm with the police department."
"Plain clothes…detective?" I ask.
"That's it. How about you, Mike?"
"Kicking around looking for work. Heard this was the place to find it."
"You can get on in the old patch in a blink of the eye if that's what you want. Hell, McDonald's is paying a three-hundred-buck signing bonus—not that you look like a burger flipper."
His tone is a little smartass and I think it's a subliminal insult, but I let it slide and smile with my reply. "I've done worse."
"Well, good luck," he says, not very sincerely, then he turns again to Amber. "I'm buying supper if you're ready." Then he turns back to me, "Don't get any ideas. She loves to make me jealous."
She giggles, then eyes me as she answers him, "I guess there's no other invitation." Then, to him, "So, sure. A girl has to eat."
"Nice meeting you, detective," I say. "Amber." I nod then turn to leave.
"Thanks for the drink," she calls after me, and I wave over my shoulder. DiAngelo doesn't reply, and I feel his eyes burn into my back as I head out.
It's time to check out Rosie's again and see if more trouble tries to climb on my back.
4
The bikini-clad mannequin still rides the rocking horse oil pump sign outside of Rosie's, and the parking lot is already full. This time I don't have the problem of dragging a trailer and I find a place nearer the front door. And this time, the door's not half-blocked by three simian throwbacks sucking down weed.
The place is jammed and, as before, the bar stools are covered with Carhartt-clad butts—none of them female. This time it's Rascal Flatts booming out Life is a Highway so loud you have to read lips.
I elbow my way through the crowd and move to a barmaid's station to order a drink. There's a sport coat clad, balding guy leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking a little like a bouncer, and he gives me a friendly nod as I move up. The old redhead is busy, but glances up and spots me. I smile and nod. She doesn't only come my way; she storms my way, and she's not smiling.
"You motherfucker," she spits. "You busted my kid's nose all to hell." The music is in changeover mode, and the rest of the bar hears her. Like they’re watching a tennis match, they turn their heads to me, then back to her, then back to both of us as she stops just across the bar.
"That was your kid?" I ask.
"That was my kid, Emmitt, and you're not welcome around here. So, get the fuck out."
I shrug and start to turn, but the guy who's leaning on the wall comes forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hold on," he says and not in an unfriendly way.
"I guess I've been eighty-sixed," I say.
"Not yet. I own this joint, and I know Maggie's kids. What happened?" he asks.
"The one who got his nose broke was trying to cut a chain off my trailer, and I doubt if it was because he needed two feet of chain. His buddy was trying to pry the door open, so I encouraged them to leave my property alone."
He turns to the redhead. "That what Emmitt told you?"
She's so mad she's sputtering. "He told me this asshole blindsided him for no reason—and used a ball bat on him."
"For good reason," I offer, "and it wasn't a ball bat, it was a little ol' three-eighths-of-an-inch baton." But she's not buying it.
"What are you drinking?" the boss man asks.
"Trout Slayer was good," I reply, and he nods at Maggie the bartender.
"Bullshit," she says but turns and heads for the beer cooler.
"Thanks," I say to the boss, and extend my hand. "Dick Strong."
"Paul Feldman."
"Who's Rosie?" I ask with a tight grin.
"She fell through the ice on the river about twenty years ago. Never knew the lady," he says with a sly grin. "I bought it from her estate."
"Thanks for the beer," I say, and pick up the one Maggie slams hard enough on the bar that it foams out the neck.
"My pleasure," he says. "If those assholes give you any more trouble, let me know." He waves as he heads for a door marked 'office.'
"Will do," I call after him, but I won't. I take care of my own problems.
I look for the hatchet-faced boy who, last night, made me the offer of damn near anything illegal but don't spot him. It's early yet, so maybe later. I shoot the bull with a couple of guys at the bar who are pipeline operators for Allegheny Petroleum, but learn nothing new as they seem to be hard-working guys who keep their noses clean, and who wish they were home with their families in Great Falls, Montana.
After downing my second beer, this one paid for out of my pocket, I decide to wander around the town and wait ‘til later to give Rosie's another tumble but have to hit the head first to get rid of some Trout Slayer. The johns are at the back of the place, down a hallway with a panic hardware exit door at the end.
I finish my business in the men's room, wash my hands and head out. A big round-faced guy with black bangs and Indian features is leaning on the wall at the business end of the hallway. He looks as if he was waiting for me to leave before he hit the head, and starts my way as soon as I exit. From six feet away, his fist comes up, and I get a glance of what appears to be wasp spray in his hand.
I don't quite get my eyes covered when the spray hits me full in the face and takes both my breath and vision away. He drives into me, running me a dozen feet backwards, and we crash through the door into a snow bank in the rear parking lot.
Not able to catch my breath, I feel myself being hammered from all sides. I go to my knees. Trying to cover up, I get off the snow bank and to the pavement and roll. Everywhere I go there's another blow from a pipe or two-by-four. There must be a half-dozen guys working me—until the lights go out.
Not out. Bright lights. Glaring lights. Not that I can open my eyes enough to see much. I reach up, feel my eyes and realize they're swollen badly, then pat around on my forehead and scalp and find a dozen very sore spots, some of them now shaved bald and sporting the sharp ends of stitches under thin gauze.
Not many times in my life have I been suckered, but I'm feeling like one now, and it feels like crap. It hurts with every breath; and with every breath I get more pissed. I manage to open an eye enough to see that one of the walls of the room is glass, and people are moving about outside.
I try to lift my left arm, then move my right hand over to feel a splint on my left from elbow to hand.
"About time you came around."
"Where am I?" I ask, then wince. My lips are split, top and bottom. I run my tongue around my mouth and am pleased to note that my teeth feel intact, but the stub of a stitch or two inside my swollen upper lip sticks my tongue. At least the odor of sweaty working men has been replaced by bleach and antiseptic.
"You're a guest of the Mercy Medical Center emergency room, and it's a good thing. You were about to freeze to death out there in the snow behind that terrible bar. You're lucky Mr. Feldman decided to have his swamper take a load of garbage out."
I manage to pry an eye open enough to see the face, and if I were feeling better, would be very pleased as she's a sandy-haired angel with eyes as blue as my grandmother's hydrangeas. Had I seen her before I found out where I was, I'd have thought I was in heaven.
"And you're an angel of mercy?" I manage and hear her pleasant laugh.
"I've been called worse," she says. "Stop flopping around. You've got an IV in your right wrist."
"Blood loss?" I ask.
"Hypothermia. Just replacing fluids and electrolytes. You'll be fine—now that you're awake."
"My wrist?"
"Slight break. You'll be wearing a cast for a while. What did you do to make somebody so mad? They beat the proverbial dog do do out of you."
"Must have been something I said," I answer then add, "are you a married angel of mercy, or can I go home with you?"
"I get hustled about ten times a day in this burg, buster, but that's the first time from a guy who's been unconscious for a day and a half and just came to."
"You've got to be kidding. I've been out…"
"For a day and a half. And it's none of your business if I'm married or not. I've got to go get the doctor and let her know you've come around."
"I hope she's your sister. Then again, there couldn't be two like you." It pains me to talk, but she's worth the hurt.
Her laugh is pleasant as she exits the room, but not pleasant enough to make my head quit hurting. I feel like somebody dropped my camper on it.
