The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  "Don't believe this guy for a minute," Paul said. "Tom thinks everything is a good time."

  Joel noted the friendly voice. He had apparently passed Paul's threat assessment.

  "So I've learned," Joel said.

  Paul turned to face Tom.

  "And speaking of good times, where were you last night? We missed you."

  "Ginny and I went to a movie. I knew my folks were planning a circus tonight so I wanted at least one quiet evening this weekend."

  Tom looked at Joel and brought him up to speed.

  "Paul went to a stag party last night. One of our fraternity brothers who graduated last year is getting married next week."

  "I see."

  Tom shifted back to Paul.

  "How did it go?"

  "You mean you didn't hear about Graham?" Paul asked with a grin.

  "No. What happened?"

  Paul glanced at Grace, hesitated, and returned to Tom.

  "This may be a good time to get a refill," he said. "Do you mind, sweetheart?"

  "Not at all. I'll try to entertain Mr. Smith while you're gone."

  "Thanks, baby. We won't be long." Paul smirked at his old chum and extended an arm. "After you, sir."

  When the two drifted out of voice range, Grace eyed the freshly shaved and nicely attired specimen in front of her. He was an improvement over the first incarnation.

  "I've seen you before, by the theater. You're the cowboy."

  And you're the Vision of Forty-Seventh Street.

  "At your service."

  "You're not really a cowboy, are you?"

  "No, ma'am," Joel said with a sheepish smile. "But I have learned how to manage herds at the furniture store. We put up a sale sign and the cattle fall into line."

  Grace laughed.

  "You're funny."

  Joel brightened at the sight of her mesmerizing smile. It could launch a thousand ships and a few aircraft as well. He understood why the good ensign had not wasted a second putting a ring on this one.

  "I love your accent. Sounds vaguely British. Are you a royal subject?"

  "No. I'm as American as you are, but I was raised overseas. The accent is a hand-me-down from my English mother. I'm not really fond of it. It makes me stand out."

  "That's exactly why you should keep it. It's almost lyrical."

  "Thank you."

  Joel sipped his beer and then caught another glimpse of the annoying rock on her finger. It was just his luck she was taken and par for the course in his run through 1941.

  "Congratulations on your engagement. When's the big date?"

  "Paul and I haven't set one yet. He's headed off to his first assignment next week."

  "Have you known each other long?"

  "Just a few months. He proposed two weeks ago tonight."

  "He's a lucky man, a very lucky man."

  * * * * *

  Grace glanced past Joel to the bar and saw Paul and Tom share a hearty laugh. At first she had wanted Paul to hurry back and save her from this unexpected distraction, but now she wanted him to stay put. For the first time since blatantly violating Washington's statute on underage drinking, she succumbed to guilt.

  "So tell me, Joel Smith of Helena, Montana, what were you doing sitting on a street bench at nine o'clock at night looking like something the cat dragged in?"

  "I was resting."

  "Resting? Resting from what?"

  "From a bumpy, twenty-four-hour ride in an empty, freezing boxcar, eight miles of walking, several job rejections, and a day on the streets eating rotten produce."

  Grace blushed.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. My story is only half as bad as it sounds. And don't worry about me. I've got all I need now. The Carters are looking after me. They're great people."

  "They are."

  Before Grace could get in another word, Paul and Tom returned. Arm in arm, they held their sides and tried to contain growing laughter.

  "If it weren't for his old man, he'd still be in jail. Talk about a wedding gift!" Paul pulled back his arm and looked at Grace. "Sorry, honey. We're just being boys."

  "That's OK. I know you need some room."

  Paul walked up to Grace, gave her a kiss, and hugged her tightly with one arm.

  "This is why I love this girl."

  Grace glanced at Joel and saw that his smile was gone. He stared off into space.

  "We should go, Paul."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. I'm tired."

  "But we haven't even said hi to Ginny. She's sitting over on the picnic table with Linda and Katie. It will just take a minute."

  "No. Let's go. I will see them all tomorrow."

  "All right, baby. We're off. But let me at least get rid of your glass."

  Paul shook Tom's hand.

  "Sorry to drink and run, old pal, but Grace is right. We've had a long day. Let's do this again when I get back in August."

  "Count on it," Tom said.

  "It was nice meeting you, Joel."

  "You too."

  Paul took Grace's empty wine glass and walked halfway across the yard to a table of dirty dinnerware, where Brenda and Lauren tried to get a jump on the massive cleanup. He waved to three familiar coeds, grabbed a brownie off a tray, and headed back.

  When Grace saw Paul draw near, she clutched her purse and gave Tom a hug. She greatly admired the carefree young man who had made her best friend so happy.

  "Bye, Tom. Congratulations, again. You should be proud."

  "Thanks, Grace. Thanks for coming."

  As Grace stepped away from Tom, she threw her eyes at Joel. His beautiful smile was back. But it was sad and wistful, not flirtatious or cocky. It was the smile from Forty-Seventh Street and not one she needed to see tonight. She offered her hand.

  "You're an interesting man, Joel Smith. Perhaps we'll meet again."

  "I'd like that. Take care."

  Exhausted, anxious, and more than a little distracted, Grace rejoined the man she had promised to marry and headed into the night.

  CHAPTER 29

  The nondescript rambler on the corner of Klickitat Avenue and East Fifty-Sixth Street was no Carter Castle. Peeling gray paint greeted its occupants on the outside, while peeling white paint did the same inside. Two closets lacked doors and a window in back required hydraulic equipment to open. But the place had four bedrooms, a spacious kitchen, and a large cedar deck. At forty dollars a month, it was a steal for three cash-strapped coeds and their old-money ringleader – even on a twelve-month lease.

  "Who is he, really?" Linda asked, as she helped Ginny push a wool-covered club sofa against a living room wall. Tom had purchased the repossessed piece for a song and given it to the girls as a moving-in present. "Not that I'm complaining or anything."

  "Tom thinks he really is from Montana, but he's not sure he buys the rancher bit," Ginny said. "Nor do I. Joel has smoother hands than I do and better diction."

  "I noticed that too. He looks more like a banker's son than a rancher's son. Maybe he's an heir to an oil fortune who's lost his way," Linda said with a sly grin.

  "Somehow I doubt it. I know the rich, dear, and they don't typically ride the rails in empty boxcars."

  Moments later Katie and Grace, in shorts and sweatshirts, stumbled through the front door with a large cardboard box. They deposited it next to the sofa and took a seat.

  "Make yourselves comfortable, ladies," Ginny said. "Would you like a pedicure before we bring in the other boxes? Or perhaps some wine to take the edge off your labor?"

  Grace laughed.

  "I'd like both, please. My feet are still sore from Saturday."

  Katie reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes.

  "Here are your cigarettes, Ginny. I found them in one of the boxes, next to your face cream."

  "Thank you, Katie."

  Ginny sat on a stool, struck a match, and found tobacco tranquility. She stared at Grace and Katie, who had kicked off their shoes, lifted their feet
from the hardwood floor, and settled into the ends of the couch like cats curling up for an afternoon nap.

  "Well, what do you girls think of our glorious abode?" Ginny asked.

  "I like it," Katie said.

  "Me too," Grace added. "I'm not sure I care for the leaky faucet in the bathroom, but I do like my bedroom. Are you sure you don't want to move downstairs, Linda? I'll let you have the room if you want it."

  "No. I'm fine." Attired in denim overalls and down on her knees, Linda retrieved essential cosmetics from a hastily stuffed box of toiletries, knickknacks, and other small belongings. "I saw a big spider in your room this morning and one is enough for me."

  Ginny scanned her surroundings for a makeshift ashtray and found one in a porcelain coffee mug sitting on a windowsill. She took a puff and glanced at the occupants of the sofa.

  "Linda and I were just talking about Joel Smith. What do you two think of our mystery man? Katie? You didn't make much noise Saturday."

  "That's because Linda made enough for a marching band," Katie said.

  "Yes, she did. She was a one-woman percussion section," Ginny said, drawing a smile from Linda. "But what do you think of Joel?"

  "I like him. He is much different than most boys at school – more polite, better looking, better smelling!" Katie said. "He needs a wardrobe consultant though. In his case, the clothes don't make the man."

  Grace and Linda laughed.

  "What about you, Cinderella?" Ginny asked, turning to Grace. "I saw you talk to him for a few minutes – more than a few minutes, actually. What were your impressions?"

  "I thought he was nice."

  "Just nice?" Linda asked. "Good Lord, Grace. Just because you're engaged doesn't mean you have to check your opinions at the door. I know you have more to say."

  "Very well," Grace said. She looked at her interrogator thoughtfully and spoke in the measured cadence of a first-year foreign language instructor. "I thought he was pleasant and articulate and intelligent and refreshingly well-mannered."

  "You're impossible!" Linda scolded.

  "He did have a nice smile."

  Katie giggled and nudged her couch-mate with a foot. Grace smiled and answered with a kick of her own. Linda shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  "Don't mind Linda," Ginny said. "She's already voted five times on the matter."

  More laughter.

  Ginny's wide grin grew wider. She loved these moments. They were why she had moved into a dilapidated house with three disparate personalities rather than ride out her final year in a sterile sorority or live alone in a lavishly appointed apartment.

  Yes, they were talking about men, the insipid topic du jour of college women from coast to coast. But they were doing so in a way that brought out their delightful differences. When Ginny saw Grace's carefree smile, she could not help but think of the timid, grief-stricken creature she had roomed with her freshman year. She looked forward to discussions that drew her sheltered friend even further out of her shell.

  Linda continued her assault of the box, throwing what she needed now in a paper bag and what she might need later into a smaller box. When she found a photographic reminder of Disastrous Relationship Number One, she smiled, tore it up, and continued on her way.

  "You three can tease me all you want. As long as I get to see him again, I frankly don’t care," she said. "Just promise me you won't let him get away, Ginny. The next time you and Tom go out, it's a double date. OK?"

  "I promise. But it may be a while. Tom is going salmon fishing this weekend and he's taking the boy wonder with him. Next week they may go on safari. Who knows?"

  Ginny snuffed out her stub, stood up, and tiptoed around a minefield of cleaning supplies, half-opened boxes, and assorted junk Linda had scattered across the floor. She picked up a pair of striped boxer shorts, stuck between the pages of one of the redhead's textbooks, and held them up.

  "I won't even ask," she said, drawing out each word.

  The cats on the couch purred.

  After flipping the underwear to its apparent custodian, Ginny pushed several boxes to the wall, making a path as she went, and strutted into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a broom, a dustpan, and resolve.

  "It's time to get busy, girls. Let's make this house a home."

  CHAPTER 30

  Typically quiet on Wednesdays, the Mad Dog barked up a storm on June 18. By six thirty, every booth, barstool, and pool table had an occupant, and every occupant had something to say. Some rehashed their workdays or summer session classes but most vigorously debated whether a scrawny upstart from Pittsburgh could beat the legendary heavyweight champion of the world.

  Two waist-high console radios, one borrowed for the evening, occupied strategic positions in the public area of the campus watering hole, while two tabletop models sat at opposite ends of a twenty-five-foot bar. Set to the same station, the four radios pushed sports commentary out of high-fidelity speakers.

  Joel Smith and Tom Carter, ties loosened and sleeves rolled, settled into a booth near the borrowed console and studied dinner menus. The junior salesman pulled out a wad of bills and placed them on the table.

  "Tonight's on me," Joel said. He hoisted a draft beer and smiled at his friend. "I figure it's the least I can do for all that you and your family have done for me."

  "Thanks. But like I said the other day, it's no big deal. Don't waste money on me. If you're going to blow your paycheck, do it on a dame," Tom said. "I'm not going to kiss you good night for a hamburger."

  Joel laughed.

  "Well, in that case, pay for your own dinner!"

  Tom grinned and looked around the tavern. At least twenty people had passed through the door since the salesmen had claimed the last available booth. Most crowded around the bar and asked if the fight had started.

  "So are you going to tell me what this is really all about? You have something up your sleeve. I can feel it."

  "I do," Joel said. "But just be patient and enjoy yourself. I guarantee you are going to have fun tonight."

  "Whatever you say, sport. You're the man with the plan."

  After the waitress took his order, Joel glanced at a table on the far side of the dim, smoky room and noticed two men in uniform join two others in civilian garb. The pair in street clothes teased their friends about their private stripes but in a manner that was unquestionably respectful.

  "Do you ever think about the war?" Joel asked.

  "I think about it all the time. Don't you?"

  "No. Not really."

  "You should. Things are getting pretty hot in Europe. I don't see how we stay of out it," Tom said. "Hell, two hundred students here just took their draft physicals and some hadn't even graduated. You don't make people do that unless you think they'll be needed, and needed soon."

  "Aren't you still covered by a deferment?"

  "Not anymore. My 1-D became a 1-A on Saturday. I'm fair game now." Tom sipped his beer and gazed at the bar. Even standing room was in short supply. "You are too, I imagine. You're not even in school. The Army would love a strapping lad like you."

  "Yeah," Joel agreed. "I guess they would."

  If they knew I existed.

  Joel purged the awkward, unpleasant topic from his mind and eyed the waitress as she fiddled with the volume control of a console radio ten feet away. He found it difficult to hear the broadcast through the sound of patrons laughing, greeting, and talking. But he knew from modulations in the announcer's staccato voice that the opening bell was near. He smiled at Tom, picked up a twenty-dollar bill, and slid out of their booth.

  "What are you doing, Joel?"

  "I'm getting the party started."

  Joel straightened his tie and walked to a nearby table, where he snagged an unoccupied chair and waited for a drop in the decibel count. When he got it, he stood on the chair and introduced himself to eighty strangers with a two-fingered whistle.

  "Good evening, folks. My name is Joel Smith. I don't know much about boxing, but my
friend Andy Jackson does," he shouted as he waved the bill high over his head. "And Andy Jackson says Conn goes five. Any takers?"

  * * * * *

  Joel got his takers, four in all. The two privates and their civilian buddies threw in five bucks apiece. They talked the party closest to Joel and Tom into switching tables to better keep an eye on the clown with the whistle and the twenty dollars he had put into play. The foursome, however, spent less time watching Joel than taunting him in the first two rounds, as Joe Louis, winner of his last twenty-five fights and forty-nine of fifty as a professional, dominated Billy Conn with a series of hard rights to the body.

  "You want to pay now or pay later, big mouth?" a wiry private named Ricky said. "Nobody goes five rounds with the Brown Bomber."

  Joel ignored the rabble at the table and several others who passed by to gauge the mood of the big bettors. He finished his second beer and smiled at his fellow diner.

  "Having a good time?"

  "I'd be having a better time if I didn't think you were risking a week's pay just to impress me. You don't owe me a thing, Joel. This is reckless."

  "Patience, my man, patience. Good things come to those who wait."

  "Unless they wait more than a week to pay off a bet," Tom said. "Then they get the shit pounded out of them across the street."

  Joel laughed. Tom didn't have Adam Levy's biting wit, but he was definitely a funny guy. He thought about his old friend and what he might have done had he followed Joel into the mine and back to 1941. There was no doubt about it. He would have definitely taken advantage of opportunities like this.

  The betting parties grew quiet in the third and fourth rounds as Conn, thirty-five pounds lighter, began to land punches and keep the champ at bay. But noise and tension returned in the fifth when Louis hit the light heavyweight challenger with thunderous body shots and left hooks to the jaw. Conn barely survived the round. He staggered to the wrong corner at the bell.

  "Lucky son of a bitch," Private Ricky said.

  Joel surveyed the room and saw that the dearth of takers to his bet had nothing to do with aversions to gambling. Piles of small bills and coins formed centerpieces at several tables, including the booth behind him, where four men in letterman sweaters tried to augment their summer income with pennies from heaven.