The Mine (Northwest Passage Book 1)

by John A. Heldt

  As the broadcast gave way to an advertisement, people crowded around Joel to see the whistler collect his cash. But rather than gloat at the conquered and run with his winnings, Joel attempted to draw others in. After stacking four new fives on top of his twenty, he slid out of his booth and spoke to anyone willing to listen.

  "I can see from the money in this room that I'm among kindred spirits. So let's make this interesting." Joel poured a third beer from a pitcher and sat on the edge of his table. "I have forty dollars here. I'll give it all to the first person who puts five on Louis to end this in the sixth. Heck, I'll even throw in another ten. Five for fifty. Come on, gents. You can't get that kind of action in a cathouse!"

  Several people rushed forward with fives, but Joel took the Lincoln from Private Ricky. Stung from defeat in the first bet, he relished a rematch.

  "Don't think for a minute you're going to walk out of here with that pile, smart-ass," he said. "I'll stay here as long as it takes."

  Ricky's civilian friends stood at his side and sneered at Joel, while the other private, named Lloyd, kept his seat and quietly assessed the competition. Sensing a trick, he studied Tom and looked for a clue but found none. The son of Melvin and Sandra Carter had his face in his hands.

  * * * * *

  Ricky did not win his bet – nor did his two slovenly dressed buddies in rounds seven and eight or four better-dressed football players in rounds nine through twelve. At the sound of each round-ending bell, Joel Smith, sports trivia extraordinaire from the age of jumbo screens and fantasy football, added cash to the pot, restated his terms, and scoured the Mad Dog for another sucker. They were as plentiful as P.T. Barnum quotes at a convention of used car salesmen.

  To make the wagers as appealing as possible, and draw tens instead of fives, Joel threw in more of his own money and even some of Tom's. The recent graduate had gone from putting his face in his hands to putting his dollars on the table. By the time Round 12 had come to an end, the man with a plan had netted eighty bucks.

  Conn too had exceeded expectations. Punching more and dancing less with each round, he had put Louis on the defensive. Repeated blows to the head had sent the champ to his corner where his trainer treated him to the reviving aroma of ammonia. The noise at the Polo Grounds and in the Mad Dog was deafening and decidedly in the favor of the challenger. Noting the shift in sentiment, Joel put a hundred dollars in his hand and held it up for the benefit of anyone with an open wallet and a useless mind.

  "I've got one more bet in me, people, one more," he shouted. "And this time I'm putting my dough on Louis. I'll put a hundred bucks against twenty that the champ ends this now, this round. Who wants to win their fall tuition?"

  Tom's smirk vanished. He hastily slid out of the booth and pulled Joel aside.

  "What the hell are you doing? You have these dopes on their heels. Don't blow it now by getting careless. Louis may not make it another second."

  "Where was that faith I saw a minute ago?" Joel smiled and put his arm around his skittish companion. "I said I'd show you a good time tonight and I will."

  Nearly a dozen sheep stepped toward the slaughter with twenties in their hands. Joel again evaluated the prospects and tried to determine who had families to feed and who did not. Once more, he went to the well.

  "Much obliged, private. Good luck to you!"

  By the time the thirteenth round began, more than thirty customers, brimming with alcohol-fueled cheer, crowded around the console near Joel and Tom's booth to take in two things: the final minutes of the best heavyweight fight in years and a potentially serious exchange of legal tender. Every punch and counter punch called on the radio whipped the listeners into a frenzy. One patron screamed hysterically and pounded the console with his fists, while several others paced frantically.

  "I don’t know if I can take this," Tom shouted into Joel's ear. "Even I don't throw this kind of money around. This is insane."

  Sitting on the edge of his table with folded arms, Joel grinned at his fellow revelers like the Cheshire Cat, breaking eye contact only to periodically check the second hand of a clock above the bar. As it passed the two-minute mark, he gave Tom a pat on the shoulder and let history take its course.

  Joe Louis, teetering on the brink of defeat just moments earlier, rebounded with crushing rights to his opponent's jaw and chin, putting a smile on his Mad Dog supporters and sending Private Ricky into shock.

  "Conn is down! Conn is down! Conn is down!"

  Joel emptied his beer, grabbed the cash, and motioned for Tom to follow him to their rivals' table, where he put a five spot next to an ashtray and smirked at the quartet. The civilians threw hostile glares, but Private Lloyd tipped his hat.

  "Buy your friend a drink, gentleman," Joel said. "He shouldn't be alone tonight."

  Joel guided Tom past admiring glances to the tavern door and the cool, clean air outside. When they reached the bottom of the stairs to the sidewalk, he pulled out the evening's winnings. He stuffed some bills in Tom's shirt pocket, a few more in his left hand, and the rest in his right.

  "This is for the boat fuel I burned on my birthday, this is for graduating, and this is for being one hell of a good friend."

  Joel shielded his eyes from a setting sun and peered southward down the Ave, where strolling couples and honking cars brought a Wednesday evening to life. Satisfied that the U-District had not yet rolled up its sidewalks, Joel ran a hand through his hair, put an arm around Tom, and grinned.

  "My work here is done. Let's get some cigars."

  CHAPTER 31

  For the first time in weeks dinner at six was dinner for two. With Brenda babysitting and Tom and Joel returning from Westport, Sandy Carter had no one to cook for and no one to talk to, save the inattentive man hiding behind a newspaper at the other end of the table.

  "When do you think the boys will get back?" she asked, seeking both an answer and signs of intelligent life.

  "It depends when they left," Mel Carter said. "It's only a three-hour drive, but the traffic can get thick on Saturdays. They'll get here."

  "I know they'll get here. I just wanted to talk to you before they get here. I'm a little concerned."

  Mel folded the paper and placed it to the side of an untouched plate of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and sweet corn. Giving his wife his undivided attention, he took off his reading glasses and stared across the table.

  "Concerned about what?"

  "About the fact Joel hasn't received one letter from home – or anywhere else, for that matter – since he's been here. Don't you think that's odd?"

  "I do. I've wondered about that myself. But that doesn't make it our concern."

  "Perhaps you could talk to him and ask if anything is wrong at home. If Tom had gone away and I hadn't heard from him in three weeks, I'd be concerned."

  "He's twenty-two years old, Sandra. I think he can manage his family. Unless he's running from the law or running from a wife, I don't think we should stick our noses in his business." Mel leaned back in his chair. "Do you want to send him packing?"

  "Oh, no. I love having him here. He's a good influence on Tom and he's been very helpful around the house. He even picked up groceries for me on Tuesday. I just worry, that's all. Is he doing OK at the store?"

  "He's doing more than OK. The kid is selling everything in sight and making new customers of everyone who walks through the door. Half the men who come in want to hire him and most of the women want to take him home. I've never seen anything like it."

  "I know. He had the same effect on people at the party."

  "So why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

  Sandra took a deep breath, sipped her lemonade, and stared blankly at an antique oak hutch to her left. Filled with dishes and figurines, the massive china closet had been in her family for four generations. After several seconds of awkward silence, she got up from her chair, walked to Mel's side, and put a hand on his shoulder.

  "There's something I want to show yo
u."

  * * * * *

  A minute later Sandy returned to the dining room, sat down in a chair next to her husband, and placed a small, strange-looking object on top of the table. About five inches high, it featured a greenish screen, an array of white numbered-and-lettered buttons, and a stub-like projection on top that shot up from the dark blue case.

  "What do you make of this?" she asked.

  Mel put on his glasses and closely scrutinized the item. He shook it, held it up to the lights of a chandelier, and then pressed it to his ear. None of the gestures yielded clues. Nor did punching the buttons or reading the lettering on the back.

  "I don't know what to make of it. I've never seen anything like it in my life. Where did you find this?"

  "It was under a cowboy hat in a cabinet in the trailer. I found it this morning when I went to change the sheets. What do you think it is?"

  "Who knows? It looks like some sort of communication device, maybe a new kind of telephone. If it is, the manufacturers haven't let me in on it. It might even be a toy. Hell, I've seen odder things in department stores. I'm not sure. Either way, it's not ours and we should probably leave it alone."

  Not satisfied with Mel's answer, Sandy picked up the item and examined it again. She considered raising more questions or even asking Joel himself when he got back but decided against it. She slipped the device into the pocket of her everyday dress.

  "You're right," she said, forcing a weak smile. "I'll put it back now. But if he doesn't get any mail or telephone calls in the next few days, will you at least talk to him?"

  "I'll talk to him. I promise. Now, let's finish dinner."

  Mel dug in. After drowning his potatoes in lumpy brown gravy, he cut his steak into bite-sized chunks and lifted the largest toward his mouth. But the moment he glanced across the table, he stopped his arm and lowered his fork. He stared at his plate, sighed, and then returned to his wife, as if finally validating her concerns and signaling his own about a stranger who had rapidly become an integral part of their lives.

  CHAPTER 32

  Joel did not struggle with where to go or whom to see. When Mel Carter said he could have Tuesdays off "from now until perpetuity," he made a beeline for Klickitat Avenue. For someone seeking quality female company, the rustic rambler on the corner of Fifty-Sixth was a target-rich environment.

  No one answered his knock in front, so he walked to the back, where he found not a flirtatious redhead or a dreamy blonde but rather a studious brunette. Sitting in a deck chair in a blue blouse and white cotton shorts, she marked and sorted a pile of papers.

  "Greetings from the Kingdom of Carter," Joel said.

  Virginia Gillette looked up and gave her visitor a warm smile.

  "Joel. What a pleasant surprise. What brings you out here?"

  "Curiosity, boredom, lust. Maybe a combination of all three."

  Ginny laughed.

  "You ought to bottle that wit, Mr. Smith. It would sell in forty-eight states."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Joel said, containing a grin. "Actually, I have the day off and wanted to visit with people who don't eat, sleep, and breathe couches and commissions. Did I come at a bad time?"

  "Of course not. You're always welcome. Pull up a chair."

  "I think I will."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for little old me, though," Ginny said, managing a cigarette in one hand and a red pencil in the other. "Grace and Katie are working at the library and Linda's in class."

  "And you?"

  "I'm putting together an article for the Sun. It's due tomorrow and it's a mess."

  "What's it about?"

  "Local efforts to fight polio and the disease's impact on families in Seattle."

  "It sounds weighty. Do you like writing about weighty things?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do, particularly things that have relevance to the lives of average people. Public health is my passion," Ginny said, tapping ashes into a tray. "We could achieve so much if we could only educate the public about the importance of hygiene and healthy living. Do you agree?"

  "Yes."

  Ginny smiled at Joel and pondered his response.

  "Just yes? What happened to 'yes, ma'am'? Have you lost your twang?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I left it in Westport."

  This gig is so over.

  "You know, Joel, the reason I haven't pressed you about your past is because I like you and I like what you've done for Tom. He told me about your fun the other day."

  "He did?"

  "Oh, yes. It was a lovely gesture, one that made a big impression. But it doesn't explain who you are or what you're doing here. Care to tell me the particulars?"

  Joel appreciated the way that Ginny blew through his bullshit. He knew he would have to come up with answers sooner or later, but he wasn't sure what kind. Could he possibly explain magic mines and time travel without inviting skepticism, ridicule, and phone calls to mental health authorities?

  "It's complicated."

  "I have time."

  "It's very complicated."

  "Fair enough," Ginny said, returning to her papers. "I won't pry. But you should know that a lot of people are asking questions about you, including every member of this household."

  "Good questions?"

  "Well, let's see. Katie wants to know if you dress yourself, and just yesterday Linda asked if you had a girl back home. I said I didn't think so. She's quite fond of you."

  "I gathered that from the kiss she blew me."

  Ginny laughed.

  "What about Grace?" Joel asked.

  "She thinks you have a nice smile."

  "Is that so? What can you tell me about her?"

  "She's engaged. That's all you need to know."

  "I can see this is going to be fun," Joel said. He pulled his chair closer. "Let's talk about something else then. Tell me about you and Tom. How did you meet? What do you think of him? Are things serious?"

  "You ask a lot of questions for someone I barely know."

  "Isn't that how a good reporter gets answers?"

  "Touché," Ginny said, putting her pencil down. "OK. I'll tell you. We've actually known each other quite a while. Linda introduced us when he was a sophomore and I was a freshman. He and Paul were roommates at the time. I thought he was kind of a playboy. I still do. He spends far too much time drinking and gambling and playing with his toys and not enough time on important matters."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as his future. I know he's capable of running his father's store, and running it well, but he has the potential to do so much more."

  "So what brought you together?"

  "A spin on the water. He took Linda, Grace, Paul, and me out in his powerboat in April. We spent the whole day on the lake. I had a wonderful time. We found we had a few things in common, and one thing led to another."

  "And how are things now?"

  "We're still finding our way. I've never been one to invest too much in any man, but I care for him deeply," Ginny said. "Tom has his faults, but he has a heart of gold. I'm lucky to have him. May I ask why this interests you?"

  Because if you marry him I might go poof!

  "I'm curious, that's all. I know you mean a lot to him and now that I'm running in his pack, I want to know the pack."

  He watched Ginny chuckle and lean back in her chair. She no doubt knew that he was full of it but probably didn't care.

  "We're all pretty tame. You can take my word on that."

  "Even Linda?"

  "Even Linda."

  After marking the last paper in the pile, Ginny placed the stack on a patio table and pushed a smoldering butt in an ashtray. She moved her head abruptly from side to side a few times until she found her purse beneath her seat. She reached inside for a small package, tapped out another cigarette, and lit up.

  Joel laughed and shook his head.

  "Why do you smoke?"

  "Because, Mr. Smith, I enjoy it."

  "That's a good reason. Of course
, enjoying something alone isn't sufficient reason to do it. I personally would enjoy riding a motorcycle naked through Pike Place Market while shouting, 'The South will rise again!' But I have no immediate plans to do so."

  "Perhaps you should reconsider. I could arrange coverage by the Sun."

  "No, thanks."

  "Besides, does it really matter?" Ginny asked.

  "Of course it does. Those things will kill you."

  "Says who?"

  "The surgeon general," Joel said.

  "Don't know him."

  Joel grinned. If it wasn't obvious before, it was now. His grandmother had come this way out of the box. Feeling like an adult child taking care of an aging parent, he leaned forward, gently pulled the cigarette from her mouth, bent it in half, and put it out.

  "Why did you do that?" Ginny asked.

  "Let's say I have a vested interest in your health."

  Ginny smiled and folded her arms.

  "I can see we're going to get along famously."

  CHAPTER 33

  Friday, June 27, 1941, was a day that lived in infamy, at least in the meticulously maintained sales books of Carter's Furniture and Appliance. Joel sold sixteen mattress sets, five in his first hour. He even got Doris Delamarter to dig out her checkbook in between bounces on ventilating cushions. She bought a single bed for her guest room, in addition to two pillows and a lamp.

  "What a crazy day," Tom said as he loosened his tie and plopped on a recently purchased blue corduroy settee. "I think I pushed a dozen couches out the door."

  "People will do anything if they think they're saving money," Joel said.

  As he leaned on a nearby post, the sales wunderkind wondered how many flat screens, laptops, and cell phones he could have moved were he not stuck in the age of radios, coffee percolators, and R2-D2 washing machines. He figured a lot. Consumers in the digital age were just as gullible and had a lot more credit.