Cateyo was deeply drugged. She did not feel Heather's rough hands on her breasts nor her lips on her belly. Heather moved farther down the unconscious girl's torso and buried her face in the softly scratchy hair. She breathed in deeply, relishing the womanly odor. After a moment of this, she stood up to take off her own clothes. She gazed down at the maddeningly abandoned disposition of Cateyo's body, the arms listlessly akimbo, the legs spread. The girl's mouth was open and she snored gently. Heather had no more than unbuckled her belt when the telephone rang. She froze, staring at the machine while it rang four times. Then the answering machine pinged.
“Hi,” said a perfectly healthy Joe Service. “You found me. After the long tone you have two minutes to leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Whoever had called was clearly startled. There was a pause after the tone and then a gruff man's voice said disbelievingly, “Joe?” Then, “Okay, okay. I get it. Helen, this is Humphrey. I got here—somehow. Don't ask me. Whew! Awright. Call me at ——,” and he gave Smokey Stover's home phone number. The machine clicked and went silent, except for a tiny “peep” every fifteen seconds, to alert the intended recipient, when he or she came home, that there was a message on the machine.
Heather was transfixed, staring at the telephone, her belt loose. She hadn't even realized that the telephone console contained an answering device.
Joe Service was also surprised. At the sound of his own voice, he sat straight up in bed, the first time he had done that since the curtain. It took him a few seconds to figure out what was going on and then he was grateful that he had not made any other sound.
Joe was not drugged at all, at least not in the way that Heather had intended. Cateyo had given him his usual medications for pain, but he had not imbibed a single ounce of the wine that Heather had been so obviously pushing. He carefully crawled out of bed, wondering where Cateyo had gone. He had fallen asleep thinking, regretfully, that she was too far gone to engage in any games that night, despite the build-up of expectations.
He watched Heather from the shadows of the bedroom, through the door that she had left ajar. She was standing near the couch, staring first at the telephone across the room, which had now silenced, and then looking down at the couch, the back of which was turned toward him. It struck Joe that Cateyo must be on the couch. At one point Heather turned and looked directly at the bedroom. Joe started back involuntarily, then caught himself. She couldn't see him. She was obviously in a quandary, uncertain what to do.
While Cateyo slumbered on, the two conscious minds in the cabin pondered the significance of Humphrey's presence in—well, in where? Butte? It would seem so. Joe took an additional moment to ponder why the Fat Man called himself Humphrey. And both of them wondered why the man was calling the cabin and asking for Helen, who not only wasn't here but hadn't been here in nearly three months. Was she coming here? It seemed likely, a possibility that raised both their pulse rates.
Heather looked down regretfully at the couch again, and Joe decided conclusively that she must be looking at Cateyo, who must be out cold, otherwise she would have responded to the telephone. What had been going on? Now he could hear Cateyo's faint snore. Jesus, he thought, this Heather is too much—hitting on a sleeping girl, could you believe it? He looked at her rapt face and he could believe it.
Heather turned away from the entrancing vision of the girl on the couch and went to the telephone. She stood peering at it for a moment, then reached out and punched a button. The machine whirred and then played back Humphrey's message. The peep stopped and the machine rewound, indicating no messages received. She had erased the message by not saving it. She recognized the phone number, though. It was the one Humphrey had given her when he sent her out to Butte. So he was in Butte.
She picked up the answering machine and turned it about, trying to figure out how it worked. She replaced the machine on the stand next to the door. She considered turning it off or disconnecting it, since she had tampered with the message, but she was reluctant to do that. She stood there irresolutely, hands on hips, looking about the room as if for some sign of what she should do. Finally, she turned and looked over her shoulder at the bedroom door again. Something hardened in her face and she slowly turned her body toward the room and began to remove the unbuckled belt from her wool slacks as she walked purposefully toward the slightly opened door.
She was halfway across the room when the telephone rang again. She whirled and stared. As before, it rang four times and then, while Joe's message was played, there came a couple of beeps and then another tone. This time, instead of a caller giving a message, there was only a long, pregnant silence. Cateyo snored peacefully and Heather took a step toward the phone. The floor creaked and she stopped, gripping and regripping the belt tensely. Then came a single peep and the line disconnected. It was eerie.
After a moment she turned again toward the room where Joe waited, her face more determined than ever. She had hardly taken a step, however, when the phone rang yet again. This time she wheeled and snatched up the receiver on the second ring. “Hello,” she said huskily.
As he watched Heather walk toward the room, her rough hands gripping and regripping the belt, Joe Service made up his mind. Up until that moment he had debated what to do. One part of him said, Get the hell out of there. Another part said, What about Cate? Cateyo's all right, she's in no danger. The worst that can happen to her is she'll have an orgasm. This woman Heather is unstable, she could harm Cate. Cate loves you, she takes care of you. Cateyo is a certifiable loony who thinks you're the Second Coming. Get the hell out of there. There's a back door out of this room. It might not be easy to open, it might be frozen, but you can get right out of there. Hey! Isn't this supposed to be Joe Service, Part Two? What's the point of afresh start if you do the same old run-and-hide shit? You're in no condition to go up against a bull dyke like Heather, you numskull. Beat it!
A seemingly neutral voice suggested that he could go get help. But the howling of the wind and occasional shudder of the cabin as a powerful gust struck it were not propitious. And when the telephone rang the second time, Joe realized from the eerie silence that someone was listening to the room. When it rang the third time and Heather answered it, Joe picked up his cane and stepped out of the bedroom. What the hell, Joe, he said to himself, what's so new about this?
19
Get Outta Town
The bus that Delta had hired was prompt. It was large, warm, and comfortable. Mulheisen got a good hour of sleep, anyway. They made fair time, winding up over Elk Park, despite howling winds and driving snow, but it was still after midnight when the bus pulled into the parking lot at the Butte airport. Jacky Lee was there to greet him. He had already contacted Mulheisen when he landed at Helena, to tell him about the arrival of the Detroit contingent. Jacky had tracked the men to Smokey Stover's house up on the Hill (actually, he had just assumed they would go there, and so he called a patrol car and asked them to check, which they were able to confirm).
It was like Stover not to live down in the country club neighborhood, where Antoni lived among the power company bigwigs and Butte's most famous citizen, Evel Knievel. Stover had been born in the Patch: He aspired to the Hill. To him, even the country club was The Flat, where the workers lived. He had completely refurbished an enormous mansion on Excelsior Avenue, just off Park Avenue. It had been owned by one of the Copper Kings, as they referred locally to the early mining magnates. Nobody remembered now just which copper king, but he must have had plenty of money. The house had more rooms than Smokey had ever visited, counting the servants’ quarters on the top floor. That floor was closed off now.
Smokey put Mr. DiEbola in the huge second-floor guest room. It was called the Tower Room, because formerly a spiral staircase ascended a tower in the corner. Smokey's second wife had called in an architect, or maybe he was just an interior designer, who yanked out the staircase and the floor of the tower room on the third floor, and now there were enormous
windows, two tiers of them, that provided a spectacular panoramic view, in good weather, of the Continental Divide on the east, the mountains to the south, and even the mountains to the southwest. None of this was visible this evening. In fact, you could barely see across Excelsior Avenue. Smokey explained the view at length, however, until Humphrey stopped him. “Where's the phone?” he demanded.
What's the point of making plans? That's what Helen asked herself. She was ready to believe that plans don't just go awry, they go so wildly awry that there is really no reason to make them. She had arranged for Humphrey to come to Butte, but now she doubted that he had been able to fly in. She didn't know enough to check with flight service, didn't even know such a thing existed. She didn't want to go out to the airport, in case she would be seen, either by Humphrey or the police—she had no idea if she was wanted by the police, but she assumed so.
Her big idea was to have Humphrey call the cabin when he landed. He would leave a message on the answering machine: a phone number in Butte that she could call to give him further information and set up a mutually satisfactory meeting. That is, a place where she could meet him, alone, without danger to herself. The place she envisioned for this was out on the interstate highway. She considered this plan ingenious. Humphrey would be told to wait for her call tomorrow. He should be ready by eight o'clock (or, if he objected, nine o'clock or later—she had no desire to be unreasonable). At the appointed hour she would call and tell him to drive, alone, out the westbound interstate highway. When he got to the first rest area he should pull in and wait by the telephone. Someone would call him with further instructions.
Terrific plan. She would be parked all the way across the median, off the eastbound lanes. She had driven out there and checked the phone number and the site where she would pull off. She had no way of knowing that it was just a short way from where Joe had stopped for a man hitchhiking with a corpse, in September. She chose it because a car pulled just far enough off the eastbound lanes couldn't be seen from the rest area. She had bought a cellular phone. She would wait until Humphrey got out of the car and she would check it all out with binoculars that she had already bought. If he was alone she would call and tell him to walk across the median to the eastbound lanes. They could either talk in the car or drive somewhere. She wasn't afraid of Humphrey by himself. She still had the Dan Wesson revolver she had taken from the cabin, and she was confident she could use it. They would talk, and if he made the right noises, she was prepared to turn over to him a suitcase filled with a million dollars. She figured she had to give him that much, anyway, along with the prospect of more to come, in order to work out a mutually beneficial deal.
Perfect plan, except for the weather. And the phone. On the plane en route to Butte it had occurred to her that the phone at the cabin might have been disconnected. She had been away for nearly three months. She hadn't paid the phone bill. Would someone else have paid it? Would the phone company have shut it off? The minute she landed, she called U.S. West and was told that the service was still on, but the bill needed to be paid and when did she plan to pay it? She drove immediately to the phone company's local office and paid the bill.
The main point of the plan, however, was that she needn't even go out to the cabin. She knew this answering machine. It was a new and fancy one that Joe had purchased not long before he took his last “go-go” jaunt. She could call the machine and retrieve the message. It didn't even matter if the machine had been turned off; this machine could be turned on remotely, by tapping a code number into any touch-tone phone.
As soon as she had checked into the War Bonnet Inn motel she called the number. To her delight the machine answered on the fourth ring, which meant there were no messages. It must have been left on the “Auto” setting. Joe's voice said, “Hi. You found me. After the long tone you have two minutes to leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.” It was a little eerie. She tapped in the code number anyway and, as indicated, there were no messages. Good. There was even a procedure for listening to the room with this machine. She punched the “6” button and listened for thirty seconds. Nothing. Silent as a tomb. Also good. She hung up and went out to eat. It wasn't even noon. She spent a couple of hours shopping for the binoculars and phone, as well as some good boots and a warm coat and gloves. She felt prepared.
But by darkfall things began to go wrong. A storm blew in. The chances were that Humphrey would not be able to land. Helen didn't want to hang around in Butte, not knowing if the police were looking for her. Beyond that, if this proved to be a terrible blizzard, it would complicate her plan to meet Humphrey, even if he made it tomorrow. She was too anxious to just sit around and wait. Hell, she had to admit it, she was scared to death. Before, when she and Joe had done Carmine, Joe had been there to make the plans, to coach her, to calm her. It had been exhilarating. But now she could hardly bear to think about Joe. It was his fault she was here, stuck in this rathole town, sitting in some crummy motel waiting to hear from Humphrey.
Joe, of course, was well taken care of, she thought. He would be lying in a quiet, orderly hospital room, surrounded by attentive nurses. And she was paying for it! She was paying a lot for it. She knew it was the least she owed him, but she wished to hell she had never heard of the son of a bitch.
The motel had a bar and she went there after dinner. She hadn't even been able to have a decent dinner, fearing to be seen uptown in the better restaurants. She drove to a lousy fast-food joint and took out a burger and fries to eat in her room. That was when she learned how awful it was outside. The streets were nearly empty, the wind howling and snow drifting fast.
The bar was empty except for herself and a friendly guy who wanted to buy her drinks. He was a local fellow, and he said it might not be as bad as it looked. “These mountain storms can blow in and out in a matter of hours. It could be calm and clear by ten o'clock.” She let him buy her a drink. He was nice, but he left a little after nine. He was back in a few moments, saying with a grin of self-congratulation, “What'd I tell ya? Stars are out! No snow. A little windy, still, but it'll drop.” While his car warmed up he tossed down a parting shot of whiskey and paid for another for Helen before leaving.
The bartender sniffed, “I wouldn't pay too much attention to what Tim says. It'll blow back in as fast as it cleared. This'll just be a break in the action.”
Sure enough, three men came in ten minutes later, stamping their feet and brushing snow off their overcoats. “Kicking up out there?” the bartender asked, cocking an eye at Helen.
“Sheet man, eets a focking bleezzard,” one of them exclaimed. “Geev me sometheeng strong.” He leaned over the bar, staring at the back bar. “Tequila. That's eet. Vetch,” he called to one of the other men, “he's got tequila. Hokay?”
“Si,” the one called Vetch replied, "un grande.”
They were all very handsome, very young. Helen was glad to see them, so comical with their funny accents. Mexicans, she thought. Rich ones. “Did you just get in?” she asked.
Vetch bowed gallantly to her and said, in nearly accentless English, “Just in the neck of time.” He made a swooping gesture with his hand, as of an airplane.
“Nick,” Helen said.
“As you say. Nick,” Vetch said. He offered to buy her a drink. He had not expected to see such a striking woman in a burg like Butte. She was dressed in black slacks stuffed into the tall black boots, and a black sweater. Her pale face, made paler by her bright red lipstick and half-hidden by her full black hair with its silver stripe, floated alluringly in this ebony setting. “I had not expected to find such beautiful women in Butte, Montana,” he said.
“I'm not from Butte,” she said quickly.
“Where are you from?” Vetch asked. He sat down next to her.
“Seattle. I'm temporarily stranded,” she said, “until the planes fly again.”
“And where are you going?”
“New Orleans.”
“Oh yes? Well, I may be going to Ne
w Orleans. Perhaps I could give you a lift.”
“You have a plane?” Helen said. “Your own plane?”
“Of course,” Vetch said. He pointed to one of the young men. “That is my pilot. He is a marvelous pilot. He has just landed us when the officials did not advise it. But it was no problem for Hernan. He has been flying since he was twelve years old.”
“What kind of plane is it?” Helen asked.
“I don't know. Hernan,” he called out, “what is the name of your airplane?”
Hernan smiled. “Carmencita,” he said.
“No, you idiot.” Vetch laughed. “What is the kind? The typi—the type?”
“Oh, a jet. A Jet Commander.”
Helen was impressed. But then alarmed. Three Mexicans flying around in a jet? In Butte. She managed to hold her smile. “And just the three of you in a big jet?” she asked.
“Oh no, no, no, you lovely lady,” Vetch said, laughing. “What do you think? This is not a—what do you say?—a passenger jet. At least, it is a passenger jet, but not one of these"—he gestured broadly with his arms—"these big jets. It is a personal jet.”
“An executive jet,” the bartender supplied.
“Yes,” Vetch said, “thank you. It is an executive jet. Plenty of room, even sleeping room, but for just a few people. Executives.”
“And you are executives?” Helen asked.
“Of course,” Vetch replied with a simple toss of his head.
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