“Oh, I’m not. Believe me.” Karen backed down the last step with the back of her hair directed at him as if she had eyes in the back of her head, watching him still. She marched down the driveway to the SUV. As she got in, the driver glared at Greg and kept doing so as she maneuvered her rig around and drove Karen Callum and herself away. Her eyes kept on him in her oversized side mirrors.
Greg started rocking in the chair, at a slow, measured pace. He had just argued against his own principles. He had used prejudice, and he had preyed on someone’s fear. All to keep himself safe. He had done this before and he hated this about himself. He couldn’t get much lower, not without killing someone again. If he could only help someone, for once. But, at least one threat appeared to be under control.
His phone buzzed, making his feet plant again.
He had a text. It was the signal.
24
Don’t forget, Donny told himself—he was Charlie Adler now! Charlie Adler wasn’t fucking dumb. Ole Charlie thought things out, played people off one another, like you put one scared-ass cat into a box with another. Any kid could throw cats in a box, though. Wayne Carver could do that. Charlie, he was subtler. Charlie Adler, now there was an operator—that’s what Karen had called him.
Even an operator had to have a Plan B, and Donny had his. Not even Karen knew about it. He stood in Karen’s office, where it was always neat with no papers on the desk or stacks of folders, no cute notes or drawings around. It was like the museum version of a famous person’s office and not much different looking than when daddy Loren was alive. It still had the foot-high bronze statue of a horse and the Pendleton Indian blanket draped over the back of the leather hide sofa with the CR brand of Callum Ranch.
Most important: It had the old man’s iron safe, big and black and pinstriped with gold paint and a plaque that read Callum, like something right out of the Old West. “From the robber-baron era,” Karen had called it, when men “did what they wanted.” Karen had told Donny he was from an age like that. This was the closest she had ever come to saying she loved him. She had done a lot for him, but it was all on daddy’s orders, Donny suspected. Old Loren had said, “A women, no matter her private inclinations, had to have a man in front of her for credibility.” Locals probably didn’t give a rip who she loved, but her daddy did and his ghost alone was worth a thousand Pineburgers. She should have considered getting closer to him, though. Try him out. But she just didn’t roll that way. She never did put out. Daddy would’ve liked it if they’d married. But she just didn’t listen—the only order of daddy Loren’s that she had never heeded.
Her loss, Donny thought. He knelt before the safe and tried the combination written on his palm. The door opened, and Donny, careful not to touch anything, made sure all the documents were still there. Karen had copies of land deeds for the farms and properties she was acquiring, all squared away, alphabetically, in a file holder right inside the main compartment. Donny had wondered why she kept copies here, and it made him suspect she too had considered taking off at a moment’s notice. The other clue? She had cash money in there, right inside its own bank pouch.
Donny had been checking the safe almost daily now, like some rock star constantly eyeing his hit songs on the charts. The more he rode this horse, the more he had riding on it. He checked whenever she was out, whenever Gunnar was out in his room, even when Greg Simmons was here at the house, in the fancy guest bed or out on the back porch.
No one was home right now. He wondered where Greg had gone after the rally. He had stayed away from the house. Was he sulking? He was probably somewhere in town. Maybe he was in Tam’s Tavern again, where he could get some sympathy—Wayne had reported that Greg liked to go in there. Donny didn’t blame him. Pineburg wasn’t especially welcoming to a guy like Greg. He might as well be Native American. But Greg wasn’t making it any easier either. He was pushing it, pushing Donny to change his game, and Donny was beginning to wonder exactly what for. Sure, Greg wanted him to keep his mouth shut about what happened at the lake. But, could Greg really help him? There could be more to it. Donny saw that. Maybe Greg wasn’t really going to write a book with him in it about why society had forced him to be the way he had been. Maybe others were controlling Greg. Donny didn’t want to think what that could mean. One thing was damn clear though after all these years: Greg just didn’t seem as smart as Donny always thought he was. Maybe this was because Donny had made himself into something better than that teen preppy kid-Greg who had talked him into doing stupid shit. Still, if Greg kept this up, with his damn prodding, Donny—the real Donny—just might have to do something about that all the same.
He closed the safe. He tiptoed out, even though no one was home. Made his way back to the safety of his study. He so wanted to celebrate the continued existence of this, his preferred Plan B. A couple lines of meth or even sweet lady cocaine would do, but he killed the need by setting out that FBI man’s business card on his desk. He sat at the desk. Eying the card. This was the other Plan B. A way out.
He did a line of meth anyway, got a whiskey going, and heard the banjoes in his head playing Dueling Plan Bs. It didn’t help. Nothing could make that card quit staring back at him. Seducing him. Could he fall into the hairy arms of the Fed-cops with their tough love and so-called mercy? It was the one step he had never taken, never considered taking. But now the thought of it was practically wearing a silky pink teddy and pulling him into bed, which bothered him, because Karen’s safe with all its goodies should be doing that to him, giving him that woody. Teddies will go and trick a man, he knew that much.
He picked up his phone, made sure caller ID was off, and dialed the number on the card:
“You’ve reached Special Agent Richard Torres of the FBI. Please leave a detailed—”
“No,” Donny blurted, hung up. It was too soon. Too risky. There had to be a better way than making this damn phone call. Had to be a better way than that safe, even. He would be that better way. He would be the safe and the phone call and the goddamn solution all rolled into one. That’s the way a man did it.
He made a fist and went to bang it on the desk, but his hand went limp on the desktop.
He slid the card back into his pocket.
25
Donny was just itching for a little pick-me-up. He sat in his booth—the one they kept saved just for him—and imagined waitresses wearing gun belts bearing shot glasses and booze bottles in holsters. If only. The Rooster Lair didn’t have hot women, and what was the point of having a private club if you didn’t have that much? Of course, the issue was where to get the women. Maybe they had tried in days long past. But they all flee to San Francisco, Seattle, and even Portland in the end. Who could blame them? This dump had a Confederate flag on one wall and a commemorative brass plaque dedicated to the Jefferson States of all things. The lights were too bright so that you could see all the nicks and marks in everything and make out that most of the tabletops were Formica. That alone rubbed him the wrong way—didn’t they know most of this great state was built on real wood? At least they didn’t have their Double Cross banners waving, or make up silly uniforms with armbands that they would wear only in here like some kind of drag queens. Though that was sure to come, Donny thought.
He’d always thought the Rooster Lair was one sorry excuse for a secret lodge, never once was impressed. But he always had to make a showing before they had their meeting, like some rodeo star has to shake hands with the sponsors in the green room. He sipped his beer. Everyone left him alone. Only Wayne Carver eyed him from over at the Golden Tee game, where he liked to stand because it gave him a commanding view of the room. Wayne was drinking root beer, which he liked room temperature, and that creeped out Donny just as much as the rest of it.
Donny was feeling antsy, sure, and he should be, considering what he would have to do next. He was doing his part, just as Loren Callum had told him. Loren had done it and so would he, if he wanted to stay with Karen. He was more than her straw man. He was
her bedrock.
Of course, no one had bothered to ask Karen what she wanted. Maybe that was one reason she was the way she was? The thought made him shrink up inside, his organs gone all tiny.
He looked up from his beer. Greg Simmons was standing over him.
Donny’s surprise made him blink and shake his head, and for once he was not faking it. Something was up with Greg. His arms were cocked out and his thighs pressed against the table as if he was going to keep Donny there if he tried anything.
“How you find this place?” Donny said, not smiling nor frowning. Even keel. Never show surprise or cover it up with tricks.
“Not from you,” Greg said.
He had said it a little too loud. This was not good. Donny showed half a smile. “Where you been?”
“I went for a drive,” Greg added, “Trying to sort this crap out in my head.”
Donny wondered just how Greg found this place. People did know about it. Probably be weird if Greg didn’t find it eventually. The trick now though was getting Greg’s ass out of here before the big show began. “Have a seat, feller,” he said to Greg.
Greg didn’t take a seat. Didn’t answer. He was taking a good long look around the room. Wayne had turned from Golden Tee and was watching them, but the rest kept doing their drinking and talking.
“Come on, have a drink,” Donny added.
Greg glared down at Donny, a look Donny had never seen. It pinched up Greg’s eyes and made his Adam’s apple sit high in his throat, like he was about to cough it up and spit it into Donny’s face.
“You don’t even give a shit whether your land floods—about the Callums’ land flooding,” Greg said. “Getting rid of the dam could actually help the other farms, not to mention the town. Help those beloved fellow ranchers like Wayne over there spoke so highly of. But if they’re kept starved of water, like they are now, you can go buy more of their land.”
Greg had hit the bulls-eye, and you couldn’t argue with such a score. Luckily, he was speaking lower.
Donny gave half a nod. “Karen can, yes. That’s what she does. I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me it’s not just about crops, ranches. Or even the dam. A lot of those hurting properties she buys have wells on them. Some of the wells are drying out. No groundwater. Aquifers dead. But, when the dam is removed? They might do just fine. The flooding could even help replenish faraway groundwater if done right. But no one wants to know about it. Meanwhile, Karen Callum will have more land for whatever she wants.” Greg’s whisper was more like a hissing snake. “See, there’s even a ground well exemption—land owners aren’t supposed to overuse their wells, but if it’s at a certain amount used for, say, a residential development, then the owner’s exempt. She might add to her ranch lands, or make it a dude ranch, or go with a housing tract or even a strip mall. Who the fuck knows. Any way she does it, and when the economy comes back especially, she wins. Locals all lose. And the residential water takes away even more water from farmers, ranchers, all those locals who support her and Wayne Carver, and all of this bullshit.”
“Well. Look who’s the expert.”
“You know all this. Or maybe you don’t. Either way, I actually don’t think you give a shit.”
Donny had to shake his head. “You weren’t really listening, were you? If you ever were. I’m just surviving.”
“At Karen Callum’s side. As Charlie Adler.”
“I was, yes. Then you come along.”
“Hell, you might even inherit it all.”
Donny laughed. “You believe that, you do not know Karen Callum very well.”
“Oh, I think I know her better than you think. Better than you even.”
Donny’s back straightened up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean. Anything else you want to tell me? Anything that’s worrying you? If there is, you should tell me now.”
“I told you what you need to know.”
“Good. Okay. Then, you ready to talk about this? About what you should really do or should be doing? Before your friend Wayne goes and takes it too far. I’m not talking about playing a role. Acting like someone’s mascot. I’m talking about doing.”
Now Donny was hissing: “You should shut up with that talk, that’s what you should do. This is not the place.”
“No? Then where is?”
“I’m just another property of Callums. And only because I have a purpose, for now—”
“Until Karen Callum is done with you? Decides on her own way of doing things? Comes out … with it?” Greg cocked his head back, swallowing back the words he wanted to say.
Wayne had come halfway over—Donny could make out his big head from the corner of his eye. Wayne stood watching from a table where Casey, Damon, and others sat.
“Look. This is not good timing,” Donny said to Greg. “There’s a big meeting. The annual powwow.”
“What, going to go appoint Wayne Carver the Grand Poobah?”
Greg was being a fool. He sounded like he was the one doing meth. Donny had to handle this, or at least make it look like something it wasn’t. He stood, set a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Come with me. Now. Don’t say no. Just come along. Okay?”
He walked Greg toward the front door, and on the way he threw an arm around Greg, pushed at him, and laughed. Greg let out a fake laugh—atta boy, Greg, not such a fool after all. Donny kept them going right for the front door and kept on laughing as he pushed them on through the front door and out. And didn’t look back.
He walked Greg to his car and stood Greg at the driver’s door, Greg planting his feet like he wasn’t moving until he heard something he needed to hear. Donny stared at the ground a moment, and when he looked up he had on his dead serious face, with one eye scrunched up as if really trying hard to see Greg wasn’t being stupid. He took a look around. He set a hand on each of Greg’s shoulders. He whispered, “Listen. Will you? I’m the one keeping these guys in check. The only one. In there? That’s only the tip of the iceberg. There’s lots more of them out in the wide open, believe me. Guys who don’t even venture into the big town of Pineburg. Yet. They’re just laying in wait.”
“Lying in wait,” Greg muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Good,” Donny said. “Any questions?”
Greg had lowered his head.
“What is it?” Donny said.
“What about Gunnar?” Greg said. “How long can you protect him?”
Donny felt his stomach muscles twinge up, wrenching at his rib bones. Nice move, Greggy. “I’ll protect him. Don’t you worry.”
“Even when he starts doing meth?”
Donny blurted a laugh. “What? Come on.” The twinge had hit right in the marrow. Donny was done with this. He had to be done. He put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the house later, okay?” he said, and opened Greg’s car door for him. “Okay?”
“Maybe,” Greg said. “I don’t know. I just don’t.”
26
To find Donny, Greg had pushed through the front door of the place, bringing a rush of warm air that was laden with the sourness of sweat-steeped clothes and grease of fried food. The space was no bigger than Tam’s but packed, mostly with faces Greg had seen at the rally and near to Wayne. They had to be Double Cross militia regulars. All their camouflage gear had come out, all their favorites they had surely been warned not to wear at the rally. There were guys in camo smocks, camo vests, pants and shorts, and floppy hats, in all patterns ranging from modern US Army desert to SS forest sniper, from Vietnam era jungle to the hunters’ shrub-tree look. A few had guns on but most did not. They probably had a hefty gun cabinet somewhere in here where there used to be a coat rack.
Wayne Carver stood over in the corner playing a Golden Tee video game. Seeing him, Greg felt a jolt of anger and fear that blurred his view and narrowed his focus down to a point as if he was peering through a traffic cone. He fought it by taking stock, looking arou
nd, widening his focus. To the left of the bar, he saw a doorway to the back, double doors. A banquet room? The way to the former grange hall? Torres had told him to look for that.
Torres had told him how to get here. Torres had driven him in the blue Chevy pickup to a different parking lot back in town where his rental car was parked. He left Greg there. Minutes later, Greg drove out Old Redpine Road, according to his map, and passed over a small wooden bridge. It was dusk. With his map on his steering wheel, he found the turnoff for the gravel road. This was about six miles out of town. His phone had no coverage. The road was long, and winding, and ended in a tight little canyon. Here stood a strange building, like two or three disparate homes pushed together. One end was a log cabin and the other was stucco. All of it was slapdash. He slowed to a stop among the parked pickups and cars. A sign stood between the parking lot and building: Private Clubhouse—No Trespassing. Torres had called the place the Rooster Lair, which was the Double Cross’ name for it. In front of Torres, he acted protective of Donny, but the truth was that he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything. Donny was keeping things from him, and what was next? All he knew was, Torres’ opportune little exhibition had made him mad at everything and ready for anything, which was surely what Torres had wanted.
Faces turned, but no one stopped Greg. He located Donny in a booth, off by his own. He stood over Donny. Donny only looked disappointed at first as if he’d been expecting his food to come. Greg had tried to push it, see what Donny would do, but he held off when it came to Karen and what he had seen. Donny kept his cool. He walked Greg outside to his car, asked him to meet at the house later. Greg was hoping Donny would cave and bring him along to the big meeting, but Greg still had another way of getting there.
He drove away. He found the other side road Torres had shown him. It was dark now, so Greg could only hope he had the right way. It led him slightly uphill, to the old leaning barn Torres told him about. Greg parked inside the barn, continued on foot up a short but steep hill of uneven terrain, jogging along and working his way around rocks and crevices, his sweat splashing at his wrists. The hill evened out at the top, and a pungent, earthy smell told him that he was in a cow field. He heard groaning and mooing in the dark, could see their dark shapes like so many boulders. The boulders moved. One cow jogged after him, and another. He kept going. At the edge of the plateau he came to a fence, short and maybe electrified.
The Other Oregon Page 15
