A slow nod.
It was Pancrazio’s turn to stand up. He stabbed the desk with his finger. “You do that, then. Give them my number. I’ll handle the rest. Let’s get you clear of this shit already. You need a break.”
He left Gene Handy sitting there as he walked out like he had something better to do. He didn’t, so he went and found some lazy punks to give holy hell to.
*
Pancrazio looked at rods and reels in the sporting goods at Walmart a while later, alone until another man drifted down the same aisle, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. Hair nearly black, shaggy, longish, like the pop star homos these days. He wore a T-shirt with some famous Indian on it who Pancrazio didn’t know because it wasn’t Geronimo or Sitting Bull so who gave a shit, right? Under that face was the word DISOBEY. He wondered if the dipshit Indian cop realized the irony.
Pancrazio said, “I’m meeting some bikers tonight. You know the Sons of Silence?”
“Jesus fucking shit.”
“The same.”
“Nasty stuff, man. You guys are the reason they’re here, you know.”
They didn’t look at each other as they talked. Pancrazio had paid off the rez cop when one of his guys got rough with a squaw who was trying to steal his credit cards while he was kissing her titties. Officer Micah “Slow Bear” Cross, a Mandan on the Fort Berthold Rez, which had gone oil mad the same as the whites after the Bakken find, couldn’t give a shit about one less drunk asshole in one of their holding cells shouting slurs at all of them. So fuck it. He took fifty bucks, gave ten to the girl with the bruise above her eye, and was in Pancrazio’s pocket ever since. Saved him a lot of trouble. Slow Bear brought the drunks right to Pancrazio from then on. But over time, it wasn’t just drunks anymore. It was info. It was a little help here and there to warn off anyone threatening to get in Pancrazio’s way. It was about empire building.
“I got a guy,” Pancrazio said, picking up a half-decent fly rod, pretending to care. “Guess he got in some trouble with these assholes, and they showed up here. Gave him a beatdown right in front of me, everyone.”
“I heard about that.”
“Yeah?”
A shrug. Slow Bear picked up a lure in plastic and cardboard, flipped it over and read the back.
“I’m going to talk to a couple of them tonight, see if I can clear this up. I want you there.”
Slow Bear dropped the lure. “I’m all you need, right? Goddamned Robocop.”
“You don’t even need to show yourself. Just hang back unless things get dicey.”
“If I hang back, things will get dicey. You’re good about that.”
Slow Bear had had to kill once before for Pancrazio, but it was a drunk and dangerous motherfucker with a knife, not important, and no one missed him. He couldn’t even remember the man’s name. But he had told the driller—swore to him—never again. Whatever. Pancrazio knew it was all about finding the right price.
Pancrazio said, “I don’t want to fight them. I don’t want to threaten them. I want to work with them.”
Slow Bear ended the charade and turned to Pancrazio, nearly spitting the words. “Are you fucking me? Seriously? You want to buddy up with the Sons of Silence?”
Pancrazio stepped back. “Hey.”
Slow Bear shook his head and moved away, not even pretending anymore. “Sorry. But still.”
“I don’t want them out here. That’s the whole point. I want them to think they’re out here through me. I do the work, I pay them off, like, eighty percent, and we keep the rest. So they stay the fuck away from us, you see? All they have to do is let me tap into their distribution, and their hands are clean.”
“That’s suicide.”
“No, that’s smart business. You really don’t see it?”
“I see a greedy white man who thinks he can put one over on greedy redneck and probably Nazi bikers without them knowing.”
Pancrazio laughed and pretended like he was casting the rod. Like he gave a shit about fly-fishing, really. A handful of young guys he had hired, with grizzly-man beards who had come here for summer work because getting on Alaskan fishing was harder now that it was on TV, those guys had asked about fly-fishing. Thought it was what real grizzly-men did. Too big a crowd looking for too few jobs, looking for something to spend their money on. Something Pancrazy could sell them. “Something tells me the bikers wouldn’t have shown up out here in the light of day if they didn’t want a piece of the action. I’m giving them the biggest piece the easiest way.”
“You know you sound like the Sopranos right now. You really do.”
Pancrazio bobbed his head, trying out a crappy Tony. “Youse sayin’ I’m a character? I’m some sort of clown?”
“No, that’s Goodfellas.”
“You gonna help me wit dis or ain’t you gonna help me wit dis?”
Slow Bear said he would be there, but only if he could stay in the background. No killing. Pancrazio kept doing Tony Soprano as he gave Slow Bear the time and place, then said, “Now, I’ma head out to the Bada-Bing.”
Slow Bear shook his head and turned away. Pancrazio caught him saying real low, “You don’t even have to try, Guido.”
Whatever. Better to be a Guido than a dirty, prairie-nigger cop.
CHAPTER SIX
Ferret didn’t think anything could rain on his parade after the good news he’d just heard, but then he did the exact same thing his wife always did—finding all the bad about it, making it impossible to work out. He would need more money. A hell of a lot more money. So he found Gene Handy finishing up with a pipe he and some other guys were getting off a truck, and walked up to him as if nothing had happened at Hardee’s.
He said to Gene Handy, “I want in.”
Gene Handy turned around and blocked the sun. His shadow made Ferret cold. Handy looked around. “In what? Inside? Too hot for you?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Pretty sure you could get a better job back home. Cleaner, too.”
“Come on, talk to me.”
“I thought we had talked last night and that was enough.”
“No, I need in. Whatever Pancrazy wants with you, let me help.”
Gene Handy shook his head. “Shit. I’m going to have to quit being subtle with you. Thought you were smart.”
Ferret cringed. “I need the money. I need it quick.”
Gene Handy was quiet for a long time, then, “I need you to shut the fuck up and stay out of it.”
“Listen.” Ferret reached out, grabbed Handy under the elbow and tugged, like Let’s go over there, and wasn’t surprised when the man didn’t budge. “It’s important. My wife. Just listen for a few minutes.”
Gene Handy stared at Ferret’s hand a second. Must have thought Ferret was like a kid trying to tug his dad towards a toy he was never going to get, not even from Santa. But he finally relented, twisted his arm free, and followed Ferret as the little guy told him about the phone call.
*
She had called him this time, which hadn’t happened in weeks. It felt good, a good omen, when he heard her voice and she was all excited.
“I have an interview!”
His first thought was that her dad was making her do the same bullshit Ferret had been made to do. He said, “That’s great. Real great.”
“They need a teacher, and I called, and I explained it, and they want to Skype with me!”
“What do you mean Skype? Baby?” Little hairs on his neck stood straight.
Dee Dee was nearly out of breath. “They understand, right? I’m so far away, so if I use Mom’s computer to Skype, they said it would be better for everyone, but it’ll be weird, teaching a lesson on Skype? Sweetie, I haven’t done this since school, I’m so nervous.”
“Baby...where is this job?”
“I forgot, I forgot to say, didn’t I? Wow. It’s with you. It’s up there with you. It’s a new school! If I get it, I can be with you!”
Turned out he could thank
his mother-in-law, who finally got Dee Dee to see a doctor, take some anxiety pills, and try some new behavior-fixing stuff, which worked well enough that she had decided to apply for a teaching job in Williston. She had her degree but hadn’t done anything with it since getting married. It was incredible, Dee Dee breaking through after so long, or at least trying to.
It was after he hung up that he thought about the rents here, and how even the most squalid apartments were an arm and leg. A third-hand trailer in a lot full of them? Add a second leg to the price. And forget buying a house. He had saved up plenty so far, but how fast would it drain away once Dee Dee and Violet moved here?
*
Gene Handy listened and nodded but he didn’t say anything. Ferret could tell as soon as he told him that Handy wasn’t going to put Ferret knee-deep in shit with his wife and daughter around.
“You don’t need the money that bad. Just, you know, eat out less. No cable TV. You won’t care once they’re here anyway.”
“No, listen, she’s...there’s this thing. She’s anxious a lot. It wouldn’t take much to break her.”
“Hey, idiot, yeah.” Gene Handy shook his head. “If you get caught up in what I’m doing, that won’t help her feel better.”
“She’ll never know.”
“Get another shift. Sell junk on eBay.”
“I’m begging you here.”
Gene Handy waved his hand and turned away. Done.
Ferret said, “I know where you live.”
Over his shoulder, Handy said, “It has wheels.”
“Still, I know what it looks like. I know the plate number. A lot of people would like to know.”
Gene Handy stopped, shook his head. “Do you want to start over? Because that sounded like a threat.”
“As long as you know how serious I am, take it however you like.”
“You’ve watched too much TV.”
“We can’t even afford cable. I’m saying to you, listen, please.” Ferret had raised his voice without thinking. He got a couple of bored looks from some other worms. “I can drive. I can stand watch. I can hide things. One job, then. Just one. You don’t know how much it means to me.”
Gene Handy rolled his head on his neck and curled a finger. “Come here.”
Ferret follow him out of the sun and under a platform where they had to duck down, Gene Handy more than Ferret. Having Handy in his face like that from above reminded Ferret of the T-Rex in Jurassic Park.
Gene Handy said, “Enough bullshit, kid.” He had the breath like rotten onions. “You tell anyone anything about this...I mean it. Stay out of the way. Guys like me, it’s the best I can do, but you...no, man, you’re a good guy. Keep it clean. Get your wife up here and bag groceries all night if you have to, but threatening me won’t work. I’m telling you. Okay?”
Ferret nodded. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Okay, fine. Fine.”
Gene Handy clapped him up high on his arm and stepped out from the platform. Ferret stayed a few more minutes, trying not to throw up. Just when he thought he’d won, he lost it.
*
Ferret had a lot of thinking ahead of him. It kept him distracted most of the day. Lucky that he wasn’t tasked with any hard stuff right now. So he did mindless work and wondered what would happen if Dee Dee didn’t get the job. Would she still move up here? Had she finally run out of patience with her parents and their “advice” and the loneliness and having to take care of Violet all on her own day in and day out? Did she miss Ferret coming home at night, smelling like work, smelling like a tired man who still has enough left in him to hug his baby girl and kiss his wife and chatter with them about school and grocery shopping as if those were the most important things in the world?
Or let’s say she did get the job. Okay. What happens when they both come home exhausted but still have to put on the act for each other? What about when Violet started to hate the place, or, even worse, love it? How long until Dee Dee would regret leaving everyone and every place she’d ever known for Ferret? And if she was up for this—really, really one-hundred percent sold—why would he risk that in order to get a cut of money from Pancrazio’s schemes? Because he was scared the job would never bring in enough? Because he didn’t have the skills to get himself promoted? Once a worm, always a worm?
Good Russell called out to him. Ferret turned, squinted, then found him in the dust cloud. He walked over. “You busy later?”
Ferret shook his head. “Hey, I’ve got some good news.”
“I heard, I heard. Gene told me.”
That was quick.
Ferret said, “You wouldn’t happen to know about any good deals—”
“Not so fast. Whoa, boy.” Good Russell held up his palms and pushed back. “I’ve got to run. How about I pick you up, we go celebrate? We can celebrate tonight, then again when she gets the job, then again when she boards the plane.”
“I think she’s going to drive.”
Good Russell shrugged, anchored his thumbs on is belt. “That’s a long haul with a kid. Anyway, yeah, soon as it gets dark, okay? My treat.”
Ferret said okay. Good Russell gave him a mock salute and walked off. Ferret figured he could cancel later, say he felt sick. But he realized he probably wouldn’t, and that meant another night of strippers and too many beers and why why why did he say yes?
*
The strippers at the Tuxedo were not the pros, who worked a few blocks away at The Fracking Club and some of the other glitter and glamour joints. The pros had streamed in from Vegas and LA and Miami and some even had ownership in the better clubs, knowing the tricks of the trade on dancing that tightrope between entertainment and prostitution.
The strippers at the Tux were girls who worked at CVS Pharmacy or Hardee’s or who were halfway through their second attempts at their junior year of high school before realizing they could just get GEDs later, once their babies had grown up a little. They were the ones who tried really hard to not do meth. They were the ones who didn’t like you to touch them during a table dance, but if you did, they wouldn’t tell you to stop.
Ferret was no prude. He liked naked women and porn as much as the next guy. He liked cute girls smiling at him. He had occasionally bought a Hustler or something about bubble-butts to hide from Dee Dee when they were going through rough times, because she was paranoid enough to check the internet history on the computer they shared, and she had learned way too much about how it all worked, more so than he ever had, so he couldn’t browse free porn before taking a shower every morning at five-thirty before heading to work at the shipyard, because she would have been waiting with a site-by-site list of his “crimes.” But here at the Tux, with the unpainted plywood stage and tarnished pole, the girls in harsh florescent light, making the zits and scars nearly glow, Ferret felt like the odd man out.
He was playing along, though, because it was him and Good Russell and one other roughneck named Neal who hung around sometimes. Ferret didn’t know much about him, but they were both from the Gulf Coast and that was a good enough reason to hang out sometimes because they could remind each other of what they missed. No clue where that lunatic Bad Russell was tonight, since he and Good Russell were usually like Siamese twins. Good Russell had bought a lap dance for Ferret, and he didn’t object, even though the girl wasn’t his type—she was a pretty blond, thick-thighs, good boobs, but she was more the ex-cheerleader type that a football player would’ve gone for a few years earlier, and probably did, which is why, now, she was working here, very polite, calling him “Hon” while grinding. But the erection it gave him was a weak one, at best. He was more embarrassed than turned on. He hid that from the guys but the girl could tell. She didn’t care, but she wanted a decent tip.
That was okay. Neal bought one from an older redhead and seemed transfixed, and Good Russell didn’t buy one for himself. He just talked up the waitresses. A few seemed to know him by name, even. Ferret had only been here once, ri
ght before they turned it into a strip club, when the men at the bar were a little older and wiser and pretty sure this oil thing would kill the town at the same time it saved it. But those guys didn’t drink here anymore.
Ferret guessed he wasn’t that good at playing along, because soon Russell leaned over and asked, “You okay?”
Ferret smiled. “Yeah, good.”
“Bullshit. You’re thinking too much. Let it go, man. Which one would you really like? Tell me the truth this time.” He pointed out a few of the dancers. “The chubby one, goddamn, you sure you don’t want to get up on that? Or, I know you. You’re a dark and mysterious sort, aren’t you? Like that dark-haired one? She’s dying it black. I bet she’s a Jew.”
“I’m good, thanks. I like to watch them on stage instead.”
“Dude...” Russell shook his head. He shrugged. “Hey, it’s your celebration.”
“How about I buy a round?” Ferret lifted from his chair only high enough to wave at a waitress, got her attention. He sat down again. “What do you guys want? On me.”
“No, fuck that. I told you, tonight is about you. All about you.”
Neal picked up his plastic cup of beer and said, “Hear, hear. Good for Ferret. I wish I still had a wife to go home to. Only took a couple months for her to start fucking my old boss. Bitch. But hey, if she’d come back, it’d be better than these bitches teasing all night.”
The waitress was ponytailed and shiny-cheeked and kind of like a pretty tomboy. Russell ordered for them again, beers and shots of Wild Turkey this time, and Ferret closed his eyes for a moment because it was that time of night when he really preferred a Diet Coke.
But he drank up, and they settled the tab. Russell went to the restroom while the chubby girl took her turn on the stage, and Russell was right about her. The song was Poison’s “I Want Action,” a nice room-shaker. She was fantastic up there. She had a way of looking at you, and she had big hair, like Annie Wilson from Heart, and she would’ve done a good job at the clubs a few blocks away if she’d lost fifteen pounds and this was 1985. Most of these guys, sure, they watched her, but in a town where they could see the professionals for the price of a more expensive bottle of beer, they looked pained, as if this was their sister dancing up there. They came to the Tux for the girl next door. The chubby stripper, named “Cherie La Love”, wasn’t her. She was the girl next door’s fat friend. She didn’t belong. But damn, she could strut good and Ferret couldn’t help but watch, admiring her. He had a thing for chubby chicks. She knew she had him.
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