The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I guess I have to do this.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just find the biggest guy in there and kick his ass. The rest of them will be so scared, they’ll tell me anything.”

  A pause.

  “Anna? What do you think?”

  “What’s plan B?”

  “I’ll wing it.”

  “Go with that.”

  The wall next to him shook under a heavy blow from inside and PJ reared back, cursing under his breath. Muffled shouting erupted over the background noise.

  “All right,” he said. “I’d better go. Call you later.”

  “Please be careful, PJ.”

  He jogged into the street lamp’s throbbing glow and walked around to the front steps, pausing at the top before pulling the door to.

  “You’re in it now, genius.”

  He recoiled as he entered the Roughneck’s thick, smoky air, the smell of sulfur tickling his gag reflex. He wound his way to the bar, tended now by four hands. Phil was still on the clock, pouring shots and shuttling glassware as a striking, energetic blonde juggled the taps and deflected passes from a pair of oil-soaked barflies. She slid a pair of glasses to a group at the end of the bar, questioning PJ with a flick of her head. He scanned the greasy wooden handles and looked up with a smile.

  “Surprise me.”

  Leaning back against the rail, PJ scanned the room. Workers in all states of inebriation were huddled in clumps around the room, with the rowdiest of them bunched around the shredded dart board in the corner by the door. His beer arrived with a bump against his elbow and PJ turned, catching the bartender’s attention. She leaned across, meeting him halfway.

  “What’s up, sailor?”

  “You know if Digger’s here?”

  She nodded, rising on her toes to check the room.

  “Yeah, he’s around somewhere. Usually takes the corner table, but I don’t see him now.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  Catching an order down the bar, she retrieved another pair of glasses.

  “He’s a big fella. Hard to miss. Full beard, Rockies cap.”

  “Okay, great. Thanks.”

  “You bet. And a piece of advice. Don’t let him give you any shit.”

  “Got it.”

  He picked up his beer and leaned back against the bar, resuming his watch. The man in the adjacent stool turned to him.

  “Digger’s in the can.”

  PJ sat at the bar, nodding.

  “Thanks.”

  “You the new guy?” the man asked. PJ gave him a sidelong glance.

  “Don’t know. Gotta talk to the boss first.”

  PJ leaned aside to check the hallway at the back of the room as the man took a drink. Another look at the crowd.

  “Don’t know what you’re used to,” the man said. “But there’s no slackin’ on Digger’s watch.”

  “So I hear.”

  “And Helen’s right. He’ll bust your balls if you let him.”

  “Thanks,” PJ said, raising his glass and taking a drink. As he set it back down, he turned to the man with a pained expression. “Ever get used to the smell?”

  The man gave him a cold stare.

  “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

  PJ chuckled and turned away, glancing down the back hall.

  “Right.”

  He spent the length of his drink waiting, his foot bouncing on the footrest, eyes darting between the television and hallway. Draining his glass, he got to his feet with a sigh, addressing his friend in the next stool.

  “Suppose someone ought to check on the old boy.” He pointed to the man’s beer. “You want another?”

  The man nodded and PJ waved Helen down, pointing to his thirsty companion. He dropped a five on the bar and entered the back hall—a dark and relatively quiet respite from the racket out front. The men’s room was empty, verified by a check under the stalls.

  “Great.”

  The door slammed open behind him as an arm wrapped around his neck, pushing him across the room and against the urinals. The smell of beer and cigarettes infected his space as his attacker leaned in, hissing into his ear.

  “What brings you to Bighorn?”

  Outmatched, PJ’s efforts to free himself only tightened the man’s grip.

  “Jesus—what the fuck? I’m just lookin’ for a job!”

  A sinister laugh.

  “I hear you’re askin’ a lot of questions. I don’t like it when people ask a lot of questions.”

  “W-what the hell’s your problem? Who—ahh—who are you?”

  “You’re my problem, asshole. What do you—?”

  PJ raised his foot and pushed against the back of the urinal, sending them both scuttling backwards across the floor and against the door. It groaned and cracked under the weight of their struggle, PJ digging and pushing with his legs, trying to pin his attacker behind him. The man grunted with determination, repositioning his arm around PJ’s neck.

  “Scrappy little fucker, ain’t ya?”

  Reaching behind him, PJ grabbed the back of the man’s head with both hands and bent forward, pulling him off his feet and onto his back. Too heavy for PJ to heave fully over his head, the man slid onto the floor, pulling PJ with him. Twisting himself free, PJ turned and delivered a crushing blow to the man’s stomach, forcing a rasping gush of foul air from his lungs. Clutching his stomach, the man rolled onto his back, shaking with laughter. PJ backed away and got to his feet, watching his hysterics in stunned silence.

  “I want a job,” the man said with a hoarse, mocking laugh. “Please don’t hurt me. Just give me a job!”

  The bathroom door flew open, and two men entered, joining in Digger’s amusement. PJ looked them over, joined in a bond of drunken laughter.

  “You guys are a fuckin’ riot,” he said, doubled over and out of breath.

  Digger grabbed the sink and pulled himself to his feet as one of his friends set his oil-soaked cap back on his head.

  “So you want to work for me,” Digger said, staggering to the door. “Well, let’s see if you’re qualified.”

  He waved PJ into the bar, leaning on his companions for support. They went to the corner table, where a group of four men sat waiting with a round of eight shots. PJ shook his head.

  “You guys should take your act on the road.”

  Digger and his friends laughed, congratulating themselves as they gathered around the table. Motioning for quiet, Digger put his arm around PJ’s shoulders.

  “Ladies, this is Pete.”

  He paused, turning his head to stare at PJ, his noxious breath overriding the smell of sulfurous crude. PJ stared back, shaking his head. He sat down.

  “Great.” PJ leaned back, eyeing up Digger’s men. “Forgot my fuckin’ name already. Hope he remembers it when he writes my fuckin’ check.”

  The men roared and pushed a shot of whiskey in front of him. Digger flopped into the chair next to PJ and raised his glass.

  “To the new guy!”

  PJ hoisted his drink into the fray, his gaze on Digger.

  “Paul. Might want to write it down.”

  The raucous laughter continued as PJ tossed his whiskey back, gritting his teeth. At Digger’s urging, one of the men got up to buy another round, his low rank at the site deciding the matter. PJ inspected the crew as they chased the rookie off with whistles and verbal abuse. Digger slapped PJ’s back.

  “You’re next, Paulie.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Hank told you about me?”

  Slamming his shot glass on the table, Digger dragged his sleeve over his mouth.

  “Pops! Yeah, he’s a good shit. Gettin’ too old for this kind of work, though.” After careful thought, Digger banged the table, this time with an open hand. “God damn it, next round is for Pops! Okay Paulie, these are the boys.”

  Motioning around the table, he introduced the men with their nicknames, starting with Dook
ie and Angus, his bathroom conspirators. Drillers on the two rigs currently installed at the site, they reported directly to Digger, while Slick, Paco and Gummy—across the table—were the roughnecks, the grunts working the rig floors. Everyone, including Digger, sported a layer of oil on their faces and hands, their clothes stiff with multiple coats.

  Zippy—the roustabout—returned with a round of beers, expertly clutching four bottles in each hand. He set them on the table and returned to the bar, collecting eight shots of whiskey with equal agility. The men applauded his skill with a slurred ovation and PJ took a long swig from his beer, arousing Digger’s interest.

  “Look at the new guy tossin’ ‘em back.”

  PJ set down his bottle.

  “Just playin’ catch up.”

  “Atta boy,” Digger said, again slapping PJ’s back. “Future driller right here.”

  Digger raised his shot, causing an obedient following.

  “To Pops! And to Zippy! Best hands in the bar.”

  Eight glasses were emptied and abruptly slammed onto the battered table. PJ lifted his beer to his lips and spit his whiskey into the bottle, screwing on a feigned reaction. Digger leaned away from him with a groan.

  “Jesus, Paulie. What the fuck?”

  The men were silent, staring at PJ as he regarded them around the table. Zippy leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, wearing a toothy grin. PJ turned to Digger, whose drooping gaze was fixed on PJ’s beer. With prodigious effort, the foreman lifted his head.

  “No one on my crew chases his whiskey like that.”

  PJ shook his head at the men, jerking his thumb at Digger.

  “Least I ain’t shootin’ my wad all over Zippy’s hands.”

  The men roared, slamming the table, simulating various forms of self-gratification, their mockery focused squarely on Digger, who was smiling and nodding with approval. Zippy leered at PJ across the table, his middle finger hoisted. PJ shrugged.

  “It’s you or me, bud.” PJ got to his feet, encouraging the rest of the men to follow, motioning to Digger and Zippy. “We should probably leave these two alone.”

  Digger pulled PJ back into his chair as the laughter resumed. PJ looked around at the amused crew.

  Damn. Good crowd.

  “Hey, new guy,” Zippy said, his finger still raised as his hysterical coworkers jostled him in his chair. “I forgot to tell you something.”

  He raised the middle finger of his other hand. PJ nodded.

  “That’s good. Keep those hands where I can see ‘em.”

  At this, Paco sprayed beer on the table and nearly fell from his chair. He leaned against Zippy for support, pushing his raised hands back down on the table. Regaining his composure, he swayed gently and turned to PJ, his lids drooping.

  “Okay, seriously, Paul. Where’d you work—? Wait! No, not Paul. What’s his name, guys? He needs a name.”

  Zippy tore his hands from Paco’s grasp.

  “How about Chase?” he said, glaring at PJ.

  The bottles on the table jumped as Digger’s hand came down hard.

  “Chase it is! Zippy! Another round!”

  “But you said the new guy would—”

  “Christ, don’t be such a pussy,” Digger said with a dismissive wave. “He’ll get the next one. He’s tellin’ a fuckin’ story.”

  Indignant, Zippy returned to the bar, brushing hard against PJ as he passed. They exchanged hard glances as Digger nudged PJ’s arm, drawing him back.

  “Hey, Chase. Over here. So where was it you worked before?”

  PJ stared thoughtfully at his beer over the men’s dying laughter.

  “It was in Texas. Maverick Oil. Down in…oh, shit, somewhere. Anyway, that’s over. Some tree hugger prick got a bunch of us laid off.”

  Dookie leaned forward, his countenance grave.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, this guy, some guy, showed up at the site one day,” he continued, slurring his speech. “Takin’ pictures and shit. Started askin’ lots of questions. Boss throws him out on his ass. Man, I woulda loved to see that.”

  Angus opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Dookie, lunging across the table at PJ.

  “What kinda shit was he askin’?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, shit like, where’s the…you know, the boundary and shit. Said we had our wells drilled into some nature preserve. The next week we got all kinds of asshole inspectors checking us out. Then they shut down half the site and laid off ten guys.”

  Angus spun in his chair, gripping Digger by the arm.

  “Remember that guy you caught out by rig two a couple weeks ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, Digger. We’re next.”

  Zippy arrived with the shots, setting them in the center of the table. Seven arms reached in, pulling them away. Digger looked up.

  “Don’t sit down. We need another round.”

  Shaking his head, Zippy looked at the men, then at PJ, his stare malicious.

  “Fuck!”

  He went back to the bar.

  Waving him off, Digger threw back his drink and slowly set his glass on the table. The crew followed his lead, their faces revealing a mixture of dread and anger. PJ transferred the whiskey from his mouth to the beer bottle and set it down, leaning closer to Digger as he pursed the alcohol from his lips.

  “What’d this guy look like?”

  “He was, I don’t know, about my age,” Digger said. “He was wearin’ glasses. A ball cap. He—”

  “A camouflage cap?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of car did he have?”

  “I don’t know, some old beater. Probably one of them fuckin’ rice burners.”

  “What did he sound like? What was he wearing?”

  “Shit, Paulie. I don’t know.”

  “Flannel shirt? Hiking boots? He have a scar on his cheek?”

  Dookie held up his hands.

  “Wait, what the hell’s goin’ on, Chase?”

  PJ collected himself, leaning back in his chair. His stomach tightened. Slick pressed him for an answer.

  “You think it’s the same guy?”

  PJ started to take a drink of his beer, thinking better of the idea just in time. He set down the bottle, staring at Digger.

  “Yeah. Sounds like the same guy. What’d you do?”

  Digger shrugged and pulled from his beer.

  “Told him to get the hell off the site. He was trespassing.”

  Seven shots were set violently in front of them, their contents erupting onto the table. Zippy backed towards the door, flipping off the entire group.

  “Choke on ‘em, assholes. I’m out.”

  He threw open the door and stormed out, cursing. Gummy reached for one of the glasses with a chuckle.

  “Angry little man, isn’t he?”

  Digger led the group in another round, his glass coming down hard.

  “He’ll be all right. We’re—he knows we’re just bustin’ his balls.”

  PJ grabbed Diggers arm, turning him aside.

  “That was it? You told him to get lost and he left?”

  Digger stared at the hand locked onto his arm. PJ let go.

  “I called it in.”

  “Uh-huh. What’d the cops do?”

  Digger laughed, fumbling in his shirt pocket.

  “Paulie, c’mon. You don’t—I called Bighorn brass. They told us to keep an eye out for people like that.”

  Digger lit a cigarette, holding the pack out for Angus, who took one out, borrowing Digger’s lighter.

  “You get word from Chicago to do something,” Angus said, “You don’t mess around.”

  Digger offered the pack to PJ, shaking one of the cigarettes up through the corner. PJ’s hand moved towards the pack, and then fell still onto the table. He stared briefly at the filter ends and then he waved them away. Slipping the pack into his pocket, Digger exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke over the table. He laughed.

  “Sure
as hell wouldn’t want to be that guy. They were fuckin’ pissed. Dook, remember? I had Ward on the speaker? He was nuts.”

  Dookie laughed.

  “Oh, man! You guys shoulda heard it. It was so fucked up. He was like, ‘God damn it, what the fuckin’ shittin’ goddamn hell is going on out there? What the—I’m gonna kick someone’s ass, blah, blah.”

  PJ forced a smile, clutching the neck of his bottle.

  “What were they gonna do?”

  Digger dragged deep from his cigarette, squinting at PJ.

  “Probably nothin’. Guy doesn’t have shit. I don’t know what goes on at Maverick, but we run a clean site here. Ward just said he’d take care of it.”

  PJ leaned back, his eyes shut.

  He’d take care of it.

  A slap to his face brought him back, and he nearly butted heads with Angus, hovering over him.

  “Chase. You gettin’ sleepy? Gotta power through.” He pointed to the bar. “Your turn.”

  PJ collected the empty bottles, adding his own toxic brew to the mix. He trudged to the bar, biting his lip. Helen met him at the taps.

  “Another round?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He held up a twenty. “Is that enough? We’re down to seven.”

  Helen shook her head, and PJ dug deeper in his wallet. As she lined up a fresh supply of bottles, she gave him a wink.

  “On the house, sailor.”

  PJ traded the twenty for two fives and pushed them across the bar.

  “Thanks. They could drink a guy into the gutter,” he said, pointing at the bills. “For you and Phil.”

  Helen lined up seven glasses with a devious glance down the bar. She tucked the bills into her pocket as she retrieved the whiskey bottle from the back shelf.

  “Hope I remember to give it to him.” The bottle was drained after two shots, and Helen scanned the shelf, shaking her head as she turned to PJ with a smile. “So hard to find good help. Gotta get another case from the back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  PJ motioned towards her waist.

  “Keep those for yourself.”

  With another wink, she disappeared into the back room.

  Clutching the bar rail, PJ hung his head, staring at the floor. The voices around him faded into muffled background noise as he turned the phrase over repeatedly in his head.

  Ward said he’d take care of it.

  “You all right, sailor?”