The Mine (8 page)

"That isn't going to do it. You owe us twenty, not ten."

"It's all I have. I'll give you the rest later. I promise."

"That's not good enough."

Joel hated the dull sound of fists hitting bellies. He hated that total strangers had interrupted his best daydream in weeks. Most of all, he hated that he would have to jump into the fray or tune out a nasty assault. Violence, he reasoned, belonged on football fields and in boxing rings, not dark alleys in Seattle, Washington. He jumped off the bench, donned his hat, and walked slowly across the Ave.

"OK, gentlemen, break it up."

The bill collectors, in sleeveless shirts and cuffed denim, turned toward Joel. So did their better-dressed debtor, who bled from both sides of his mouth.

"Well, take a look," the larger aggressor said. "It's John Wayne."

With pompadour hair, low bushy eyebrows, and a six-inch scar that ran across his chin, he was all set for Halloween and not one to talk. He laughed, sneered at Joel, and resumed his business, lifting the ragdoll to his feet before knocking him down.

"I said break it up."

Mr. Congeniality kicked his prostrate victim in the side for good measure, then spun around and briskly walked up to Joel. With twenty pounds on the peacemaker, he got right in his face.

"And what are you going to do if I don't?"

"I'm going to run your ass up that flagpole and then do your mother."

The bully nixed the small talk. He crouched, shifted his weight to his back foot, and threw a clenched fist at Joel's face. The right hook grazed an ear. When he reloaded and fired again, Joel caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him face first into an overflowing garbage can. The metal lid rolled into the street.

The man got up slowly and brushed coffee grounds off his shirt. He lowered his shoulders, snarled, and charged with the fury of a wounded bull. Once again, Joel was ready. He stepped to one side, tripped the lout to the pavement, and jumped on his back. He grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his face into the ground.

"Do you give, or do we discuss your sister too?"

"I give."

Joel lifted the trash – the one on two legs – and kicked it hard to the curb. The man struggled to his feet, looked around, and appealed for help but found none. His scrawny sidekick had already grabbed the wallet and bolted. Stunned, humbled, and furious, the ruffian glared at Joel, extended the middle finger of his undamaged hand, and retreated north. It was over that fast.

Sirens pierced the still air, sending Joel's stomach to his toes. Though a night in the Iron Bars Bed and Breakfast had surprising appeal, he had had enough excitement for one day and just wanted sleep. He could picture the interview with Seattle's finest.

"And your date of birth, Mr. Smith?"

"Why, that would be June 7, 1978, Officer. The day the Sonics blew the Finals."

The sirens passed, bringing palpable relief. Then Joel looked at the man he had saved and wondered if he should not call someone, after all. He needed a helping hand, if not a doctor. Blood still flowed from his mouth as he sat up and grabbed his head.

Joel looked for something to wipe the blood, walking up and down the alley and even searching the garbage can. He drew the line at two oily rags.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

Moments later he returned with two large handfuls of toilet paper from the Mad Dog and gave them to the man. He was still a little shaky but alert and on his feet.

"Here. Take this. You're a mess."

"Thanks."

The man wiped his mouth, ran a finger along his lower lip, and tucked in his blue button-down shirt. Blood had dripped on the collar and a pocket.

"No. Thank the next guy to use the toilet in there. I took all they had."

"That's funny." The wounded warrior dabbed a corner of his mouth. "I meant thanks for running those guys off. I didn't think they were going to get rough."

"Don't mention it. Besides, I didn't have a choice," Joel said. He smiled. "You guys interrupted my beauty sleep."

"Well, thanks anyway. I'm Tom Carter, by the way."

"Joel Smith."

The two shook hands, drifted over to the cement steps of the law office, and sat down. Before either could say a word, four talkative men exited the Mad Dog and walked across the street. One stared at Joel and shouted "Where's the party, cowboy?" before joining the others in a 1939 Packard sedan parked in front of the bookstore. They spun away from the curb, leaving the block peaceful once again.

Tom cocked his head and peered out of a puffy eye.

"I like your duds."

"You and half the planet," Joel said. He stood up, walked into the street to pick up the garbage can lid, and placed it atop the can before returning to the steps. "So what was this all about? Did you lose a bet?"

"Two, actually."

They both laughed.

"I would have paid them off too," Tom said. "I never welsh on bets – never. But I won't have the cash until later this week."

Joel studied his new acquaintance. Two inches shorter and a few pounds heavier, he was a nice-looking guy with a baby face, strong jaw, and short, light-brown hair that was parted to the side. Unlike the thugs he chased away, he also sounded educated.

"Are you a student?"

"I am, though not for much longer. I graduate in two weeks. I came out here to shoot some pool and clear my head. I studied non-stop all weekend. But it's back to the grind tomorrow." Tom brushed off his pants and looked up. "How about you?"

The question caught Joel off guard. Many people had commented about his attire, but no one had asked who he was or where he came from. The truth would not cut it. Though he looked, and probably smelled, like a wild man from Borneo, he needed a story that was a bit more credible.

"No. I just got off the train from Montana. I came here looking for work."

Tom squinted his eyes and stared at the man who had saved him from a savage beating. He wore a stained sweatshirt, a scraggly beard, and the aroma of unwashed skin.

"You didn't hop a train, did you?"

"I did."

Both laughed.

"That explains a lot. When was the last time you had a bath?"

Does a sponge bath in Spokane count?

"It's been a while. Is it that bad? I lost my sense of smell yesterday."

"You're a riot. You remind me of my girlfriend." Tom tucked the bathroom tissue in a pocket and then turned toward his friend. "Say, guy, do you have a place to stay?"

Joel pointed to the bench in front of the Mad Dog.

"My castle."

"I figured as much." Tom smiled. He put an arm over Joel's shoulder and led him back up the Ave. "Let's do something about that."

CHAPTER 21

"So you're the young man who occupied my trailer last night."

"I am."

Joel stepped forward and shook the hand of a barrel-chested bulldog of a man in the well-furnished living room of his university district home.

"Mel Carter."

"Joel Smith."

"Well, have a seat, Mr. Smith. We have a lot to talk about."

Joel walked around a walnut coffee table and sat down on the middle cushion of a plush silk brocade couch. On the other side of the room, Mel and Tom Carter, father and son, sat in matching upholstered recliners. A mahogany console radio stood between them.

"I'll be straight with you, Joel. It's not every day we take in a stray off the streets and welcome him into our home. I'm still trying to make sense of all this, and I'm not sure I like it." Mel put his hands together and leaned forward. "But Tom told me what you did last night, and I must tell you I'm grateful. He doesn't always exercise the best judgment."

"Thank you."

Joel let out a sigh. He had dreaded this meeting, mostly because he did not know what to expect. But now that he had some measure of Melvin Carter, owner and operator of Carter's Furniture and Appliance, he relaxed. He could see he was a reasonable man. A good day was getting better.

The day, ironically, had started on a bed on wheels, albeit one more comfortable than a rolling boxcar. Joel had slept soundly in an immaculate Airstream trailer, parked in a dirt driveway behind a three-bedroom Cape Cod house.

When he got up, he grabbed a shirt, underwear, and a razor provided by Tom and made use of a downstairs bathroom and a round porcelain-tub washing machine that looked a lot like R2-D2. By the time Sandra Carter returned home at noon from Tuesday pinochle, Joel was a new man. Tom introduced his mother to a clean-cut friend, not a mysterious drifter who, hours earlier, had roamed the streets with a hairy face.

"Tom tells me you're from Montana," Mel Carter said.

The statement brought Joel out of a daze. He tried to remember what he had told Tom the previous night, when he went from Joel Smith, time traveler, to Joel Smith, job-seeking cowboy from Big Sky Country. It was time to play the part.

"Helena," he said. At least that much was true. "My family is into ranching."

Joel remembered Walter Scott's quip about tangled webs and deceit.

"Ranching, huh?"

Tom sat in his chair, legs crossed, and nodded. No scrutiny would come from his corner.

"So why does a Montana rancher hop a train to Seattle?" Mel asked.

"Well, sir, truth be told, the ranching hasn't been so good lately. Beef is in a free fall. Chicken is cutting into the market."

"Chicken?"

"Sad but true. Consumers are on a white-meat kick and our operation hasn't been able to adjust. I couldn't make it in a chicken world, sir, so I hit the road in search of something better."

Mel smiled, shook his head, and looked at his plainspoken guest as if trying to decide whether he was a serial liar or a marketing genius. He shifted around in his chair and adjusted a pair of black suspenders that cut into a white short-sleeved shirt. A pack of cigarettes bulged from one pocket.

"What kind of work are you looking for?"

"Anything. I just want an opportunity to prove myself and work my way up."

"Ever sell anything?"

I once sold Adam on protein shakes.

"Not recently, but I'm willing to try."

Mel glanced at Tom, as if seeking some sort of guidance, and then at the mystery man. He stroked his chin, rubbed his hands together, and leaned forward in his chair.

"Tell you what, Joel. If you mean what you say, I'll give you that chance. I run a home furnishings store just off campus. Come in with me in the morning, and I'll put you to work. If you can sell more than toasters in two weeks, I'll make the job permanent."

As Joel pondered a reply, a pretty, browned-haired girl, no more than eighteen, stepped into the living room. She glanced at the visitor, blushed, and turned toward the oldest male in attendance.

"Supper's ready, Daddy."

Brenda Carter took her leave but sneaked one more peek at Joel as she ambled across a dark oak floor. Rounding an arched entrance that led to a hallway, she stopped, popped her head back in the room, and peered at her older brother.

"Oh, Tom, I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"Ginny's here."

CHAPTER 22

Sandra Carter knew fried chicken, the bane of the beef industry. She also knew gravy, biscuits, and corn on the cob.

Joel smiled to himself as he took stock of the food on the large, rectangular table, which occupied a fair portion of a well-lighted dining room. The fat grams alone could kill a herd of elephants. But he wasted no time digging in. Twenty-four hours earlier rotting fruit had looked like a feast. Now, he had meat and carbohydrates – and company.

Mel and Sandy took up most of Joel's time, asking questions about Montana, his family, and ranch life. Joel surprised himself by handling each query with aplomb. In his new, tightly written biography, he was not a free-spirited geology student who lived in an apartment complex ten blocks away but rather a restless rancher's son seeking something bigger and better in the big city.

He sensed from the start that Mel didn't buy his BS, or at least all of it. But he didn't sweat it. Joel suspected the boss would render his verdict after seeing how well he worked and played with others at Carter's Furniture and Appliance.

Sandy, a slender woman with a pleasant face, oval eyes, and steam-curled locks, was similarly accommodating. She asked Joel what his parents thought of his gallivanting, asked if he had a girl back home, and said he looked nice in Tom's green shirt. Brenda rolled her eyes at the first question, sighed at Joel's reply to the second, and nodded in agreement with the compliment but did not say a word.

Tom spoke only a few. Apparently grateful to be eating dinner at home and not in a hospital, he mostly kept to himself. He had told his family how two men had taken his wallet and tried to beat him to a pulp but not why. He seemed pleased that the questions around the table had been directed at someone else.

Joel did not need long to figure out the Carters of 4125 Baltic Avenue. They were good people, and he was grateful for their kindness and hospitality.

He had more difficulty assaying their other guest. Ginny, Tom's girlfriend of two months, spoke often about articles she had written for the student newspaper and of plans to move out of her sorority and into an off-campus house with three of her friends. But she left the questioning of the Montana man to others. Until dessert, that is.

"Have you lived on a ranch all your life, Joel?"

"I have. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just curious how you managed to keep such soft, clean hands," Ginny said, sticking forks into two objects.

"I'm a firm believer in soap, ma'am."

Tom smirked and leaned toward his new friend.

"You weren't yesterday," he whispered.

Joel smiled at the observation and wondered if anyone at the table could read lips. He turned back to Ginny, who seemed as interested as ever.

"You're a charmer, Mr. Smith. And ma'am? Wherever did you find him, Tom?"

"In front of the Mad Dog."