Way Down on the High Lonely (11 page)

They didn’t have to do a lot of walking around; the town had one store. It didn’t have a name—people just called it “the store.” Even Evelyn Phillips called it “the store,” and she had owned it for thirty years. She figured that if another store ever came to town, then she’d give her store a name, although Steve allowed that if that unlikely situation ever came to pass, people would probably still call Evelyn’s store “the store” and call the other store “the other store.”

Evelyn also owned the town’s one restaurant across the street. It even had a name: Wong’s. Wong’s had red paper lanterns, Chinese fans on the walls, and a big dragon textile inside the front door and it didn’t serve a smidgen of Chinese food. Hadn’t since Wong died back in 1968 and Wong’s wife and children eagerly moved back to San Francisco. Evelyn bought the restaurant and, at the prompting of grateful customers, changed the menu. Everyone had always liked the decor, though, so that stayed.

“Worst Chinese food in the West,” Evelyn told Neal.

“God awful,” Steve agreed.

She hadn’t gone in much for decorations in the store, though. People didn’t come in to browse, they came in to pick up things they needed. The men who came in just wanted to get their stuff and get back to work—or steal an hour at Brogan’s. The women had already memorized the inventory, so they spent their time in the store talking—exchanging news and gossip. Most of the places outside of town didn’t have telephones yet, so the store was the place for a catch-up with the neighbors.

With Steve’s advice, Neal picked out a couple of pairs of heavy jeans, three denim work shirts, a pair of work boots, and a hat. Steve had cajoled him into trying on a cowboy hat, but Neal looked so embarrassed—with good reason, Steve agreed—that they settled for an Allis-Chalmers ball cap. Then they picked out some canned goods, cooking stuff, frozen meat, and that sort of thing.

“Is this cash or on your tab, Steve?” Evelyn asked as they set the stuff down on the counter. She was a tall woman in her early sixties. She’d played trombone in an all-girl band in California back in the old days and then figured she wanted something a lot different. She never married, although the rumor was that she had regular alliances with a couple of the businessmen who traveled through periodically.

Steve looked over to Neal.

“Cash,” Neal said.

Evelyn didn’t flinch at the hundred-dollar bill he laid down.

“Speaking of tabs,” she said to Steve, “you haven’t seen Paul Wallace around, have you?”

Say what? Say who? Whom? Neal slowly put his change back in his wallet and examined his purchases. Which Paul Wallace is she talking about?

“Paul Wallace …” Steve said, testing the sound to see if it rang a bell.

“I believe he’s one of Hansen’s hands,” Evelyn said. “Came in here and ran a tab against his pay, and I haven’t seen him since. Been about three weeks. Hansen pays every two, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. Kinda tall? Blond? Nice-looking guy?” Steve asked.

Harley McCall. Neal wished he had a chance to slap the real Paul Wallace all over again. Son of a bitch should have told me that they
switched
identities. Then again, I should have thought to ask.

“Yeah, that’s him. I usually don’t give credit unless they’ve been around awhile, but he had this cute little boy with him, and he was buying kids’ stuff—cereal, cookies …”

Neal wondered if they noticed the bass drum banging in the room—his heart beating a fast, steady boom-boom-boom.

Steve said, “Sorry, Evelyn, I haven’t seen him around in at least three weeks. Course, there’s no reason I would. I’m not over to Hansen’s much. I can ask Shelly to ask Jory if you want.”

Evelyn shook her head. “No, I don’t want to embarrass the man. But if you run into Hansen, tell him to tell his cowboy to come see me. Course, he’s probably moved on somewhere and stiffed me.”

I hope not, Evelyn. Boy, do I hope not.

“Cute kid, though,” Evelyn observed.

Neal put his stuff in the back of the pickup as Steve looked over to Brogan’s.

“I hate to waste gasoline on one errand,” Steve said.

“I’ll meet you over there,” Neal answered. “I want to make a call.”

He walked down to the gas station, where there was a phone booth. He dialed an 800 number.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t fire you right now,” Levine said as he came on the phone.

“I think I’ve found McCall,” Neal answered.

“Okay, that’s one reason. Tell us where, we’ll have a crew on the next plane.”

“Too soon,” Neal answered. He told him about his conversation with Paul Wallace, his visit with Doreen, his luck with the Mills family, and what he had found out at the store.

“He may have moved on or he may be just lying low at the ranch,” Neal said. “Wait until I find out which.”

Joe Graham came on the line. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“Sorry, Dad. Ed can fill you in. I’m fine.”

“Let me put a crew in place, anyway,” Ed said.

“There’s nowhere to put one, Ed. You’d spook everybody. I have to get going.”

He saw Cal Strekker coming. And there was something … just something …

Ed said, “Now Neal, just try to locate him. Don’t do anything, you got that? We’ve done some research on the True Identity Church, and—”

“Ed, activate that cover story.”

“Neal, what are you doing?” Ed demanded.

Strekker was getting closer.

“Ed, just get me covered! I have to go!”

“Carey, you don’t—”

Neal hung up the phone. Cal Strekker was walking right past him.

“Bitch!” Neal shouted to the phone.

Cal stopped and sneered. “Woman trouble?” he asked.

“Is there any other kind?” Neal answered.

“Stick to whores,” Cal answered. “You pay ’em, you poke ’em, they give you any shit, you smoke ‘em.”

Okaaaay, Neal thought.

Levine buzzed down to the operator.

“Where?” he asked.

“Austin, Nevada.”

Levine looked at Graham. “It’s possible.”

Graham nodded. Since the failed bag job they had devoted their energies to researching Carter’s church. What they had learned was disturbing.

“We should start working the other end,” Levine said.

“Yeah. But carefully. If we screw up we could get the kid killed,” said Graham.

“Which kid?” Levine asked. “Cody McCall or Neal Carey?”

“Both.”

Neal walked into Brogan’s just behind Cal Strekker. There was a beer waiting for him on the bar. He had to step over a sleeping Brezhnev to get to it. Brogan was snoozing in his chair.

“Get your call made?” Steve asked.

“Yeah.”

Neal didn’t volunteer any more information and Steve didn’t ask for any. Strekker grabbed a beer from the fridge and moved down to the end of the bar to his customary stool.

“Doesn’t Hansen expect you to do any work?” Steve asked him. It was a joking tone, but it had an edge on it.

“Got a big load of barbed wire in the truck,” Cal answered. “Thought I’d stop off for a beer, if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s okay with me,” said Steve. “What’s Bob got you doing? Making another breeding pen?”

“I expect if Mr. Hansen wants to discuss his business with you, he will.”

Which in that part of Nevada came pretty damn close to rudeness.

Steve nodded. “Cal, I’ve known Bob Hansen for nigh unto twenty years. I helped him build some of those fences he’s got on his place. In those days we used to take turns, helping each other bring our herds down for the winter. That’s before he could afford top-talent professional cowboys like you.”

“We should be getting back,” Neal said.

“No hurry,” Steve said. The edge was a little sharper.

“I’m not a cowboy,” Cal answered. “I’m a mechanic. And head of security.” Steve guffawed and sprayed beer out his mouth. Some of it landed on Brezhnev and he woke up and growled, which woke Brogan up too. He gave Steve an evil eye and settled back into his chair.

“Security!” Steve bellowed. “What does Bob Hansen need security for?”

“Rustlers. Horse thieves.”

“Shit,” Steve said, chuckling.

“There’ve been some rustlers around,” Strekker said defensively.

Steve downed his whiskey chaser. “Oh, hell, I know that. I lost a cow just last week. I figure it’s only some old back-to-the-earth hippies with a flashlight and a truck. Maybe two or three Paiutes from the res who spent their government checks on hooch and need to feed their kids. Hardly the goddamn James gang. And as for horse thieves, why are they going to take a shot at your remuda when the whole valley is lousy with herds of mustangs eating our cows’ grass? Thanks to the goddamn federal government, by the way. Head of security.”

Cal Strekker flushed with anger. “You can sure talk, Mills, that’s for sure.”

“That’s ‘Mr. Mills’ to you. Or ‘Steve.’ Now, why don’t you do something useful, head of security, and tell Paul Wallace to pay his tab at the store.”

The name struck a nerve.

“Wallace moved on,” Strekker said.

Neal saw Strekker’s eyes widen just a bit, saw the intake of breath that held just a little too long. You’re lying, Neal thought. Harley/ Paul McCall/Wallace has not moved on.

“Then tell Hansen,” Mills said.

“If Evelyn loaned Wallace money, that’s between her and Wallace. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Hansen Cattle Company.”

Steve stood up and put his hat on. “I’ll tell you what,” he said to Strekker. “You tell Bob Hansen what I’ve told you, and he’ll drive in here personally, apologize to Evelyn, and pay the money with interest.

“You think so, huh?” Strekker sneered.

“I know Bob Hansen.”

I wonder if you do, Neal thought. I wonder if you do. He followed Steve onto the street.

Steve hopped into the truck, pulled a cigarette from the glove compartment, and lit it up. He exhaled some of his anger with the smoke.

“He pisses me off,” Steve said. “Bob’s hired himself some real losers lately, all right. Come-lately, drifter trash. No offense,” he added quickly.

“No problem. I thought for a second there was going to be a fight back there.”

“Me too,” Steve chuckled. “Well, it would have sparked up an otherwise dull morning. Let’s go back and get you settled in your new home on the range.”

Yeah, and then find out just how good security is in the Hansen Cattle Company.

They drove as close as they could to the cabin. The truck bounced and protested but moved across the hard-packed sagebrush. They stopped just shy of the creek and then carried the supplies across.

A big black horse, loosely tied to a branch, was grazing lazily.

“That’s Dash,” Steve said, “Shelly’s favorite.”

Shelly and Peggy were in the cabin, cleaning furiously.

They’d done a great job. The cabin was a small, square one room. A metal bed occupied a corner in the back. The bed had just been made up with fresh sheets, an army blanket, and an Indian blanket. An old barrel sufficed for a nightstand. A kerosene lamp on the barrel would serve as a reading light.

On the opposite wall to the right of the door was a counter and a sink with shelves beneath. A plump wood stove sat to the left of the door. Two small screen windows let in air and light.

“You can cover those with plastic when it gets cold,” Peggy said, “if you end up staying that long. I brought some old cast-iron pans and a pot we don’t use anymore. Also a few plates, cups, silverware.”

“Thank you,” said Neal.

“Glad to get rid of them. There’s a lister bag out there for you boys to hang up.”

They went outside. Steve took the big green canvas bag, tied a rope to a ring at the top, hoisted it up on a branch near the creek, and tied it off on the tree trunk.

“Just fill it with water from the creek, hoist it back up, turn the spigot, and you have a shower,” he said. Then he showed Neal where the outhouse was, behind the cabin hidden in some pines. It was a little bigger than a phone booth and had a bench with a hole in it.

“Here’s how you flush,” Steve said. He poured a little gasoline down the hole, lit a match and tossed it in. “That usually does it.”

Shelly was in the saddle when they got back.

“You want a ride, Neal?” she asked.

“No thanks.”

“Have you ever been on a horse?” she asked.

“Sure, and I almost caught the brass ring.”

“You’re just afraid,” she teased.

“You’re just right,” answered Neal.

“Where are you headed, honey?” Steve asked.

“I’m going for a ride with Jory. Up there.” She nodded toward the mountains.

“Where is he?”

“He didn’t want to wait. We’re going to meet up at the spring below the caves.”

“You stay out of those caves!” Peggy hollered from the cabin.

Shelly rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Don’t worry! They give me the creeps!” she said. She pointed toward the cabin door. “Ever vigilant.”

Then she gave Dash a little kick in the ribs and set out at a trot up the lower slopes of the mountain. She waved good-bye without turning back.

“Well,” Steve said as much to himself as to Neal, “I suppose it’s better than her hanging around some mall all day.”

Peggy came out on the porch.

“Do you suppose they’re sleeping together?” she asked evenly.

“Peg! Jesus!”

“I’m not saying they are, Steve,” she said. “But we should look at the possibility.”

“Maybe it isn’t better than hanging around some mall,” Steve considered.

They tinkered around the cabin for a little while longer, making sure Neal was all set up, and then left to let him get settled in and have some privacy. They invited him to dinner, but Neal said that he might just as well get started in being self-sufficient.

Besides, he had some things to do.

First of all he laid out his stuff. It didn’t take long. He had his new work clothes, some of his old street wear, and his new breaking-and-entering regulation black jersey, jeans, socks, tennis shoes, and cap. He had the dog-eared paperback of Smollet’s
Roderick Random
which had saved him from going crazy during his three years’ confinement in Sichuan.

He took his collection of racist literature—
The Turner Diaries, The Zion Watchman
newsletter, and a couple of C. Wesley Carter’s cheaply printed tracts—and hid them where anyone tossing the place could find them.