The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 20

                 

"What's your deal?" Sam says.

I've been staring at the trash can. The one Les assigned to us. Quiet. Thinking. Barely spoke a word to Sam.

"Huh?" I say.

"You're like a zombie. You know what those are, right?" Sam says. Unfolds a handful of cigarette butts. Only a few smokeable centimeters left. "Want one?"

"One of what?" I say.

Then I realize she means the butts. Didn't think she was serious. I shake my head.

What the hell am I doing here?

Not like I forget why. Les is paying us to clean this park. Not quite the action I had in mind. I just want my fucking truck back.

My truck. That's not quite right. It's Joe's. He probably wants it back. I need to find him once this is all done. That much I know.

I know something else, too. It's been too long since I've caught a respectable buzz. Maybe that's for the better. Need a clear head.

"What are you thinking about?" Sam says.

"I'm thinking about trash. Picking up trash," I say. An obvious lie. Still better than saying I zone out to the point of not knowing what's happening. Comes and goes.

"You're as boring as trash," Sam says. "Why don't you ask me about me? Aren't you curious?"

"I guess," I say. "So, what about you?"

Sam lights a butt. Takes quick sips as it burns. Passes it to me. Insists.

It's been a while since I lit up. Tastes as bad as I remember, even more so since it's litter. Like over easy dog shit.

We sit down on a bench nearby. Sam lights, puffs, tosses, repeats.

"You really like those things," I say. "Why don't you just buy some?"

"Didn't have much cash until now," she says. "Just my lucky raccoon penis."

"Yeah, about that. It's not really solid gold, is it?" I say.

Sam flips the jewelry out from under her shirt. Plays with it as she smokes.

"It looks like solid gold. I tell people it's solid gold. They believe it's solid gold. So it's gold. Doesn't matter if it is or isn't. Perception is reality," Sam says. Lets out a deep chuckle.

I chuckle. No shit. And that's why I can't trust her yet. Hell, she could be a man for all I know. Wouldn't surprise me. Lots of out-stater freaks around here. Spot a few walking near park benches not far away. Punk rock patches on backpacks. Hair dyed crazy colors. Loose, hippie gait. All wearing shoes, too, not boots. Probably mining the trash for a fucking handout. Hope Les's guys got to them like they did Sam.

"How many times have you used that thing for a ride?" I say.

"For as long as the paint hasn't worn off," Sam says. Flashes me a smile. "You didn't think hitchhikers lie to get rides? Seriously?"

Seriously. There's that word again. And there's that jolt in my gut. Makes me pluck an eyelash out. Calms out that unsettled feeling.

"I figured as much," I say.

"It's only a half-lie. It's still a real raccoon penis bone," Sam says. "The paint is actually nail polish."

"Nice to know some out-staters are still honest. Eventually," I say.

Sam picks up on the condescension in my voice. Races to the defense.

"You got a problem with out-staters?" she says. "You gave me a ride when you didn't have to. Now you're a few hundred bucks richer for picking up trash. What's your deal, asshole?"

Like that penis bone, she's only hit on half the truth. My head is the other half. I don't mention that part, though.

"Out-staters are the best and worst thing to happen to North Dakota," I say. "Kind of like you. My deal is that I shouldn't've gave you that ride. But for whatever reason, I did. Now we're here. Sometimes there isn't a real good explanation for things. Like there's an invisible hand pushing you into something. Doesn't mean out-staters aren't any more than a necessary evil. Maybe you'll be the exception."

Sam seems satisfied with that. Tucks the charm back into her shirt. Uses her good hand.

"You sure you're not an out-stater? I don't hear a lot of locals talking like you do," Sam says.

She's got a point there. It's why I never fit in on the prairie in the first place.

"My mother, she has quite the book collection. Guess I liked to read," I say.

"Surprising. You don't quite match the illiterate hick stereotype. Might make a person reconsider some of their own," Sam says. Lets that soak in, then switches back to her other mode. In-the-moment curiosity tossed with road-weary sarcasm.  "So what part of North Dakota are you from, oh holy literate in-stater?"

I think back to meeting Joe in the bar. Crimps the wires in my brain.

I try again. And again. And again. Nothing. A hand shoves me back to the present each time I try to access the past.

"I'm from Betrug. If you put a pin on a map where you thought the middle of North Dakota was, you'd probably hit Betrug," I say.

Sam waits for more. Nothing comes.

"That's it? You're from Betrug? No more to that story?" Sam says.

"I do odd jobs for farmers. Like a hired hand. I was at a bar in town the other day. Met a guy named Joe there. He had a job for me. But we drank too much. Then you found me in that bathroom in Jamestown," I say.

Not sure why I let Sam in on that. Feels good to talk about it. Lubricate my memory a bit.

"What a fascinating life you've led. Really, really interesting," Sam says. "You sound like the town fuck up. All that reading did you no good."

That stings. Screws into the truth.

"Enough about me. I let you in on something. Now you let me in," I say. "Is Sam really your name?"

Sam cuts loose a deep laugh. Like she can't believe I would ask that.  I don't think it's out of line. Only safe question I can think of anyway.

"Yes. That's my real name. It's short for Samantha," she says. "But no one calls me that. Not for a long time."

"Why not?" I say.

"You really want to know?" she says.

"Sure."

Sam leans over. Brings her mouth to my ear. 

"No, you don't, farm boy," she says.

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