The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 27

                 

The truck behind us is painted tan. Montana plates.

I damn well could've been looking at myself in the mirror. Even got a man and woman inside it. Only difference is our truck has a smashed rear. Their truck is messed up in the front bumper.

I shift out of reverse. Nudge the gas pedal to see if we're connected in a metal knot. The trucks separate as I pull forward a foot or so.

"You OK?" I say to Sam.

She tugs at her necklace chain. The one with the raccoon penis jewelry.

"I'm lucky. Knocked the wind out of me more than anything," Sam says. "You don't look so good."

I check my forehead in the mirror. Got a little goose egg hatching under the skin.

I spot the man and woman from the other truck in the mirror. They head our way. Look mad as hell.

"You must've been in one sweet hurry," the man says between huffs of adrenaline.

He's shirtless beneath a pair of grease-stained overalls. Coated in bristly hair from the head on down.

Les is outside my door now. Jerks it open. Shouts incoherent obscenities with a red face. Jabs at me with the cane.

Sam intervenes. Now she's pissed, too. Leans over, grabs the cane. Pushes back at Les with it. The wheelchair glides away.

"Knock it off, you old fuck," Sam says. "What are you getting so mad about? It was an accident."

I shut and lock the door to block Les's cane. He's still yelling something. I wait until he's calmed down enough to talk. Roll the window down.

"You owe me a truck. You backed into two of my people. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a truck out here? Way more demand than supply," Les says. Points the cane at me. "I saw you making like a 'coon out of a combine. You should've been more careful."

"It was an accident, Les. We cleaned up that trash. Now we're leaving," I say. "Tell your people to move their truck."

"You were going to just up and leave?" Les says. "But we haven't found Abe and Tor yet."

"Frankly, Les, I don't give a damn," I say.

A Gone with the Wind reference. Sam grins even though it's cliché.

"If they weren't in the container, maybe they went to work for someone else," Sam says.

Yeah, maybe Abe and Tor didn't enjoy working for an unstable asshole like Les.

"Yeah, they probably got bought out. Happens all the time out here. Employers poach hands any way they can. Just can't find enough bodies out here. It's too bad. They were good workers," Les says.

I check the mirrors. We're still trapped. Container in front. Truck behind. More or less at Les's mercy. I feign sincerity.

"That's too bad, Les. I feel for you. I wish me and Sam could help, but I think it's time we got going. Now how about you tell your people to move their truck?" I say.

Les slides the cane across the open window. Pokes my cheek with the tip. Twists it so the flesh inside my cheek screws against my teeth.

I roll the window up so it's open just a crack. Getting real tired of that cane.

"You're not leaving," Les says. "You owe me for fucking up my truck."

Sam nudges my arm. Nods for me to check the rear view mirror.

I see the man and woman in the truck behind us loading shotguns. Extended magazine tubes on each.

Les looks to them. Then to Sam and me. Takes off his blue Navy Vet hat. Scratches his bald head. Thinks for a minute.

I do, too. Think of ways to outrun those shotguns if we bail from the cab. Nothing comes to mind. They have us in one hell of a tight spot.

Les looks like he's thinking, too. His face relaxes after a sec.

"OK, you two. I suppose it was an accident after all. You don't owe me for the truck," Les says. Probably faking sincerity as much as I just did. "Do you have any place to stay tonight or are you planning on sleeping on benches again?"

"Why you asking?" I say.

"Ever heard of the Man Camps? I run one of them. Got a few spare campers. Could set you two up for the night," Les says. His gentle tone betrays the fact two loaded shotguns behind us are ready to put us down. "Then in the morning, you could come work for me. Give it a trial run. If you don't like the pay or the conditions, you can leave. Sound fair?"

I've heard of the Man Camps before. Housing is tight, so fields become permanent campgrounds. Scores of oil workers making cities on the prairie. All of the population of a city. None of the government or services.

Stories coming out of the Man Camps are why I don't like out-staters. These places would be called slums in other countries. Shanty towns. Collections of trucks, campers and makeshift houses. Open sewers. Prostitutes. Drugs. Booze. Murder. You name it.

Looking at Les, I can see the truth in those stories. This guy could just as easily be a prairie pimp as a trash collector.

I exchange glances with Sam. She shrugs. Not like we have too many options.

"You better be paying something sweeter than what we can get around town," Sam says to Les.

"I promise. The pay is like nothing you'll find anywhere else," Les says. "All you'll have to do is pick up trash, too. I need reliable hands."

"I need some real numbers," I say. If I'm going to a Man Camp, I need to know it's worth it.

Les tells us the number. Sam mouths a "Wow."

"All that for picking up trash?" I say.

"That's right," Les says. "That's how shorthanded we are out here."

Now I understand the boom. Thought I did before, but I wasn't even close. The rush of money goes straight to your head. Or maybe straight away from it.

"I'll take that as a yes," Les says. "Right?"

"Right," I say.

"Right?" Les says to Sam.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"Good. Then give me and my people a ride to the on/off bar near the expressway," Les says. Thumbs in the direction. "It's a real shithole, but I need to sort out a problem before we go to the Man Camp."

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