The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 103

        

I recognize the fingers playing the guitar. It's Moe. One of Les's guys. Missing two fingers at the knuckles on his fretting hand. He plays for us around the fire back at the Man Camp.

Moe's at the wrong rig, though. Works at one 15 miles from here. Maybe the sun is in my eyes. Something's off.

I take a seat next to him.

"Moe?" I say.

"Hey, man," Moe says.

"Don't you work on a different rig? What are you doing here?" I say.

"Les sent me. Said I should make sure you make it back to the Man Camp," Moe says as plain as describing grass.

He plucks a couple strings. They're black from his filthy hands.

"Why?" I say.

Moe twists a machine head back and forth. Tries to tune the D string. Always tuning.

"Said you needed to be monitored. For your own good," he says.

How kind of Les to send a dunce. Probably the last favor he'll ever do for me.

I mask the growing panic in my gut with an eyelash. Making a clean break is going to be a lot more difficult. Meatheads like Moe might be dense, but they're dedicated all the same.

"Good to see you, Moe. You taking requests?" I say. Change the subject.

"You think I'm good enough to take requests? Oh, thanks, man. I appreciate that," Moe says. "But, no, I'm not taking requests."

Nothing more to say from me then. I rise. Moe grabs at my wrist. Looks me in the eyes like a dog under a dinner table.

"Got any?" he says.

I nod. Drop him a small baggie.

"I owe you one, brother," Moe says.

"You owe Les," I say.

"It'll all work out," Moe says.

What a sick game Les rigged. As sick as the junkie spin cycle itself. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. It'll catch Moe soon enough.

Moe's guitar licks start smooth. Strong. Pleasant. Then they flutter into a frantic cacophony. The music dissipates into noise.

I tune it out. Head back to the rig. The safety inspection is over. Time to get back to work.

I feel the revolver shift in my pocket as I fire up the pressure washer. There's only going to be one way out of here.

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