Richard Burgin - The Best American Mystery Stories 2005

I drove to a gas station, picked up a calling card, and went to the payphone. I started calling all the big outfits I’d ever worked for. There was no work right now and I think a couple of them were skeptical that I was even calling. I put in a call to Molly Johnson at Hayes. I made it a point to know these people and had even taken her out to dinner once when I was in Canada and treated her to a Tim Horton’s after. She seemed glad to hear from me.

“John, I’ll tell you. You’re welcome to this guy. I’ll note it on the file that you’re the one doing the work. But it has to be done right. He’s got a couple friends up here and he’s a big deal, know what I mean?”

“Sure,” I said. I strained to hear her as trucks pulled into the gas station. “Molly, I appreciate it.”

She paused, then went on. “They haven’t assigned a supervisor to this project yet, we haven’t even officially taken it, but I’m sure it’ll go through. We’re just waiting on the appraisal. We’re actually holding his check,” she said. “So do a good job, because there will be people up here who will listen if he yells.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” I said, and wrote the name and number she gave me on a slip of paper. Theodore Morrison. He had called Hayes to have his land in upstate New York logged off, but Hayes didn’t operate that way. They liked to have an independent appraisal, in case the landowner changed his mind midway through the cut. I’d seen it happen. Change of heart, mixed feelings, a broken business deal. Half the trees were gone, and it was impossible to get an accounting from the sawmills. The appraisal was a smart thing. It was supposed to keep everybody honest, but the added layer just allowed for more skim. I called the Manhattan number Molly had given me and a secretary answered.

“This is John Thorn calling, is Mister Morrison available?”

“One moment, please. What’s this regarding?”

“His upstate acreage,” I said. “Logging it. I’m calling from Hayes-Canada.”

“One moment,” she repeated.

Morrison got on the line. He sounded like an older man with some kick left in him. “Mister Thorn, you’re with Hayes?”

“John’s fine,” I said, “and no. I’m the independent. Molly Johnson at Hayes told me you were hiring an independent appraisal of standing timber in order to complete a clear-cut job and that I should call you. I work independent, call around every week or so, to see what jobs are available.”

“Where are you located?” he asked. In his background, in the concrete woods of Manhattan, a faint siren moved closer, then further, then gone.

“Northwest of Roscoe, outside of the Catskill Park area. Do you know where that is?”

“I can find it on a map, I’m sure. Listen, what kind of credentials do you have and how fast can you get on this thing?”

It started to look good for me. “You can call Hayes, if you like, and get hold of Tom West, he’s a supervisor up there and has seen my work and my clients.”

“OK,” Morrison said. “I’ll do that.” He paused. “How fast?”

The necessity of speed always works on the side of the skim, never against it. “What’s the parcel and what are you doing?”

“Almost five hundred acres, and I’ve got two offers on the table right now, one from a condo developer and one from a lawyer in Albany with Indian connections, who wants to build a casino when that new legislation passes.”

“And you want to sell the timber rights off first?”

“That’s it. I haven’t been up to the property in twenty years, my wife and I used to go camping up there years ago, but she enjoys warmer weather now, so it’s Florida and the beach. Twenty-five years, I bet. We even put in a foundation. Never did anything with it. Taxes are all paid and I used to have a local guy look it over, a guy named Nolan, who I originally bought it from. But he’s passed on.”

I considered. “I can go get the survey map today, if you had it done local.”

“The map is at Menden’s, do you know them? Are you going to bill me or do I need to have a check sent to you?”

I was in the driver’s seat now. “Wire transfer me two thousand dollars, I’ll give the routing numbers to your secretary. I don’t take checks anymore, they take too long to clear.” I waited and controlled the pace. “I know where Menden’s is, fine. I’ll get the map.”

He knew he was a passenger. “Fine. Just get in there and get it done. I’ll put you back on with Karen.”

“Nice to do business with you, Mister Morrison.”

“It is nice to do business with me,” he made himself laugh. The secretary was on the line and I gave her the bank instructions and numbers. I drove to Menden’s office, twenty miles to get the maps, and then pulled into my bank. I told the head teller I was waiting for a transfer and I sat there. She came out from behind her desk an hour and a half later to tell me I was two thousand dollars richer. In the skim, checks are no good. You can’t put a stop payment on a wire transfer. And you can’t get it back, either. I withdrew all but two hundred of it and when I got home, sat and figured my bills. Three hundred was left when I got done paying. I was trying to live low. I was lucky. I went to sleep and dreamed of the site. Tried hard to dream myself up some tiger maple, a whole straight stand of them. My arms and legs hurt from the accident and beating and that night my back seized once. The pain pills helped, with a chaser. It wasn’t going to be easy cutting trees.

The next day on my way to the site, I stopped and phoned Dave, my cherry picker man. He was home.

“Hey,” I said.

“Shit,” he said. “Saint Peter hand you the phone or what?”

“I got hurt and ended up in the hospital.” He didn’t say anything. “Look,” I went on. “I’ve got a job.”

“It will have to be within the next three days,” he said. “Where is it?”

I told him.

“I’ve driven past that for years, used to be posted under the name Nolan. I’ve been up there hunting.”

“That’s the spot,” I said.

“Park your truck where I can see it from the road,” he said. “If I can’t see your truck, I’ll figure it’s off.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“See you then,” he said as he hung up.

“See you then,” I said to nobody.

Part of working in the woods means being able to see things and knowing how those things will impact the operation later. What soil will give way after a rain and heavy tonnage load of logs, bogging down equipment. I pulled my truck up an old dirt path, so I could pull it back down within sight of the road when I was ready for Dave. I took a can of red marking paint and drew myself a landing site on a slight hill and started to look the place over. Within ten minutes of walking, I’d found what I was looking for. Some of the best maple I’d seen in years. At least twenty of them, all straight up to the sky like God meant them to be. I tied some yellow area tape around them, then some orange, and when I got done walking the site, at least a couple of them were coming down today. I kept walking and making notes in my weatherproof book. It was always strange to me, to be doing an honest appraisal and keeping an eye out for trees to steal. I crossed a small stream and started up a rocky hill that had more timber behind it. This was a great spot and why Morrison wanted to sell was beyond me. It was funny that I hadn’t seen any deer yet, but I figured they must be deeper in the woods. I got to the top of the rocks and it looked like there was a trail ahead of me.

The man leaning against one of the trees held a rifle. It was a stainless steel, wood-grip lever action, with a short barrel. He wore a black work jacket.