Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

“Steve and I were thinking,” she said. “Steve could use a little help around the place. Winter will be here before we know it and we have a lot of hay to put up, that sort of thing. We’d probably need to hire someone anyway, and as long as you’re here…”

“We couldn’t pay much,” Steve said. “But you can have the spare bedroom here, and the food is great.”

And so is the location, Neal thought.

“How about if I lived in that cabin up on the spur?” he asked.

The Mills laughed.

“You don’t want to live out there,” Peggy said. “It’s filthy, for one thing. It’s cold, it’s isolated…”

Well, I’m not going to be here long enough for it to get cold, Mrs. Mills, and isolation is just what I need to conduct my little search for Harley and Cody McCall.

“Neal might want some privacy, Peggy,” said Steve.

“There’s not even any electricity. Just that old wood stove.”

“I’ll be fine,” Neal said. “And I’ll work for the rent on the place and a few supplies to get me started. I have a little money in the bank at home I can have sent out.”

“Are you sure?” Peggy asked.

“I think this is what I’ve been looking for,” Neal said.

Or it’s damn close, anyway.

The next morning Steve and Neal drove into town to get supplies.

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.