Tim Green - Exact Revenge

I don’t see him, or Black Turtle, but there is a man with plans spread out over the hood of a Chevy pickup who is obviously in charge. Yellow foam plugs peek out of his ears. His hair and mustache are powdered with stone dust the way my father’s always were. He stares up at me from behind his safety goggles and frowns.

“This is a hard hat area,” he says. “Who are you?”

“I’m…” I say, frozen and sick at how close I came to calling myself Raymond White, “looking for Kevin White.”

“Who?” the foreman says, his powdered eyebrows knitted.

A gray bearded man in overalls and leathery skin comes around to my side of the pickup and says to the foreman, “The guy used to own this place. Remember? Guy who froze to death?”

“You got me,” the foreman says, tilting back his lime green hardhat and dabbing at his brow with the back of his hand.

My head feels hollow and I hear a sound like waterfalls. I’ve lost my sense of standing upright.

“Hey, fella. You okay?”

“You sure?” I ask. “Did you know him?”

“Not really,” the older man says. “Just remember it in the papers back in, I don’t know, 1990 or something, about him having his power cut off middle of January. Didn’t pay his bills, they said. Power company took hell for it anyway…

“I remember because guys used to kid each other when we first started working this place,” he says, nodding his head toward the rusty hulk on the road above us. “There was an old Indian who used to come around-”

“Black Turtle?”

“Yeah, I think that was it. He died too, not long after. Anyway, he said you could see that Kevin White guy’s ghost on that old payloader sometimes after dark. Well, that got them all going. You know how rock guys are.”

“Rocks in their heads, half of ’em,” the foreman says.

“They say it’s not a bad way to go,” the older man says. “Say you start feeling real warm and then you just kind of go to sleep.”

I hear him, but my eyes are on the payloader, broken and flaky. The air above the seat glimmers and I squint my eyes, looking for his shape. But it’s only the heat from the brown metal and the weeds, making tracks for the cooler regions of the blue sky. I wish my hatred had a vent like that.

My father is gone. Even his ghost.

THE SNOW IN UPSTATE NEW YORK is piled high by the time I return. It’s taken me that long to turn Lester’s stash into a massive portfolio of cash and stocks and bonds. Bert is driving me in a black Lincoln Navigator and he has to use four-wheel drive from the minute we leave the Thruway. The slush from the morning’s snow is four inches deep. At my feet is a suitcase with a million dollars in cash as well as a street-bought Smith amp; Wesson.357 with a silencer attached.

Bert’s hair is cut short now and he wears an expensive tan shearling coat that makes him look even bigger than he already is. I wear a black leather trench coat, even though it’s not as warm. It matches my driving gloves and looks good with the full black beard and mustache I’ve grown. My hair is still long, but slicked back tight to my head. Paul Russo will be the first person I’ll meet up close, in the light, who really knew Raymond White.

Byrd’s, the same place that rented us the party boat last summer, rents snowmobiles in the winter. Bert has called ahead, and two red-and-black machines that look like they came out of Star Wars are waiting for us in the middle of the plowed lot. The sky is bitter and bleached and the sun shows through in only a pale yellow wash. The same old guy comes outside with his smoky breath trailing him. He gives us helmets to use, and I see him staring at the Ferragamo shoes on my feet.

“You going like that?” he says, nodding toward the shoes and the pant legs of my suit.

I don’t know what he’s looking at. He’s got a Valvoline cap on his head and his nose and ears are red like beets from the cold. I ease the helmet down over my slick hair and get onto the snowmobile. Bert loads up two overnight bags and my briefcase on the back of his snowmobile, then shells out the cash for the machines. I rev my engine until he’s mounted up, then we shoot across the street and out onto the frozen lake.

In the open stretches, I grip the accelerator tight. The machine shakes and swerves, floating, almost out of control. Snow crystals whip up under the edge of my helmet. I look down at the speedometer. The needle pushes past eighty and the sensation of speed gets my heart going.

There are other snow machines lined up on the bank outside the old hotel. Heavy gray smoke pours out from three different chimneys. Inside, it’s warm and I can smell cinnamon and burning wood. Russo greets us with a clap of his hands. He wears a green sweater with a line of white reindeers knit across the front. His pale neck sticks out of the collar like a broomstick. The veins in his big nose and even his protruding ears are angry from alcohol and his breath smells like cheap scotch.

“Gentlemen,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “we’ve been expecting you. Good ride over?”

When he sees my Ferragamo shoes crusted with snow, he raises his eyebrows, chuckles, and says, “There’s a fire around the corner. If you want to give me your credit card, I’ll get you checked in.”

Bert takes four one-hundred-dollar-bills out of his wallet and extends them toward Russo. Russo looks up at him and his eyes strain for a moment as if he might have seen Bert before.

“We’ll pay cash,” I say.

“That’s not a problem,” Russo says, returning his eyes to me. He blinks under my gaze. “How should I fill out your registration?”

I flip out a business card between my first two fingers and extend it toward him. He takes the card and examines it.

“Ah, Mr. Bell, an attorney,” he says with a nod before angling his head toward Bert. “And your friend?”

“Put them both under my name,” I say. “I want to talk to you after dinner. About some business.”

Russo’s eyebrows pop up and he touches his fingertips to the knit reindeers.

“In private,” I say. I hand my coat and gloves to Bert, then I turn and walk into the great room whose wainscot walls are shimmering in the firelight.

There is a golden oak bar in the corner opposite the fireplace and a pale scrawny woman stares out at me from behind it with big dark eyes. Her hair is the most animated thing about her, long and frizzy. Dark, but shot through with strands of gray. The other guests, snowmobilers in jeans and sweaters, gaze up at my suit, but return their attention to their drinks as soon as they meet my eyes. I have a drink at the bar, answering the hostess-who is also Russo’s wife-in short sentences until she excuses herself to see to the dinner.

Bert and I eat our overcooked pot roast in silence. The dining room overlooks the frozen lake. In the winter moonlight, we can see it and the naked mountains beyond through the frosted panes of glass. The other guests begin their dinner in a drunken uproar, but by the time Mrs. Russo brings around wedges of store-bought pecan pie, our own solemnity seems to have spread. The loudest sound is the silverware striking the old ceramic plates.

Russo comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron and casting a worried glance our way before disappearing in the direction of the great room. Bert presses his lips tight and wags his head and we get up and follow our host. Halfway down the hall, there is an open door and we step into a snug office where a fire crackles and Russo sits at a round oak table smoking a Marlboro Light.

“If you don’t mind,” Bert rumbles, “Mr. Bell doesn’t like smoke.”

I stare at Russo until he stabs out the cigarette in a ceramic ashtray, blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and says, “No problem.”