Chapter Twenty-Two

My escapade in the country left me agitated and hungry, but I wasn’t in the mood for another thawed funeral dish. I parked on Main Street and went into the Stockmans Bar, figuring there would be plenty of bar food, a glass of beer, and maybe someone to visit with. It was early enough that I was the only customer except for one lone male body at the far end of the bar. After the blinding sun, it was too dark for me to figure out if I knew the other patron, so I sat at the opposite end. I wanted to avoid any pitiful drunk who decided I was pick-up material.

The bar stool felt like home, the padded edge of the bar pushing just underneath my breasts, my elbows leaning on the cool wood-grained Formica. Some venues just felt right, and sitting at a bar was like that to me. I cozied to the smell of old tobacco, sweat, and beer. I always wanted to rub the velvety thick paper coasters sloppily slid under my sweating drink. No band, jukebox only. None of my friends in Seattle understood this about me, but some of my finest conversations and laughs have occurred while sitting at a bar—not at the tables, but right there at the bar. I could appreciate the lure for folks who spent their days sitting there, nursing a few drinks and talking with whoever showed up. It really did help with loneliness. The only reason I didn’t hang out at bars very often was because they were too comfortable, and I was likely to want to drink my life away.

“That you, Jill?” The other customer was speaking to me. “It’s me, Mike Hassett. You blind or something?”

“I kinda am at the moment, Mike.” I grabbed my beer and walked to a stool next to Mike’s. “How’s my old boyfriend gone bad?” I asked as I hugged him and kissed his whiskery cheek.

“’Bout the same. How’s my old girlfriend gone gay?” He always enjoyed teasing me about that. He turned to the bartender. “Jeff, get this lady another of what she’s drinking, wouldja?”

“Thanks, Mike. And, Jeff, give me two of those beer sausages, some mustard, and a bag of honey peanuts. I’m starving.” I saw Mike starting to rally to offer going out for dinner but I waylaid him. “I have no desire for a restaurant. This is the only place I want to be right now, so let’s have a visit.”

To be honest, Mike was the perfect person for me to run into. He had his little U.S./Canadian border drug-running business and knew the Whitlash area better than anyone else I could think of. I was patient, though, and went through a relaxing hour of pleasantries and gossip before I homed in on the information I wanted.

“So what’s going on with the Martin boys? You know my dad bought their land from the old man, but those boys don’t want to give it up. It’s pissin’ me off because it’s keeping me tied up here.” I was staring into my beer glass trying to be less interested than I was.

“Ho boy, the Martins. I’m not sure what I know, or if what I know is true. It’s weird, though, and I suggest you just walk away from it, Jill. They’re trouble.”

“How could they be trouble? It seems like they just hang out on that sad old farm out there and produce nothing. What’s in it for them?”

Mike glanced to make sure the bartender was far away. “Well, you know how I make my living, right?” I nodded, hoping he’d see I accepted his path in life. “I know all the roads that cross the border between Interstate 15 and Highway 232, and some of them aren’t on any map. Some lead to perfect stash or hiding places, others get you to main highways without being noticed.”

“Yeah, I remember all the times we partied out on those roads.”

Mike gave me a fond grin. “We did, didn’t we? Anyhow, about six months ago, middle of the night, I had just made a pickup and was heading south through Whitlash. But a few miles before I hit the town, two pickups were parked sideways in the road, acting as a roadblock. Like cops or something. All I could see in front of me was twenty years in prison, then I realized it wasn’t cops. It was the Martins, Josh and Eric, and about five other folks was all I could see ’cuz of the dark. All of them were holding big nasty-looking guns.”

“Jesus, are they nuts?”

“They might be, but they’re dangerous nuts. I was sure they wanted to steal my shipment, and that would’ve got me in huge trouble, too. I’m not sure what I’m more scared of: prison or the group that gets me my shipments.”

Mike was looking pretty shaken, so I twirled my upright finger at the bartender to order another round.

“So did they take your dru…uh, shipment?”

“No, they made me give them all my cash, a grand plus, all I had left after paying my suppliers. Josh said something like they were the legal posse of that area and in charge of all the tolls.”

“Posse? Tolls? Legal? What the hell, Mike?”

“What could I do? Call the cops? And besides, I heard that lady sheriff is mixed up with Josh, somehow. People saw her and him having a heated exchange at the Elks Club a few weeks ago and other times they’ve been seen off alone, talking.” Mike downed half a glass of beer and went on. “So now I have to avoid that whole area. It’s been limiting my crossing options, and my supply group on the other side of the border is on me about it. They think I’m slacking when it’s just that I have to use more of my time being on the road. It’s really fucked up.”

“Yeah, it is.” I had to digest what he said for a minute. “What did you mean about tolls and posse?”

“I’m not sure. But that’s what they said, and with all that firepower behind them, I wasn’t going to argue. In the meantime, I’m driving ten extra hours a week just to avoid them.”

Mike didn’t seem to want to go on with that part of our conversation, so I visited another thirty minutes, made sure Mike had a full beer in front of him, and went back to Daddy’s house.

My body was aching like it does when I’ve spent a whole day embedded with the military. The dust, sun, heat, stress, fear, and too much beer encouraged me to run a bath in Dad’s giant bathtub, built for his size. I spied some of his hair in the tub and pulled down the sprayer to wash it down before drawing the water. I cried a little, understanding that I was washing what little was left of him down a drain. Then the absurdity of the thought hit me, and I started laughing. I could feel Daddy laughing with me, even hear him somewhere in that spot in your memory that stores the voices of people who are gone.

While the tub was filling, I put on my bathrobe and went downstairs for a glass of milk. While I sipped, I flipped through the mail Connie had piled on the table in the hall. Bills (was I supposed to pay them?), advertisements, condolence cards, and a hand-addressed personal letter for me in a business envelope. I figured it was a condolence card, and whoever sent it had run out of the right-sized envelopes. There was no return address. I decided to read it first. I unfolded the letter, and a smaller piece of paper fluttered to the floor. When I picked it up and recognized it, I almost choked on my milk. It was a business check from somewhere called the Eagle Township for $650,000.00.

The letter had an official-looking seal at the top. It was round with stars inside the border. In the middle was a faintly printed American eagle. Superimposed on top of the eagle in bold print was “Eagle Township.” In the left top corner was a small American flag, underneath the flag, in small print, “Our Only Allegiance.” Bottom center was a picture of an open book with “Holy Bible” printed across it.

A chill tortured my spine as I read the letter. Dear Miss O’Hara, The free Township of Eagle has decided to forgo our rightful and lawful complaint regarding your family’s theft of our land. We do this on good faith of accord and satisfaction that the refund of the counterfeit money, also known as the American dollar, with which you unlawfully confiscated our sovereign land, is now returned to you as paid in full.

Any further action against the sovereign Township of Eagle will be considered an act of war and will be responded to accordingly. Sincerely,

Joshua J. Martin, Duly Elected Sheriff of Eagle Township It took several readings to make sure I understood the bastardized legalese, but the point was made, especially in that last sentence. Milk forgotten, I stood in the hall as the evidence started to chink into place and memories of an old story nudged me. “Oh. My. God.” Then I remembered the running bath water and charged upstairs.

The water was a few inches from the top, and I rushed to twist it off. After letting out several wasted gallons, I took off my robe and sank to the chin into the blessed hot water. I heard the phone ring several times but let the voicemail handle whoever was calling. I had some thinking to do and needed to plan my next moves carefully. There was a story here, a delicious one, and for once, I was living on the inside. I was an integral part of it. Whatever I did would affect the story. I wasn’t on the outside, trying to expose and analyze all the angles to piece the truth together. I was in it, and I was thrilled. Then I remembered the cashier’s check, $50,000 short of what Daddy paid for that woebegone property, but I wasn’t going to quibble. Maybe there was a way I could keep the money, devise a marketable story, and get my ass back to Seattle.