The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 61

                 

"Disgusting," Sam says.

I can't help but agree. Kicking frozen trash out of the ground is disgusting. We exhume bits of chicken bones. Plastic. Laundry. Trash goo. Pop them into bags.

A shovel would be nice. Les denied that request. Said we weren't ready for shovels. Whatever that means.

The gelid prairie wind grinds into us. Keeps our faces red. Warm clothes from the RV help, but they're too big. Let the wind inside. Feels like dropping a knife down your shirt.

The workers at the camp seem especially haggard. Some go back home. Others, housed in leaky campers, move into their trucks. Anything to escape the wind.

Cold weather means a shift change at the rigs. Workers between shifts are told to beat it. Come back in a few weeks. Some take off. Others stick around. Hope to find housing. They usually end up in parking lots. Sleep in their trucks.

New workers cycle in at the same time. There's usually an overflow. Companies hire more workers than they can house.

Les is all too eager to solve both shortages. Offer up the Man Camp. Makes trips into town. Finds guys sleeping in trucks. Offers them up a spot in the Man Camp. Hot showers. Electricity. Toilets. How could they say no?

They don't. Les takes them in. Collects his rent. Identifies the ones who could help run his business.

Seems like he could use the help. Man Camps. Meth. Trash collection. Civilization building. There's not much Les doesn't do.

I think to what he said the other night. About raiders. Civilizations. Wyatt Earp. If history repeats itself, is another Shootout at the OK Corral inevitable? Can there be progress without violence?

Thoughts too deep for a prairie dog like me. I get interrupted by a voice approaching anyway.

"Well, well. If ain't my favorite trash pickers," the voice says.

I look over to see the scrawny guy. Shotgun. Jeans. T-shirt. Fucker must be cranked on meth again. The wind chill is brutal.

He struts over to us. Walks with a certain slouch. I know it well. The bro walk. The cock walk. Whatever you want to call it.

Not that I ever walked that way. It's the out-staters. When they'd come into Betrug. At the bar. Strut like they just had their nuts drained.

"Ain't you going to say hi, girlie?" the scrawny guy says.

He's crowding Sam now. She ignores him. Keeps picking up trash. I do, too. Think back to that National Guard story Sam told me.

"Go away," Sam says.

"You liked my company just fine last night at the fire. Drank my liquor," the scrawny guy says. "You like liquor? I got more in my trailer. Give you all you want. I'm a nice guy. You'll see."

He drags the end of the shotgun barrel on the ground. Never a good idea. Debris gets inside. Plugs up the barrel. Can make the whole thing explode when the trigger is pulled.

That's what they say, anyway. I've never plowed a shotgun barrel through the dirt. Mostly because I've never been a meth head.

"Seriously, go away," Sam says.

The scrawny guy doesn't react. Stays trained on Sam.

"How about you put that trash bag down," he says to her. "Come over to my place. We'll warm up together. Been so long since I've had company. You're the prettiest thing I've seen in a long, long time. I treat you right."

I watch the shotgun barrel poke at Sam's calf. It travels up her leg.

Motherfucker.

I drop the trash bag. Tear off my gloves. I won't give him the luxury of padding.

I get a running start on the prick. Sam beats me to the punch. Literally.

She works it in a single motion. Snatches up an apple-sized rock. Spins around. Smashes it into the scrawny guy's face. His nose explodes like roadkill on a freeway.

The scrawny guy stumbles backward. Mouth open. Lower jaw lagoons the crimson effluence from his nose.

Sam moves in for another strike. I shift my gait toward her when I spot the raising barrel of a shotgun. He's going to kill her.

I'm so close. The only option is to knock her away. I do it as gently as I can. It's still a rough landing. The frozen ground is hard as lumber.

The scrawny guy pulls the trigger a few feet away. We find out what happens when a shotgun barrel becomes obstructed.

An explosion turns the end of the barrel into metal feathers. The scrawny guy's face is lost in gore.

He collapses. Cries for help as the wind carries steam from his face. Mangled tissue freezes before it can bleed out.

We ignore him for the time being.

"You OK?" I say to Sam as we rise.

"I think I'm OK," she says.

We check each other for shrapnel. Lucky to have made it unscathed.

"What just happened?" Sam says.

I look at the rock still in her hand. Then at the shredded shotgun. Les will want to know the same thing.

"What happened is he got loaded on meth. Tripped. Fired his shotgun. Messed himself up with a dirty barrel," I say. Point to the rock. "Put that somewhere."

Sam stuffs the bloody rock into a trash bag. Dumps a few newspapers on top of it.

There's a rushing of feet in the distance. Trucks firing up. Doc will be here soon enough.

"You sure you're OK?" I say.

"I didn't kill him, right?" she says.

Her breathing comes in gasps. She's panicking.

The scrawny guy hollers again. It's beyond awful.

Sam stuffs her head in my chest. I hesitate to close my arms around her. But she's not going anywhere. So I do it.

It's hard to comfort her with all the pleading for help a few feet away. I tell the guy to keep it down. That gets Sam laughing through the tremors.

Then I hear a voice call to us.

"What in the unholy hell just happened?"

It's Les. And he doesn't look happy.

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