PART THIRTEEN
(Published in 1999)
I call Ginny from the pay phone outside the motel office, but it’s the same old answering machine bullshit. It’s an ugly day; the air’s real damp and chilly. Big, watery snowflakes are flying by. The wind is blowing hard, coming in off the lake. I shiver and zip up my leather jacket. I wish I had something a little more suited to the weather than my jeans and Nike sneakers. I have the Moser’s address in my pocket. I figure Roy can find the place for me before I ever get through on the phone, so I hop inside the idling black beauty and motion for wagons ho.
Roy waits until we got out of sight of the motel before he floors the son of a bitch and shoots gravel all over the place. Then he slaps his thighs and hoots like a stoked-up owl. He can feel the spirits stirring today, he says. Gitchee Gummi is kicking up something special for everyone.
I can feel my gut stirring. I’m queasy and that’s strange, because I got a rock solid gut.
Back out at the highway, the flakes are thicker and there are more of them. The stuff is blowing straight across the road in front of us. White is building up on the shoulders but melting when it hits the blacktop. Hundreds of pine trees do the rope-a-dope with the wind.
Roy says, “This will be sticking to the roads the farther we go from the lake. Up on top of the hill, I bet it’s already piling up. The lake being open and the wind whipping off it, keeps the air temperature above freezing down here. The snow stays watery. Where is this place we have to go, anyway?” He pushes down the accelerator, and we rocket northward.
“It says here, Hovland, Minnesota. Fire number 3397, County Road 13 off of state highway #1. That sounds simple enough, don’t you think?”
“Look in the glove compartment and see if there’s a Minnesota map,” Roy says.
“Well Jesus, Roy, I thought you knew the rivers and roads and spirits and all that, like they were your old pals or some shit?”
“I don’t know every fucking little road around here,” Roy shoots back, scratching his nose. “The forest service is building them so fast, they don’t even know where they all are.”
There is no map in the car.
“This ain’t no fucking hippie’s geodesic dome in the fucking forest primeval were looking for, Roy. We’re talking a $200,000 dollar home, here. Only a year old. The fuckers paid cash for it. Do you—”
“They did what? Paid cash—two hundred grand? Up here? This is the forest primeval, man. I bet we could ask anyone for miles where that place is—and not only could they tell us exactly how to get there, but they would tell us the same story you just did, only with greater detail and embellishment. Place like that in the middle of nowhere is going to stand out, just a little bit. But paying out cash like that, up in this neck of the woods, is nuts. On top of that you say they’re pulling off dope deals? Might as well put up a sign on the roof saying Felonies R Us. These people have either got boulders for balls or rocks for brains.”
“A little bit of both, I’m afraid, Roy. There’s no dope there. Only money. I lied. The hash has already been sold and I’m just here to collect my share of the profits. You’ll still get your two grand, so don’t worry. Now let’s find the fucking house, if it’s so fucking easy.”
Roy just shakes his head, sniffs a couple of times, and drives on. After a few miles we come to a sign: Hovland—5. Roy then tells me that a Hovland mailing address means nothing, just the closest post office, and he’s not about to ask anyone in town, because they’d take one look at him and know for sure that those rich people in the big house are up to no good—Indians are going there.
A couple miles later, there’s another sign. Minnesota Highway #1 is coming up in four miles.
(To be continued)
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