“Capturing the raw energy, resilience and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.” – SPR review
“Hole in the World”
I wake up the next morning face down on the pillow; a feeling in my chest like my daddy has left me again. My head pounds like a mule kicks. My throat is dry as the desert but my gut is okay. I got a rock solid gut. When I look out the bedroom window, I see the Caddy is gone. Now I’ve got killer heartburn.
The first thing I think of is my weapon so I lurch into the living room and grab for the paper sack. I lift it up and the weight is there. I reach inside the bag, my fingertips feel the smooth plastic pistol, and I relax.
He was just a car thief, I think to myself. He’s going to sell that sled up on the rez and I’ll never see him again. Then I hear tires crunching up slowly on the gravel outside and get a rush of paranoia thinking Roy dropped a dime on me and it’s the cops rolling in. I whip out the Glock and jack one into the ready position. I run over and sneak a peek out the window above the big old-fashioned sink. There is Roy getting out of the Cad with a couple white Styrofoam cups and a white bakery bag. I stick the gun back in the sack and set it on the counter next to the sink.
“Coffee,” he says a few seconds later, holding out the Styrofoam cups and grinning through the door. “I really needed some coffee, man. Picked up some cinnamon and caramel rolls, too. They’re some of the best in the world. Baked up fresh everyday at the Tofte Cafe.”
“They open all ready?”
“Already? It’s nine-thirty, Mr. Dead-to-the-World.”
“No shit, I thought it was just first light.”
First thing I do after those rolls and all that coffee, is take one hell of a good dump. Then I jump in the tiny little tin shower stall and wash away the drug sweat. After, I’m walking out of the can with a towel wrapped around me and there’s Roy with my fucking gun in his hand, and he’s pointing it right at me.
Bastard was just waiting for the right moment, I’m thinking.
“Nice piece,” Roy says, turning and swinging the Glock toward the lake, which we can both see through the front window. “I used to shoot a forty-five in the service. Couldn’t hit the side of a barn with that hog. Bet I could do better with this little number.”
“What the fuck are you doing with my fuckin’ property in your hand, Roy? You oughtta know better than to pull shit like that. In the joint, a man could get a shank in the spine for taking that kind of liberty.”
“Well, this ain’t the joint, Mr. Heavy Dude. You see, up here in the North Woods, if you see a man’s bag sitting in a puddle of water by the sink, you take it out of the water for him. And if the bottom of the bag is all wet and a gun falls through onto the counter, you pick it up and dry it off and give it back to the guy.” He sets the Glock down on the table and grins, looking up at me like a contented crow.
“Sonofabitch. You are a surprising man, Roy. You just keep me guessing, don’t you? You doing this shit on purpose? Trying to flip me out? First the drugs and then the driving—and then the fuckin’ stories about shapeshifters for the Christ sake. What the fuck is that all about? Then you take off—and then you come sneaking back. What the fuck is the deal, man? I’m getting too goddamn old for this shit. I just came up here to get what’s coming to me, not to get run through the goddamn wringer.”
I pick up the gun and feel better again.
“I’m going to roll a joint,” Roy says, seemingly indifferent to my rant. “And speaking about what you got coming, how about me? Where’s the thousand beans for the skin-boy chauffeur. I haven’t seen the color of your money yet.”
“Yeah, Roy, you’re right. I owe you. I guess I did flip out, didn’t I? I’m getting too goddamn old for this shit.” I go into the bedroom and fish my wallet out of my pants. My clothes are in a pile on the bed: jeans, polo shirt, sweater and the wool socks I bought in Superior. I feel like an asshole for going off on Roy like that so I take eleven crisp Ben Franklins from my wallet with the intention of giving them all to Roy. I figure an extra C-note is a good way to apologize.
He won’t take the extra Benjamin, he says, unless I deduct it from the two grand he has coming at the end of the road. I’m thinking I never met a man this honest. Except myself, of course. And that’s a joke.
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 and the wind is blowing hard off the lake. I shiver and zip up my leather jacket, wishing that 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 and I figure Roy can find the place for me long 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 get out of sight of the office before he floors the sonofabitch 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. What I feel is my gut stirring. I’m queasy and that’s strange, because I got a rock solid gut.
Out on the highway, the flakes are thicker and there are more of them. The stuff is blowing straight across the road in front of us and 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 as Roy says, “This will be sticking to the roads the farther we go away from the lake. Up on top of the hill I bet it’s already piling up. With the lake open and the wind whipping off it, the air temperature will probably stay above freezing down here and the snow will be watery. Where is this place we have to go, anyway?” He pushes down the accelerator and we proceed at too fast a clip.
I pull out the piece of notepad and look at it, even though it’s already tattooed on my brain. “It’s 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 shit like they were your old pals?”
“I don’t know every fuckin’ little road around here,” Roy shoots back, scratching his nose. “The forest service is building ‘em so fast, they don’t even know where they all are.”
There is no map in the glove box.
“This ain’t no hippie’s geodesic dome in the fuckin’ forest primeval were looking for, Roy. We’re talking a $300,000 dollar home here. Only a year old. Worth half a mil anywhere else. The Mosers paid cash for it. Do you—”
“They did what? Paid cash—three hundred grand? Up here? This is the forest primeval, man. I bet we could ask anyone lives around here where that place is—and not only could they tell us exactly how to get there, but they would also 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, you know? 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 says Felonies R Us. These people have either got boulders for balls or rocks for brains.”
“A little bit of both, I’m afraid. And there’s no dope there, only money. I was lying. The hash has already been sold and I’m just here to collect my share of the profits. But don’t worry, man, you’ll still get your two grand. Now let’s find the fuckin’ house, if it’s so goddamn easy.”
Roy just shakes his head, sniffs a couple of times and drives on. After a few minutes we come to a sign that tells us Hovland is five miles ahead. Roy then tells me that a Hovland mailing address means nothing, just the nearest 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, because Indians are going there, man.
A couple miles later there’s another sign: Highway 1, four miles.
About a mile or so up Number One, the snow is getting thick. Already a few inches on the road and it’s coming down so heavy and wet and windblown, it’s really hard to see anything. Roy says the Caddy handles nice in the snow. He’s cool and relaxed. We got the heater on and the radio is playing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” and I’m kind of digging it, except my gut is still nagging me. We come to the base of a long upgrade and you can see up ahead that the snow is even thicker yet. Roy says he thinks the Cad has traction control, because we aren’t having any problems.
Up at the crest of the hill the trees are farther from the road. We got about thirty yards of clearing on each side of us. The country is a little flatter here and the snow is at our backs and visibility is a little better. It’s a good thing, too, because out of the gray-white snow cloud come headlights—four headlights. Two of them, in our goddamn driving lane, and heading right at us.
(To be continued)
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