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“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” 

Right then I know I’m lucky to have Roy along. He takes his foot off the gas and doesn’t even think about hitting the brake pedal. We aren’t going very fast, probably forty, forty-five, but how he finds that shoulder without going off and rolling us over, is beyond me.

I look out and see a big blue Dodge Charger with a white racing stripe down the middle, blowing out of the cloud. They hit the brakes when they see us but it’s too late. The front bumper of the Charger bangs into the back of the small Chevrolet it’s passing and both vehicles go sliding by us in slow motion, spinning in circles. 

I’m struck dumb.

But miraculously, the cars stay on the road and fail to hit anything, except when they finally come to rest, front bumper against front bumper, headlights almost touching. 

Then I see four young Indian men come bursting out of the Charger. One’s wearing a frontier era U.S. Cavalry coat and another one’s got feathers in his braids and what looks to me like war paint on his face. The other two are generic in jeans and parkas. All four of them stagger toward Roy and I in the Cadillac instead of going to the car they hit.

I push open the door and amble out to survey the scene, squinting against the stinging snow. Out of the tan Chevy that’s kissing bumpers with the Charger pops an angry, older Indian guy. Heavyset, hair in a ponytail, with a little gray on the sides. He starts coming toward us, too. There’s a woman still inside the car, looking concerned. The dude in the cavalry coat gets up in my face and glares at me with bloodshot eyes. His long black braids reach down to the gold epaulets on his shoulders. “We don’t need you here,” he sneers. “You better leave.” Vaporizing alcohol rides by on a gust.

“We’re just here to see if everyone is all right and to offer ourselves as witnesses,” I say, glaring back.

Now the older guy is approaching, checking out these young hotshots, and the foursome is coming at me with what seems like ill intent when Roy steps out of the Cad and shows himself. They all stop dead. I figure seeing me with an Indian has thrown them off, drunk as they are. 

Roy doesn’t say a word, just looks at the two cars kissing and chuckles dryly. The older guy starts demanding to know who is the driver of the Charger and did he have insurance. The four young bucks kind of cower and grumble to themselves but then they start cooperating with the old guy. Roy and I trudge back to the Eldor and go spinning off, shaking our heads and feeling strange—or at least I am.

You couldn’t miss it, really. Not very far down County 13, standing there all shiny and new in the middle of a big clearing, is a two-story log house of considerable size with big windows all over it. Fire number 3397.

Roy hits the brakes and we slide past the driveway. He backs up and we turn in. There aren’t any tracks there ahead of us. It’s 12:30 Sunday afternoon and the oldies station is playing “The Name Game.”

Ginny, Ginny, bo Binny banana fana fo Finny… 

And then there she is, like sweet berry pie, staring out at me from the huge picture window on the main floor. Cute little red cheeks like I remember them, only now without the tears. But she doesn’t look happy. Her arms are folded tight across her chest and her eyes have that frantic, helpless look I remember so well. 

I think for a second I should leave Roy in the car but I say to hell with that and invite him inside. Fuck the Moser’s. If they’d been answering their telephone instead of using that goddamn answering machine, it wouldn’t have to be like this. Roy is my compadre now. We’ve been through some shit together. He doesn’t have to know about the banks and all that shit, but he is going to come in and warm up—maybe have a drink if he wants—while I pick up the cabbage. Or is it lettuce?

Ginny has the front door open before I even touch the fancy brass knocker. She gives me a hug that smells of brandy and nerves. “Jesus, Donny, honey,” she says, “Am I glad you finally got here. Everything is falling apart, Donny. They got Stu…. they—”

“Settle down Virginia,” I say to her in the deep baritone that used to calm her down. But this time it’s not working on either of us. “You can tell me inside,” I say. “I want you to meet my good friend Roy. He’s been kind enough to drive me up here.” Roy nods politely.  “Roy, this is Ginny Burns.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry, Ginny Moser, now. I forgot for a minute.”

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Roy says. “Hope you don’t mind if I come in and dry off a while. We witnessed a little traffic mishap down the road and I got a little wet standing out in the weather.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, bucking up a little. “Maybe one of you can get a fire going. A fire does cheer you up on a day like this.”

“Injun make fire,” Roy says, “White folks talk important business, organize things.”

I smile and she stares at him as we go into a huge living room with picture windows on two sides and dark natural woodwork everywhere. I stand there gaping. There’s a thick, dark-stained wood staircase leading upstairs. The house has an open ceiling plan, and on the second floor, a railed catwalk offers a view of the giant stone fireplace. There is a big skylight in the high ceiling. All I can see through it is snow coming down.

Roy is bending over the hearth when Ginny puts her arm in mine and leads me into a den at a back corner of the house: padded, green wicker chairs in a glassed-in room overlooking the forest. The painted eyes of a fake deer stare back at us from the puffy white yard. Before we even sit down Ginny puts her arms around my neck and pulls my mouth down to hers. Her tongue works against mine and stirs up old feelings. I push her away gently. Salty kisses again.

She starts sobbing. “They got Stu, Donny. The cops got Stu in jail in Nebraska. Stopped him for speeding and they found the money and guns in the trunk. What are we going to do, Donny?  What are we going to do?”

“Hang on now, hang on. What was he doing in Nebraska? And why was the stupid cocksucker speeding?”

My gut is on fire.

“He was visiting his brother. Jamie was helping him wash some of the money and working on some of the guns. Fitting silencers and stuff. Stu and Jamie are going to team up now that you’re retiring.”

“I told you that sonofabitch Jamie was trouble. He’s a fuckin’ alcoholic, for one thing. He smokes crack, for another. He’s got no discipline at all. I told fuckin’ Stuart that I wanted all my money up here waiting for me. I told him goddamn Jamie would bring us down. I fuckin’—”

“He wants me to go down there and bail him out.” She’s still whimpering. “All I’ve got is cash. But it’s all clean.”

“You bail him out with cash, they’ll pop you for sure.”

“I talked to a lawyer in Indianapolis Stu told me to call.  He said as long as the money is clean there’s nothing they can do to me. They might hold me for a night and try and sweat me, but they won’t be able to keep me there. The man also gave me the number of a shyster in Omaha, name of Burton, who I can call if they lock me up.”

“How much cash you got here at the house, Ginny?” My stomach is doing flip-flops now and out in the yard the snow is coming down harder and harder. The wind howls and whines against the windows.

Jesus Christ, my goddamn money isn’t here. 

“Goddamn it, Ginny, I want my cut. Is this some scam of yours? You and Stu? Fuck. You know, I really need to get far away from the both of you.” I look at her and she’s the poster girl of pathos. “Okay then, Gin, tell me how much you got here?”

“Almost three hundred K, I think.” She dabs her eyes with a Kleenex. “I’ll need a hundred and ten for Stu’s bond. They set it at a million one.”

“Stu finally broke the million mark, eh— one of his lifelong goals. But Christ, Virginia, three hundred grand is not even close to what I got coming. You sure this isn’t some sort of scam? You ply me with tears and kisses, knowing how easy it is for you? Thinking I’m going to believe anything comes out of your pretty little mouth?”

She laughs bitterly and blows her nose and goes over to a bookshelf in the corner. There are no books in it. She takes a newspaper off the top shelf and brings it to me. 

Duluth News Tribune, March 14: HOVLAND MAN ARRESTED IN NEBRASKA ON FIREARMS VIOLATIONS—1.6 MILLION IN TRUNK—POSSIBLE “OVERCOAT” BANK ROBBER, SAYS FBI.

The shit had really hit the fan.

(To be continued)

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