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  The buddies laughed. The Baptist grinned, shrugged.

  Ferret set the beer on the bar and shook his hands again. No napkins nearby. “I’m going to wash my hands.”

  The Baptist reached out for Ferret’s shoulder, kneaded it hard. Ferret winced. “I’m messing with you. How about you drink with us, fella? I promise, I’m only kidding around.”

  “Really, I’m going to wash my hands. Thanks for the beer.”

  He wiggled from beneath the Baptist’s grip and turned for the bathroom. It was time to go, and he’d have to blow cash on a taxi because there was no way the other guys were ready to go back this early. Shit. They might not go back until sunrise.

  The blurry beats on the speakers merged into Ozzy Osbourne. The Baptist and his friends were right on Ferret’s tail. The tall bastard right over his shoulder saying, “What, I’m not good enough to drink with? My beer’s not good enough to drink? You listening, cocksucker?”

  Ignore them, Ferret thought. Get out of here. Go right past the bathroom and out the back door where you can find a ride.

  The Baptist was still there. Another grab for Ferret’s shoulder. He ducked out of it. Then a hard shove. Ferret stumbled but kept on his feet. He pushed through the line of women waiting their turn in the toilet. The Baptist shoved him into one of them, and Ferret apologized, rolled off, and walked backwards facing the guys following him.

  “You want a fight? This is what you want? Seriously?”

  If Ferret thought that was going to stop them...

  The Baptist got right up on Ferret and grabbed him by the shirt, threw him against the back door. The joint was so shoddy that it shook the whole hallway. Ferret scrambled to get his legs back under him. He slammed his arms against the exit bar and swung the door into a dirt lot full of cars, a whole lot of nothing beyond it except the lights of a far-off CVS Pharmacy. Smokers out here. Men and women getting to know each other away from the noise. Ferret saw it all like he was on a merry-go-round. He didn’t have his bearings when someone else grabbed him, stopped the spinning. One of the Baptist’s buddies. He reared back a fist and popped it against Ferret’s chin, making him bite through his tongue. And there he came again, going for the gut. Boof. Ferret knew damned well he couldn’t win a three-on-one. Or a two-on-one. Shit, not even a one.

  The Baptist came over while Ferret was on the ground and kicked him on the hip, geared for another, but Ferret swept his leg and put the Baptist on his back. It gave him a chance. He straddled the Baptist and wailed on his nose. They had an audience now, a good-sized crowd. It might take the cops a while to muscle through. Ferret kept wailing. Sirens wailed, too. Ferret bloodied that bastard’s nose pretty good. Then the buddies were back, dragging Ferret off the Baptist. He couldn’t get his heels kicked into the dirt. The Baptist was already up on his knees wiping blood all over the tail of his beige golf shirt.

  Ferret tried to squirm out of their arms, but he couldn’t, and the Baptist had plenty of room to get in a hard kick to the balls. And then another. And Ferret was never really sure if he saw the Baptist slip a small pocket knife out of his pocket. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash, but he was delirious and it was happening very fast.

  The Baptist was going to stab him or punch him or something low-down, but he didn’t get a chance because Gene Handy pushed through the crowd and grabbed the Baptist’s arm like it was a Q-tip and then said something into his ear. But the Baptist didn’t do quiet. The Baptist headbutted him. The Baptist’s forehead split, blood streamed into his eyes. Maybe Handy got the knife out of the man’s hand. Maybe there wasn’t one. Gene Handy pushed the back of the Baptist’s knee, and he went down easy, prone, arms reaching above his head.

  One of the friends made a play, like, “Hey, this ain’t your fight,” and tried to hook Gene Handy’s arms with his own. He ended up thrown over Handy’s back, landing on the Baptist.

  By then the sirens were in-your-face loud. Brakes squealing, all that.

  The two guys holding Ferret dropped him. The crowd was getting loose, looking for ways out. Gene Handy lifted Ferret under his arms and said, “Gotta go, gotta go, let’s get out of here.” And that’s what they did was get out of there, even if Ferret couldn’t remember how.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pancrazio woke up in the RV he had picked up from a guy who was in a hurry to sell because he had to pay for an abortion and wanted to move back home, show his wife how much he loved her, and hope that the girl he knocked up never figured out his real name or where he was from. For Pancrazio, it was either buy that RV or follow the man camp rules. He had no problem enforcing the rules at work, being a driller and all, but he damned sure wasn’t going to turn away women or keep his room booze and dope-free. So here was the good life, a big RV in a department store parking lot where they had let some job hunters stay until they found a better place to settle down. Some of the RVs and SUVs had now been there months. Rumor was the store was fed up and was about to “evict” them all. But until then, Pancrazio was living in paradise. Besides, he didn’t even know if the engine in this thing ran or not.

  He let out a long breath, looked down at his scrawny naked body lying on the bed and wondered where his goddamned sheets were. The nurse he’d met at The Teacher’s Lounge a couple of nights before was curled into the far corner of the mattress, up against the wall, with the sheets wrapped all around, knees pulled to her chin.

  Maybe that first night had only been flirting—a hundred bucks should buy some flirting, yeah? Maybe she thought he looked like a real grizzled bastard, fun for some stories and drinks. But then she’d been willing to meet up again. The second night, without her wing-ladies, he’d bought her stronger drinks and found her buttons and pushed them gently, then bought her more drinks, got her into that dirty talk zone, and then bought her a few more. When Pancrazio finally convinced her to come home with him, she was barely able to call her kids—a couple of teens—to tell them she’d see them in the morning.

  And then in bed it was filthy—oh lord, was it ever—and they had passed out four, five hours ago.

  Pancrazio turned his head, smiled at her. “Morning.”

  If she was trying to smile back, she failed. “Hi.” Weak.

  Pancrazio’s mustache was crunchy and smelled like pussy. His dick felt raw, too. So did his brain.

  He said, “I don’t have any coffee. Got bacon for breakfast.”

  “Um...listen.” Never a good way to start. “That’s okay. I’ll call a cab. I need to get home. My kids. But it was fun, yeah, don’t get me wrong.”

  He swung his legs off the bed. That made her flinch and elbow the wall, rattling the picture frame with three photos of his kids when they were younger, when he actually knew them. These days, he couldn’t pick them out of a crowd. Hell, he couldn’t pick them out of a table with five people at it.

  He said, “Are you trying to protect my feelings? I know what this was. You did too.”

  She rubbed her face. “I was so drunk. I can’t even...look, let me call a cab.”

  Pancrazio slumped. “We came over in your car. Your purse is probably in the front room with your clothes.”

  She laughed, sighed. He’d given her a way out, and he could tell that gave her a great deal of relief. “Whoa. We sure had some fun.”

  “Whatever.”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed, holding the sheet over her breasts. He peeked at her feet. A bit rough and long. He didn’t usually go for big feet. Her toes were painted some sort of pink, not at all what he expected. She stood and wrapped the sheet like a toga, made sure it covered her all around, and started for the hall, shuffling because her legs were wrapped tight.

  “Your bathroom right out here?”

  Pancrazio lurched forward and grabbed the sheet. She stopped, stared straight ahead.

  “You stole the sheet last night. Good thing I’m used to sleeping anywhere, anyhow.”

  “I get cold. I couldn’t help it.”

  “You ashamed of something
? I mean, last night, I fucked you over the toilet with all the lights on, and now you’re shy?”

  She turned her head and grinned. “Women and God. Both work in mysterious ways.”

  Pancrazio tightened his grip. Gave it a yank. “My sheet. My house.”

  “Please, let go.”

  “I’m not going to do anything, woman. I’m just saying I want to see you when I’m not drunk.”

  “You’re embarrassing me.” She pulled it tighter.

  He stood, still holding on. Naked and cold, his dick shriveled up but he didn’t care. Whatever she thought of it, fine. Dick was like a good tool—looks didn’t matter, but what you did with it did, as long as what you were working on got fixed. “Drop the sheet.”

  The same woman who had no problem talking up her skills last night, telling Pancrazio about how she’d had threesomes, and swung with guys and their wives, and did some bi, now she stood there like a high school girl the morning after prom, headachy and thinking it was nothing like all the cool music videos had promised, and half as long.

  “Drop it.”

  “You want me to call the cops? If I don’t get home to my kids, they’ll know where...” She stopped. Of course she wouldn’t call the cops. She was already embarrassed enough. “I know some guys—”

  “I’ll bet so.”

  “They’ll beat the shit out of you.”

  Pancrazio licked his teeth. “They can sure try. They won’t like how it turns out.”

  He liked seeing her like this. Truth was if she had been wearing clothes, she would have been a hellcat right then, ready to claw his eyes out. A whole culture of bitches thought they could hold their own thanks to TV. But naked, she was scared. Scared was good.

  The look on her face, tragic. Blinking a lot, lips parted.

  He said, “Come on.”

  She let him take the sheet a bit at a time until finally she stood bare-assed with her back to him. Some cellulite on her thighs, regular-sized butt-cheeks, couple of moles on her back. He liked it.

  “Turn around.”

  “Please.” Shaky.

  “Goddamnit.” He stepped over, put his hand on her shoulder.

  She shrunk, screeched, “You said you wouldn’t touch me!”

  “Helping you turn around is all. Look.” Hands off. “I’ll step back. Seriously.”

  She covered her breasts with one arm, her pussy with her other hand. Pancrazio thought the Buck knife in the top dresser drawer was all it would take to get a show out of her, but that wasn’t what this was about. He never wanted to see her again. If he pulled the blade, she would take him to court.

  He shook his head slow. “My god, what is it with—”

  She dropped her hands, went a little slack. “That what you want? Like a high school boy? Got to see my tits now? Happy?”

  They weren’t really good tits, but Pancrazio didn’t care. Her pussy, too, a landing strip, wasn’t his favorite either. But what he liked was looking at it, knowing he’d had her. Making her remember he’d had her, and she would have to live with it.

  It reminded him of Croatia, lots of scared Muslim women, lots of downtime to chase them and force them. But in the States, women like this nurse, a wildcat at night and a prude in the daylight, well, it wasn’t the same. He was always disappointed. When he went to college, over in Montana, the difference was that he went chasing farm wives. Real tough broads, the older ones looking for college cock. Rutting with them was like being with an animal. You yanked their hair, they bit back. That could wither a man right up, too, if he wasn’t careful. And the drunk New Jersey girls, the wops with make-up as thick as house paint. Shit, how many Jersey girls did he fuck? How many did he leave with black eyes? How many ever called the cops or their daddies to come get him? Zero.

  But this one, she was shaking. Shivering. It was already seventy-something inside, so it wasn’t the temperature causing it.

  He sighed. “Get on out of here. Bathroom’s on your right.”

  She didn’t reach for the sheet. Just covered herself and ran out of the room. After she slammed the bathroom door, he thought he heard hacking, vomiting, something, but didn’t care. She ran the sink. Pancrazio went back to bed, slumped against the wall. A couple of used condoms were on the edge of the mattress, one reeking like ass. He tossed them on the floor. Tried to play with himself, but the mood was spoiled. Thought about the knife again, inches from her throat. Still nothing.

  After a few minutes he heard the woman throwing on her clothes, grabbing her keys, her phone, and getting out of there. Spun out on the asphalt. Not the first time a woman had left that fast. He had to be careful, though.

  After a while he wandered out to the living area. Goddamn, it stank. He turned on the TV, middle of a Vikings game. Got a pop out of the fridge, fished his baggie of weed from the back of the cabinet and carried both to the couch.

  Great, the Giants were losing. Like he’d expect anything less with all those black thugs on the team. They had no problem taking guns to clubs or driving drunk or getting with white bitches, but they couldn’t play football for shit.

  He still had a rolled joint in the bag, no need for a new one. He lit up.

  What he was really thinking about was Gene Handy. Strange one. A guy like that had obviously had some training, maybe even military, the way he saved little Ferret from god knows what. Effortless, that’s what he had heard. Gene Handy had swept in like Batman or something. Pancrazio had missed the show, inside getting friendly with Ms. Nursey. Then the next day Gene Handy let himself get beaten up by some biker punks. But why come all this way to humiliate Gene Handy? What sort of debt was big enough to bring that on? Holy hell, that boy could take an ass-whupping, too. But it didn’t make sense, a daytime beating that didn’t solve a damned thing. Were those bikers looking for something else, like a slice of the Bakken action? Did they think Handy could deal them in?

  People who wanted something out here, they had to pay out the ass to get it. Especially if they wanted the good stuff. But the guys doing the selling, lots of loners, didn’t realize the power they had, or were too afraid to wield it. No such thing as “organized crime” around the oil fields. Pancrazio had been biding his time, checking out the lay of the land before making his move. Maybe this was a chance for him. He could talk to Gene Handy, find out what he owed the bikers, then cut a deal that would make everyone some money. It was one thing for the locals to peddle penny-ante weed or crank made in someone’s garage. It was another to have someone come in and take charge, dominate the market. If he could pull off that sort of control in Croatia before things had gone to shit, he could damn sure do it here among the hicks.

  He needed to rope Gene Handy into it while keeping that Boy Scout Ferret from knowing anything. Not the best worker, Ferret, but he tried hard, didn’t fight much, and made everybody laugh during the day at least once. What was that he’d said the other day? Devil scraping his dick across your face? Funny guy. He and Gene Handy seemed pretty close, but Pancrazio couldn’t take the risk of Ferret turning snitch on them. He needed to think on it more, exactly how to approach the big man, who he knew not one goddamned thing about. Fuck, maybe the guy was a plant, some sort of cop. If so, Pancrazio wanted him gone. This wasn’t going to be easy sailing. Eyes and ears and nose, Pancrazio needed to keep them all open, bide his time, and time would tell.

  Pancrazio sniffed his mustache again. Grinned. He bet that nurse and her friends wouldn’t show up at The Teacher’s Lounge anymore. They’d find another place to drink their beer with olives while flirting with oilmen. That was fine. One night he’d troll around, find her, and stare from across the room until she noticed him. Nothing but stare, mind you. And by the time she was scared enough to do something about it, he would be gone. Or, even better, if he showed up where she worked. Just sit there and read a magazine and pretend not to notice her. Or show up when she was grocery shopping. Again, only staring. She would see him everywhere and wonder if she was going insane. Now that made his di
ck start getting hard again.

  He watched the Giants lose, thought of Muslim women begging for mercy, and jacked off.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ferret asked around about the Baptist, but not because he wanted to do anything about it—the last thing he needed was another brawl. He asked around because he wanted to know if that asshole might come after him. Only a guy as far up the managerial ladder as the Baptist could pull a knife for no damn reason and still think he was in the right.

  A handful of roughnecks, all of them who had heard one version or another of the fight the last couple of days, said the Baptist was a supervisor named Glen Ramsey from one of the bigs. He was a bully and nobody liked working under him except a few kiss-ass cousins and others who thought being in his inner circle might help them rise in the ranks.

  Would he come after Ferret? Most of the men shrugged, something like, “He’s not going to push it. He might drop a word or two to Pancrazy, try to get you fired.”

  “You think?”

  “These guys, they’re all the same. If you steer clear, he’ll get bored and find someone else to fuck with.”

  It made him feel a little better, if not all the way. So he went to talk with Pancrazio. He was barely into the story before the driller said, “Kid, if he comes around asking for your head, I’ll rip his off and let the wetbacks play soccer with it. Ain’t no concern to me.”

  Which finally made him feel all the way better.

  Three more days went by, no sign of Gene Handy. But everyone swore he’d be back tomorrow. Every day the same—tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. So on his next free shift, he went looking for Gene Handy.

  Ferret’s first guess was he lived in one of the man camps nearby, but nobody in their offices there had that name or a phone number, an address, anything. So back to the field, asking other worms, “You seen Gene Handy lately? Know where he’s staying?”

  He got a lot of “Thought you already knew.” Some because they knew about the fight, knew Ferret and Handy were friends, and others because they were jackasses making queer jokes. Ferret smiled along, like, “Aw, man,” but finally got a roughneck who swiped oil and sweat off his brow and told Ferret, “Last time I was in town, me and him had a beer and talked about shit we’ve done, you know. Anyway, he had a little dirt bike, you know? I was behind him on the road, both headed the same way, until he headed off towards the river. All I can say. I thought you already knew.”