A Nose for Justice (20 page)

L
ying on his side, Baxter snored in front of the den fireplace. King, next to him, rested on his back, four feet high in the air. He, too, snored. The dogs, worn out by the Christmas celebrations over at Enrique and Carlotta’s, passed out once home.

Jeep believed the fastest way to corrupt children was to give big presents. She provided good quality gifts, but her philosophy was that one had to earn the big stuff. What she would provide was a college education.

“Put your money in your head. No one can steal it from you there.” The proclamation was issued from her lips so often that anyone who knew her remembered it.

Mags bought Jeep an early Nevada photo book. It was about all she could afford. Jeep gave her great-niece the new computer that would benefit them both.

Once back from Enrique’s, Mags worked at the old computer. As it was a holiday, she wasn’t able to set up the new one and transfer the service.

Jeep had stayed back at the little house for a while longer.

Mags tried to get graduate lists from the Nicholas School of Cavalry from various sources without luck. She thought about the number of people who passed through this area thanks to the big silver strike. She searched for information on the old mines of the Comstock Lode—mines like Yellow Jacket, Potosi, Savage, Grosh, Hale, and Norcross—to see if any Russian names appeared. In payroll accounts and accident lists, twenty-one names showed up that were Ukrainian, Georgian, or Polish. No Russians.

Someone from an elite school probably wouldn’t be setting charges in the mines with temperatures above 100°F. She’d need to look for buyout offers, visitors from perhaps a Russian company.

It occurred to her that Christmas night might not be the optimum time to do this. But in one last stab, she looked for visiting dignitaries. In the archived
Gazette-Journal
files, she found one cited photo included as he stood in front of William Stewart’s law office in Virginia City. Stewart, one of Nevada’s first senators, had been an endless self-promoter. He contrived to have his photograph taken with any and all visitors he deemed sufficiently glamorous. No one ever accused William Stewart of being glamorous so he borrowed it from others. For all his bullying ways, Stewart did advance the water use efforts, promoting new ways to store water for the dry months.

Stewart looked like a dowdy crow next to Colonel Dimitri Saltov of the Chevalier Guard, the Star of Guards on his helmet. The Russian’s accomplishments were duly listed, though not his military school if he had attended one. He was on leave from service in Baghdad. Tall, lean, sideburns and moustache, Saltov cut quite the handsome figure. Stewart must have talked him into it or paid him to be in full dress uniform for the photo. It was not a uniform designed for Nevada conditions.

The reporter noted that the colonel spoke excellent English and quoted him as saying, “I’ve always been curious about the American West, especially Nevada, where men became millionaires overnight.”

Delighted that she’d finally found at least one Russian, Mags determined to do more work tomorrow.

The back door opened and closed. King opened one eye, groaned, and rolled over but did not rise.

A few moments later, Jeep ambled into the den. “Two dead dogs.”

Mags shut off the computer. “Baxter’s never played with children. He didn’t really know what to make of the one that just got here in October. So little.”

“Amazing, isn’t it? Life?” Jeep sank into the sofa. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for Nicholas.”

“Ah.” Jeep listened as Mags told her about Saltov. “Baghdad. Strange, isn’t it, that from the nineteenth century up to today, various powers have been facing off over there? Buying off sultans, being betrayed by the same.

Then there was Britain’s disastrous time in Afghanistan, mid-nineteenth century, I think. I don’t remember the dates, but the British commandeer in Kabul decided the British who were there must withdraw. Women and children trying to leave were ambushed and slaughtered in the Khyber Pass. Now it’s our turn.”

“So it seems.” Mags came to sit beside Jeep. “No one reads history anymore.”

“If they do, they don’t learn anything. Well, Saltov is a start. Good for you.” She smiled broadly, then mused. “What is it about Christmas that makes you remember all your other Christmases?”

“I don’t know. It’s a touchstone, I guess.”

“I remember Christmas 1943 like it was yesterday. We were based in Sweetwater, Texas, at Avenger Field. Cold, rainy. We decorated a little tree in the barracks and all of us girls knitted scarves and socks. We gave one another the products. My best friend, Laura, forgave me because my scarf was just awful. We rarely had copilots but on those occasions when we flew the biggies, Laura was my copilot. The scarf I knitted was so awful that everyone laughed themselves silly but Laura wore that damn thing every cold day. What a sense of humor she had, dry. We stayed best friends. Each year we’d have a reunion on the Fourth of July—either in Minneapolis, where she lived with her husband, or here. She died totally unexpectedly in 1972. Heart attack. Boom. Just like that. Here we got through the bloody war and then our bodies betrayed us. How did I get off on that? Morbid.”

“Your body hasn’t betrayed you. I’m working on mine. I’ve got to live up to your example.” Mags smiled

“Good girl. I have another present for you. It’s a loan more than a present. You can’t afford to rent that Camaro. Take it back. I have my old Chevy truck, the one with the four-fifty-four engine. Not much by way of amenities, but it’s free until you can do better and you will love that engine.”

“Thank you, Aunt Jeep.” She leaned over to kiss her.

“What are your thoughts at Christmas?” Jeep asked, eyes twinkling.

“Like you, brings back memories. I’m glad to be here. I want to look forward, not back.”

“Well, in theory I do, too, but I’ve got more life behind me than in front
of me.” She looked down at King. “Do you think dogs ever suffer from insomnia?”

“Not Baxter.”

“Must be a marvelous way to live. In the moment. No worrying about the future. No government papers to fill out. All the baggage that burdens us. Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a dog.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Well, sweetie, I’m tired. Off to bed. Tomorrow is Boxing Day. Big day in England.”

“Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“God willing.”

L
ittle Christmas lights in the shape of chili peppers festooned the topless bar. A silver Christmas tree was wedged in with the liquor bottles behind the bar. Each of the girls hung decorations on it.

The men frequenting Jugs on Christmas night oozed loneliness. A false gaiety filled many of their voices. Old, young, with money, with little, they were all men without women.

The girls, wearing Santa costumes—but topless, of course—acted happier than usual. Sentimentality meant bigger tips.

Lark answered the call of men at the bar, men in the booths.

Nowhere else to go since his family sure as hell didn’t want to see him, Teton sat at the end of the bar. Since he was a neighbor, the owner never pressed for him to spend a lot of money nor to drink. He knew of his struggles, as did the regulars. Teton pitched in when help was needed, whether it was helping to throw out an unruly patron or to push one of the girls’ ever-faltering cars to give it a jump start. He was a likable guy.

His cell rang. He walked outside to hear, since the Christmas carols playing in the bar were deafening.

“Merry Christmas,” Teton answered.

“Did you give Egon my name?”

“It slipped my tongue. He wants to put a lot of money into your next project.”

“I could kill you. Never, never give out my name.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s a good player. He’s eager. He loves money.”

“That’s the American way.” The voice on the line lowered. “I’m home. But we’ll talk more about this later. You haven’t blown my cover to anyone else, I hope?”

“No. Don’t worry about it. Egon has a lot to lose if he opens his mouth.”

“Like what?”

“Like huge future profit.” Teton said.

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Teton heard the disconnect, then folded the phone and slipped it into his back jeans pocket. “Prick.”

Once back in the bar, he hung out until close to closing then gave Lark, quietly, a small wrapped package.

She opened it to find two tasteful, beautiful sapphire earrings flanked with small diamonds.

“Matches your eyes.” He smiled.

“Oh my God! They’re beautiful.” She grabbed him and kissed him.

“Merry Christmas, Lark.” Then he blurted out. “I think about you all the time.”

“Oh, Teton, you’re so sweet.”

His reward, once the bar closed, was all he had hoped for and more, though for one wonderful, desperate moment, he’d worried when his face was stuck between her bosoms. He could suffocate.

T
uesday, December 29, people returned to work. As there’d only be a few days before New Year’s, there was a noticeable lack of urgency, regardless of profession. Out of curiosity, Twinkie and Bunny returned to Pump 19.

“Looks good.” Bunny lowered himself down.

Twinkie followed. “These new pumps are easier to work with.”

“Yep. What do you think about checking out Pump Twenty-two tomorrow?” Bunny ran his fingers over where the blue outtake pipe joined the pump.

“Not a bad idea. We’ll see how the seal is holding.” He clambered out. “I’d sure like to catch the creep doing this. My hands are still aching from the cold.”

They climbed back into an SSRM half-ton truck, their usual mode of transportation. A locked toolbox across the back under the window carried their regular complement of tools. Most jobs required replacing seals, perhaps a damaged pipe. In various spots on their watch, culverts funneled water into small holding tanks. They checked those, too. Given that rainfall was light, catching every drop was vitally important.

Once SSRM secured new water rights, the company set about harvesting water in simple ways. They knew water flow could fluctuate, and the company monitored underground flow for a year before installing expensive equipment like a pump, digging wells, or creating holding tanks.

Born on a ranch, Twinkie believed the color of sagebrush could give you an idea of rainfall, but it wasn’t his job to find water. He kept these thoughts to himself.

Back in the half-ton they drove down to Jake Tanner’s.

On his Bobcat, Jake saw them turn into his drive. He cut the motor, climbed down, and greeted them.

“Hey.” Jake smiled. “Get laid for Christmas?”

“Why would I tell you?” Twinkie shook his head.

“Just the best present, that’s all. That’s why you want to give your wife something she really wants for Christmas. Bought mine a new stove.”

“Then you’re both happy,” Bunny chimed in.

“Seen anybody up by Pump Nineteen since we put in the new one?” Twinkie asked.

“Nah. Heard you had another blowup south of town. The news did a good job, showed the water in the pump housing. You two looked so pretty.” He rolled his eyes. “Same deal?”