Zero Game (18 page)

32

J
ANOS’S TRIP TOOK TWO
different planes, one stopover, and a three-hour leg with a petite Asian woman whose lifelong dream was to open a soul food restaurant that served fried shrimp. Yet he still hadn’t reached his final destination.

“Minneapolis?” Sauls asked through the cell phone. “What’re you doing in Minneapolis?”

“I heard they have a great Foot Locker at the Mall of America,” Janos growled, pulling his bag from the conveyor belt. “Getting stuck in the airport just wasn’t enough fun for one night.”

“What about the jet?”

“They couldn’t turn it around fast enough. I called every place on the list. Any other wonderful suggestions?”

“And now they canceled your flight?”

“Never was one—I figured I’d find another connection to Rapid City, but let’s just say South Dakota isn’t the top priority on the airlines’ flight plans.”

“So when’s the next—?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Janos said as he shoved his way outside and noticed a sky blue 1965 Mustang convertible passing by. The grille emblem was from a ’67, but the tonneau cover looked original. Nice work.

“Janos . . .”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his eyes still on the red taillights of the convertible as they faded into the night. “As soon as they wake up, I’ll be standing on their chests.”

33

T
HERE ARE FEW THINGS
more instantly depressing than the stale, mildewed smell of an old motel room. The sour, mossy whiff is still in the air as I wake up.
Enjoy your stay at the Gold House
, a plastic placard on the nightstand reads. There’s a dot-matrix cartoon drawing of a pot of gold at the bottom corner of the sign, which looks like it was made the same year they last changed these sheets.

Last night, we didn’t get in until after midnight. Right now, the digital lights on the alarm clock tell me it’s five in the morning. I’m still on East Coast time. Seven
A.M.
it is. Kicking the thin, fuzzy blanket aside (I might as well’ve covered myself with a gauze pad), I look back at the pancake pillow and count seventeen black hairs. Already I know it’s gonna be a bad day.

Next to me, the other bed is still made. When we checked in last night, I made Viv wait in the car as I told the woman at the front desk that I needed one room for myself and one for my kids. I don’t care how tall and mature Viv looks. A white guy in his thirties checking into a motel with a younger black girl—and no luggage. Even in a
big
town, that’ll get people chatting.

On my left, the seventies-era flower-patterned curtains are closed, but I can still see a sliver of the dark sky outside. On my right, the sink is right next to the bed, and as I grab the toothbrush and toiletries we bought in the gas station, I plug in the iron I borrowed from the front desk. With all the running around, our suits look like we played baseball in them. If we plan on pulling this off, we’re gonna have to look the part and get the sharp corners back.

As the iron heats up, I turn to the phone on the nightstand and dial Viv’s room. It rings over and over. No answer. I’m actually not surprised. After what we went through yesterday, she has to be exhausted. I hang up and dial again. Still nothing. I was the same way in high school. The clock radio could scream for an hour, but nothing got me up until Mom banged on the door.

Putting on my slacks, I again check my watch. Even the earliest flight won’t get Janos in for another ten minutes, not including the two hour drive to get here. We’re okay. Just go knock and get her up.

Undoing the chain lock, I tug the door open. A puff of fresh air shoves back at the mustiness—but as I step out and head to my right, I immediately feel something smack into my ankles. I plummet face first toward the concrete breezeway. It’s impossible. He can’t be here yet . . .

My cheek scrapes against the ground, even as my hands try to break my fall. I turn over as fast as I can. I can already picture Janos’s face . . . Then I hear the voice behind me.

“Sorry . . . sorry,” Viv says, sitting on the floor of the concrete breezeway, tucking her long legs out of the way. “You alright?”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I don’t sleep . . . at least not that well,” she says, looking up from a small brochure. “I don’t mind, though . . . My mom says some things just
are
. I’m a bad sleeper. That’s the way I was built.”

“What’re you doing out here?”

“My room stinks. Literally. Like a geriatric barn. Think about it: old people mixed with animals—it’s a good description.”

Climbing to my feet, I roll my tongue inside my cheek. “So you’re always up this early?”

“Page school starts at six-fifteen. The woman at the front desk . . . she’s all talky, but in a cool way, y’know? I’ve been chatting with her for the past half hour. Can you believe she had two people in her graduating class? This town’s in trouble.”

“What’re you—? I told you not to speak to anyone.”

Viv shrinks down, but not by much. “Don’t worry—I told her I’m the au pair . . . taking care of the kids.”

“In a blue business suit?” I ask, pointing to her outfit.

“I didn’t wear the jacket. Don’t worry—she believed it. Besides, I was hungry. She gave me an orange,” she explains, pulling it from her pocket. “One for you, too.”

She hands me a plastic Baggie with an already peeled orange inside.

“She peeled it for you?”

“Don’t ask. She insisted. I didn’t want to upset her. We’re the first guests they’ve had since . . . since the actual gold rush.”

“So she’s the one who gave you the brochures?”

She looks back down at a faded pamphlet entitled
The Homestead Mine—Staking a Claim in Our Future
. “I just thought I should read up on it. That’s okay, right . . . ?”

There’s a faint noise by the stairwell door. Like a crash.

“What was . . .”

“Shh,” I say.

We both check the breezeway, following the sound up the walkway. The stairwell’s at the far end. No one’s there. There’s another crashing sound. That’s when we see the source of the noise. An ice machine dumping ice. Just ice, I tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any calmer. “We should . . .”

“. . . get out of here,” Viv agrees.

We head for our respective doors. Four minutes of ironing later, I’m dressed to go. Viv’s already waiting outside, her head once again buried in one of the old tourist pamphlets.

“All set?” I ask.

“Harris, you really gotta look at this place—you’ve never seen anything like it.”

I don’t need to read the pamphlet to realize she’s right. We have no idea what we’re getting into, but as I run up the walkway—as Viv chases right behind me—there’s no slowing us down. Whatever Wendell’s digging for, we need to know what’s going on.

From the stairwell, Viv and I rush out into the Gold House’s main lobby. Even considering the time, it’s emptier than I expected. The front desk is vacant, the soda machines have black tape over the coin slots, and the
USA Today
vending machine has a handwritten sign in it that says,
Buy newspapers at Tommy’s (across street).
Looking out onto Main Street, we see the signs in every window.
Out of Business
, it says at the gas station;
Lost Lease
, it says at Fin’s Hardware. Naturally, my eyes go straight to the barber shop:
Gone to Montana—God Bless.

Across the lobby, I spot a metal display rack filled with the tourist brochures Viv picked up.
See How a Real Gold Bar Is Made! Visit the Leed Theater! Explore the Mining Museum!
But from the faded, yellowed paper, we already know the museum’s closed, the theater’s shut down, and the gold bars haven’t been seen in years. It was the same way when I had to clean out the house after my dad passed. Sometimes you can’t bring yourself to throw stuff away.

When we were heading here, I thought I’d be in my element. I’m not even close. This isn’t a small town. It’s a dead one.

“Pretty sad, huh?” a female voice asks.

I spin around, and a young woman with short black hair enters the lobby from the back room and steps behind the front desk. She can’t be more than twenty-five, and while her complexion identifies her as Native American, even without it, her high cheekbones would be a clear giveaway.

“Hiya, Viv,” she calls out, wiping some sleep from her eyes.

I shoot Viv a look.
You gave her your name?

Viv shrugs and steps forward. I shake my head, and she steps back. “I’ll go check on the kids,” she says, moving for the front door.

“They’re fine,” I say, refusing to let her out of my sight. She’s already said enough. The only reason we should be talking to anyone is because we need information, or help, or in this particular case, some last-minute directions.

“Can you tell us how to get to the Homestead mine?” I say as I head for the front desk.

“So they’re reopening it again?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I counter, leaning an elbow on the front desk and fishing for info. “Everyone seems to have a different answer.”

“Well, that’s what I hear—though Dad says they still haven’t talked to the union.”

“Have they at least been throwing some business your way?” I ask, wondering if she’s seen anybody in the motel.

“You’d think they would . . . but they got it all in trailers up there. Kitchens . . . sleeping quarters . . . everything. I’m telling you, they get an F in making friends.”

“They’re probably just mad they couldn’t find a Holiday Inn,” I say.

She smiles at the jab. In any small town, everyone hates the chains.

Studying me carefully, she cocks her head to the side. “Have I seen you before?” she asks.

“I don’t think so . . .”

“You sure? Not at Kiwanis?”

“Pretty sure. I’m not really from the neighborhood.”

“Really? And here I thought all the locals wore slacks and button-downs.”

I pull back the slightest bit. She’s starting to warm up, but that’s not my goal. “Listen, about those directions . . .”

“Of course. Directions. All you gotta do is follow the road.”

“Which one?”

“We only got but one,” she says, tossing me another grin. “Left outta the driveway, then a sharp right up the hill.”

I smile instinctively.

With a quick hop, she boosts herself over the front counter, grabs my arm, and leads me to the door.

“See that building . . . looks like a giant metal teepee?” she asks, pointing up the mountain to the only structure on top. “That’s the headframe.”

She immediately reads the confused look on my face.

“It covers the mine shaft,” she adds. My look stays the same. “. . . also known in some circles as the
big hole in the ground
,” she explains with a laugh. “It protects it from bad weather. That’s where you’ll find the cage.”

“The cage?”

“The elevator,” she says. “I mean, assuming you wanna go down . . .”

Viv and I share a glance, but neither of us says a word. Up until this point, I didn’t even think that was an option.

“Just follow signs for
The Homestead
,” the woman adds. “Won’t take you five minutes. You got business up there?”

“Not until later. That’s why we figured we’d check out Mount Rushmore first,” I explain. “How do we get there?”

It’s a pathetic bluff, but if Janos is as close as I think, we at least need to attempt to hide the trail. As she gives us directions, I pretend to write them down.

When she’s done, I wave good-bye and head for our Suburban. Viv’s right next to me, shaking her head. “Is that on purpose or is it just natural?” she finally asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

“I don’t understand.”

“The charm thing: leaning into the counter . . . her swooning at the small-town flair . . .” She stops a moment. “Y’know, who we are now is who we always were and who we’ll always be. Is that how you’ve always been?” she asks.

The Suburban swings wide around a sharp right turn, pinning me against my door, and Viv against the armrest. As we weave our way up the hill, we’re focused on the two-story triangular building that sits on top. Turning the final corner, the trees disappear, the paved road ends, and the ground levels off and turns rocky. Up ahead, a space the size of a football field spreads out in front of us. The ground’s dirt, flanked by some jagged rock outcroppings that circle the entire field and rise about twenty feet in the air. It’s as if they shaved off the top of the mountain and built the flat encampment that’s directly ahead of us.

“So you have any idea what we’re even looking for?” Viv asks, studying the terrain. It’s a fair question—and one I’ve been asking myself since the moment we stepped off the plane.

“I think we’ll know it when we see it,” I tell her.

“But with Matthew . . . you really think Wendell Mining were the ones who had him killed?”

I continue watching the road in front of me. “All I know is, for the past two years, Wendell has been trying to buy this old middle-of-nowhere gold mine. Last year, they failed. This year, they tried to cut through the red tape by sliding it into the Appropriations bill, which according to Matthew, would’ve never gotten anywhere—that is, until it showed up as the newest item up for bid in our little Showcase Showdown.”

“That doesn’t mean Wendell Mining had him killed.”

“You’re right. But once I started digging around, I find out Wendell not only completely forged at least one of the letters endorsing the transfer, but that this wonderful gold mine they supposedly want doesn’t have enough gold in it to make an anklet for a Barbie doll. Think about that a second. These guys at Wendell have spent the last two years killing themselves for a giant empty hole in the ground, and they’re so anxious to get inside, they’ve already started moving in. Add that to the fact that two of my friends were killed for it and, well . . . with all the insanity going on, you better believe I want to see this thing for myself.”

As we pull toward the edge of the gravel-covered makeshift parking lot, Viv turns to me and nods. “If you wanna know what the fuss is, you gotta go see the fuss yourself.”

“Who said that, your mom?”

“Fortune cookie,” Viv whispers.

At the center of the field is the teepee-shaped building with the word
Homestead
painted across the side. Closer to us, the parking lot is filled with at least a dozen other cars, and off to the left, three double-wide construction trailers are busy with guys in overalls going in and out, while two separate dump trucks back up toward the building. According to Matthew’s report, the place is supposed to be abandoned and empty. Instead, we’re staring at a beehive.

Viv motions to the side of the building, where another man in overalls is using a mud-covered forklift to unload a huge piece of computer equipment from the back of an eighteen-wheeler. Compared to the muddy forklift, the brand-new computer stands out like a Mack truck on a golf course.

“Why do you need a computer system to dig a giant hole in the ground?” Viv asks.

I nod in agreement, studying the front entrance to the triangular building. “That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question, isn’t—”

There’s a sharp tap as a knuckle raps against my driver’s-side window. I turn and spot a man with the filthiest construction hat I’ve ever seen. He puts on a smile; I hesitantly roll down the window.

“Hiya,” he says, waving with his clipboard. “You guys here from Wendell?”