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It was still pissing it down when I stepped out of the Uber car. The driver, a heavy Hispanic who’d looked rather like a young Antonio Banderas, but wore a badge that said his name was Earl, had picked me up from a quiet little layby on the highway. For the first five minutes of the trip, he’d complained bitterly about having to come so far out. Then when he read the destination, he gave me a double helping of grief that, rather than going back towards civilization, I wanted, as he put it, to be taken even further into the arse end of nowhere. He probably couldn’t understand why I even needed an Uber, rather than drive myself.
Apparently, out here, everyone had a car of their own. It was the American way, so why the fuck didn’t I get with the program?
Well, fuck him. I had my reasons, and they were none of his business.
Slamming the door on any more of the Earl’s whining, I started up the dirt slip road, hard-packed by the constant traffic of HGVs and machinery. It snaked for about half a mile. The overhanging canopy kept most of the downpour off, but it was a treacherous trek all the same. More than once I had to catch myself before my boots slipped out from underneath me and sent me sprawling face-first into the shit and mud.
A clap of thunder boomed, mingling with the splatter of falling raindrops and the rumble of engines as a steady procession of Wagons, SUVs and Trucks started driving by. A quick check of my watch showed that it was nearly half twelve, lunchtime. Good, that would make things easier. Between rants. my new best mate Earl had gone on about a dinner somewhere down the highway, The Bear’s Den Dinner, just past the boundary of the reservation, that boasted the best burgers in the state. These boys were probably all on their way to put the boast to the test. I just hoped they weren’t in the mood for the lunch time special. Earl said the fries were grizzly.
After about twenty paces, the canopy opened, and I walked out into a clearing and spotted my target.
The first name on the list was the easiest to find. Hell, we were as good as neighbours after all.
Jasper Christopher Delvacio, a logger, or rather, the owner of the JCD Lumber company. His family had been Logger Barons, but Jasper had quickly lost the family fortune as public opinion switched from fossil fuels to more environmentally conscious, sustainable methods. Or rather preferred to look the other way and play ignorant while enjoying the benefits of the third world destroying their forests and woodland to feed western greed, at rock-bottom prices.
From everything to nothing in no time at all.
He’d gone from being the heir of a timber empire to being in debt to Mr Ritter, and no doubt even more angry creditors were waiting in the wings.
I didn’t need to wonder where the bulk of his money had gone.
Every few years, the Tribal council would auction off leases for woodland that had become overgrown to the logging companies. It was a beautiful system, really. The loggers were desperate for lumber to chop down, and the Tribal Council needed land cleared. The loggers bid for the rights to cut down the trees, then when the leases were up, the council got the rights to the land back and whatever land they didn’t need got returned to nature. Better yet, it was all done on the loggers’ dime with no bleeding-hearts screaming about the exploitation of the natives.
Jasper had claimed the rights to three leases with outrageously high bids that had made the local headlines. It had been quite a picture-op. The local businessman standing shoulder to shoulder with the Tribal Council Members outside the Council building, dressed in his tailored three-piece and presenting them a large novelty cheque from the boot of his flash new 911 Porsche.
He’d probably paid for the photoshoot on top of everything else.
No wonder Mr Ritter was having kittens.
It was the same old story. Struggling business executive, barely able to keep his head above water, throwing money around in an all front and bullshit show to make it look like he was anything but skint.
The 911 was certainly flash. Cherry red and polished to a high shine, it practically screamed money and suited the middle of a logging camp about as well as a Greenpeace van. But there it was, all the same. Sat there besides a mud-splattered mobile trailer office that, beneath its fresh coat of whitewash, had seen better days. Everything else was just as one would expect. Big machines arranged in a circle, rows of flatbed trucks waiting for loading, and huge lengths of timber piled high as far as the eye could see.
Business was obviously good.
I stopped by the 911 and took out my phone. A quick search of the Seattle Auto Trader lists told me everything I needed to know. Dropping the phone back into my jacket pocket, I was about to go up the trailer stairs when the door opened and Jasper Christopher Delvacio stepped out to welcome me with a broad grin and open arms.
Well, he stepped out to welcome me anyway, along with a welcome party of three lumberjacks. Complete with thick bushy beards and check flannel shirts, they could have been characters ripped right out of some old folktale.
I turned my eyes up to them, forced a pleasant smile, and did my best to ignore the rain running into my eyes. “Ahhh, you must be Mr Delvacio. I recognise you from your picture in The Post.”
He didn’t return my smile. “Yeah, that’s me. Who wants to know?”
He’d ditched the three-piece for a simple grey two-piece that had seen a few too many winter days, and a plain white shirt that struggled to contain his barrel chest.
He crossed his arms. They weren’t the sort of arms that belonged to a man who’d spent a lifetime earning with his hands. It wouldn’t take much to break this man, I decided. His friends, though, could be a problem.
My guess would be Jasper knew exactly how much shit he was in with his creditors and had taken steps against reprisals.
Well, in the words of Sid James, Now gentlemen, this revolt will have to be suppressed with the utmost tact, and Diplomacy…we’ll string up half a dozen of them for a start.
“Now there’s no need for that, Mr Delvacio. I have some business to discuss with you.” Keeping my smile in place, I tried to sound friendly, nonthreatening. This would go a lot easier if I could get him to drop the guards and invite me inside.
Except it seemed Jasper wasn’t in a mood to play nice. Keeping his arms crossed, he stared down at me with a look that said he wasn’t buying anything. “Oh really, aren’t you a little small for a woodcutter?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. At five, ten, and a little under 200lbs, no one had ever called me small before. Well, except for my brother, of course, but then Turk had always been a gorilla. “Ah, no, no, you’re right. I’m not a woodcutter, Mr Delvacio, but you and I do have a mutual friend. Mr Ritter. And it’s him I need to talk to you about.”
The smaller man’s face visibly paled at the mention of the name, then twisted into a glare that I guess was supposed to be threatening, rather than constipated, “This is private property, you’re trespassing.”
