= THE SYNDICATE by Scott Wolven What can I say about the Moscow, Idaho sky that morning that hasn't been said about a million other skies, in a million better ways? It was big and blue and bright with sun. Not a cloud in sight. Beyond beautiful. Shining with life. Amazing. The sky could not say the same things about me. It must have looked down and seen me lying on my back in the middle of a lentil field, just waking up with an empty bottle of bourbon in my right hand, wearing yesterday's dirt-covered clothes. The sky must have looked down and shook its beautiful head and said "Get up, you poor bastard, and quit drinking." I did get up, but I wanted more booze, no matter what the sky said. And I wanted my ex-wife back, all of her, even our arguments. My drinking caused our split and now I was drinking more. Let the sky figure that one out. I brushed some of the dirt off my shirt and jeans and started walking across the field. On the hill in front of me sat a group of trailers and a little concrete shed, which was my house. As I got closer, I saw Greg standing beside his girlfriend's trailer, working on something with a hacksaw. He looked up as I came across the field and he gave me a half-wave. I gave him the same back and walked toward him. He was wearing a tan hunting vest over a denim shirt, jeans and black roper's boots. He pointed his chin at me. "Sleep in the field last night?" he asked. I nodded. I brushed some more dirt off me. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Making a Louisville into a slugger," Greg said. He was holding a wood baseball bat steady on top of a rusted oil drum and cutting the barrel of the bat with the hacksaw. After a couple strokes, the upper portion of the bat dropped to the ground, onto a small pile of sawdust. "Whose model is it?" I asked. "Cecil Fielder," Greg answered. "He was fat, but he could hit those homers." Greg patted his own stomach, not a flat surface by any means. "Gives regular people hope," he said. He smiled. He held up what was left of the bat, a lethal two-foot stick of solid northern white ash. "How come you don't use an axe handle?" I asked. Greg pointed to the knob on the end of the bat and opened his hand, showing how the handle tapered slightly. "Much better grip with this setup," he said. "And it fits under the seat of my truck." He looked me up and down. "You feel okay to work today?" " Sure," I said. Greg hustled a lot of odd jobs, but his main source of income was bounty hunting and skip tracing. He carried an Idaho license to do what he did, and ever since I d moved to Moscow after my marriage broke apart back East, Greg asked me along as backup whenever a job called for it. I was his unofficial partner, which probably had nothing to do with any special skill I possessed. It had to do with the fact that I was fairly big and agile and lived next door and wasn't above winging someone in the leg versus chasing him or her. "Let's go," I said. We started walking over toward his ugly truck, an old four-door Toyota Land Cruiser that had a piece of home-installed Plexiglas separating the front and back seats, just like the cops. "Do you have any beer we can take with us?" I asked. "First, man takes drink," Greg said. "Second, drink takes man." "Just stop at the package store on the way then, Grasshopper," I said. I climbed in the Toyota at co-pilot and Greg got in the driver's seat. He put the sawed-off bat under his seat. "Get the Berretta," Greg said. I reached into the glove compartment and came out with a slim, black Berretta. I put the pistol in my right hand jacket pocket. Greg was wearing a shoulder holster under his hunting vest. He pulled out a .45 Colt Combat Commander and checked the clip and the safety. We were ready to go. Greg pulled onto the highway and we headed north into the Idaho panhandle. "What's doing today?" I asked. Houses got scarce and the country was mostly fields and pinewoods. The Rockies got bigger on the horizon. "Big job," Greg said. "Guard duty." "Guarding what?" I asked. Broken-down farmhouses passed by on either side as we turned east going through a wide spot in the road called Potlatch. "Poker chips," Greg said. "How much do you think we can make?" I asked. Greg looked out the window and then back at the road. "I figure for both of us, two hundred dollars an hour." He nodded. "If there's anything else, the fee gets doubled." "Anything else? What sort of anything else?" I asked. "Gunfire," Greg said. "If somebody shoots at us or if we have to shoot at someone, the fee doubles." "That's fair," I said. I thought about it. "Do you think somebody will shoot at us?" Greg shrugged. "I'd say it could happen." He pointed at a deserted looking gas station that was coming up. "You still thirsty?" he said. "Dry as a bone," I said. He pulled in and I got out. Inside the store, there was a cooler with beer across from the register and a rack with some dusty bags of potato chips. The guy behind the counter had tattoos all over one arm. Two lightning bolts were tattooed on his neck. He didn't say a word, just rang in the beer and tossed my change on the counter. I cracked one open on my out of the store, and was holding an empty when I reached the truck. I opened another beer and we headed toward the reservation. The woods and the sky were all beautiful, but I didn't see any of it. I mean, I looked at it, but actually seeing it, that never happened. I did pay enough attention to nature to keep the empties inside the truck.. The beer tasted like fresh air, and I started to feel right after the third can. I was glad I'd bought a twelve pack. We passed a Bureau of Indian Affairs sign that told us it was five miles to The High Eagle Reservation. * * * We pulled up to the edge of the reservation. It had a fence around it and a gate we had to go through. There was an old man, a Native American, standing at the gate. He wore a big revolver on his right hip in plain sight. He walked over to Greg's window. "Who are you here to see?" he asked. "Bob Gunstock," Greg answered. "We're supposed to meet the tribal council." "What's your name?" the man asked. He was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. "Greg Newell," Greg said. The man looked over at me. "Can I have a beer?" he asked. "Sure," I said. I handed him a beer. "Thanks," he said. He waved us forward and lifted the gate. * * * The tribal council building was a post and beam structure, set off to the side of the compound. To the right of it, brand new, was a casino. It was a three-story stone and concrete building, nothing that belonged in these woods and hills. We went inside the tribal council building. A mural on the wall of the building showed black hooded braves bearing automatic weapons. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen showing portions of Northern Ireland. I was glad for the Berretta. Three men stood in the hallway and one of them walked toward us as we entered. "Hi," he said. "I'm Bob Gunstock." He wore a dark green shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was about medium height, with his hair in a ponytail. I guessed his age to be mid-fifties. "I'm Greg Newell," Greg said. He motioned at me. "This is my partner, John Thorn." "Hi, John," Bob Gunstock said. "Hi," I said. "Thanks for coming," Bob Gunstock said. He motioned at Greg. "Some people in Moscow said you were the man for the job." "That's nice to hear," Greg said. "What do you want us to do?" Bob Gunstock cleared his throat. "We've got a shipment of chips coming for our casino, which is opening in two weeks. We need you to guard those chips and make sure they arrive here safely." Greg nodded. "That's what you said on the phone. Where do we pick them up?" Bob Gunstock started walking toward the door and we followed him. The three of us stood outside. "Well, we've got a police escort through the state of Washington. And they're traveling in an armored car, so that should be pretty safe. But we need you to bring them from the Washington border up here to the reservation." "How come the Idaho State Police won't give you an escort?" Greg asked. "We don't get along with the Idaho State Police," Bob Gunstock answered. "So they let us take care of our own problems." Greg shrugged. "How much are the chips worth?" he asked. "It's not what they're worth, exactly," Bob Gunstock said. "It's that they're unmarked. We ll put a High Eagle stamp on them ourselves. But if they were stolen, it would delay the opening of the casino, plus if whoever stole them got hold of a High Eagle stamp, they could come cash them in." "Are those easy to get?" Greg asked. "We had to submit originals of all our casino emblems to the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, D.C. So anyone with the cash to bribe a BIA operative could get our stamp," Bob Gunstock finished. "Fine," Greg said. "Where do we meet the truck?" "We've got two of our own men driving it up from California," Bob Gunstock said. "They'll meet you right at the state line in Pullman, in front of the gravel pit just before you get to the university." "Right," Greg said. "We'll take the chips and then both of us will drive back here." "Sure," Bob Gunstock said. "That way, if somebody is still after the chips, they might go after the armored car by accident." Greg and I walked over to Greg's ugly truck and got in. Bob Gunstock followed. He leaned on Greg's door and spoke in a low voice. "These people play hardball," he said. "Be awake." "I'm awake," Greg said. "I'm awake," I said. I pulled a beer from the twelve pack. Bob Gunstock shook his head. "I don't mean awake like you think," he said. "I mean fast and alive." He walked back inside the tribal council center. And we started back the way we came, toward Moscow and then Pullman to pick up the chips. I dumped the rest of my beer out the window and dropped the empty can on the floor. Awake and fast and alive. Three things I wanted to be. I looked over at Greg and he nodded. * * * The silver armored car was sitting along the side of the road in front of the gravel pit, just over the Idaho state line in Pullman. A police cruiser was pulled over in front of it. Greg swung the Toyota around behind the armored car and we both got out. Two Native American guys got out of the cab of the armored car and came back to help us. "Bob Gunstock just called to let us know you'd be here," the one guy said. They were both young, with jet-black hair, wearing flannel shirts and jeans. They opened the back door of the armored car and we loaded the boxes of chips into the Toyota. The cop in the police cruiser gave us a wave and pulled onto the road, headed back into the state of Washington. "Anybody follow you?" Greg asked. "All the way from California," the one guy said. "Sometimes one car would stop and then another car would pick us up." He paused. "They were never more than a mile away from us." "What type of car?" Greg asked. "This last one picked us up just outside of Pasco," the guy said. "A blue four by four." "Okay," Greg said. "We'll be right behind you, all the way to the reservation." He pointed at the armored car. "Keep the windows rolled up and the doors locked." "We will," the guy said. Both of them got back into the armored car. The Toyota was packed with boxes of chips. Slowly, the armored car started off the shoulder of the road and then got on the highway into Idaho. We followed in the Toyota, heading through Moscow. I watched every car like a hawk. * * * We drove along the road, heading north for the reservation and the casino. The armored car was five hundred yards ahead of us. A blue four by four with smoked windows came up behind us and passed. "There they are," Greg said. We watched as the four by four accelerated and easily caught the armored car. "They can't do anything with us behind them," Greg said. "They don't want any witnesses." The four by four suddenly stopped, just jammed its brakes on in the middle of the road. Greg narrowly missed it, cutting to the inside and almost going off the shoulder. "Here we go," he said. He punched the gas and we jumped forward. The woods rushed past on either side. The four by four gained on us from behind. I saw two men in the front, and both of them held pistols. I saw the passenger taking aim out of his window. A second later, the sharp crack of gunfire snapped past me. "Double that fee," Greg said. The speedometer read ninety. We swung into the oncoming lane, passing the armored car. We were on the shoulder of the wrong side of the road, moving fast. A log truck was coming, blowing its air horn. "Hang on." Greg looked in the rearview mirror and stood on the brake. I slammed my hands on the dashboard. The log truck sped past on the right in the southbound lane, rocking the Toyota with a back draft. The armored car flew past, then the four by four, brakes already locked. Greg and I were both out of the Toyota, firing. One of us hit a back tire on the four by four. It happened too fast to follow, as the rear end of the four by four lost contact with the pavement and kept on going, end over end, snapping the guardrail and gone, out of sight. Greg and I ran over to where the truck had left the road. We could see the flames already. We both held our pistols, waiting. There was a small explosion and then a larger one that pushed us back from the edge of the embankment. A cloud of black smoke was rising as we pulled off in the Toyota. * * * We drove to the reservation. Bob Gunstock met us at the gate, along with a couple of heavily armed members of the tribe. Greg got out of the truck and they unloaded the chips into a pickup truck. The armed escort followed the chips onto the reservation. Bob Gunstock gave us each a gold card and an envelope with some cash in it. I looked in mine; he'd doubled the fee. Live fire was worth exactly what Greg said it was. "You can come up here to the casino anytime you'd like," he said. "These cards will get you a free dinner and some chips to play with. You'll always be welcome guests." "Thanks," Greg said. I took my card. "Thanks, Bob," I said. "Who were they?" Greg asked. "Do you know who those men were?" Bob Gunstock shrugged. "It doesn't matter exactly who. They were from Washington, D.C. and Chicago, and Nevada, and New York, and New Jersey. They were from everywhere that wants to deny us the right to earn a living. They're all in the syndicate." "Why do they do it?" Greg asked. "Because they can," Bob Gunstock said. He looked up at the sky. "Like bullies in the playground." He turned to me. "Did that scare the beer out of you?" he asked. I looked at my envelope full of cash. "I'll let you know tomorrow." SCOTT WOLVEN has a fellowship in creative writing at Columbia University. His fiction appears in Emerging Voices Online (http://www2.netdoor.com/~rief) and Permafrost and is forthcoming in CrossConnect and Mississippi Review. Copyright (c) 2000 Scott Wolven