Las
Vegas
The
whole trip was fuzzy the day after we arrived back in Seattle and
started back to Alaska, and the past thirty-five plus years hasn't
helped things much. Still, I will try and remember the tale of woe as
it happened.
It's
hard to say where it began and it did end at Fisherman's Terminal in
Seattle where Blaine and I were working on someone else's boat.
Still,
I guess the tale has to begin somewhere so let's begin it with the
time we went out for a couple of beers and something to eat. We were
exhausted from burning the candle at both ends, working days and
partying the nights away in some damned tavern. We didn't realize it
but we were totally exhausted.
Previous
evenings we drove back to the boat where we were both working and
staying on because we were too damned drunk to walk. Back then nobody
really gave a damn. It was a couple of years before the Mad Mothers
arrived on scene and got things changed. I still have very mixed
feelings on this. Whatever.
We
picked a tavern we knew of specifically because we knew that it
served decent food. Tavern food is generally fried and while I
certainly like my grease, there comes a time when a civilized meal
hits the spot.
I
parked the pickup in a nearby shopping type area in front of some
nondescript place that looked like a place that catered to the lunch
crowd. It was an eatery of some sort. I parked it with no second
thoughts.
We
ate, hung out for a while and drank maybe three beers, possibly four
but most likely only three and headed back to the blue '62 Dodge
half-ton pickup I owned. When we arrived I commented that I could us
a nap and Blaine agreed.
I
opened the door, pushed the seat forward, grabbed the sleeping bag
and tossed it into the bed of the pickup. Because I was going to
sleep in the bed I got the sleeping bag. Blaine got the wide bench
seat in the cab and got the old Army blanket that was also there.
We
figured on maybe an hour long nap and we'd go out and do a little
partying but nature had different plans for us.
We
both went out like a light and slept the entire night.
I
first to a typical Seattle misty day slightly disoriented. I looked
around to get my bearings and the first thing I saw was the sign on
the eatery. El Paso Barbecue said the sign.
Instantly
I reached up and banged on the back window of the pickup. Blaine
popped up instantly and I pointed at the sign.
He
popped his head out the window and looked at me wide-eyed. “Holy
shit!” we said, in unison.
“How
the hell did we end up in Texas?” Blaine asked.
Instantly
we both reached for our wallets. They were there. Back then there
were few credit or debit cards. It was pretty much strictly a cash
society. If you were out of cash you were out of luck.
I
also checked my necklace which was really a simple piece of 550
paracord. On it was a small key ring with a P-38 can opener and a GI
dog tag. On the cord itself were a half-dozen gold wedding rings.
The wedding rings were my emergency reserve.
It
was a trick I had learned from a Colorado Springs pawnbroker I knew.
He told me that gold could be redeemed at practically any halfway
decent pawn shop for market or near market price. Over the next few
months I bought six of them, mainly from tanked up soldiers from
nearby Fort Carson who let them go for a song.
They
stayed on my necklace as an emergency reserve for years until 1985
when I cashed them in down in the Seattle area to finance a sailboat
trip. I hit a high got somewhere close to $500 for them.
Still,
back in '80 I could count on about a fast $150.
It
was a pretty slick trick, actually. If my pocket was picked I could
go to the nearest pawn shop and redeem one or more of them. If I was
outright jack-rolled it was likely that they would be overlooked.
We
both opened our wallets and everything seemed OK. We had money. I had
too much money. I had about $400 more than I had when we left the
boat!
To
this day I have never figured that one out. Still, I am honest and
knew I hadn't robbed anyone or done anything dishonest. I knew I
didn't come by it criminally.
“Well,
let's gas this beast up and get back to Seattle,” I said. “Skip's
gonna be rightly pissed off at us.”
“Where's
the highway north?” asked Blaine. “Too bad we don't have a LORAN.
We could plot a course.”
Then
Blaine saw something on one of the buildings. It said Greater Seattle
such and such and he looked at a couple of the license plates. We
were still in Seattle and about fifteen or twenty minutes away from
the boat.
“You
idiot,” said Blaine. “We're still at the tavern we went to last
night! I guess we overslept.”
“Oh,
well,” I yawned. “Keep your eyes open for someplace that sells
breakfast. I'm buying. At least we're not going to have to sit in
this shitbox for the next three or four days.”
“Yeah,
but if we did, we could stop in Las Vegas and checked it out,” said
Blaine.
I
got in and we caught the time off of a bank. We had time so we
wandered into a nondescript greasy spoon and ate breakfast. We
returned to the boat with plenty of time to spare.
While
sometimes the skipper would roust us if we sacked out on the boat, we
knew he would not worry if we ambled in. We were men, expected to act
like men and we were in turn treated like men.
The
scary part is we were living so hard and fast that it was entirely
believable that we had gone out for a beer and had woken up 1800
miles away from where we had started out from on a trip to get a
couple of lousy beers and a meat loaf dinner. Things like that had
happened before and were likely to happen again.
We
worked on the boat for a few more days and then we were told the boat
was headed into the yard and it might be a pretty good time to take a
break for about about ten days to two weeks. We could have been
useful in the yard but there are often rules about what the crew
could and couldn't do. Besides, we had been married to the boat for
quite some time now and we could use a break.
Blaine
gave me a smug look. “Let's go to El Paso, Texas,” he said.
“We
been there,” I answered, smugly. The skipper had heard about what
had happened the other day and laughed. It really was funny. What
made it funnier is that it was believable.
“How
about Las Vegas,” I suggested. “That's partway to El Paso. Then
again maybe that's not a good idea. The truck needs new rubber.”
Blaine
immediately offered to buy new tires if we went to Vegas. I took him
up on the offer.
The
skipper pointed out that we should empty the refrigerator because
power at the shipyard could be spotty. We did this, parking some of
the stuff that would keep into a cooler. This went into the bed of
the pickup and was accompanied by a couple of frozen gallon jugs of
water that we got out of the ship's freezer. The freezer had already
been emptied a couple days before. There really hadn't been much in
it.
The
skipper then somewhat surprised us with a check. One was our final
settlement which was fairly hefty. Then he handed us $600 in cash as
a bonus. The bonus was a complete surprise and we handed the checks
back to him and told him to hang onto them for us for when we
returned.
The
pickup had a contractor's tool box in the back that would hold our
sea bags and one of our sleeping bags. The other we could mash down
behind the seat. Blaine took the truck, disappeared for a short time
and returned. He had gotten beer and some real ice. The gallon jugs
were ditched, the beer was put in with the food and iced heavily.
The
next morning we were off and running.
The
first order of business was to get some decent rubber under us. We
headed straight to a wrecking yard in Tacoma where for about $5 each
we could have the pick of the tires in the yard assuming we gave them
the old rims back.
At
this point we were running on two baloney skins, meaning they had no
tread showing, two may-pops that had three layers of cord exposed.
The spare looked brand new except for the fact that the sidewalls
were dry rotted to beat hell.
The
Dodge, fortunately, had a basic Chrysler Corporation standard lug
pattern which meant we had a wide choice to pick from. We managed to
come away with five matching snow tires all for the full delivered
price of $25!
We
took them out to the truck and changed them one by one and returned
the old tires still on the rims and then returned to the elegant
recycling emporium and scrounged three or four outer wheel bearings
and a couple of bearing races. For some reason the old beast went
through right front wheel bearings even though we had replaced the
spindle a while ago.
I
think he charged us two bucks and threw in half a paper coffee cup of
grease and we were out of there with rubber so good it could actually
pass a state inspection!
Then
we gassed up, re iced the food and beer and off we went, Las Vegas
bound but with a stop outside Boise, Idaho.
It's
about eight or nine hours to Boise, Idaho and we knew a couple of
girls in the area. We figured on stopping off there for the first leg
of the journey and fooling around with them.
Back
then there were no cell phones or GPS units. It was paper maps and
phone booths. I broke out my little black book and tried calling one
of them about four hours out of Tacoma. No luck. I tried again when
it was getting dark and a guy answered so I hung up. Blaine tried
calling a girl he knew there and reported similar results. It looked
like a night alone in a sleeping bag on the road someplace.
In
Boise at the time there was a sandwich type shop that I had heard of
from one of the guys. It was probably a carryover from the 30s or
maybe the 40s. They had a couple specialty sandwiches for travelers
where for an extra quarter or so they would wrap it a certain way in
aluminum foil and give you a piece of wire. You could tie the
sandwich to your exhaust manifold and heat it up. We had actually
been planning on buying a couple to heat up for breakfast the
following morning.
We
had the address, found the place but it was closed. We pulled into
the parking lot to figure what to do next. Instantly a police car
pulled in. Blaine and I put our hands where they could be seen after
we kicked our beers under the seat.
We
were not too worried about the beers under the seat. The pickup was
so rotten that any beer that spilled out of the cans would dribble
through the holes and onto the gravel beneath us. Occasionally I
wondered why the seat stayed upright because the floor was so rotten.
The
only thing that concerned me is that he was possibly a deputy county
sheriff type. I looked at the police car, saw a municipality name on
the side and relaxed.
At
that time a lot of county sheriffs were pretty corrupt. It was
possible that they would try and pin an unsolved crime on someone
passing through up to, but not including the murder of Sharon Tate.
They couldn't use that one because Charles Manson was doing time for
that one already.
At
that time the consensus was it you were passing through you would
probably get a fair shake from a state policeman or a local police
officer. This is not to say all county mounties were corrupt but an
awful lot of county sheriff systems were. One had to know which was
which and it was prudent to assume they all were until they were
proven otherwise.
We
were not too worried. We were both sober by the standards of the day.
This was in the early 1980s and the Mad Mothers were only in the
offing. Of course, even by then the days of a cop holding your beer while you got your license out were a memory.
It's
proper to note here that this was a few years before the Mad Mothers
emerged. The standard the police used for intoxication was the
officer's gut instinct as to the person in question's ability to
drive safely.
While
we were never tanked up, there was almost constantly a beer between
our legs as we drove on long trips. Many of them were never finished.
We'd toss them out when they got too warm. The general etiquette was
that if one got stopped the brews were ditched and put out of sight.
If I recall, the only state I was aware of the was strict about
drinking and driving at the time was Oklahoma and they were
draconian.
The
cop approached us and asked for my license which I produced. It was
an Alaskan license and he looked curiously at it because the pickup
had Washington plates. He thought a second and apparently it made
sense to him. A lot of people that lived part time in Alaska
maintained vehicles and/or homes somewhere in Washington.
When
he asked us what we were doing I told him we were looking for one of
the sandwiches that we could tie to the exhaust manifold. The cop
said the sandwich shop closed at three. I asked him where we could
find a place to eat and he told us there was a pretty good diner up
ahead.
Then
I asked him where we could find a place to sack out.
He
told me to let him make a call and wandered over to the phone booth,
dialed a number, spoke and returned to us.
He
explained that there was an old widow that occasionally rented rooms
for a small amount and told us to call soon if we wanted to stay
there. He explained it was in a regular home and that it was probably
likely she would cram a full sized breakfast into us and it would be
good form to stick a couple of bucks under our pillow to cover it.
He
wrote her address and phone number in his notebook, tore it out and
handed it to me. A few minutes later we ate at the greasy spoon and I
called. She had a room with twin beds in it and we drove over. She
met us at the door and we took one look and knew we had lucked out.
In a few minutes we were both out like light.
We
both woke up feeling refreshed, showered and turned our underwear
inside-out so the clean side was next to our bodies. Then found out
the cop was right. She offered us a breakfast fit for an Alaskan
fisherman which we gladly accepted. While she was cooking I returned
to my room and stuffed a ten spot under the pillow and returned and
we ate. She wanted to talk and we actually enjoyed the old woman.
After breakfast we took our leave.
When
I lit the beast up it sounded a little loud so I crawled underneath
and saw where the muffler had rusted through in a spot. Off to the
greasy spoon we had eaten at the previous evening.
We
fished through their dumpster and snagged a couple of number ten cans
and threw them in the bed and found a parts house. I went in and
bought a couple packages of Gun Gum. It was a muffler repair bandage.
Out
in the parking lot I split the can after I had cut the bottom of it
off with my trusty P-38. I slipped the can over the hole as a sleeve
and then wrapped the entire thing with the Gun Gum bandages. If I
recall the Gun Gum kits even included wire but I used our own because
it was heavier. The wire just held things together until the Gun Gum
set which I knew it would soon from the muffler heat.
We
knew we didn't actually need to repair the muffler but we did because
loud mufflers attract the attention of cops.
We
were off and running and the truck was running smooth. We figured we
were maybe 12 hours from Las Vegas and although we had a late start,
we would be there well before midnight. As we rode we discussed
things.
We
pretty much had Las Vegas figured out. We knew that it was a
tourist/gambler's mecca and they relied on the tourist dollar. The
police would tolerate a lot. We could get away with being somewhat
drunk, we could whistle and cheer in a strip joint if we wanted to
and generally raise a little hell.
However,
at any sign of violence, dishonesty or public obnoxiousness and we
would be clapped in irons in very short order. We figured Las Vegas
had a reputation to uphold and they would do so whatever it took.
Keeping up appearances was all important to Las Vegas. Our plan was
not to try and be totally invisible, but we did want to stay out of
the limelight.
We
were in the Nevada desert when something funny happened.
We
had the throttle pulled out most of the way and the little Slant Six
was humming along at about maybe 70-something. This was legal at the
time in the desert. There was no real speed limit there. Some guy
pulled out to pass us and we saw
there
was a cop behind him. The cop stayed behind us.
Suddenly
the guy pulled back in again and I had to hit the brakes. That meant
the cop had to slow down, too.
Blaine
turned to me and said, "Watch this." He took his nearly
empty beer, lifted the floor mat and dropped the can through the hole
in the rotten floorboard. It rattled out between our rear tires.
The
cop saw the beer can and knew we hadn't thrown it out the window. The
only likely assumption he could make was that the guy that had just
passed us had tossed it out and it had caught in the slipstream and
gone between our tires..
He
whipped past us, lit up and chased the jerk down and pulled him over.
By the time we passed him the cop had him out of the car and we
simply drove on past, laughing our asses off.
The
throttle was sort of the cruise control of the day and saved one from
being a slave to the gas pedal It really didn't control the speed
very well it just held the carburetor open to a fixed point. On level
ground it worked reasonably well. While going downhill one sped up
and when going uphill one slowed down. You could help it while going
uphill simply by stepping on the gas. While going downhill you had to
push the throttle back in. It was crude but it made life a little
easier. On the flat lands it worked halfway decently.
Now
things get a little blurry here and I am trying to remember the
sequence of events. Our plan was to reconnoiter the strip upon
arrival. I do remember that was the plan. It got changed on the fly,
fast when we arrived.
Somehow
we landed in North Las Vegas. We took a wrong turn or something.
Anyway,
there was little glitz of glamour here. We later found out that this
was where hookers, strippers, junkies and other drug cripples came
home to die. We found out that they didn't even had a decent 1%er
badass motorcycle gang here.
The
crime rate was astronomical and here we were. This was not a nice
place to be.
In
a monumental moment of total stupidity of epic proportions we decided
to wander into some beer joint and ask around and get our bearings.
I
noticed the motorcycles parked out side were somewhat different.
There were a couple of halfway decent looking Harleys but most of the
bikes were ratty looking. No self-respecting 1%er would be caught
dead on such a ride.
We
went inside and we both sat down at the bar and almost the instant
our asses hit the stool, Blaine fell down to the floor. Some three
hundred pound ass clown was standing over him laughing with a big
Haw, Haw, Haw. He had jerked the stool out from under him and
informed us that Blaine had taken HIS seat.
I
watched Blaine cower and crab walk to the wall and I just knew what
was coming up. I quietly headed toward the door and waited. I knew
Blaine would take any abuse whatsoever except for a direct physical
attack. When the big biker was seated and relaxed, Blaine was on his
feet like a cat and he went over, jerked the stool out from under the
big guy and smashed it over his head.
The
place exploded. His friends were on their feet and I knew the chase
was on. I was out the door in a nanosecond and had the truck fired up
about the time Blaine jumped in. I backed up and clipped a bike which
caused a small domino effect. Another bike or two tipped over. I
dumped the clutch and we were off and running. I jumped a curb,
hooked a right and tore off as fast as the little Slant Six could go.
I
knew we had a little time to escape. They would be picking up
motorcycles and fumbling with kick-starters.
One
of the things about the beast that probably saved my skin more than
once is that I had no key to fumble with. The original had corroded
into the ignition and when I yanked it out with a pair of pliers the
core came out with the key.
I
hot-wired it and took it straight to the parts house where I bought a
pair of toggle switches, one was standard, the other was spring
loaded.
The
parts house guys let me run an extension cord out and I drilled two
holes next to each other in the lower lip of the dashboard. There I
installed and wired in the two switches.
The
standard switch was the off/on for the ignition system and the spring
loaded switch controlled the starter motor.
It
was really pretty slick. I would hook my finger and pull both at once
until the engine caught. Then I would release them. The spring loaded
switch would return to the off position and shut the starter motor
off and the standard switch would stay on, controlling the ignition.
I'd shut her down by turning the ignition switch off.
I
think it saved my bacon a couple of times when I needed a fast
getaway.
I
drove like hell and we got away fairly cleanly and hid behind a strip
mall for a while. I was more than aware, however that in the lighted
parking lot some of the bikers had gotten a pretty good look at the
pickup. It was very, very recognizable. Anyone that had even glanced
at it could recognize it anywhere.
We
left and drove a few miles and pulled over in a convenience store for
directions and headed out into the desert planning on camping there.
I
have no clue whatsoever where we wound up. The attitude was simply,
“We camp here!” The adrenaline of the chase had worked its way
out of us and we were tired. We sacked out, I was in the bed of the
pickup and Blaine had simply tossed his sleeping bag on the ground.
I
manged to get some sleep and when I woke I looked over at Blaine who
was already awake and looked at me ashen faced. He mouthed something
and I approached him carefully. He mouthed it again.
“Snake?”
I asked. “In your sleeping bag?”
He
nodded slightly. I blanched. We were in Mojave rattler country and
the bite was particularly venomous.
I
looked at his sleeping bag. It had been a warm night and the bag was
unzipped. He had simply laid down on one half and pulled the other
half over himself.
I
went back to the pickup and took the carpenter's level off of the gun
rack and returned. I slowly got it under the bag and slowly flipped
the top half over. There was nothing.
He
mouthed something again. “Under the bag?” I asked.
I
grabbed the corner of the bag and told Blaine to 'break right' and
gave it a really hard tug and Blaine flipped over. When the bag came
up I spotted the culprit. It was a very venomous, deadly looking
piece of harmless worn out faded Chicago air hose about thirty inches
long.
We
both laughed stupidly and I called him an idiot.
A
few minutes later when I dropped something I saw movement under the
pickup and spotted a real Mojave rattler! I jumped into the bed of
the truck, crawled into the cab, lit her off and drove forward a
truck length and we watched the creature slither off.
I
was feeling kind of crummy so I decided to clean up a bit and change
clothes. There was water in the cooler from the melted ice so I
washed my face, armpits and groin as best I could, slathered on some
deodorant and was good to go. I fished the cash wad out of my dirty
jeans pocket and transferred it to my new set of duds and crammed the
dirty outfit into the laundry bad which went into the duffel bag.
Much
of the food in the cooler had already gone bad so we cleaned it out.
We dumped the actual food in the desert for the carrion eaters and
crammed the actual litter into a paper bag (remember them?) and
disposed of it later.
While
putting the duffel bag and sleeping gear back in the tool box I
noticed a canvas package and realized I had forgotten to put my deer
rifle back on the boat. It wasn't much, just an old, battered 30-30
model 1894 Winchester. John Wayne never missed an Indian with one.
I
mentioned it to Blaine and he shrugged. He reminded me we were in the
Old West and reminded me tongue in cheek that we could be attacked by
wild, whooping savages at any time.
Looking
back on it I realize I felt a certain amount of comfort knowing it
was there. This was long before the age of cell phones and if there
wasn't a pay phone nearby we couldn't call the US Cavalry to come to
the rescue.
Back
then gun laws were only in effect in Massachusetts and New York. If
we were stopped by the police and tossed they would pay it no mind.
No charges would be files. It wasn't illegal to have and at the time
a lot of pickups had rifles in the rear window gun racks. In Alaska
the old Winchester was generally in the gun rack that now held a
carpenter's level.
It
remained there untouched for the rest of the trip.
We
headed back toward Las Vegas slowly and stopped off at an out of town
nondescript diner and ate breakfast. A mile down the road we spotted
a woman standing outside a motel parking lot thumbing a ride. She was
obviously a pavement princess headed home after a hard night's work
but we picked her up anyway. If anyone knew Las Vegas well it would
be a hooker.
She
was pretty much a drug cripple, she was already high but she provided
is with a wealth of knowledge and got us situated. We were lost and
knew it but she got us on track.
We
dropped her off where she wanted to be dropped off, grateful for her
information.
After
we were headed the the Las Vegas strip I heard a slight scraping
noise in the right front wheel. The right front wheel bearing was
acting up. Better to fix it now. If I did it was likely we would not
have to replace the race, just the bearing itself. We wouldn't even
have to remove the wheel. I pulled into a gas station, gassed up and
pulled over to a quiet place in the lot.
We
grabbed the high-lift and took a lot of the weight off of the wheel.
Off came the dust cap and we grabbed the spare and the grease out of
the glove box.
I
pulled the cotter pin out, removed the castle nut and yanked the old
bearing. It was on the way out. I ran my pinkie over the race and it
was glass smooth. I packed the bearing by hand and replaced it. This
time instead of tightening the castle nut up to line up with the
cotter pin hole I loosened it.
Apparently
I had been keeping the damned thing too tight because I only crunched
it one more time and that was on the Alaska highway. That was to be
expected back then.
We
popped the dust cover back on, lowered the truck and we were off
ready to roll.
Wait
a minute! We did NOT gas the beast. That came later. We just changed
the wheel bearing. We gassed up later in a complete panic which I
will get to shortly.
We
hit the strip and there before our eyes was the glory of Las Vegas.
Whiskey, gambling, beautiful girls! Bright light a-flashing
advertising Elvis, Frank Sinatra, the Rat Pack and the True American
Dream! A roll of the dice could turn someone into an instant
millionaire!
“Viva
Las Vegas!” shouted Blaine.
“Viva
Lost Wages!” I answered.
We
drove up and down the strip several times past the bright lights, the
Big Cowboy and even in the bright desert sun everything looked so
shiny and bright enough to overshadow the sunlight. We both wanted to
see a show and all of the glitter that went with it.
Both
of us had been into a couple of sleazy topless joints with the usual
collection of broken down drug cripples dancing to a jukebox box but
here was a real show with attractive woman and a choreographed
performance.
Elvis
was long dead by that point but he was still there with a whole slew
of imitators and wedding chapels.
The
strip was astonishing to behold and as we drove along agape some
idiot in a Mercedes cut us off and I wound up on the sidewalk. It was
just dumb luck I hadn't clobbered someone.
We
both recovered quickly and reentered traffic which was very light for
the time of day. Fear gave way to anger and we were both livid. We
caught up with the guy and he appeared to be pretty drunk because he
was all over the road.
Ahead
of us he took a right and entered a parking lot and handed the keys
to a valet who took the car when he walked into a casino.
At
this point Blaine said to me, “Meet me here! His ass is mine!”
and bailed out.
I
pulled over and watched as Blaine walked past the owner of the car
and acted like someone returning to his car. A moment later I saw him
approach the valet who looked upset and went into his booth and
picked up a phone and spoke into it. Blaine disappeared out of sight.
A
couple of minutes later a fire truck and police car appeared out of
nowhere and a fireman got out and tore the trunk lid off of the
Mercedes. He got it done just as the owner showed up in outrage.
Blaine
showed up out of nowhere and started to get into the car but I saw
the valet point to us. Blaine was wearing that damned red shirt of
his and he stuck out like a neon sign.
A
.30 caliber military National Match bullet leaves the muzzle of a
bolt-action rifle at 2750 feet per second. I left the sidewalk a lot
faster than that. The same bullet in a 1/12 twist bore spins at 2750
revolutions per second which is 165,000 rpm which is what I felt
like. I was spinning at 165,000 rpm and flying along at about 1875
mph.
I
knew that Blaine had inadvertently gotten us fingered to both the
cops and fire department. He reported that he had told the valet that
he heard a baby crying in the trunk of the Mercedes. They take that
kind of thing VERY seriously in Las Vegas because every so often some
compulsive gambler leaves a child in the car. There have been deaths
because of this and the last thing Las Vegas needs is a black eye to
chase business away.
The
fire and police department are trained to break into a car and ask
questions afterwards.
On
top of that, he reported that the Mercedes driver looked like a mob
guy.
Great!
Wonderful! This was not the place to be! Being wanted by anyone is
not a good deal but now inside the past ten or fifteen hours we were
wanted by not only a dopey gang of wannabe bikers, but the Las Vegas
police department AND the fire department and on top of that, the
mob. I made Blaine get rid of that damned red shirt immediately. Talk
about closing the barn after the horse got out.
I
have no idea why the cops just didn't chase us down like dogs. None.
They could have nailed us cold in under two minutes if they acted
fast.
Still,
the red shirt was enough to get us nailed even after the fact so I
made him ditch it.
We
were headed east and I decided that it might be a wise idea to gas
up. We had cleared Las Vegas proper and the only thing we had to
worry about was a stray county sheriff deputy. The again, we were
headed east and Lake Mead was east.
It
looked like we were making it easy for the mob guy because he would
not have to transport our corpses as far to stick out feet in a
couple of concrete buckets and deposit us in the deep part of the
lake.
On
the other hand, the Arizona border was under an hour away. We could
cross the border into Arizona, go north and enter Utah, head north to
Salt Lake City, cruise into Boise and then make the run to Seattle.
It would mean more time and mileage but we would be avoiding all
sorts of trouble.
I
pulled into a gas station and gassed up. I reached into my front
jeans pocket, pulled out my wad, paid for the gas and looked at what
I had. I had two or three bucks.
Blaine
and I generally carried only big bills in our wallets. We'd break out
a Franklin to pay for something and put the change in our front
pockets. That way we didn't have to expose the amount of cash we were
carrying. I still do that and I suppose the trick has kept me from
being rolled. At least it has helped me keep track of things. I knew
I had at least four and probably five hundred bucks in my wallet.
I
reached for my wallet and turned pale. It wasn't there!
“My
wallet is missing!” I snapped.
In
a Pavlovian reflex, Blaine slapped his back pocket. He turned ashen.
“So is mine! I'll bet that little whore we gave a ride to lifted
them!”
I
thought a minute. “Doubtful,” I said. I don't see how she could
have gotten mine. She was sitting outside you. Besides you were
sitting on yours. Let's get the hell out of here.”
We
had under $20 between us. It was over 1100 miles to Seattle. We had
the better part of a carton of cigarettes, a full tank of gas and it
was broad daylight and we weren't wearing sunglasses. I hit it and
off we went, thinking on the fly.
There
was a sign to Lake Mead and it was fairly close. I knew the Hoover
Dam was there and there were very likely recreational areas and with
that were camp sites. The government run sites were cheap. I headed
to Lake Mead.
We
needed cash. We didn't need much. Gas was about a buck a gallon and
seventy-five bucks would cover it. If we could both find a day's
work we could make that in a day or two. We needed work...or
something evenly remotely resembling it. It was time to fall back and
think.
“If
we can find some dumb hippies we could probably get them to put us up
for a couple of days while we hunted for work,” I said. “We just
need a reasonable excuse they'd buy.”
The
Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior had been in the news recently. “We
could tell them we are with the Greenpeace people and are ashore
raising money. Maybe we could get them to run around taking up a
collection for us!” said Blaine.
“We're
part of the relief crew and we're ashore to do a fund raiser. If they
ask to see some paperwork we show them our Alaska fishing licenses
and tell them they are required in Alaskan waters so we can reel in
Japanese gill nets,” I added.
“OK,
sounds good.”
At
the time the federal camp sites were primitive. Now they have WiFi.
We found a likely looking group of stoners and I approached them and
started talking with them. It took only about fifteen minutes before
they invited us to join their anti establishment little hippie group.
I explained that we were raising money for the Rainbow Warrior and
that we had just been robbed we were invited to stay and eat and
sleep there for a while.
We
offered them everything we had (except for the trio of twelve packs
we had hidden in the construction tool box).
Much
of the food from the boat we had on ice was good and they were happy
to take it. In return they cooked it for us. We accepted even though
hippie chicks are usually lousy cooks. A lot of them could burn a
kettle of water.
Anyway,
lousy cooking and all, we had a temporary respite and a low
likelihood of being caught by the bikers, the Las Vegas police, the
Fire department or the mob so long as we kept the truck hidden.
I
don't remember if we were in Nevada or Arizona at the time.
That
evening over the fire we discussed plans for helping out the poor
beleaguered whales. The hippie group offered to help.
The
next morning Blaine and I were up and the hippies crawled out of
their racks to face the new day and instantly started on a search of
every trash can and dumpster in the area. They passed word of what
was happening to another group and in short order we had about 25
cans suitable for using to collect money in.
In
the meantime we were given some kind of nasty tofu mixed with granola
or some damned thing for breakfast. It was lame. Two farts later our
stomachs were empty and growling but beggars can't be choosers.
One
of the womenfolk was actually a pretty talented artist and drew a
pretty good label for the cans. The label had a picture of a whale on
it and simply said 'Save the Whales”. It mentioned nothing of
Greenpeace. One of the other people had a relative that worked for
the Las Vegas newspaper the name of which slipped my mind and took
off for Las Vegas in a Volkswagen and returned with about fifty
copies of the label, a small bottle of contact cement and at my
request a clipboard and some paper.
It
was still early enough in the day so three of us hopped into
someone's Volkswagen and we returned to the outskirts of Las Vegas.
We had to keep the beast hidden. We went into every convenience
store, supermarket and gas station we could find and asked the
manager if we could leave our collection cans there for a couple of
days.
The
Whales were big then. Everyone wanted them saved and it seemed to be
a national issue. There was whale jewelry and Lord only knows what
else being sold in their name.
The
timing was right.
When
manager agrees I would take out a can, put a number on it with a
marker and carefully put the can number and the store address on my
pad. A clipboard is essential to any good con operation. Clipboards
make anything official.
During
WW2 a trio of Prisoners of War escaped using a tape measure and a
clip board. Two guys were in each end of the tape measure and the
third wrote down the measurements. They measured their way out the
gate and measured their way into Spain which was neutral.
A
clipboard can take a person a long way.
When
the cans were distributed we returned to camp. That's when the
waiting began. Waiting is generally the worst part of any operation.
We
bathed in Lake Meade and I laundered a pair of jeans, a set of
underwear and a shirt and socks the Old School way. I knew that as
soon as we found a decent shower I wanted something clean to get
into. I air dried them and stowed them.
Two
days later we emerged and decided to collect the cans. We were hoping
for maybe $75 to $100 but expected disappointment.
I
scrounged a cardboard box and we fired up the beast. Blaine drove it
and followed me and the hippie that owned the Volkswagen. He parked
on the outskirts of town and waited for me. There was no way in hell
I wanted him to come along because he was the one that had been seen
and could be recognized. The odds were slim but I was taking no
chances.
The
guy with the VW was at least partway intelligent. He wasn't a total
acid head burnout which made dealing with him tolerable. He asked me
why Alaska required a fishing license for all crewmen. I told him
that not only did the crew have to get licensed but the rainbow
Warrior had to get an ADFG (Alaska Department of Fish & Game)
number on top of that.
I
explained that there were several jurisdictions involved, state,
federal and international. This is probably the only factual piece I
gave him. There really is an International Pacific Halibut
Commission.
He
seemed mollified. The he asked me about the security and I told him I
was required to seal all the cans, put them in the box, seal that
shut and deliver the whole thing to Greenpeace, Seattle. I told him
it was a joke, really because there was really nothing keeping me
from stealing everything. He agreed.
It
took us a while to collect all of the cans because many of the store
owners wanted to know all about the whales. With a straight face I
answered what I could and they seemed interested and mollified.
It's
hard keeping a straight face. One crestfallen store owner said the
can had been snatched and grabbed by a junkie. He looked pretty sad
about it and offered me $20 for the cause.
I
consoled him but refused the $20. What we were doing was illegal as
hell and patently dishonest. While it was one thing to cheat the
faceless general public, it is another thing to outright rob a man
face to face, either with a gun or by deception.
I
at least had a grain of integrity in my dishonesty.
It
took a while to collect all the cans and as I got one I carefully
checked the 'serial number' off of the list and put a piece of duct
tape over the top as a seal of sorts. When we got back to the car I
would place in in the box.
After
the last can was collected I sealed the box carefully with the
leftover contact cement we used to glue the labels to the cans.
The
Volkswagen guy returned me to the pickup and we shook hands with the
International Drug Brothers Handshake and handed the box to Blaine,
fired up the beast and we left.
We
had the better part of a full tank of gas, about 1150 miles to cover,
an undetermined amount of cash. In addition to this we had three
twelve packs of beer on ice. We had gotten ice from a trading post of
sorts in the Lake Mead area.
The
beer was getting cold and I drove off.
We
skirted Las Vegas as best we could and I pulled over and plotted the
course to Elko. It looked to be about six or seven hours away across
the desert but it was a late start. We figured we'd camp in the
desert again.
“I'm
sleeping in the cab tonight!” said Blaine and I laughed. The no
snake snake in the sleeping bag incident was still in his head.
“When
you get up fire her up and move her ahead in case there's one under
the truck,” I shot back and we chuckled.
As
soon as we cleared the Las Vegas city limits and the metropolitan
area we pulled over and cut the box and cans open and started
counting our ill gotten gains. We were flabbergasted! We had a shade
over $3000!
“This
money is baaaaaad juju,” said Blaine.
“It
sure is,” I replied. “What are we going to do with it?”
“I
dunno but we gotta get rid of it somehow,” replied Blaine. “Maybe
give it to a church or something.”
“Greenpeace
has an office in Seattle. Maybe we could drop it off there. After
all, we did steal it in their name.” I suggested.
“Yeah.
We did steal it,” Blaine admitted. “Hey, Yvonne could sure use
this. Screw Greenpeace. Those bastards! They are really pirates! The
Japs ought to board her, throw the entire crew over the side and sail
her to Japan as a prize! They're collecting money all over the place.
This would probably wind up as some big shot's lunch money. Let him
eat at McDonalds like the rest of us! I say we give it to Yvonne.
Besides it never said 'Greenpeace' on those cans. It said 'Save the
whales'!”
“Done
deal,” I replied. “Let's keep track of what we spend getting
home. We'll cash our settlements and toss in what we spent. For that
matter I don't think much of whaling but I think a lot less of
piracy.”
“That's
fair,” said Blaine.
We
yanked the throttle out until the engine started screaming and then
pushed it back in a quarter of an inch. She was running fairly hard
but she wasn't screaming. Realizing we had been thrown out of Las
Vegas the engine had a damned good sound to it. We had escaped
without a trip to the cross bar hotel or a dunking in cement
overshoes and were glad to have it behind us.
We
watched the miles click by for a while and then saw a truck stop
ahead and pulled in.
We
had been living on that hippie crap for the past couple of days and
our very souls were screaming for some serious man food. We were
craving a huge slab of red meat.
The
instant we entered the truck stop we sensed it was a happy oasis in
the middle of nowhere. I want to say we were in a town called Alamo
but I'm not sure about that at all.
Almost
as soon as we were seated we instantly knew why the place seemed so
happy. It was the waitress.
She
was one of those rare women that men instinctively like and trust.
She was rather tall, her hair was in sort of a beehive and her makeup
was a molecule shy of being trashy. She also had a quick wit and
above all we knew she was comfortable with men. She liked men the way
they were and men liked her. Her connection with the guys really
isn't of a sexual nature. It's a warm, human connection.
Women
like that are a very rare national treasure.
She
came to our table and Blaine told her we had been living on hippie
for for the past three days. She laughed.
“Sounds
like you two need a serious blood rare steak,” she said. “What do
you want with it?”
“Just
a salad,” said Blaine.
“Twice,”
I said. “And burn the outside and leave the inside dripping.”
“I
can do that,” she said and left.
She
arrived with a pair of humongous steaks and a pretty good sized pair
of salad and we chowed down. Fishermen are fast eaters and Blaine and
I were no exception. We attacked the beef and salads.
“You
two guys slow down,” said the waitress. “The sparks from your
knives and forks are going to set this place on fire!”
We
finished the meat and salads in short order, paid and left her one
hell of a tip and left. Back into the beast.
You
have to remember that the beast was a dead simple farm vehicle. There
was only a heater, no radio. The suspension was hard, especially
because I had resprung the rear end to haul a camper I had for a
while. It was a far from comfortable ride. There was no air
conditioning and everything on it was worn out. It had a manual
transmission, a manual choke, no power brakes and armstrong steering.
The
entire vehicle was long past being on it's last legs. It was held
together by spit, baling wire, vise grips, good luck and uncommon
sense. We ran it on bald tires, there were no seat belts, padded dash
or anything along these lines. The entire truck was just plain crude.
It
was a heavy piece of nothing more or less than Detroit Iron. By the
time I got it it was an ideal vehicle for adventurers simply because
a simple trip to a convenience store could turn into a world class
adventure at any time.
In
short, it was custom made for me at the time.
About
a year ago I saw one that looked to have been somewhat refurbished in
someone's front yard. I knocked on the door and asked the owner about
it. He was delighted to give me a tour and commented that kids today
couldn't even get it started much less drive it.
I
asked him for the key and he handed it to me and watched. I pulled
out the choke and when I stamped on the gas pedal three times he
grinned. I turned the key and it almost caught so I pushed the choke
in quickly and pulled it out as I cranked the engine and if fired
right up. He was impressed.
He
let me drive it around the block a couple of times and it was amazing
how everything returned to me. It was like riding a bicycle.
He
said he had bought it from a field somewhere in the dry part of Texas
and had put new rubber on it, wired it together and driven it back to
Pennsylvania where he partially refurbished it. He uses it to haul
wood.
The
miles clicked by as the little Slant Six hummed. Slant sixes like to
be run but don't like to be beaten. I had found the ideal throttle
setting and it was smooth by the standards of the time and place.
This means we were not getting beaten up too bad.
There
was a sign telling us Elko was a couple hours out so even though it
was daylight, we found a place to park. As we pulled off we saw a
pile of about four or five tires. I sarcastically commented that we
could use them to burn and keep warm.
“Save
it for Earth Day,” replied Blaine. I laughed.
We
didn't want to enter Elko until business hours. The plan was find a
laundromat and a shower. Most laundromats in Alaska have showers and
a number of them in the western states did to service travelers. I
figured we could find something there. Even a garden hose would
suffice if push came to shove.
We
set up camp quickly and lolled around. We could be seen from the road
but expected no trouble. The chaos we had created in Las Vegas was
really a local beef and they were unaware of the bogus whales
collection.
Looking
back on it, we had perpetrated the perfect crime. This isn't just
because we got away with it. It is because nobody even knew a crime
had been committed. It really was that slick in a way.
Because
we were still full of steak and salad, dinned consisted of pretzels
and a beer or two. It's interesting to note here that although we
consumed incredible amounts of beer during the trip we were never
really intoxicated to the point where it interfered with anything. My
guess is that when a beer got too warm to enjoy we simply tossed it
out. We went through a lot more than we actually consumed.
A
lone state police car pulled up on the side of the road and the
officer approached us. He asked us a few casual questions and we
truthfully told him we wanted to enter Elko during business hours to
get cleaned up and then we were off to Seattle and the boat. He
helpfully told us where the laundromat was and said he thought there
was a shower there and left.
We
went to bed a little too early and as a result we woke up too early.
The two-pound steaks had worked their way through us and we were
famished. I looked in the cooler which was by now full of cold water
and found a package of ground sausage and a pound of bacon. There was
also a very waterlogged package of eggs which on discovery only had a
couple of them broken. I removed the eggs one by one and then grabbed
the waterlogged package and stuffed it into a the box with the empty
'Save the Whales' cans for later disposal.
In
the took box I had a simple Primus stove and a skillet of sorts that
had a little surface rust on it. It cleaned up quickly with a handful
of sand and some elbow grease.
The
Primus needed gas so I fired up the beast and let it warm up a bit.
When it was running I simply opened the hood and slipped the rubber
fuel line off of the carburetor and pumper gasoline into a dry beer
can. I slipped the fuel line back on before the engine stalled. It
only took a few seconds.
I
lit it off and cooked the bacon and set it aside. I left a half-slice
of uncooked bacon for later use. Then I cooked up the sausage. When
it was done I poured off the grease and simply broke all of the eggs
on top of the sausage and scrambled the entire mess up.
We
ate the bacon with our fingers and with spoons fished out of the
glove box we shared the sausage and egg mix right out of the skillet.
I don't recall what we washed it down with, probably a soda from out
of the cooler where there were a couple.
Sand
and water from the melted ice of the cooler got the pan clean again
and I took the unused piece of bacon and rubbed it in the pan to oil
it a bit and keep it from rusting.
We
had time to kill so we spruced things up a bit. We had been living
rough and things needed a little help. The cab of the pickup got a
good going-over and we were ready for our triumphant entry into Elko.
The
State cop's directions were accurate and clear so we wound up going
straight to the laundromat only to find there had been a fire a
couple of days earlier and it was closed. I opined that there might
be another one so we cruised around and found one that was totally
dilapidated and had no shower.
We
wandered through town making note of which places would be good to
try for lunch. The breakfast had stuck with us but we were planning
ahead. We also found ice and recharged the cooler, draining the water
out and cramming it with ice in top of the remaining beer. We were
out of food and pulled into a market of sorts and picked up a few
things. It was a long haul to Boise and might not want to bother with
hunting for a place to eat.
I
looked at Blaine and said I had heard there was a whorehouse nearby
and that it was probably a good bet that there was not only a shower
there but a decent washing machine setup because of all the sheets
they went through.
Blaine
looked at me and thought. “Why not? All they can do is kick us out
and I ain't never been kicked out of a whorehouse before. It'd look
good on my resume!”
Nevada
has never outlawed prostitution on a statewide basis. They leave it
up to the counties. It is the only state in the union with legalized
brothels. I went straight to the nearest phone booth but the phone
book was missing. I then asked the first guy I met and he gave us
directions. We fired up the beast and we were off and running.
This
served a number of purposes. First we needed to get things cleaned
up, our bodies and our clothes. Secondly we were both pretty curious
and wanted to check it out. Besides I heard they served not only sex,
but food and drink. We'd eat lunch there if it looked halfway decent.
We
arrived. One of the first things we saw was a sign outside that said,
“No women.”
We
walked in carrying our duffel bags with out sleeping bags over our
shoulders. Bad move. The bartender/bouncer saw us and jumped to
General Quarters. He came charging up demanding to know what the hell
was going on.
It
took a little doing but we got him calmed down enough to explain to
him we were looking for a shower and some laundry done and the
laundromat was closed.
He
laughed outright. “And you came HERE to get your laundry done?”
he asked.
“Yeah.
I figured with all the sheets, towels and stuff you probably go
through you'd have an in house washing machine setup of some sort.
We're really filthy and desperate to get cleaned up,” I explained.
“we'll pay cash if it's reasonable.”
He
smirked. “I'll see what I can do.”
A
minute later a woman in her mid 30s came up and offered to do our
wash for $20 apiece. The price was a little high but not too out of
line. We could afford it. She also said we could shower in her room
for free and threw in the towels if we dried the floor afterwards.
I
told her to wait until after I showered because I had a clean set of
clothes with me and I wanted the rags I had on washed. She agreed.
We
walked into the bar and sat down. It was getting close to lunch time
and we could use a light lunch. It had been hours since the slap-up
breakfast.
I
showered first and that's when I saw it. I looked down and saw my
necklace and then stared at the half-dozen wedding rings. I instantly
felt monumentally stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
We
had been committed felony level fraud by deception, been forced to
live like animals with a group of stoners and worst off all probably
destroyed our karma because of my blatant stupidity. My face burned
with shame and I hated myself for my stupidity.
To top it off, here I was in a damned whorehouse trying to get my underwear cleaned in case I had an accident and had to go to the hospital.
A
quick trip to the pawn shop and the sale of just one ring would have
netted enough green cash to return straight to Seattle. The sale of
two would have permitted us to take the long route through Salt Lake
City. I finished my shower, went into the bar and Blaine got up and
showered. I stuffed my dirty clothes into the duffel bag and a minute
later it was taken into the bowels of the house of ill repute.
I
sat at the bar feeling both totally refreshed and quite retarded and
sick to my stomach. I ordered a cup of coffee and perused the lunch
menu. Although I had eaten bacon for breakfast, the BLTs looked good.
I decided to wait until Blaine returned which he did in a few
minutes.
When
he returned he was in clean clothes that my expert eye determined
were hand washed in Lake Mead. I didn't have the guts to tell him
about the gold rings.
We
both ordered sandwiches and ate slowly. We had time to kill. At
intervals the girls casually wandered through in skimpy outfits and
chatted with us. They made small talk, gave us their names and
wandered off. They didn't pester us. They knew if we wanted them we
could ask for them by name.
We
noticed what appeared to be a regular lunch crowd came in. Probably
locals that ate there because they liked the atmosphere which wasn't
too bad.
I
quietly told Blaine the girls were not really all that pretty. On the
other hand they showed no signs of illegal drug use, either.
“Must
be the day shift,” he replied.
I
smirked and commented that the good looking ones probably went into
porn.
Then
serious insult was added to injury.
The
woman that was doing our wash walked in. She asked which one of us
was Blaine. He raised his hand. She put his missing wallet on the bar
next to him. We were both shocked. She then handed me my wallet. I
was l floored.
She
explained that she had found Blaine's in the dryer after she dried
his sleeping bag and mine in my pants pocket in the laundry bag. I
had changed pants in the desert and forgotten to remove it like an
idiot. There was a hole in the inside liner of Blaine's tattered
sleeping bag and the wallet had fallen out of his pocket and worked
its way into it.
We
both felt stupid. I felt stupider yet. Oh, the irony of it!
We
were both so pleasantly surprised we both tipped her $50, no small
sum in 1981. She was quite pleased. She also told us she had washed
our sleeping bags on gentle cycle because they looked pretty beat
up. We were grateful.
I
attribute the honesty partially to the fact that although legal,
brothels can quickly become a nuisance. They exist on the fringe and
as a result any problems that arise are dealt with fast and hard in
order to keep up appearances.
I'd
bet that they are constantly having the local gendarmes trying to set
up sting operations to catch them operating outside of the law. This
serves to keep them honest.
I
noticed that the girls there looked healthy and showed no signs of
drug use. That's probably because any illegal drugs found in the
place was probably grounds for instantly being shut down.
When
you consider that an awful lot of the townspeople don't like the idea
of a brothel in their town they permit it simply because of the money
they bring in. I suppose there's a lot of collateral business that
they receive. Visitors to any town need things and the merchants gain
by any attraction that brings visitors, even a whorehouse.
There
are a lot of rules they have to obey, both legal and tacit. The under
no circumstances can hire local talent and generally recruit from out
of state. All it would take is one local to be caught working in a
brothel to create the hue and cry that they are trying to turn our
children into prostitutes.
La
Mordida (The Bite) also holds true. They have to be an asset to the
community and are likely constantly being hit up by the locals for
charity events and things of that nature.
I
once read that the state license is $100,000 annually. That's a lot
of money. The girls are required to undergo health checks for STDs on
a very frequent basis. It's not like in the movies. It's a hard
scrabble business and the profits are probably not that high after
all is said and done.
Prostitutes
are often targets for sickies. Street hookers are often getting
beaten up. Jack the Ripper targeted prostitutes for example. In a
legal brothel I'm sure that a scream from one of the girls would draw
an immediate charge into the room followed by a serious beatdown and
immediate ejection. They can't afford violence and if someone gets
too intoxicated they are ejected unceremoniously. People have to
behave in a brothel.
Oddly
enough I would not be surprised to find out that a legalized brothel
is one of the safest places in Nevada but I might be wrong but I
doubt it. On the other hand an illegal brothel is one of the most
dangerous places on earth. It's illegal and therefore nobody running
it cares. They have no license to lose and no real reason to forbid
the use of drugs. There are also no health checks and the girls can
be rampant with STDs.
A
guy that gets beaten and jack-rolled really has no recourse without
admitting he was visiting an illegal operation. When you think about
it there are pretty good reasons for legalizing something that's
going to happen anyway. At least there is some control over things.
There
is also a visitor etiquette. The women that work there are never to
be referred to as whores. Acceptable terms are girls, ladies and if
you refer to one as a courtesan it will probably gain the visitor
points as it implicates a skilled tradeswoman.
Of
course when you consider that every preacher spews forth getting rid
of the den of sin from his pulpit every Sunday and the religious
people join in that means a large part of the local population to
begin with wants them gone.
While
I was surprised we got our wallets back, I was only surprised to find
out where we had lost them. I was not surprised to find they were
returned by a professional prostitute working in a legalized brothel.
If she was dishonest to begin with, she feared a trap of some sort.
I
learned a lot talking to the bartender. He was pretty honest and
upright.
Still,
it remains that when one thinks about it, legalization at least keeps
the collateral damage down and creates a source of revenue for the
state and local governments.
We
considered leaving and picking up the wash later after a trio to the
post office but decided against it. Yvonne could wait until we got to
Boise.
Before
we picked up our wash we made a couple of phone calls to Boise. We
both knew a couple of women there and thought we'd like to pay a
visit. Blaine went first and returned and said he was in luck.
I
made a call and it looked like I was out of luck. She had plans. Then
she said, “Don't hang up!” I didn't and she asked me if I was
traveling with Blaine. I said I was.
She
told me that Blaine had just called and that I was also welcome
because she'd fix me up with Sandy.
I
asked who Sandy was and she said she was a neighbor and said she was
a lot of fun even though she was a few years older than I was.
I
returned and told Blaine we had both called the same woman and he and
the bartender laughed.
The
wash was done and we took our leave. We had left with goodwill and an
invite to return any time we wanted to.
Boise
was about 250 miles away, about four and a half or five hours away.
The Nevada state line and the end of the unlimited speed limit were
about halfway there.
We
lit out and cranked the beast up to the sweet spot and headed north
at a fast but comfortable clip, with a cold beer between our legs.
It
was just past the Nevada state line when the Slant Six started
running a bit rough. I told Blaine it was either the number six spark
plug or the points. We grabbed a spare and a plug wrench and changed
the plug and started up again but it was still rough.
I
got out a screwdriver and popped the distributor cap and turned the
engine until the points were on top of the crest of the shaft and
looked. They looked tight so I adjusted them using a matchbook for a
feeler gauge and replace the distributor cap. I lit her up again,
pulled out the throttle and knew we were back in business.
We
had a hard time finding the place Blaine's date lived but managed. It
was in a somewhat tumbledown apartment complex of sorts. When his
date answered the door she greeted us warmly and introduced me to
Sandy.
Surprise!
We already knew each other, or sort of. We had seen each other in
Kodiak. What was interesting to note is these two women were part of
an informal contingent. They would wander on up to Kodiak and for
about four or five months a year work all of the hours God ever
created
in
one of the canneries. There was always work there and a lot of
people, myself included would wander in and out when they needed
work. If someone wanted to they could grovel away for months at a
time and live in a company provided bunkhouse on the cheap and salt
away a pretty good chunk of change.
Both
of these women did this, returning to spend the next seven months at
home working at whatever jobs they could find.
There
were several geographically based contingents. One was from Mankato,
Minnesota and I knew several people from there that came up and
either fished or worked in the canneries. Some eventually became full
time residents.
Blaine
and his date were right. Sandy and I did hit it off instantly and I
will not say what went on.
Suffice
to say we spent the evening, the following day and the following
evening together and leave it at that.
The
following day we all had various errands to run and Blaine and I got
together and took the money to a nearby bank to convert it all to
large bills. We threw in fifty bucks apiece to cover the expenses we
incurred and had taken out of the pot.
We
called a friend in Kodiak and he found Yvonne's PO box number and we
wrote it down.
We
had expected to spend hours at the bank dealing with counting change
but were surprised to find out they had customers that ran vending
machine businesses and had a coin sorting machine. If I recall it
even rolled the coins up.
We
were in and out a lot faster then we thought we would be. From there
with thick was of Franklins it was of to the post office and we
stuffed the entire wad into an envelope after sandwiching the cash
between two pieces of cardboard, addressed it and sent it off.
We
had bought our karma back as we knew Yvonne could use it.
Yvonne
was a wisp of a woman that was the mother of four kids that had been
widowed recently. She lived in a half-completed home that her husband
had left her and was now scraping by at whatever she could find to
do, including cannery work in the season. She could certainly use the
money.
Fact
is, the only thing keeping her afloat was that she had practically no
debt. The land she lived on was paid for as was the house. Her
husband was one of those guys that taking out a mortgage. They lived
in shambles, always improving on things as the money came in. He was
doing well when the boat went down.
Had
he lasted another couple of years the house would have been completed
but tragedy has a way of striking at inopportune times.
Still,
complete or not, he had left his wife free and clear of any mortgage
or other loans to pay off.
I
heard a couple of years back that Yvonne managed to raise her four
kids before she got sick and died. I don't know what of.
When
we left the bank Blaine went straight to K-Mart and bought another
sleeping bag. So did I but not as a replacement. I wanted it for my
camper trailer. The one I had was serviceable. Blaine's was really
shot and he was madder than hell over losing his wallet in it.
Over
the next several days I came to realize that the woman who did my
laundry was worth every dime I had paid her, not including the reward
I gave her for returning my wallet.
Not
only was the laundry washed and neatly folded it was folded in such a
way I had not seen since I got out of the army. The pants and shirts
opened up wrinkle-free. What was more important is that it was
organized perfectly in layers. A pair of pants rested atop shorts,
socks and a T-shirt which covered a shirt. I could pull out a
complete change of clothes without having to dig.
After
two nights and a day Blaine and I took off for Seattle which was
about 8 hours away. We stopped for breakfast at the sandwich shop
that sold the sandwiches we could heat on the exhaust manifold.
Washed
down with cold beer they made a damned good lunch when we heated them
up. We sat down and ate them in a rest area along the way. We were in
no hurry.
While we were eating a thought came into my head. I turned to Blaine. "Did your mom ever tell you to wear clean underwear in case you got into an accident and had to go to the hospital? That way the doctor would see you came from a good family and would work harder to try and save you."
"Of course," replied Blaine. All moms tell their kids that. I think it's in a book, maybe Dr. Spock or something."
"I wonder if she ever thought that in getting clean underwear you would find yourself sitting on a bar stool in a Nevada whore house?
Probably not at the time she told me that but these days she probably wouldn't be surprised. What would your mom think?
"She'd probably ask me if the whores were nice Catholic girls," I answered and he laughed.
I
may be wrong but Washington had a 55 mph speed limit at the time and
they were enforcing it. We took things slow and stopped off here and
there to check things out here and there. The pickup ran fine.
The
boat was no longer at Fisherman's Terminal. It was in the yard and we
pulled in a little after ten. The gate was locked, of course, but the
skipper had put our names on the crew list so after a little fumbling
around the night guard let us in. We stumbled aboard and relaxed a
while. I went to my locker and pulled out a bottle of Jameson's and
Blaine and I had a nightcap and a smoke and hit the bunk.
It
had been one hell of a trip.
