Redemption Mountain (41 page)

Charlie was starting to feel the effects of too many Jim Beams and a long day. He needed to use the men's room, but he needed to get things straight with Eve. “Okay, Eve,” he said, “if it's not about Natty, then what is it?”

Eve exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It's the coal, Charlie. The surface mine on Redemption Mountain.” She leaned forward again in earnest. “Don't you see, Charlie? The men have suffered too many years trying to make a living around here. Going from one meaningless low-pay job to the next, or more likely no job at all. After a while it beats you down, and you start to lose your self-respect, your sense of humor, any ambition you ever had.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, turned her head, and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling before facing Charlie again. “There's a sadness comes over a place. You see it here, Charlie, I know you do. Hell, all you got to do is look around at the men in this room.” Eve gazed around her.

Charlie glanced briefly toward the bar for the man with the toothpick. He didn't have to examine the crowd to know what Eve was talking about. He'd felt it since he first came to West Virginia—the quiet resignation, along with the latent anger the men seemed to share. The inability to hold your eye for long.

“That mine is like a miracle,” said Eve, “a huge power plant and a big mine coming here, with local men getting preference for the jobs. That's about all any of these fellas ever wanted out of life. Now they got a chance.” She snuffed out her cigarette while Charlie waited for her to continue. “And you're trying to stop the mine on Redemption Mountain,” she said quietly. “Don't ask me how I know that, but I know it's true.”

Charlie looked around at the people in the bar as he wondered how he could explain it to Eve.
She wouldn't understand anything about the deck being stacked in favor of the big corporations, or how the state and federal bureaucracies were in the pockets of the multinationals, their lobbyists, and lawyers. How Charlie was sick of being on the wrong side for so many years. She wouldn't understand how it felt to be a professional lackey—a man who'd become successful far beyond his talents and promoted to a social class he never belonged in. Nor would she understand his empathy for Bud and Alice DeWitt and their mountainside farm, symbols in the struggle that felt like his last chance at redemption.

Charlie smiled. “It's complicated, Eve, but the DeWitts don't deserve to lose their farm, and the environment doesn't deserve to be wounded by another mountaintop-removal mine. That's about as simple as I can make it.”

Eve stared at him for a few seconds before flashing a smile. “Okay, Charlie,” she said, looking at her watch. “I don't understand, but you're a good man. And I hear it's a done deal, anyway. Going to court in a few weeks, and they'll be taking the farm by eminent domain.” She gathered up her cigarettes and lighter. “Union's already taking the names of men want to work on the mine.” She held out a hand to Charlie. “So, still friends?”

Charlie took her hand. “Friends, Eve, whatever happens.”

Eve left, and Charlie got up from the hard wooden chair. His body ached, his bladder was ready to burst, and his eyes were having trouble focusing. It would be good to settle into the big, cushy seat of the Chrysler for the ride back to Red Bone. He stopped next to the booth where Hank was now seated with three elderly men, all at least as old as Hank. Charlie noticed they were all drinking coffee. “I'm just going out back for a second, Hank, then I'll be ready to go.”

Charlie made his way through the bar to a windowless wooden door, held closed by an antique thumb-latch handle. The door slammed behind him with the familiar crack that he'd been hearing all evening.

The night air was cooler than he'd expected, with the scent of autumn that reminded him of Halloween. The rear of the Roadhouse was in darkness, save for a spotlight on the back wall of Fat Cats. Pointed toward him, the spotlight served less to illuminate the wooden deck than to blind Charlie as he tried to find his way through the darkness.

A door opened under the spotlight, and two figures emerged. Charlie watched as the two men made their way around the corner of Fat Cats and pulled open the rear door of the bar. Loud voices and shrill catcalls escaped through the opening, along with the familiar strains of “The Hustle.” The door closed, leaving the building in darkness, but now Charlie had his bearings. While he couldn't see the wooden walkway just a few feet in front of him, he knew where he needed to go. His left hand found a wooden railing. He passed the corner of the kitchen and felt the gravel of the parking lot under his feet.

Suddenly there was a flash of light in front of him. It was a lighter, held by a man seated on the railing twenty feet ahead. The man's head was down as he lit his cigarette. In the darkness, the flame cast a wide circle of illumination. Grateful for the light, Charlie took a few more steps, then the man turned toward him. The Zippo was extinguished with a sharp
clank
, but the instant of illumination was enough for Charlie to recognize the thin mustache and the puffy lips of the man from the soccer game.

Charlie stopped in his tracks. This didn't feel right. Then it came to him, along with the realization of the trouble he was in. The morning of the raid on Redemption Mountain. The man had been standing next to the white sheriff's cruiser in a police uniform—Deputy Sheriff Wayne Lester. No, this wasn't a good situation, Charlie told himself, as he tightened up both fists.

Then the spotlight disappeared, and Charlie's face felt as if it had exploded. As the world spun around him, he saw a hundred spotlights, on his hands and knees at first, then on his knees and one shoulder, as he tried to determine which way was up. He could taste the blood as he fought for balance, the top of his head pushing at the ground. Then he felt a powerful jolt across the middle of his back, and the pain came in waves, the lights growing dimmer as they circled away from him.

Charlie fought for consciousness. He pushed himself up on all fours and spit out a mouthful of blood, grimacing from the excruciating pain. There was a hot breath next to his ear. “Remember this feeling, boy. This's what it feels like when a big-shot New Yorker comes down here and fucks with the wrong guy.” The voice took a step back on the gravel. “And here's one for your nigger pal.”

The foot came through the darkness up into Charlie's stomach. He had to swallow repeatedly to keep from vomiting. But in spite of the pain, or perhaps because of it, Charlie regained his consciousness, and his head was clear enough to understand the seriousness of his situation.

Charlie saw the coach's black soccer cleats, but when he reached out to grab a foot, his arm just pawed the air.

“All right, boys, get him on his feet. Let's mess up his face a little.”

Two new sets of shoes shuffled across the gravel. Rough hands grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him up. Charlie knew that, if they pulled him to his feet, he'd be defenseless. But when he tried to fight off the hands, his back felt like it was on fire. Unable to resist, he went slack against the arms that held him up for the beating to come.

Then he heard the sickening smack—a sound he knew well—of fist against flesh and bone. And then again, and once again in rapid succession, and feet shuffling quickly around in the gravel. Then the hands released him. Charlie turned his head in time to see the coach land heavily on the ground a few feet away, his cleats scraping slowly against the dirt. And he heard Wayne Lester speak for the first time. “Ain't your fight, Buck. This boy's got it comin' to him.”

“Three on one ain't much of a fight, Wayne.” The deep voice was confident and strong. Charlie was immediately glad that the voice was on his side. “Plus a two-by-four.” Charlie heard the hollow sound of a piece of wood hitting the ground. “What's the matter, Wayne, you forget your nightstick?”

“That wasn't me, Buck,” Wayne Lester pleaded. “I didn't know he was going to use a board on him.”

“Bullshit. Just your style, you and these little girls you hang out with. Beat it, Kyle, less you want to be next, after Lester and I settle an old score.”

“Hold on, Buck,” said Lester. “We was doin' you a favor. This guy's been red hot after your wife since he got here. Been thick with Natty all over town, and pallin' around with your kid.”

“Fuck you, Lester.” Buck cocked his right arm.

“It's true, Buck,” said Kyle Loftus, taking a hesitant step toward the two men. “How do you think you got that loggin' job with Garvey?”

“That's bullshit. What's this guy want with Natty?”

“Garvey told me himself,” said Loftus. “Said Burden called him up and told him to put you on.”

“Why else you think Garvey'd give a loser like you a job?” Lester added, feeling bolder. “And he's trying to kill the Redemption Mountain mine 'cause Natty's been whispering in his ear.”

“That ain't true…” Buck sounded less sure of himself.

“I was
there,
Buck. When they torched the field. Burden tipped 'em off. The lawyers in Charleston got his cellphone record for that morning. Shows Burden called the farm right after we headed up there.” Charlie groaned as he pushed himself to a sitting position. He tried to speak, but his mouth was full of blood.

“Wake up, Buck, and see what's going on,” said Kyle Loftus, as he bent over to pull the coach to his feet. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Two headlights lit the men from across the parking lot. As the Chrysler slid through the gravel, stopping just short of Charlie, Hank leaned on the horn. Buck took off up the ramp toward Fat Cats, while Wayne Lester went back into the bar. Kyle Loftus pulled the groggy coach through the dark parking lot to a brown Cadillac.

*   *   *

T
HE CEILING FAN
was turning in the wrong direction, Charlie was certain of that. Then he moved, not much more than a twitch, and the shooting pain in his back reminded him that he wasn't in his apartment. Without moving his head, he could see the light-green curtains hanging from an aluminum halo around the bed. He was in a hospital bed. Charlie labored to lift his left arm and look at his watch, but it wasn't on his wrist.

“Almost two-thirty. 'Bout time you woke up. I was about to pull the sheet up over your head and call a priest.” Charlie turned to see Natty rise out of a metal folding chair. Next to her, the Pie Man jumped up to follow her to the side of the bed.

“Hey, Pie Man. How's my best bud?” Charlie held up his palm for a more-gentle-than-usual high-five. He held on to Pie's hand as the boy stood next to the bed for a better view.

Pie pointed a finger at Charlie's face. “Charlie look like a raccoon.”

Charlie grimaced as he laughed. “That's what a broken nose does to you.” He reached over to feel the gauze bandage that covered the bridge of his nose. “Fourth time for me, or maybe the fifth—I can't remember.”

“Were you in a fight, Charlie?”

“It wasn't much of a fight,” he replied, trying to be vague for Pie's sake.

“Doctor says you'll be all right,” said Natty. “Took X rays of your back. A gash and a deep bruise.”

Charlie recalled the excruciating pain of the two-by-four as it dug into the flesh of his back. He reached down to feel the tight bandage around his torso.

“'Course, you won't be getting any modeling jobs,” said Natty.

Charlie smiled. “Did he say when I could leave?”

“Tomorrow. You have a concussion. Hank said he'll pick you up. He left a little while ago. Been here all night and all morning.”

The word
concussion
reminded Charlie of the incident at the soccer game. “How's Emma?”

“Fine. A lot better than you are. Just some stitches.”

Natty watched Charlie for a few moments, then reached into her pocket. “Pie, why don't you go out in the hall and get a soda from the machine?” She pulled a crumpled dollar bill out and squeezed it into Pie's hand.

“Okay, Mama.” He slapped Charlie a high-five before exiting.

Charlie raised up the bed so he could look directly at Natty. He let out a deep breath at the pain. “I must look like hell.”

Natty smiled. She leaned in closer to examine the bandages, the professional caregiver unable to resist her natural instincts. She touched his forehead to see if he was running a fever.

Her hand felt soft and cool, and he longed to touch her fingers, but Natty seemed to realize she had crossed a line. She took her hand away and folded her arms in front of her.

“I was in this same bed a couple of years ago.” She motioned briefly toward her left eyebrow. Charlie watched her without comment. He waited until Natty met his gaze with a troubled look on her face.

“Hank says he saw Buck there last night,” she said quietly. “He said that when he drove the car up, he saw Buck run off, along with Kyle Loftus.…” Her voice trailed off. “Charlie, did Buck do this to you?” she whispered. “'Cause if he did, that would—”

“No, Natty, no.” Charlie tried to shake his head. “Buck saved my life, or at least my pretty face.”

Natty smiled, but she still looked worried. “Buck didn't come home 'til real late last night, 'bout three in the morning. And he was pretty drunk. Slept in the living room.” She rocked nervously on the balls of her feet. “Ain't the first time for that, o' course, but he's been pretty good since he started working. Buck loves that job, cuttin' trees, and he's been a lot better.”

“Natty, some things were said last night that may be a problem for you. Buck was about to go after that deputy, Wayne Lester—”

“Buck's had it in for Lester for years now, but I was hopin' he'd let it go. It's probably why he helped you in the first place, just to have a go at Lester.”

“Probably. But Lester didn't want to fight Buck, so he started to talk his way out of it and said some things about us.”