Devil's Redhead

1982 Abatangelo stood on the porch of a safe house in western Oregon, watching with foreboding as an old Harley-Davidson shovelhead thundered up the winding timber road. The motorcycle turned into the long, steep drive to the house, spewing gravel and dust as it charged uphill beneath the pine shade. Behind him, footsteps approached from inside. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as Shel materialized through shadow at the porch door screen. "Kinda early," she said, nodding down the hill. "Isn't it," he replied. Abatangelo recognized the bike. It belonged to a man named Chaney, one of the local throwbacks he'd hired for the beach crew. Not the brightest bulb, but he wasn't alone in that. This was probably the sorriest bunch Abatangelo had put together in years, comprised of Chaney and his wanna-be biker pals, plus an unruly and utterly toasted squad of pillheads from Beaverton and a few swacked Chinooks who at least knew the area. It underscored how right it was that this should be the last catch ever, a final nest egg against the looming unknown. Chaney took the final crest of the hill at full throttle. The dogs, three spirited black Labs, barked from inside the fenced-in backyard as the bike left behind the thick shade of the drive and entered the hardpan firebreak surrounding the house. Chaney came garbed in denims and cowboy boots and aviator shades, with a black watch cap pulled down low on his head. Maybe all of twenty years old. Give him three years, Abatangelo thought, he'll be punching a clock for the timber companies, or whining because he isn't, same as everybody else up here. Revving the throttle three times, legs sprawled for balance, Chaney walked the hog up to the porch. Abatangelo waited till he killed the engine, then waited a little longer for the dust to settle. Pines on all sides of the house swayed in the morning breeze. In the distance a lumber truck broke the valley-wide silence, groaning in low gear up a steep grade. "What an unexpected pleasure," Abatangelo said, making sure Chaney caught his tone. This location wasn't common knowledge, not among the hirelings. Only the Company captains knew where to find each other. "Yeah, well," Chaney said, clearing his sinuses of dust. "Eddy gave me directions." Eddy was Eddy Igo, the Company's transportation chief. He was also Abatangelo's closest friend. "He's in trouble," Abatangelo guessed. Chaney lifted his shades, rubbing his eyes. "We were out last night," he said, "put a serious package on. Eddy was driving. Got pulled over on the lumber road to Roseburg. Trooper made Eddy get out and do the stunts. You can pretty much imagine how that went." "Roseburg," Abatangelo said. "Kinda far afield. You were over there why?" "Truck hunt," Chaney said. It was Eddy's job to assemble the fleet of trucks they'd need to move the load off the beach to the remote barn they'd be using for temporary storage. "Eddy in Roseburg now?" "Drunk tank," Chaney confirmed. "He was getting cuffed, said, 'Tell the family for me, will ya? Have 'em make bail.' I figured he meant you, cuz I got no idea where his people are." "And he gave you directions here." "Kinda vague and cryptic, you know, hush-hush," Chaney said. "Not so the trooper caught on. Don't think so, any rate. If I didn't live around here, I'd a been clueless, too." AbatangeCorbett, David is the author of 'Devil's Redhead' with ISBN 9780449007167 and ISBN 0449007162.