Chapter 10
Bill Robbins liked his life. He knew the managers and the bartenders of the better restaurants and bars in Portland. He had just been to a Rolling Stones concert with the manager of Riverside, a popular new place on the Willamette River. After the show they had drinks at the manager’s apartment, and a couple of women had come over. They had a good time and now he had a new contact. He made it his business to know people.
He could get a reservation at the best tables in Portland. What he didn’t need was a showcase office. His office was modest. His clients didn’t need teak-wood desks, thick, expensive carpets or valuable art on the wall. They needed someone who could dig into a case, find loopholes, look for signs of entrapment, negotiate.
On his desk were the guts of a high-powered computer, where he could find tickets to sporting events, concerts and other events. He knew professional women, and he could find them high-paying work.
He sat reading a Western novel, an old paperback called “Anything for Billy,” and drank his coffee. He might take a nap on his couch. It had been a late night.
A young guy, Harry Wellington, had left a check for $100,000 with the woman who answered his phone. The receptionist worked for everyone on his floor in the Oregon Building; she was reliable, and kept office hours. Bill did not.
Bill earned a law degree at Philadelphia College, and he was making money. He wasn’t worried about wearing jeans, reading a Western or skipping out of the office to work out. He’d finally carved out the kind of practice he’d wanted. It wasn’t traditional. He wasn’t that kind of a lawyer is the way he looked at it. What he could do is work the hell out of a case. He’d be the most well informed person in the room. It required clients with money.
He set the book down, a lively story about Billy the Kid, and took a sip of coffee. The coffee was finally the right temperature to drink. He sat with the coffee and thought about Harry Wellington. Bill wasn’t around when Charles Wellington made a name for himself building spectacular bridges over dramatic gorges, and earned the public’s love by bringing the projects in under budget.
It was interesting someone had robbed several marijuana stores and he had followed the story closely. Bill Robbins was sure there was more to the story than reported. Bill had a private investigator, Joe Barnes, who was a former police detective. He was a straight arrow, very thorough, and he could unwind all sorts of things. So maybe Bill was going to eventually learn the story behind the story.
Joe Barnes was available only because he got in trouble decades ago for stealing money during a drug raid, and lost his job, pension and wife and family.
Joe was tall, like Bill. Unlike Bill, he was losing his hair and smoked too much. During his troubles with the Chicago police department, he got divorced. Now 50, he was having trouble in the dating world. He looked older than he was, and even in the best of circumstances, it’s hard for a middle-aged man to meet women.
His standards were too high, of course, and he didn’t make as much money as he would’ve liked. He bet football, and watched it, smoked and worked. Clients liked him because he worked hard, remembered details and kept excellent expense reports. Bill Robbins liked him because Joe knew if he got results, he would make more money. If he was making progress on a case, people would pay him to keep going.
Joe considered it kind of a scam, but Bill said it was the business. It wasn’t Joe’s fault people got in trouble. People who get in trouble pay our bills, Bill said.
Bill Robbins pictured him. Joe wore worn sports jackets, ties, off-the-rack shirts and slacks. He looked like a police detective, which was in his favor. They didn’t tell people he was disgraced. It was more than 20 years ago in another city.
Bill also liked Joe because he was no nonsense and people sensed it. People told him things because he made them nervous. It was a good trick.
Bill also considered Tim Bolin, but right away decided Joe Barnes was the man for the job. Tim was 25 and looked like a boxer, partially because he trained as a boxer. He was fit and disciplined, and he was mean. If a person needed someone beat up, say to lean on for collections, Tim was the man. He drank a beer every night at the Storyteller. It was a bar in a run-down shopping mall in Gresham. Tim apparently had a house nearby. He would go in at 10 p.m., and be there until 10:30, drinking a beer or two and perhaps eating a late dinner.
He was always there at the same time so that people who had work for him could find him. Tim could walk home from the Storyteller. He didn’t drink much, but it didn’t take much to get a ticket for intoxicated driving.
Bill Robbins remembered the first time he used Tim Bolin for a collections job. A woman came to him saying she was owed $10,000 for a car she sold an old boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend wrote out a contract and signed it, but Bill’s letters and threats to sue had not motivated him. The women said she knew he had the money. He was the somewhat successful owner of a construction company.
The woman warned Bill the contractor was a stout guy, a big guy, and during the time she had known him he had been in a fight. She didn’t see the fight, but she said for sure he wouldn’t be a pushover.
Bill went to the Storyteller and had a beer with Tim Bolin. Tim was about five-foot-nine and 165 pounds. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist and he didn’t smile much. He said he’d take the job for $3,000. Bill told him the builder was a big guy, worked construction along with his employees and was no one to mess with.
“Just my type,” Tim Bolin said. Tim had a sense of humor, he just didn’t smile. “You’ve got to pay upfront, and give me his name and some leads, and the woman’s first name and the exact amount of the loan so I’ll sound like I know what I’m talking about.”
Bill gave him the $3,000 in cash and the name and address of the man, the name of his company and the woman’s name.
“I’ve got it handled,” Tim said. “If you want to watch, I can tell you when I get it set up. The woman can watch too, if she’s cool with what’s going to happen.”
“I’d like to be there. Call me,” Bill said. He liked this guy’s attitude.
Two days later, Tim Bolin called. “The man is working a job at the Redstone, a nice condominium complex at about 42nd and southeast Burnside. I’m going to try to catch him outside at 1 p.m. tomorrow.”
The next day, Bill drove to the area. He parked a block away and strolled slowly up the street. Sure enough, when the builder got back from lunch Tim Bolin met him in the entryway. The location was outside, but somewhat protected from the public view on the street due to the way the building was designed.
Tim walked up to the man, who might have been five-11. He was built like a spark plug, but not exactly stout in Tim’s eyes. He had a little gut. The men with him with were both easily over 6-foot. “Suzanne, an old girlfriend, you know her?” The man said yes.
“So you owe her $10,000?” Tim said.
“What’s it to you?”
Tim Bolin turned to the two men. “If you get involved, you’ll be sorry.” Oddly, they seemed to respect this, though they didn’t have much time to think about it.
“What is this?” the builder said, but already the punch was on its way. A solid right that hit the man in the jaw and he was immediately spitting blood. Some teeth were loose. It hurt. Tim Bolin kept punching as the man’s friends stood by. One hit tore skin on his forehead. A gut punch dropped him.
Bill Robbins thought the two men with the construction boss were rough men, but they didn’t seem to want any of what Tim Bolin was dishing out. After taking about ten punches, the builder slumped to the ground and stopped moving. Bill was not sure the man was still alive, but then his friends sat him up and he groaned. Bill heard it from across the street.
Tim Bolin walked off, looked over and smiled at Bill, turned the corner and walked to his car, out of sight. Bill Robbins walked the other direction to his car. The next day, his client Suzanne received a check. The man delivered it to her in person. She went to the office to write a $4,000 check for Bill. Bill earned a thousand for drinking a beer with Tim. Suzanne, his client, was more than happy to get $6,000. It was better than nothing, she said.
Bill Robbins thought about the fight many times. He reached the conclusion Tim Bolin could have done much more damage; he was an alpha dog. He didn’t have a conscience. He didn’t care if the man lost teeth or an eye. Bill wondered how a person got to be like that.
Bill asked Tim one time why the two big men didn’t join the fight. Tim said, “Most people don’t want to fight. It hurts too much, you know.”
But this case, the Portland marijuana-store robberies, would best be handled by the old cop. Bill Robbins thought about the robberies. It was a sensational story and had been on the national news. Joe could work with the police, learn the details, investigate himself if needed. If muscle was called for, Bill Robbins could visit Tim at the Storyteller most any night.
Chapter 11
Joe Barnes drove his car to the Justice Center in downtown Portland. He had already learned who the lead investigator would be, a man he knew named William Diakite. He was a strong, handsome African American about 50 years old. Diakite had moved to the U.S. from Nigeria when he was 2. Joe knew him to be serious and fair. He came out to the lobby to greet Joe. Maybe he was a Nigerian and not an African-American. Joe wasn’t
certain what he considered himself to be.
“I’m doing some private investigation work on the marijuana-store robberies,” Joe said. “Former cop to cop, I wondered if you could tell me how it’s going? Bill Robbins hired me.”
“We’re getting ready to look at surveillance tape right now,” Diakite said. “I’m still trying to figure out how the evening went, you know, a time line?”
“Any chance I could come in, watch with you guys?”
“You know I couldn’t do that. Sorry.” Diakite knew all about Joe’s problems in Chicago. Diakite was an honest cop. He disliked cops on the take, although he wasn’t opposed to Joe making a living now. There had to be a statute of limitations on dumb moves. “The attorneys will eventually have access to any evidence. You’ll see the pictures soon enough. A more honest answer is that the digital won’t show us much. The two pieces we have were filmed from inside, and the action took place outside. You can see a little through the window, but not much.”
“I’m looking into it for the Harry Wellington kid. He’s the client. Do we know anything yet?”
“No, but we have questions for old Famous Harry. Our officers talked to him. He was retrieving a pair of jeans from the roof of a building. Maybe you can explain that first. Anyway, it was clear he didn’t want to talk until he had a lawyer. Tell Mr. Robbins we’d like to interview him.”
Joe nodded. “Why do you call him Famous Harry?”
Diakite paused, and laughed. Joe Barnes was not in Portland in the 1960s when Charles Wellington was building bridges and a favorite public figure in Oregon. People would read about him in the newspaper then drive out to some rural river and look at the steel and concrete leading over some magnificent gorge.
“You have to realize, I’ve been in Portland nearly all my life,” Diakite said. “I was too young to know Charles, but I knew the story. Harry was an unremarkable kid, overweight and goofy. At some point when he was in high school, he found his father’s diary. Charles Wellington was a bridge builder, and he was good at it and Oregon has many dramatic landscapes to build bridges over. Harry put together a program on his father, pictures and a narrative. He hired an agent to make a book deal, and got a number of speaking engagements. Remember nowk, he was still in high school. I heard the program was quite good. He told about the difficulties his father encountered while building bridges
“In one case, a county commissioner tried to bribe Charles, and the case eventually was settled out of court but the county commissioner eventually pled guilty to attempted bribery. That was a long time ago. Just as important, he built these amazing bridges you still see today. The St. Johns Bridge is one here in town. Also the Thurman Street bridge.
“An Oregonian reporter was so impressed with Harry’s presentation at the City Club he pronounced him Famous Harry. Harry’s star faded after that. I think he started smoking pot. The book never materialized.
“Later, when Harry got sued for sexual discrimination, the Oregonian newspaper ran a headline, ‘Famous Harry is Infamous.’ ”
Joe nodded, smiling. “That’s funny. I know he’s been in trouble. I never heard him called Famous Harry. Well, he’s added to his legacy, I guess.”
Diakite smiled. “Has he a camera on that building? We’d like to know, if it’s working. The camera at Mary Jane’s wasn’t working. The digital recordings we’re working with came from the first two robberies, Marijuana 181 and Cannabis Central, and they aren’t worth much. These marijuana guys always buy fancy digital equipment, then never maintain it.”
“I’ll find out,” Joe said.
“Harry’s interesting, though,” Diakite said. “The word is his business is sinking fast. That first year, the few people operating marijuana stores made some money, but the business isn’t booming now. There’s more marijuana than customers now. A lot of those businesses are running on fumes. No pun intended. Plus, you know Wellington’s already gone bust twice.”
Joe Barnes nodded. “Yeah, I know about his problems. Not exactly a model citizen, but I don’t think he had any involvement in the robberies. He’d like to stay out of the story, but I’m not worried about that either. He’s brought on his own bad publicity. We’re just confused. I mean, do you have any idea who did this?”
“Well,” Diakite said, “what we heard about in interviews was a healthy young man, fit. That kind of rules out a lot of junkies and homeless people in the area. We wonder if we have a first timer on our hands.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting,” Joe said. “An amateur. A kid got lucky. Hey, if I find out anything, I’ll share it with you.”
“You will if it doesn’t involve Harry,” Diakite said, smiling.
Joe Barnes took a cigarette out of the pack. He would light it outside. “I used to be a cop,” Joe said. “I’m not gonna mess with you.”
William Diakite shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands. “You’re a private investigator. You may have different loyalties, that’s all I’m saying.”
Chapter 12
John Cooper grew up on a farm in Iowa. He lived with his mother and father, a younger brother and his grandfather on 2,000 acres. His great-grandfather started the farm, and his grandfather and father expanded it over the years. They grew corn, alfalfa, canola and milo, always trying to figure out what was going to grow best in different conditions of weather, and keeping the price of crops in mind.
John had been a decent drummer in high school, and ran track, but otherwise had not been excited by high school life. He liked pot and music more than school and sports; he was the opposite of his younger brother. His father was angry when John moved to Oregon after graduation. Medical marijuana was already legal in Oregon and John’s father knew that marijuana was about the only thing John was interested in growing any more.
John’s attractive girlfriend left Iowa with him. Her name was Kelly, and in John she saw something John’s father had missed. John was ambitious about things he found interesting. At first it had been the band, not the high school band but his rock group. Collectively they had not worked that hard and only John seemed to be single-minded in his focus.
John and Kelly moved to Portland, married, and both went to work. John liked married life, waking up each morning with his wife, and they worked hard and saved money. He was the kind of person people call a good guy.
After only a year they put together enough money to buy a two-acre parcel of logged-off land near Mount Angel. John met people in the marijuana industry and applied for, and received, a permit to grow legal marijuana. It was for medical marijuana, but recreational use was legalized shortly after that. His timing was good and one thing John Cooper knew about was growing things. He was successful from the start. The farm house was in terrible condition, and the barn behind it was worse. John built a greenhouse.
He met a young man named Drew, hired by the state of Oregon to enforce regulations on growers. Drew was helpful, even identified with what John was doing. Drew explained his responsibilities and pointed out a few loopholes in the regulation of marijuana farming. He was new to the job. John would be limited to 150 plants, but Drew “probably wouldn’t need to inspect the barn” when he made visits. He told John he would give notice of his visits. John planted 300 pot plants, and when Drew showed up, half the plants had been moved from the greenhouse to the barn. True to his word, Drew never looked in the barn.
John, being young and inexperienced, didn’t know if he should bribe Drew, say with gifts of bottles of wine, or maybe give him some of his weed. Or another kind of gift, cash money. Drew never hinted that he needed to be compensated, so John let the matter rest while he thought it over.
Kelly took a job as a waitress, and she was popular. John got a job as a janitor at the Mount Angel elementary school. John rented a tractor from a neighbor from time to time and put in an acre of hops, used locally for brewing beer. And worked in the greenhouse.
In the evenings, John and Kelly were happy working on the house. Mount Angel is 50 miles from Portland, far enough the real estate values are lower. The house projects went slowly. It turns out it’s expensive to buy lumber, paint, tools and appliances.
In 2016, John rented a car and drove back to Iowa and met his Iowa friend, Bob Spell. “No one ever misspells my name,” Bob used to say by way of introduction. John left 100 pounds of excellent marijuana and told Bob to do his best. There would be more where that came from. He didn’t tell his parents he was in town, but his father found out.
Bob Spell turned out to be enterprising. He sold pot only by the pound to some good, long-time friends. John Cooper thought things were going well in Iowa. Spell was laid back, but a charming salesman. The next year John made another visit to Iowa.
In March of 2018, John made yet another trip to Iowa, where marijuana was not legal. John supplied his friend all he could sell, and had more weed stored in his barn when he made a deal with Harry Wellington. He had made legitimate sales at first of small amounts of marijuana to Harry’s store, Weed.
In the winter of 2018, John made another road trip to Iowa. Bob Spell told John he had made a friend in Kellen, Iowa, where there is a beef slaughter house. “Those jobs pay well, but it’s miserable work. You’ve got to drink to work there and cut up meat all day, and of course they like weed. I have a source who’s making larger and larger purchases.”
John Cooper was going to sell Bob Spell 100 pounds for $100,000. Bob would re-sell to his Kellen, Iowa, friend for $125,000.
The drive from Oregon to Sioux City was uneventful. When he arrived, John was a little taken aback by his friend’s lavish lifestyle. He had a new pickup and two new motorcycles, and his wife had purchased a one-third interest in a new clothing store. Bob was living on 60 acres he was leasing from his father. Bob Spell assured John his lifestyle wasn’t drawing attention to him.
The two made the trip to Kellen, a 150-mile drive. They arrived at a house on the outskirts of town, then several police cars pulled up, served a warrant and confiscated the marijuana. Bob Spell’s Kellen, Iowa, contact was an undercover policeman. At the same time as they were answering questions for the police in Iowa, they learned search warrants had been executed at Bob’s house in rural Sioux City and John’s house in Oregon.
John called his wife. He had left money with an attorney in Oregon; he told his wife to call the attorney. He prepared to spend the night in jail; he was depressed. At least he had $200,000 waiting for him in Oregon. Law enforcement wouldn’t know about his side deal with Harry. That’s what he told himself as he stared at the ceiling in his jail cell that night. He was anxious to talk to Harry.
The next day, in the Sioux City newspaper, John read about the drug bust. “This is not an isolated incident, but a pattern that has developed from states that have legal marijuana to black market sales in states like Iowa that do not,” said U.S. Assistant Attorney Frank Riley. “We are in a fight to close that loop hole and we are fully committed.” John Cooper didn’t know it, but his father read the same article.
Chapter 13
Attorney Bill Robbins had his first meeting with Harry. Joe Barnes also attended. Harry told the story of his encounter with the robber, including the part about being on a ladder when the police arrived. Harry thought the story was equal parts scary and funny, but Bill could tell, and Joe would later agree, that Harry was a knucklehead. However, they listened. Harry felt as though it was an amazing story.
Bill was stuck on the fact someone had lifted $500,000 off Harry. This detail had not been mentioned by the Oregonian or on the national broadcasts. “It’s clear to me what we need to do. If Joe can find out who pulled off the robberies, we need to find the guy before the police. We need to lean on this guy and get your $500,000 back.”
Harry laughed. “Yeah, right,” He said. “Why would he give us the money back?”
“We have two angles,” Bill said. “If we learn who it is, we can promise not to turn him in to the police. In exchange, you get your money back. If that doesn’t work, we have to threaten him with violence.” Joe Barnes sat up straight in his chair; this was getting interesting.
“Do you know someone who could do that, the violence I mean,” Harry said. “I mean, I agree we need someone heavy. I just, you know? Do you have someone in mind?”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“That’s what you’re paying me for, to solve the problem without getting you involved,” Bill said. “The police aren’t the only ones who do investigations.”
Harry looked at Joe. He certainly looked like a cop. Harry liked the idea of being proactive, but it would be weird working with an ex-cop.
“What do you think, Joe?” Bill Robbins said.
“I don’t think the police have any idea who did the robberies. It may be a first-timer, someone the police don’t have a history on. His costume was a fake but it obviously worked. We don’t know where to start, but, that’s police work. I’ll interview the same people the police talk to. I’ll scour the neighborhood.”
Harry nodded, but it looked hopeless.
“Our mystery man did some research before he did the robberies,” Joe said “These guys always leave clues.”
Harry’s mood bounced back a little. “That would be crazy, if you could solve it,” Harry said.
“There’s nothing I like better than doing an investigation, young man,” Joe Barnes said, giving Harry a friendly look.
Bill Robbins was pleased with Joe Barnes’s performance. He smiled at Joe. “What do you say we go get lunch, have a few drinks.”
They got up, walked down the hall to the elevator and at the ground floor, stepped out onto the street. It was a cool, overcast Portland, Oregon day. They went into the restaurant Ten and were taken to a table, given menus and drinks. They all drank scotch. The waitress knew Bill Robbins. Harry looked her over pretty hard; she was a shapely 22-year-old with nice legs. Harry had never been to the Ten before. It was old Portland money and he liked the old brass light fixtures, the beautiful carpet, the 100-year-old polished wood bar, the paintings of men hunting in the woods with dogs.
They ate and drank. Bill and Joe knew each other pretty well, and they thought it was important to gain Harry’s confidence. Then, if they didn’t recover his money, he would at least feel confident that it was professionals who had helped him in his search. Joe knew he could write up a long, detailed expense report and Harry would pay it and Bill would tell him it was a bargain at twice the price. Bill paid for the lunch. They all flirted with the waitress.
Bill could tell Joe was thinking up new angles, so the meeting was productive. They talked for a long time about Bobby Albari. They also talked about two of Harry’s friends who knew about the side deal with John and Albari.
Harry was uncomfortable answering questions about his friends. He didn’t like to think one of them was involved, but he had to admit the possibility.
Harry was a little drunk. He was on his fourth drink, playing with his long, blond hair. Bill could see not much more useful information would come out of this meeting. They were quiet for a few minutes. The attractive waitress cleared away their plates and extra glasses.
Harry was up again. He liked being with Bill and Joe, spending money on drinks in an expensive restaurant while the rest of old Stumptown was slaving away at some job. He liked being a gangster; knowing someone who could have people beat up. He liked having a crew. He wished he’d found these guys 10 years ago.
Outside the restaurant Ten, Bill hailed a cab, gave the cabbie some money and sent Harry home. “What do you think?” Bill said.
“I have a friend in Chicago, a detective, who’ll tell me if there’s any paper in New Jersey on Bobby Albari. Also, I’ll interview Harry’s friends. They’ll be uncomfortable, but we can’t rule them out.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” Bill said.
“And, I wasn’t kidding about working the neighborhood. The $20,000 retainer you paid me will buy a lot of shoe leather. I’ll look at every piece of digital recording I can find, and if I find something, I’ll let you know.”
“Good,” Bill said. “By the way, what do you think about the song that was playing during that party? ‘The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys.’ ”
Joe looked lost.
“It was on all the news shows. Shoot, it was nationwide. During the party at Mary Jane’s, where the girls took their clothes off, they were playing a Traffic hit, “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys.’ ”
“Gosh, Bill, do you think that had something to do with it? I don’t even know what the song means.”
Bill laughed. He paused and laughed again. “No, the song doesn’t have anything to do with anything. It was just a crazy coincidence. Never mind.” He laughed again.
“I know I’m not hip like you, Bill, but honest, I don’t get the joke.”
“Never mind. It’s a song about taking drugs,” Bill said. “The low spark is the thrill of getting high. The high-heeled boys are street toughs in cowboy boots.”
Chapter 14
It was late January and Steve Kilter had moved to Corvallis for the spring semester. He had a job doing home construction and was taking a business class, “Beginning Accounting.” He spent eight hours building walls at a construction site and drove home tired and satisfied. His life was finally back to where he wanted. He ate a piece of cold fried chicken and a salad.
His money was in a safe deposit box at First National Bank. His checking account was at Farmers Credit Union.
The only time Steve dipped into the safe deposit box was to get two $50s to pay for his school books. It was an accounting textbook and workbook that would take him 10 weeks to complete, and comprise his entire grade. He didn’t have any other money at the time.
He’d have to be careful to live like a poor college student. The temptation to dip into the money was there. He still didn’t know for sure he’d gotten away with it. He felt he couldn’t start living the high life. The police could still find a reason to look at him.
It was interesting how he saw things now, though. He felt like a character in a movie. The restaurant near his apartment with the large “Eats” sign, and a giant neon arrow, set a mood for his life in the student neighborhood. There was a bike near his house with flowers planted in the front basket. There were young men and women walking to and from campus all day and late into the evening. They were movie scenes to capture the new serenity of Steve’s life. Steve was undercover in his uniform, jeans and a dress shirt at school, jeans and a sweatshirt at work. He was hiding behind an identity as a poor student. Only Steve and the movie camera knew the truth.
The First National was a staid place with large, white columns in front of a brick building, marble floors, beautiful wood work and old, elaborate light fixtures. The safe deposit box had two keys. He had one and the bank had the other. The pretty, young woman turned her key and left the beautifully decorated room. It was his first visit.
“Come and find me when you’re done,” she said. He didn’t show his excitement when she said it, but he thought it was cool. Hell yes, the greatest thing anyone had ever said to him. He turned his key, and opened the box.
When one arrives in Corvallis, coming from the freeway, the first thing one sees upon arriving downtown is the First National Bank. It is the anchor to the business district. Steve liked arriving in town, driving through and knowing he had a half a mil stack of cash in that stately looking bank.
In the room with the safe deposit boxes, in privacy and comfort, he allowed himself a few minutes to look at the money. It was stacked neatly inside the suitcase. It was organized in such a way that he knew which money had been in the roll of bills, which had come from 181 and so on. The two $50s were from the Mary Jane’s. The two bills were crisp, like they’d never been circulated.
He’d eventually have to slowly circulate the money back into society if he was to make his life look legitimate, but this would be later. It would be a happy ending. He’d have a job, maybe a girlfriend, and when he needed money for a vacation or a home project, he’d just grab some cash.
After eating his last bites of chicken, following his day at work, he daydreamed about what his life might look like after college. He imagined himself with a job managing some company’s books. He would learn so much about the company he’d be a manager. Maybe he would be married to his high school girlfriend Ella. He remembered being homesick thinking about his senior year in high school, dating Ella, but knowing all along she would be going off to Brown University, an Ivy League school in Providence, R.I. He would be off to a state college. That was OK, they were starting from difference places.
He imagined them together after college, comfortable now. They’d have jobs and were buying a house. He’d have a little motor boat. He thought for a moment of all the things money could buy and he thought about a small, well-constructed motor boat. It just popped into his mind.
Steve had a girlfriend his sophomore year of high school, and another his junior year. In the summer before his senior year, he was pleased and happy to find himself dating Ella Delberta. She was a cheerleader and an excellent student. During the summer he had spent time with her family at a cabin they leased on U.S. National Forest land in Zigzag, Oregon.
Ella, her mother and father, John and Patricia, and Ella’s sister Mora were at the cabin one weekend with Steve as a guest. After unloading the car and cleaning the cabin for half a day, Ella coaxed him away from the family in the early evening. They picked up a small canoe, carried it 600 yards or so to Beaver Creek, and tested the water. Beavers had partially dammed the river, and it was wide and shallow for about a half a mile. They put in the canoe and paddled upstream against a slow flow. The sun was low in the sky and tall Douglas fir trees lined the banks, making it a lovely scene of silhouetted trees, blue water that was almost a mirror, showing the last flashes of a setting summer sun. They had dated only three weeks, but Steve intended to stay with her if possible.
He pictured Ella with her brown hair and blonde highlights, clear skin and brown eyes. She wore a little makeup and a touch of lipstick. Steve thought she did it just right. She had a nice figure, athletic and trim. More than that, she was fun. She was smart in a way that wasn’t showy. He didn’t know how she felt about him, but they could talk easily and it seemed to Steve she liked him.
“You handle the canoe pretty well,” she said. “When Mora takes the paddle, it’s herky jerky. Dad leased this place three years ago. It’s pretty cool, huh?”
“How many cabins up here?”
“I was told 100 on 360 acres. It doesn’t ever get crowded, although the river’s popular in the summer. This is the first year it’s been this dammed up. The beavers are getting the upper hand. It’s cool, huh?”
They saw an otter; it swam on its back beside the canoe and looked at them. Fish jumped throughout the time they were there, and a hawk circled. Just as it got dark, they heard beaver tails slapping but couldn’t see the beavers. They stopped at a small water fall, got out and sat at the edge of the river, kissed a few times, and headed back down the half mile to the dam. The sun set behind the trees when they returned.
Steve pulled the canoe out and left it high up on the shore. Ella said it would be safe there. They held hands on the path on the way back, but she let go of his hand when they neared the cabin. It was dark out now.
It was a four-room cabin with a kitchen, a bedroom, a living room and a bathroom. The girls took the bedroom, which had two sets of bunk beds, and John and Steve slept on cots in the living room. The door between the two rooms was open. Steve was just about asleep when the snap of a mousetrap made him sit up straight. John laughed and then they heard laughter in the other room.
“He’s not used to the mousetraps,” Mora giggled.
“We usually get them cleaned out after the first weekend,” John said. “As a rule, they’re small. We’ve never seen a rat up here.”
“They’re not small,” Mora said. “They’re big and ugly.”
“I know you’re teasing,” Steve said. “Anyway, I’m not afraid of a field mouse.”
“We heard you jump up,” Mora said. “Funny, the mice up here only bite men.” The girls laughed.
“I’m not afraid,” Steve said, and settled back down to sleep when a second one snapped. The girls laughed and laughed.
When things settled down, Steve said, “I’m going to sleep with the room light on.” This started another round of laughter.
“Good one,” John said. It seemed they got along.
Steve was tired from working all week, and then the activity of loading and unloading the car, and cleaning the cabin. When he woke up, Patricia was in the kitchen making coffee and cooking breakfast. He could smell the coffee.
In the fall, John and Patricia went to the Gresham football games. Ella was cheerleading, and she would give Steve a ride home from home games. They’d park and talk after home games, and make out.
On Saturdays in October, when it was cool, they all went fishing in John’s 20-foot, wood motor boat. In the winter, when it was quite cold, only John and Steve went. John was a good fisherman and they regularly brought home salmon.
It was on those cold days when John and Steve would talk. John had played football too, on the line. “It was exciting, but not like what you’re doing,” John said. “Our offense wasn’t fast paced, like the one you play in. I never caught a pass in my life.”
He began to ask questions, and Steve began diagramming football plays, showing him how the play-action offense worked.
Steve talked about his father in a non-judgmental way. John knew Steve’s father had somewhat abandon the family to work as a bartender. John’s father and grandfather were bricklayers. “They supported me going to law school,” he said one day. He had gone to a private school in Wisconsin, college and law school, and later moved west to work in a small town in Oregon as the county attorney. He moved to Portland to join a larger practice. He thought the practice of law was about the most interesting thing a person could learn to do.
“I’ve learned a lot from when I was your age,” John said one day. “My wife and I worked and built a life. I sometimes can’t believe how lucky I’ve been. We bought a house and saved enough to send our girls to school.
“The main thing, I think, is just to keep moving forward, and if you keep at it and use your brain you’ll build and build, and all the sudden, shoot, you’ve got enough money left over to buy a boat.”
He had a fine boat with two engines, one a backup. He’d made it sound simple, but his success had been built on a lot of things, luck included Steve supposed, but also hard work and years of investing. John thought Steve’s idea of being an accountant was a sound one.
“My mother is a bookkeeper at Carl Ranken’s Toyota in Gresham. I’m good at math, and I like having a big accounting project laid out before me and I have to learn where to place all the numbers. I try to think of it as a puzzle. It’s interesting when you learn the reasons for where to place the numbers. The work is challenging, but doable.”
Steve’s mother had married young, had a son, two daughters, and another son. She bought a house. “My mom told me she always wanted a big family,” Steve told John. “I guess that turned out not to be my father’s goal. He left after my youngest brother was born. She never hounded him for money. Oregon has strict child-support laws, so I know he paid some child support, but some of his cash came from tips.
“My father was a big guy, and I was disappointed I never achieved his six foot, three inch frame. He played four sports in high school, football, basketball, baseball and track. He didn’t practice much track, just ran two sprints and a relay. But at Gresham, he had records in all the sport he played. He works Fridays now and didn’t attend many of my football games, but it’s OK. He could’ve had custody of us children more, but he would often not bother gathering us on weekends.
“I think my father loves his children; he just didn’t have time to really take care of us, feed us meals and do the laundry and all that. My father still has a good physique and all his hair. I’ve never known him to miss a dentist’s appointment, and he’s had his teeth professionally capped and whitened.” Steve thought he was selfish.
Steve’s father has four children and three decades later, he still looks good and the ladies like him. He told Steve once he was glad to live in the age of Viagra, the male erectile dysfunction pill. Steve thought his father was letting him know he was still chasing it down; it being women of reproductive age who practice birth control. Steve didn’t tell John Delberta this.
Steve wondered if John worried about whether he’d turn out like his father, but John never mentioned it nor said anything disparaging about Steve’s father.
“One thing I can say about my father is he’s a calm man. He never seems to get worked up about anything. Money, no problem,” he told me once. “I never miss any meals.” Steve thought it showed a lack of ambition.
Steve thought about the boat again; if he were to get away with robbing the marijuana stores, and could get a job and buy a house, and needed that one hobby, that one thing to keep him occupied, it would be a boat. He realized it wasn’t his dream; he borrowed it from Ella’s father. He had money and didn’t even know what to wish for. It was an odd realization. His goal was not a boat but to not turn out like his father.