Tortoise Soup (8 page)

Monty Harris, head of the Las Vegas division, immediately ushered me into his office upon being informed of my arrival. A man as thin as a whippet, Harris sported a pair of muttonchops that looked like two dead coon tails slapped onto his face. A nervous twitch controlled the left side of his body, causing his hand and foot to jerk in unison as if he were about to breakdance. Brown polyester pants hung unevenly on his frame and his fingers picked at a tan rayon shirt that covered a concave chest. A utility belt was wound twice about a waist that I would have killed for, its zippered pockets secreting hidden treasures. Dark sunglasses masked Harris’s eyes, and a mono-brow extended itself in one straight line above the bridge of his nose.

His breath whistled between his teeth as he aimed his body at the chair and nearly crash-landed. “What is it that I can do for you today, Miss Porter?” he asked.

The smell of stale sweat wafted toward me as I took a seat in the hard wooden chair facing his desk. Obviously Monty Harris was a nervous man. “I received a call about wildlife violations over at the Golden Shaft mine. I thought I’d go and check into it.”

The tip of a pink tongue flicked out from between Harris’s lips and his eyes blinked behind their dark curtain as he looked me up and down before responding.

“And just who was it that gave you that kind of information?”

I had the distinct impression that Monty Harris would have liked me to be anywhere but in his office.

“It was an anonymous call,” I replied.

The quick rat-a-tat-tat of a laugh escaped Harris’s lips, ricocheting around the room like a bullet. “I’m afraid someone is playing a joke on you, Miss Porter. The Golden Shaft is an exemplary mine. In fact, the governor is about to bestow on it an award for environmental awareness and protection of the land. So you see, it appears that someone is pulling your leg.”

The bony fingers of one hand lewdly played with a zippered pocket on his utility belt, then pulled the zipper open and rooted around inside. After a moment they latched onto their prey, a slim Tiparillo. Harris rolled the tiny cigar slowly between his lips and licked the filter, savoring the taste.

“I’m glad to hear Golden Shaft is setting such a good example, but I think I’ll take a run out and check into it anyway,” I responded.

Harris puffed on the Tiparillo as though it were a fine Cuban cigar. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother. You’re just wasting your time. Of course, it might be that you feds have nothing better to do. But since you’re new to this state, let me explain a few things.”

I had become mesmerized by the tiny, coarse black hairs that poked their way out from beneath his shirt, and snapped my attention back up to his face. “Explain away. I’m always happy to learn something new.”

“Everything pertaining to wildlife and the mines goes through this office. That means me.” Harris hawked up a wad of phlegm, holding it in his mouth while he unzipped another pocket on his belt. Pulling out a wrinkled handkerchief, he spat into the fabric, wadded it up, and stuffed it back in its lair.

“What that means is that any bird or critter turning up dead is held for my agents.” Harris leaned forward. “We’re the only ones who do autopsies on dead wildlife for the mines. That’s the rule.
Comprende?
"

I shifted in my chair, noticing the scorpion embedded in a glass paperweight that held down a pile of documents. “Do you happen to have a list of dead wildlife turned over by Golden Shaft to your agents in the past year?”

Harris’s eyes narrowed and his nose flared, exposing tiny hairs that bristled like miniature porcupines on alert for attack. “There were none.”

“So what this amounts to is nothing more than a crank call?” I persisted.

“That’s right. That’s just what it was,” Harris replied. His sunglasses resembled two large, impenetrable black holes.

All my senses told me to stop right there. Which is exactly what made me barge ahead. “Would you happen to know how much NDOW has received in donations from Golden Shaft in the past two years?”

Monty’s jaw hooked forward and the corners of his mouth curled tightly down. “You’re treading on dangerous ground here. Let me tell you something, girlie girl. You ain’t home. What you’re up against is history. Mining is what built Nevada. It’s what built the West.”

I looked past the sunglasses into his eyes, and knew I should consider this a warning. I hate warnings. They’re an unspoken challenge begging to be answered.

“In other words, don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” I asked as innocently as possible.

Harris stared at me darkly. “Not unless you’re prepared to be bit back.”

I heard the mine before I actually saw it. The roar of trucks carrying one hundred ninety tons of ore apiece filled the air like thunder. I parked on top of a butte and pulled out a pair of binoculars to survey the scene below.

Long gone are the days of the small independent miner with pickax and shovel. Mines are now run by multi-million-dollar corporations complete with high-tech computers, earth moving equipment, and an arsenal of chemicals, all in search of microscopic flecks of gold.

For a while I watched the steady stream of trucks carried on tires that stand twelve feet in diameter, running twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, their engines never dying. The shrill wail of a siren periodically pierced the low, steady rumble. Getting back in the Blazer, I wended my way down to the mine.

The closer I got, the more I realized that I was approaching a fortress that appeared to be more military installation than gold mine. Razor-sharp barbed wire surrounded the compound’s perimeter, with guards carrying M-16 rifles posted at intervals. From the security alone, it appeared to be the mother of all mother lodes. The Fort Knox of the West. A posted sign appeared near the mine’s entrance, warning “Use of Deadly Force Authorized.” They needn’t have worried. I had already taken it for granted that the armed guards were there for more than show. Still, it was nice to know they at least had the courtesy to inform me that I stood a good chance of being blown away if I made the wrong move.

I drove up to the front gate, where I was stopped by an unsmiling guard cradling an M-16 in his arms. I stated my business and waited expectantly for the guard to wave me inside.

“Are you one of the good guys or bad guys?” he asked.

I looked at him and cracked a grin, sure that he had to be joking. But he stared back at me with all the warmth of Godzilla.

“Fed or state?” he impatiently asked, his fingers twitching along the stock of his rifle.

“I’m with Fish and Wildlife,” I replied, wondering whether that made me friend or foe.

He pointed to the office dead ahead. “Pull in there. Someone inside will help you.”

I checked my rearview mirror as I drove away. My unfriendly guard was busy conversing into a walkie-talkie.

I walked into the main office, where a receptionist sat in wait.

“State your business, please,” she said, barely bothering to look up.

I had the feeling she already knew, but I went along with the game.

“I’m with Fish and Wildlife. This is my first visit to the mine and I’d like to take a look around,” I replied.

“You’d think we were running guided tours out here,” she mumbled, picking up her phone and punching in some numbers. “Fish and Wildlife is here,” she announced to the person on the other end. Hanging up, she glanced briefly in my direction. “You’ll have to wait for the foreman.”

I had no problem with that. At least it was cool inside the small room. I sat down on a gold vinyl couch and viewed the reading material on the table in front of me.
Mining Today
and
The Gold Review
. I passed up the magazines and studied the wall, where framed photos portrayed the wonders of gold mining technology at work.

Mines dot the landscape of Nevada, holding as much allure and promise as the main strip of Vegas does to a gambler on a roll. But few people realize what mining entails. One of the aerial photos showed a maze of roads and drilling activity on denuded land. The next photo zeroed in on a mountain that had been ground up into heaps of fine powder. Next to it was an explanation of the magic of cyanide, which is sprayed over these hills of dust. Cyanide percolates through the low-grade ore and then slowly trickles out, carrying with it specks of gold into fifty-acre collection ponds.

What was left out of the caption is cyanide’s lurid history. Best known as the main ingredient in Jonestown’s deadly Kool-Aid with a kick, cyanide was also the chemical of choice in the rash of Tylenol poisonings a few years back. More recently, it had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of migratory birds that stopped to drink from cyanide-laced pools as they passed by. Sam liked to refer to these chemical water holes as “hotter than a pistol—a bird flies in, it don’t fly out.”

With nothing else to look at I turned my attention to the receptionist, who was digging her hand into a can of peanut brittle.

“That’ll kill your teeth,” I advised.

“Yeah, like nothing else won’t,” she answered as she shoved a piece of brittle into her mouth.

Her nameplate said Dee Salvano. I had a feeling that was the only introduction I’d get.

“Have you worked here long?” I asked.

“Too long,” she blurted. A small shower of peanut pieces flew out of her mouth, landing on her desk.

“Does that mean you’d rather be doing something else?” I inquired.

Dee fixed me with an evil eye. “In Nevada, if you don’t work for mining, you’re punching the register at a 7-Eleven, shimmying on a pole for a bunch of drunks with your boobs bobbing up and down, or kissing the government’s ass as one of their toadies. Take your pick.”

I decided it was best to end the conversation. I passed the long wait daydreaming about Santou’s hands caressing my long-neglected body. A slow, sultry kiss was abruptly interrupted when the foreman of the mine planted his feet in front of me.

“Feds don’t usually come here. What is it you want?” he demanded.

I glanced up at the man dressed in work boots, jeans, and a khaki shirt with a Playboy insignia sewn on the pocket. He didn’t appear to be big on introductions, so I skipped over formalities.

“I’d like to take a look at your operation,” I responded.

“What for?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in on me.

The name John was tattooed on a bicep that glistened with sweat. Since no hearts or roses surrounded it, I took it for granted that the name was his own.

“Because it’s on my list of things to do while touring Nevada,” I replied sweetly, wondering if I could fine him for annoying a federal agent.

John fixed his hands on his hips and pushed out his chest, as if to block my way in case I intended to make a run for it.

“If you’re looking for wildlife violations, you gotta clear that with NDOW first,” he insisted.

I was tired of sitting on a vinyl couch that had begun to meld to the underside of my thighs. The vinyl emitted a smooching sound as I stood up, as if in a farewell kiss to my rear end. All in all, not the sort of image I wanted to convey.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t have to clear it with anybody, John. All I need is a complaint that trucks on this mine site have been routinely grinding desert tortoises underground without giving it a second thought. You remember those critters? They’re on the endangered species list. And guess what? I recently received a complaint. So let’s cut the games,” I warned. “Just try stopping me from inspecting this mine, and I can guarantee you, the governor will find it highly embarrassing when he goes to present Golden Shaft with an award and discovers you’ve been slapped with a suit for noncompliance.” If that didn’t get me onto the grounds, I didn’t know what would.

John folded his arms across his chest and stared at me a moment, as if calculating the best mode of attack. “How come you didn’t call in advance? State officials always have the courtesy to call us first.”

His Miss Manners was a hard act to swallow, but it was interesting to learn NDOW’s tactics. It was smart of them to call ahead. That way there would never be violations around when they arrived at the mine.

Dee stopped chewing peanut brittle long enough to throw in another interesting tidbit. “But I told you that Director Harris called to tell us she was coming.”

John shot her a look to kill, causing Dee to choke on the current mouthful. I made a mental note of who else not to trust in this state.

John’s hands crept into his pockets as he kicked at an imaginary spot on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Listen, I’m sorry I came down so hard on you. It’s just that this is a busy mine and it’s hard for us to take the time to show everyone around.”

He leaned in close to me. “What say we give a donation to your office? I bet you could use a fax machine.”

He was right. Our office was bare bones in terms of equipment. We were constantly being told to go catch the bad guys but were lucky if we even got so much as a pair of handcuffs with which to do it.

“Do I get that fax machine before or after I search for dead wildlife?” I asked, standing my ground.

John took a step back, his hands balling up into tight fists. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s the state’s job to protect Nevada’s wildlife. Not some girl who’s been given a gun and calls herself a federal agent.”

I was getting nowhere fast. It was time to notch things up a step.

“Great. What say we get your boss’s opinion on this, since he’ll be the one that has to show up in court. I take it there’s a manager you report to?” I asked pointedly.

John glared at me before rolling off down the hall. I turned to find Dee Salvano staring at me as well, a piece of peanut brittle frozen in midair.

“What’s your mine manager’s name?” I demanded.

Dee blinked as she put the piece of candy back in its box. “Brian Anderson.”

“Call him,” I ordered.

Dee obediently picked up the phone and dialed his number. “Mr. Anderson?” She paused as the voice on the other end barked out instructions. After a moment she hung up. “He knows that you’re here, and—”