Nickel Mountain Read Online Free Page B

the lettering clear and sharp in the moonlight: S. J. Kuzitski · Fl 6-1191.

6
    George Loomis pulled in a little before noon, on his way back up from Athensville to his place on Crow Mountain. He left the pickup idling by the side of the diner as he always did—George’s truck was a devil to start—and he came in whistling, cheerful as a finch. He slid off his old fatigue cap and slid himself onto the counter stool by the cash register in one single motion, and he banged on the counter-top with his gloved fist and said, “Hey, lady!”
    Callie smiled when she saw who it was. “Why, George Loomis!” she said.
    He was close to thirty, but he had the face of a boy. He’d had more troubles in his almost thirty years than any other ten men in all the Catskills—he’d gotten one ankle crushed in Korea so that he had to wear a steel brace around one of his iron-toed boots, and people said he’d broken his heart on a Japanese whore so that now he secretly hated women; and when he’d come home, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d found his mother dying and the farm gone back to burdocks and Queen Anne’s lace. But there wasn’t a sign of his troubles on his face, at least not right now.
    â€œYou working here now, Callie?” he said.
    â€œCouple three days,” she said.
    He shook his head. “You don’t let that old fat bastard push you around, hear? And make sure he pays you cash. Tightest damn man in seven counties.”
    â€œGeorge Loomis, you ought not talk that way,” Callie said soberly. But then she laughed.
    â€œHow come you’re out in broad daylight, George?” Henry said.
    â€œOh, every once in a while I like to remind myself how things look.” Then: “Been to Athensville with a load of grist.”
    â€œSmash your hammermill, George?” Henry said.
    â€œNot me,” he said, very serious. “Damn shovel did it. You care to buy a good shovel, Henry? Assemble it yourself?”
    Henry laughed and Callie looked puzzled, as if she got it all right but didn’t see anything funny about it. George said, “You hear about old man Kuzitski?” still smiling.
    Henry shook his head.
    â€œTried to make a new road, I guess. Killed himself all to hell.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Henry said.
    George shrugged. “That’s what they say. Found the pieces down the foot of Putnam’s cliff this morning. I drove by to look, but there’s troopers climbing all over it, and they won’t let you stop.”
    Callie stared out the window, perfectly still.
    â€œChrist,” Henry said. “Poor devil.” He shook his head, his chest light.
    George said, “Tally ho, junkman.”
    â€œGeorge Loomis, you’re vile,” Callie said, whirling.
    He looked at his gloves. “Sorry,” he said, suddenly withdrawn. “I didn’t know you were related to him.”
    Henry squinted, one hand on the counter, seeing in his mind, as though it were all a part of one picture, the old man lifting his cup in a toast, George staring at his leather gloves, Callie standing with her jaw set, looking out the window. Beyond the drab hill and the deep blue mountains the sky was the color of old dry shale. He said, “What can I fix you, George.”
    He seemed to think about it a moment. Then, slowly, studiously not looking at Callie, he stood up. “I guess I better move on, Henry.” He smiled, but his eyes were still remote. “Hell of a lot to do this afternoon.” He looked down at his gloves again.
    When he’d left, Henry took a pill and went into the lean-to room in back and sat down. He could hear Callie fixing herself a hamburger, banging the scraper on the grill as if to smash it. He put his face in his hands, thinking, fighting his own urge to break things—starting, maybe, with her, and then maybe George Loomis. He could hear Jim Millet’s