Dan J. Marlowe
Operation Fireball
CHAPTER ONE
The car’s headlights picked up a raw-ribbed coyote slinking across the highway. It turned its head and grinned slaveringly at me as I drove past. Just beyond the lean beast I saw the route marker. The sign on the shoulder of the road indicated that California Route 395 continued straight ahead to the north. Route 190 branched off to the right, toward the northeast. I turned right.
A lighted phone booth five hundred yards along Route 190 stood out like a ship’s beacon. I pulled off the road near the booth and considered my next move. The slow disappearance of daylight had eroded my confidence proportionately. The trip that had seemed like such a good idea that morning now felt considerably less than that. An unannounced visit … and especially after the circumstances of our separation …
I leaned across the front seat and opened the glove compartment. My knuckles brushed aside the Smith & Wesson.38 special in the compartment as I dug out a small, pucker-string leather bag filled with quarters. I got out of the car and walked to the phone booth. There was a moon, expansive but not full. Atmospheric dust haze gave it a blood-red hue.
Inside the booth I found a dime in my pocket. “I’d like to place a long distance call, operator,” I told the tinny, disembodied voice that eventually came on the line. “Person-to-person to Mrs. Hazel Andrews in Ely, Nevada. I don’t know the area code or the phone number.”
“Do you have the address, sir?”
“No. It’s a ranch outside of town.”
“I’ll try Ely information, sir,” the voice said doubtfully. There were multiple clicks in my ear. Even inside the booth the night air felt thin and biting. I had just driven through Olancha. Off to the west in the reddish moonlight loomed the indistinct dark bulk of Olancha Peak. The road map listed it at 12,200 feet. On the rim of the desert where I stood all was silent.
There was another click and the tinny voice returned. “There is a Mrs. Charles Andrews, sir. Would that be her?”
“Make it your best bet of the day, operator.” Hazel was the widow of Blue Shirt Charlie Andrews, the gambler who’d bet ‘em higher than a duck could fly. She was also the widow of Lou Espada, the taciturn man of mystery who’d left her stocks, bonds, and the prospering Dixie Pig, a saloon in Hudson, Florida. I’d met Hazel at the Dixie Pig. “Let’s try it.”
A long wait followed. Then a deep voice said hello. I’d forgotten the contralto range of the voice. “I have a long distance person-to-person call for a Mrs. Hazel Andrews,” the operator announced.
“This is Hazel Andrews,” the contralto said. “Who’s—”
“That will be sixty-five cents for the first three minutes, sir,” the operator said to me.
I shook a few quarters out of the leather bag and deposited three of them in the largest receptacle in the coin box. Each quarter registered with a musical
“Hi?” the contralto said on a rising note, indicating fast-gathering impatience. “What the hell do you mean, ‘hi'? Who’s calling me long distance?”
“Still the same low boiling point,” I said admiringly. “D’you have any trouble finding people to get mad at these days?”
“Who
“Kaiser made three in those days, Hazel.” I heard her quick intake of breath at the reference to my dog, who had had many a bite of steak from Hazel’s plate. “The name is Earl Drake,” I added before she could blurt the old name into a possibly tapped telephone.
The deep voice was almost a whisper. “It’s really you?”
“It really is.”
The voice picked up steam. “Where are you?”
“Halfway between San Diego and Ely.”
“Don’t you move,” she ordered. “You stay right there till I come get you, y’hear me? How many miles? Where are you staying? I’ll start right—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” I interrupted her. “I’ve always wanted to see the ranch.”
There was a second’s hesitation. “I’ve had visitors,” she said. “None recently, but—”
“They should be tired of it by now. I’m in the mood to risk it, anyway.”
“I’m in the mood for you to be careful,” the deep voice said. “Why no word all this long time, man?”
“Because I knew you’d be having visitors.” She was silent. “Hazel?”
“Yes?”
“You won’t know me.”
“I won’t — oh, because of the burns.”
“Correct.”
“You just get here and I’ll show you who knows who!”
“You’ve got a contract. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“My spread’s straight north of town about twenty miles. The Rancho Dolorosa. You’ll recognize it by the bleached-out cow skeleton at the highway gate. Just slip the wire and drive in.”
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
I hung up and went back to the car.
I felt charged up.
Really charged up.
The idea that had started me over the road from San Diego that morning seemed to be turning out every bit as good as I’d hoped it would.
It was four o’clock the next afternoon when I drove up to the bleached-out cow skeleton. I’d sacked in at midnight and slept for six hours, then got back on the road. Route 190 joined Route 95 at Beatty, and Route 95 crossed Route 6 at Tonopah. On Route 6 it was a straight shot into Ely, and twenty miles north of town I reached the turnoff into the ranch. Most of the driving during the last part of the trip had been at altitude.
I eased off the wire loop that served as a gate latch, drove inside, then closed and looped the gate again. When I climbed back inside the car, I opened the glove compartment to check on the position of the Smith & Wesson. Its reassuring solidity thumped the back of my hand. It wasn’t likely that anyone would still be paying attention to Hazel after such a long interval, but it wouldn’t do to take anything for granted.
I drove along a winding dirt road for half a mile, then topped a rise. The ranch house lay in a valley below. It was a sprawling building with an added-onto look. All its paint had not been applied at the same time. A huge barn with a cavernously empty look stood to one side of the house. On the other side was a small stable. Through the open door of the stable I could see the rear ends of a Corvette and a pickup truck.
There was no sign of life as I drove down the hill and parked near the barn. I opened the car door and got out. Then the kitchen door of the ranch house burst open and Hazel came flying down the gravel path. The gleam of her flaming red hair was like a signal rocket. Her six-foot figure was adorned in its usual uniform: tight Levis, a buckskin vest that left the smooth white skin of her big arms bare to the shoulders, and cowboy boots studded with silver conches.
“God, man, it’s good to see you,” she said huskily, slipping an arm around my waist. “You’re right, I wouldn’t have known the face.” She squeezed me. “But I’d have known you the second you got out of the car, even if you hadn’t phoned. Who else moves like a mink in a chicken house?” She tugged at my waist. “Come along into the house.”
We walked up the path arm in arm. Inside, Hazel led me directly beneath the kitchen’s overhead light. She
