Free Jackrabbit Junction Jitters by Ann Charles

company had
mined daily for the past one hundred and twenty years.
    Edith looked up at him, her rhinestone-rimmed reading
glasses resting on the tip of her pinched nose. “Do you have an appointment, Mr.
…?” She had a raspy, two-pack-a-day voice.
    “Garner. And no, I don’t.” He hadn’t wanted to alert the big
tuna until he’d baited his hook and cast his line.
    The wrinkles above her upper lip deepened. “I’m sorry, Mr.
Garner, but you need an appointment to see Mr. Johnson.” She flipped open a
small leather book and trailed her finger down one page and then another. “He
has an opening next Wednesday at three. Would that work for you?”
    “No. I’d like you to call him right now and tell him Mac
Garner is here to see him.”
    “Well.” She sniffed. “I can try, but he may still be at
lunch. Even if he’s not, I doubt he’ll be available. He’s a very busy man,
especially on Friday afternoons.” She picked up the phone and punched in three
numbers.
    Mac glanced around the empty reception room. Things hadn’t
changed much in five months. The plush burgundy carpet still smelled new and
the cherry-wood chairs and coffee table still gleamed under the florescent
lights. Sepia-toned pictures of huge, land-moving mining trucks and excavators—machines
that made engineers shiver and environmentalists shudder—dotted the walls,
along with before-and-after pictures of Roadrunner Mountain and Paloverde Hill,
now both vast open pits.
    “Mr. Johnson,” Edith said. “There’s a Mac Garner here to see
you.”
    Mac stared down at Edith, waiting to see if Johnson was
going to grant him five minutes of his time or play hard-to-get.
    “No, he doesn’t have an appointment.” Edith lifted her chin,
challenging Mac with a glare. “I explained that to him, but he’s insisting on
meeting with you right now.” She listened for several seconds, nodding, smiling
in victory. “All right, I’ll see what you have available next week.”
    Hard-to-get it was.
    Leaning over the counter, Mac snatched the phone receiver
from Edith.
    “Hey!” Her face contorted, mottling with a purplish-red hue.
    “Listen, Chuck,” Mac spoke into the receiver. “I’m here to
discuss selling Ruby Martino’s mines. This is a one-time deal. If you won’t see
me now, I’m sure Nick Black down at the Copper Star in Sierra Sol will.”
    Silence hissed through the receiver for several heartbeats.
    Edith, now standing, held her hand out for the receiver, her
eyes narrowed.
    “Okay, Mac.” Chuck Johnson’s nasally voice sounded amiable,
yet wary. “Come on back. The door is open.”
    Mac handed the receiver back to Edith with a victory smile
of his own and didn’t wait around to receive any more glares.
    Johnson stood and extended his hand as Mac approached his
desk. “Nice to see you again, Mac.” His gray eyes contrasted with his white
bushy eyebrows and thinning hair.
    Mac shook Johnson’s hand. “Always a pleasure,” he lied.
    Following Johnson’s lead, he dropped into one of the cushy
chairs across from the mining company president.
    Johnson’s office smelled of well-oiled leather and spoke of
a century of wealth built on the sweaty, broken backs of many past and present
Cholla County residents. A plate glass window looked out over the town of
Yuccaville, mud-brick houses and white-roofed buildings littering the narrow
valley below. The black frame on Johnson’s desk displayed a picture of a
smiling blonde, her arms clutching two miniature poodles.
    “So.” Johnson steepled his fingers. “Ruby is thinking again
about selling?”
    Mac nodded.
    “Why the sudden change of heart? Last April, she fought
tooth and nail to keep those mines.”
    “Last April, she was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy,
about to lose her house and the campground to the bank. The mines were her only
lien-free assets.”
    Not to mention that the mining company’s low-ball offer on
those mines only added insult to injury after Mac had