Page 51 of Cold Target

Joe paid. He took a sip. It was cold and decent. He took another sip, then set the glass down and looked around the bar like he was just taking in the atmosphere.

Nobody paid him any attention. That was good.

He drank slowly. Ordered a second beer. Let time pass. Let himself become part of the scenery.

After about twenty minutes, one of the men at the bar—an old guy in a canvas jacket and a John Deere cap—got up to use the bathroom. When he came back, he took the stool next to Joe instead of his original spot.

"You're not from around here," the old man said. It wasn't a question.

"Just passing through," Joe said.

"Long way to pass through. Not much up here this time of year."

"I like the quiet."

The old man grunted. He had a weathered face, deep lines around his eyes and mouth, hands that looked like they'd done hard work for a long time. He was probably in his late seventies, maybe eighty.

"You hunt?" the old man asked.

"Not much anymore."

"Fish?"

"Occasionally."

The old man nodded, like this confirmed something. "So what brings you up here, then?"

Joe took a drink. "Research," he said. "I'm writing a book about the old logging and mining operations in the U.P. Trying to track down some of the abandoned camps and sites."

It was a good lie. Specific enough to sound real, vague enough not to invite too many questions.

The old man's expression shifted slightly. Interest, maybe. Or nostalgia.

"You're talking about the old days," he said. "Before everything shut down."

"That's right."

"Ask Clem over there. He worked in logging.”

He pointed at an old guy, ancient-looking, wearing a red flannel shirt and a hat with ear flaps.

Joe carried his beer down and said, “Clem, can I buy you a beer?”

“My favorite kind of beer is free,” the old man said. Joe signaled and the bartender refilled Clem’s beer.

Joe repeated his cover story.

“Yeah, I worked in logging," Clem replied. "Thirty-two years. Started when I was sixteen, quit when I was forty-eight and my back gave out."

"Must have been hard work."

"Hardest work there is. But it was good money back then. Good money and good men." He took a drink from his beer. "All gone now. The camps, the mills, most of the men. All gone."

Joe nodded. "Where were the main operations? The big camps?"

The old man thought about it. "Depends on what you mean by big. There were camps all over. But the main area, the real center of things, that was around Copper City."

"Copper City," Joe repeated.