Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

“The big problem, as I see it … Timothy is not nineteen years old. He’s a full-fledged adult, even if he doesn’t act like one. I can’t just grab him against his will. Kidnapping is a crime. A serious crime. I could go to prison for years. If he were hurt, even accidentally, I could get life.”

  “I know how you feel, Jerry,” said Pinky. “But he’s my grandson, goddamn it! Please excuse the language, but I’m desperate. I know we can’t do this in the open. It would be dangerous for you, and for me.” Pinky walked over and sat in the second interview chair that faced the desk, and turned it to sit close to Jerry.

  “You understand why I can’t just hire that guy from the magazine article. You’re right, it is illegal. That’s why I need you, somebody I can trust with my life and my family. If it ever got back to me, I could lose my company. I’m not a young hotshot rumrunner anymore. I’m a respected businessman … on a first-name basis with my congressman. But I’m also a grandfather who wants to save his family.”

  Jerry sat back in his chair and looked at Pinky’s face. The old man’s eyes glistened.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” Jerry asked.

  “Just like those people did it in California, but nothing rough. Timothy is not a recluse. I heard he sometimes goes places alone, like bars. If you can just get him to go with you somewhere—just make up a reason, like you want to buy pills from him or something—get him into a car and then take him somewhere. I can’t know anything about it. Someplace out in the country. Do what that other guy did—no phone, no television, no newspaper. Total isolation. After a few days, talk to him. Or call me and I’ll come talk to him. I know he’ll listen to me. The old Timothy is still there, somewhere.”

  “I’d need to hire some good people,” said Jerry. “Probably several, and they won’t be cheap.”

  Pinky sighed. “Jerry, I’m old. I’ll be lucky if I have ten more years. I’ll be honest with you. I’m not looking for a hired gun. Those guys are easy to find. I need you. Sydney would have agreed with me. Here’s what I’m offering you: do whatever you need to do, get whoever you need to get, and I’ll cover all expenses. If you do this favor for me, I won’t just pay you a lump sum. I’ll make you a full partner in Daisy Kay. I mean it. When I die, it will be yours.”

  “What about Timothy?”

  “I want him to be part of it too, of course. But you can run the company. As chairman, CEO, president, whatever you want.”

  Jerry took a deep breath. He needed to collect himself and not rush things.

  “Mr. Kaufman, I’m flattered, really. But I don’t know anything about running an oil company.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Pinky. “I’ll teach you everything I know. You have the sense to manage a business—you’ve proved that. Geologists, engineers, drillers … and the money men … they evaluate the prospects and make the recommendations. You just manage the big picture and make final decisions.” He walked back around the desk and sat down in his big chair, eyes fixed on Jerry. “What do you say? Will you help an old friend?”

  “Before I say yes, I need some information,” said Jerry. “Where is the house? What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

  “Erica Piedman is the girlfriend, but the name Erica is spelled in a funny way. The house is in an old part of west Duro. A bunch of hippies live there. Some old long-hair guy they call Apollo runs the commune.”

  “Apollo. Really? I think my daughter knows those people!”

  Pinky’s face widened into a grin. “Well, if that’s the case, that could be your way in, my friend.”

  “Yes. Yes, I think that might be a possibility.” Jerry was trying hard to keep his composure and poker face, but his mind was racing a hundred miles an hour.

  Oh my God! He wants to give me his oil company.

  – 24 –

  Prairie Desserts

  Moonlit nights were the worst. This week was the full moon, and with hardly a cloud in the sky, the land was lit up yellow like a parking lot from dusk to dawn. Groups of scrawny whitetail deer descended like hungry tourists upon Douglas and Reed’s patches of Cannabis indica, leaving behind shredded stalks and chewed leaves. The cloven-hoofed marauders mostly ignored the native vegetation but treated the juvenile marijuana plants like a gourmet dessert. Even more frustrating, the deer somehow knew to wait patiently until the plants were two weeks old and had entered their rapid-growth phase, then they’d swoop in and chow down.

  The first solution was to repair the fence behind the property and fix the gate in front. Douglas obtained a new top bar of galvanized steel and bolted it into place on top of the gate. It looked weirdly new and out of place on the rusty gate, so he daubed on some brown paint. The old padlock came off with a sharp whack from a hammer, and he replaced it with a new one. They bought fifty feet of six-foot metal fence fabric and strung it across the open places in the back, using pieces of thick wire to secure it into place. After a long, hard day’s work, the property was now surrounded completely by fence.

  The deer were unfazed and leaped over the fence with impunity to feast on the illicit crops.

  Douglas and Reed took turns sleeping out in the field. They couldn’t resort to lights or noisemakers, but figured the presence and odor of a human being would keep the scavengers away. When it was Reed’s turn, he smoked his mild little cigars continuously, hoping the smell might deter them. The guards stayed awake as best they could, patrolling back and forth across the occupied ground, listening and watching. They would hear nothing in the night, see only glimpses of ghostly shapes in the moonlight. But first light would reveal dozens of deer hoofprints, piles of scat, and more decimated plants.

  By the first of July, they had lost a third of their new crop. Reed still had plenty of seeds, but there was no point in replanting if they were just going to be feeding the ravenous herds of Odocoileus virginianus. Reed wanted to borrow a rifle and thin the population himself, which even he admitted was a dumb, desperate solution. Douglas started reading farm journals at the library, looking for ideas. Poison, maybe. Cruel, but it might work. Electrify the fence perhaps? They had to do something or all they’d have to show for their efforts would be the crop growing inside the greenhouse.

  Saskia drove out to the Jupiter Lane house to get Andy’s clothes and music books, and collect some stuff she had left behind. Now that Andy’s care and recovery had become her main responsibility, she gave up any idea of moving back in with Douglas. It was over between them, she had to admit.

  It was a sunny day, hot but not unbearable, and Andy went with her. He liked riding in Saskia’s car with the top down, the wind whipping his shortened hair, watching the houses and trees go by and hearing concerts in his head.

  They reached the house in the early afternoon and found Douglas sipping a beer on the couch, half watching a daytime game show. He looked exhausted. Reed, who had pulled the night shift, was asleep in his room.

  Douglas brightened up when the two of them came in.

  “Hey, Saskia!” he said. “And Andy! How you feeling, man?”

  “All right,” said Andy.

  “I see you got the cast off. Is your arm doing better?”

  “Better,” said Andy, and flexed his arm to demonstrate.

  “He still needs a lot of practice,” said Saskia. In truth, Andy’s arm was not much better. He could rotate his wrist only with significant pain, and had little strength in his hand. The clinic at St. Cecilia’s was focused on restoring his brain, but they recommended that he also receive arm and hand therapy. That was not financially attainable for the Zamaras; not yet. Andy had tried to hold his violin bow but didn’t have sufficient coordination or thumb strength. It was a great disappointment, but he kept it to himself.

  Saskia and Andy gathered his music stand and books. They had brought a suitcase for his clothes and were able to pack everything into one. When she had loaded it all into the trunk of her Mustang, Saskia and Douglas sat down together on the couch for a necessary heart-to-heart. They were both ready for
a mutually amicable breakup of their yearlong romance. Saskia cried a little, but Douglas was stoic. It was a relief for them both. Lots of couples end their relationships by promising to remain friends, but Douglas and Saskia really would, so long as they didn’t have to share a household.

  Andy gave them space. He walked outside and poked around the greenhouse, which was locked. After he figured sufficient time had passed, he came back inside.

  “Could I see the plants in the greenhouse?” Andy asked.

  “Sure,” said Douglas. He fetched the keys from where they were hidden, hanging under the sink in the kitchen. “You’ll be impressed. I’ll warn you, though, they’re starting to get skunky.”

  “Skunky?”

  “Yeah. You’ll see what I mean.”

  The three of them went outside, and Douglas unlocked the door. Inside, the greenhouse was a chlorophyll riot, brilliantly lit in the afternoon sun. There was so much greenery that individual plants, about four feet high and bushy, were impossible to distinguish. Despite a large exhaust fan, the greenhouse was quite warm, with a strong, pungent smell. The ground was littered with fallen leaves and plant matter.

  Andy walked between the two rows of the platforms.

  “Too crowded,” he said.

  “Yes, I know,” said Douglas. “But until we know which ones are male, we can’t thin them out.”

  The plants, a thick and sticky variety from the uplands of Cambodia, were quite odorous. Not smelly like a cornered skunk, but still very noticeable. Andy touched the leaves, looked at each plant closely, examined the stalks.

  “Need stakes,” he said. He pointed to places where leaf-laden branches were hanging low.

  “Yeah. There isn’t much room, though. One of these days, the females should start flowering,” said Douglas. “Then we can remove most of the males and there will be enough room. I expect them to flower anytime.”

  “No,” said Andy. “Too early.” He stood still, deep in thought. Finally, he walked to the back of the greenhouse and opened the door to the back room, where tools and bags of fertilizer were stored.

  Douglas followed him in and flipped on the long, hanging fluorescent light, but Andy reached over and turned it off again. “Shut the door,” he said. “See how dark it is.”

  With the lights off and the door shut, the only light came from cracks and small openings in the walls.

  “We can trick them,” said Andy.

  “Trick who?” asked Saskia.

  “The plants. Trick them into telling us their sex.”

  “How do we do that?” asked Douglas.

  “First, we give them all names,” said Andy.

  “Names? Names for the plants?” said Saskia. “Can’t you just number them?”

  “We could. But numbers are so … impersonal. Living things should have names.”

  “Names for the plants,” said Douglas. “Right, Andy. Those shitkickers bashed your head harder than I thought. Really? We’d have to come up with twenty-eight names.”

  “And write them down, and tape them to the sides of the pots,” said Andy.

  “You’re not kidding,” said Saskia.

  “Nope. Better get started.” Andy walked over to the first plant in the first of three rows and held up one stalk, which was heavy with large pinnate leaves.

  “Dasher,” he said.

  Saskia and Douglas stared at him.

  “Come on!” Andy said. “It was funny.” He pointed at the next plant. “Dancer.”

  – 25 –

  A Cowboy with an Honest Face

  Nights in the desert could get chilly, even in summer. It was cool tonight, maybe sixty-five degrees, and would be cooler still by the time the sun rose and baked everything unmercifully. Del Ray sweated in the dark, shivering.

  This was his first time on the other side of the equation. Tonight, he was the one with the car, the one doing the cruising. He had turned sixteen, and a full driver’s license was in his wallet—or rather his learner’s permit along with a paper bearing a DPS agent’s signature. The official new license would arrive in the mail within thirty days, the agent said. Del Ray hoped his picture would not be goofy. His brother Billy’s license picture was awful—like somebody had just punched him in the nuts—and Billy would have to live with that abomination for the next two years, until he was twenty-one.

  Del Ray drove his mother’s car, and everything about tonight felt evil and exciting. He hadn’t asked to borrow the car. Mom had just gone to bed at the usual time, and then Dad followed fifteen minutes later. Billy was gone tonight, camping out at Cowden Ranch with Randy Degraffenreid and a couple of college girls. It was Del Ray’s big chance.

  He had turned off the lights in the house, including the one in his room, tucked a couple of pillows under the covers of his bed like they did in TV shows, took the keys to his mother’s car from where they hung inside the kitchen door, and snuck out the back door because that one was quieter and farthest from his parents’ bedroom. It was close to his grandmother’s bedroom, but she was sound asleep and deaf.

  He unlocked the Rambler and opened the door as quietly as he could, took off the brake, slipped the gear into neutral, and pushed. After he got it started, gravity took over and the car rolled. Del Ray jumped into the driver’s seat, turning the steering wheel sharply as the car rolled out into the street. For one panicky moment he couldn’t find the brake, but then managed to jump on it before the car’s rear wheel came all the way around and struck the curb.

  He started the car, with its quiet little engine, and drove east toward downtown. He was the other side of the equation, the man behind the wheel. It was as terrifying as the side he was familiar with, but now he had more control over whatever happened. If something did happen.

  There was only one place he knew he could probably find what he wanted. It wasn’t that bar everybody knew about, that queer bar, the Quarry. He was only sixteen and couldn’t get into any bar. His only choices were Murchison Park and the Greyhound bus station. The park was dark and frightening, and his past encounters there had been furtive and unfulfilling. He drove up 4th Street toward lower downtown.

  On his first pass around the bus station, Del Ray saw that a Greyhound was there, loading. He didn’t want to go inside the bus terminal if he could help it. He kept going. He cruised up 4th Street, turned left on Jefferson, left again on 15th, then back down College Drive. It took about ten minutes to make the circuit. The bus was still there, though the doors were closed and it appeared ready to depart. He repeated the maneuver once more—Jefferson, 15th, College, back again, another ten minutes. This time, the bus was gone, but a guy was there, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Del Ray slowed down.

  A woman came out of the station, walking briskly past the guy smoking the cigarette, probably going to her car. Del Ray passed the man, and for a moment he thought their eyes met. Nice looking guy, sideburns. In his twenties. Del Ray kept going, one time around the block and back again.

  His heart pounded and sweat ran down the back of his neck. He thought he might be sick, but he kept driving.

  Last chance, he thought. Last chance. You can go home, return the car, go back to bed, lie alone in the dark like you always do.

  But he drove around the front of the station once again and slowed, rolling down the window.

  “Hi,” he called.

  “Hey there,” said the man, but made no move.

  “You doin’ all right tonight?” said Del Ray. He didn’t know what else to say. That’s just what guys sometimes said to him when he was on the other side of the equation.

  “Doing pretty good,” he said. He seemed in no hurry, but dropped the cigarette and stepped on the butt. He hooked his thumbs in his jeans and strolled over to the Rambler. He leaned over and checked Del Ray out. The fellow was nice looking, with black Vitalis hair, a little bit long in the back. He must have liked what he saw, because he didn’t walk away.

  “What you up to tonight?” asked Del Ray.
<
br />   “Nothing much. What you doin’?” said the man.

  “Thought I might take a ride down to the park,” said Del Ray. He hoped the perspiration didn’t show on his forehead. He tried to breathe deliberately, not be in a hurry, act cool, just like this guy.

  “It is a nice night for a drive,” said the man. That was a hint, but it was up to Del Ray to make the move. It was his side of the equation.

  “You want to come along?” he asked. “Just drive around a little bit for the heck of it? Nothing much going on.” He couldn’t think of anything clever to add.

  The man stood up straight and looked up and down the street, kind of lazy-like.

  “Sure,” he said and walked casually around the back of the car toward the passenger side. Del Ray noticed that his own hands on the steering wheel were trembling. For a split second, he considered stepping on the gas and driving away into the night, abandoning the cruise, leaving the man behind. But he didn’t. The door opened, and the guy climbed in.

  “Nice little car you got.”

  “Thanks. Handles pretty well.” Del Ray had barely stopped himself from saying It’s my mom’s. He pushed the accelerator, let out the clutch, and drove away, down 4th Street toward Murchison Park. He wondered what to say. He looked over at the guy, who lounged in the front seat, looking quite comfortable, not nervous at all. How does he do that? Del Ray smiled.

  His new friend smiled back. “You got a nice face, cowboy,” he said. “Honest looking. I like that.”

  “Thanks,” said Del Ray. He tried to think of a compliment to return but couldn’t come up with anything.

  Twenty miles to the west, on old Highway 115, Mitchell and Downs and Taggart, whom everybody called Tank, rode in Mitchell’s Econoline van, going eighty-five miles an hour. Since they’d turned off Old Highway 80, they’d had the road to themselves. No other vehicle was out here, not this time of night. Cross-country truckers didn’t use this highway, except sometimes to avoid getting weighed. The ranchers were all asleep.

  Mitchell drove with the high beams glaring, hoping to spot any deer or coyotes on the highway in time to take evasive action, if that was needed. If they hit a coyote, it could make a mess, but a large deer could wreck the van. Nevertheless, he had to drive fast. The windshield vibrated as the non-aerodynamic hulk punched through the air. Occasionally, off in the mesquite, he saw the glow of deer eyes.