by Todd Borg
“A diamond can shatter,” he said. “In fact, they are quite brittle.” He walked over to the aquarium, his own eyes afire.
“What if Sinatra smashed the Blue Fire when Marilyn rejected him?” I said. “What if he threw it and it hit a hard surface? Or maybe it was an accident. If he scooped up the broken diamond pieces and dumped them in the aquarium, he might refer to it as having put it all on the line for Marilyn.”
Vince said, “I’ve always noticed the gravel on the bottom of this tank. It’s mostly yellow and white, but it’s got a lot of what look like glass chunks in it. You think they could be pieces of the Blue Fire?”
“Let’s find out.”
I carried the black light over to the aquarium and plugged it in.
Vince lifted the top off the aquarium. “This way you can shine the light down through the water. Ultraviolet light maybe goes through water better than through glass, huh?”
“I don’t know. We’ll aim it so it goes through both the glass and water. Okay if you unplug the aquarium lights?”
“Sure.” Vince unplugged the cord. With the aquarium lights off, the spectacular fish were now plain.
I turned on the black light and held it above the water. “Okay, let’s turn off the room lights.”
Street flipped the switch. The room went dark except for the fish, some of which now glowed in brilliant fluorescent colors.
“Oh, my God,” Vince said. “Look at the bottom. The glass chips are beginning to turn a faint red.”
Everyone came over. I held the light close to the water’s surface. After a minute, the red of the chips was more pronounced. I said, “Ready? Here goes.”
I turned off the light.
The collective gasp of all assembled was like a fake soundtrack gasp in a movie.
The bottom of the fish tank was lit as if by a hundred little red Christmas tree lights. Each piece glowed a bright ruby red. The points of light were so intense, it was hard to imagine that they normally had a blue tint. The red light was so bright that we could see the fish silhouetted against the glow. They looked like they were hovering over a city of red lights.
Glennie giggled and bounced up and down.
Street was speaking into Joseph’s ear, telling him what it looked like.
Diamond and Santiago looked at each other with amazed grins.
Gradually, the red glow diminished. After another minute, Street turned the room lights back on.
We were all quiet. Perhaps the others were, like me, considering the path the Blue Fire of Florence had taken from 500 years ago.
“Do you suppose these little diamond chips have any value?” Vince asked.
Abe said, “Each one can be cut into a new diamond. Some will end up very small. But there are a few that are pretty good size.” He stared at the fish tank gravel. “Even without an extremely large single diamond, you have a serious fortune here. There appear to be several large chunks in the six or eight carat range and hundreds of tiny pieces a fraction of a carat. Of course, value is dependent on how they can be cut, but I’m guessing that just the large pieces, if cut well, will be worth a million dollars or more.”
Vince said, “I can sell the big pieces to build a Sinatra museum. I’ll leave the little pieces right there, in the tank, in the museum. I’ll get one of those black lights so that people can see the Blue Fire glow red.”
Two weeks later in the middle of May, at my urging, Glenda Gorman put a notice in The Herald saying that there would be a poetry reading for local poet Adam Simms, held at the Lake Tahoe Community College Library.
There was a full house of maybe 150 people, ranging from people who appreciated poetry to people who just wanted to get a glimpse of a football hero.
Glennie served as MC. At five minutes after the appointed time, she went to the front of the room, tapped on the mike, and asked everyone to take their seats.
When the room had quieted, she said, “Thank you all for coming. Tonight we are here to celebrate the written word and its power to captivate and enthrall. Not long ago, a man who writes poetry moved to our town. Years ago, he was known as a football player. But his words leave as big a wake as he used to leave on the field. Most people don’t know that Mr. Adam Simms writes poetry. He’s never published his poems. He writes them in sketchbooks, and he doesn’t seek an audience.”
Glennie looked around at the audience, her eyes searching. She grinned when she saw Adam sitting with me at the rear corner of the room. Adam’s eyes showed worry and fear and confusion. His face was still puffy and purple from the snow abrasion that he’d taken saving my life. But at least his face still had normal skin unlike his chest which was severely abraded from the assault.
Glennie continued, “Adam Simms has never done a poetry reading. When I asked him why, he said he was too shy to read in public. When I asked him if others could read his poems, he thought about it and said that he didn’t think that his poems were good enough to be read aloud.” Glennie grinned. “But as some of you know, I can be persistent. Under my pressure, Adam finally relented.”
Glennie lifted up a small sketchbook. There were Post-it notes marking various pages. She turned to the first one. “I will start by reading a poem called ‘Wildness.’”
The poem was short and poignant and talked about the last bits of the untamed world. When she was done, everyone clapped loudly.
“The next poem will be read by Street Casey.” Glennie handed the sketchbook to Street as she approached the podium.
Street said, “This poem is titled ‘Dare I Sleep.’” Street read slowly and softly. The poem was a warning about species on the brink of extinction, yet it wasn’t strident or shrill. Instead it spoke of the ephemeral nature of beauty in all plants and animals.
Street was followed by Diamond and then Sergeant Santiago. Even Commander Mallory, locally famous for being too much of a curmudgeon to participate in such events, got up to read a poem.
In all, twelve people read Adam’s poems, all of which were about the forest and mountains and the untrammeled wild places and wild animals, haunting descriptions of hallowed ground.
During the reading, I leaned over toward Adam and whispered. “Looks to me like you have lots of friends.” He didn’t smile, yet he seemed amazed at what was happening. Blondie lay at his side. She wore her service dog bib.
At the end, the audience was quiet with contemplation and, perhaps, a bit of awe.
Glennie went back to the podium. “Let’s give Mr. Simms a show of our appreciation.”
The crowd clapped and stood and clapped some more.
I looked at Adam. He’d been silent, so I couldn’t tell if he was having a good day or a bad day. But his cheeks were wet with tears.
The last week of May, I stopped by Street’s lab on my way home from my office. She’d just opened the door and bent down to hug Spot when Diamond drove up in his Douglas County Ford Explorer.
He got out and walked over. Spot stared at him, wagging his tail.
“Sergeant,” I said.
Diamond nodded.
“How’s Adam Simms doing?”
“Going down fast,” he said. “We moved him out of the safe house yesterday. I went in to check on him, and from the looks of things, he’d had another seizure, pulling the kitchen table and two chairs and the knife rack over onto the floor as he went down. Probably, he had a few seconds advance warning from Blondie. Fortunately, no knife stabbed him. He’d come back to consciousness before I got there, but only barely. His eyes were open, and he looked at me, but there was no recognition. He didn’t know who he was, didn’t seem to remember anything. He kept asking when Felicite was coming. I didn’t have the heart to say that she was probably going to prison for the rest of her life. Adam had also left the stove top on with a pile of newspapers just inches away from the lit burner.”
“That sounds terrifying,” Street said. Her face was a network of worry lines.
“The worst thing was, Simms didn’t recognize Blondie. He ke
pt saying, ‘who’s that dog?’ And he wouldn’t pet her. Blondie was very traumatized. She stayed in a corner of the living room and wouldn’t look at me or Adam. After we got Adam settled into the nursing home, I took Blondie with me, and she hasn’t eaten a thing. She drank a little water, but not as much as I think a dog her size should. I’m worried. I called the vet, and they said to bring her in if she isn’t drinking and eating normally in another day.”
“What will you do about her?” I asked.
“That’s a question I haven’t answered.” Diamond glanced down at Spot who was still wagging. Only now I realized that he hadn’t been wagging at Diamond. He was looking at Diamond’s SUV.
“I’m hoping we can find someone who’s willing to adopt Blondie,” Diamond said. “If we can’t, I’ll have to turn her over to animal control. I thought I’d ask if either of you has ideas.”
“I can’t fit another dog in my tiny cabin on a permanent basis,” I said. “But let’s not put her in the shelter just yet. Let’s ask around. Maybe we know someone who would like a dog.”
Diamond said, “I thought about taking her, but my job often has long days when I can’t even get home for dinner.”
Street said, “Is she in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“We should let her out so she can run around.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. She’s had a pretty serious setback.” Diamond walked over and opened the back door of his vehicle. There was no movement inside.
We followed him and took a look. Blondie was at the other side of the back seat. She cowered from us. Her tail was between her legs, and her ears were back. She wouldn’t look up.
“C’mon, Blondie,” I said in my cheeriest voice.
She didn’t move. Spot pushed his nose in next to me.
“Hey, Blondie, you can play with Spot.”
No response.
I took Spot by the collar, brought him to the Jeep and had him climb into the back seat. “Stay,” I said.
I walked back to Diamond’s SUV and opened the other back door on the side where Blondie had pressed herself into the corner. She turned her head and looked at me but didn’t move even as gravity started to slide her off the edge of the seat and out the open door. It was as if she were half comatose.
I cradled her in my arms and carefully carried her over to the Jeep, trying not to jar her. She still didn’t move as I set her in on the edge of the seat next to Spot who seemed to understand not to be exuberant.
I shut the door.
“I’ll take her home with Spot and see if that helps her forget what she’s been through.”
Diamond nodded. He pulled a large padded envelope out of his patrol unit and handed it to me. “A day or two after the poetry reading, Simms had a moment of lucidity, and he gave me this. He said, ‘Can you give this to Owen McKenna when my mind is gone?’ I agreed.”
“Thanks,” I said. I put the envelope in the Jeep. “Adam didn’t have any money. How is the nursing home going to get paid? The state will cover some expenses, but not all.”
“I talked to Vince. He said that if it hadn’t been for Simms saving your life when you were chased by the rotary, you wouldn’t have found the diamond pieces. So he’s going to sell enough pieces of the Blue Fire to pay for Adam’s care.”
“Nice guy,” I said.
“Yeah,” Diamond said. “Nice is undervalued these days.”
I drove the Jeep. Street said she’d follow along in a few minutes. When I got home, Blondie was still cowering.
A cloud front had come across the sky, shutting out the sun as if someone had pulled a large sun shade across a huge skylight. A cool breeze had come up, and snow flurries whirled through the air. I let Spot out and brought him into my cabin. Then I fetched Blondie, trying once again to be gentle as I carried her inside. I pulled Blondie closer to me so that the cold weather didn’t make her feel worse.
When I was inside the cabin, I kept holding Blondie. I said, “Spot, lie down on your bed.”
I stepped onto the edge of his bed so that he couldn’t take up all of the space. I tapped my foot where I wanted him to lie. “Spot,” I said a bit louder. “Come lie down.”
Spot ambled over, stepped onto his bed, sniffed Blondie in my arms, then lowered himself down onto his elbows.
I squatted down and set Blondie onto the other side of Spot’s bed. She lay curled up, her snout turned sideways across her front paws. She was touching Spot with her side, but she didn’t move.
I built a small fire in the wood stove, enough to warm Blondie but, I hoped, not enough to drive her away.
I heard the soft sound of a car door. In a moment, my front door opened and Street walked in. Spot lifted his head and looked at her for a moment. Blondie didn’t move.
“How’s she doing?” Street asked.
“Same,” I said. “We’ll just give her some space and time and calm and see if that helps.”
Street nodded.
I opened a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for each of us, and we sat in front of the wood stove. Street took the leather chair, I took the rocker.
I tore the end off the padded envelope and pulled out Adam’s sketchbook. Tucked inside the pages was a hand-written letter. I read it aloud to Street.
Dear Owen,
This is a pretty good day as I write this. I can think. But I sense I’m near the end of that. I’m going to give this letter to Sergeant Martinez and ask him to give it to you when I’m no longer competent.
I’m writing this on the fifteenth day of May, my birthday, and the day on which I found Blondie in the rescue shelter two years ago. I’d already been having seizures for six months when I got Blondie. Six months of feeling that life wasn’t worth living.
I learned a lot from Blondie, starting with the first day. She was pretty much a wreck, just like me, but together we found that life once again became worth living.
Even on the worst days, when she got so stressed about my seizures, my brain eventually came back, and after a time, Blondie would calm down and go back to being as happy as a dog could be. Ever since I got that dog, when I’ve had dark times, I always reminded myself of that. I brought Blondie happiness. Imagine that. After all those years of football, the gift I gave the world that mattered most to me was bringing happiness to a rescue dog.
It must have been terrifying for Blondie to have me turn into the shaking robot, unresponsive to her, not noticing her licks or cries, not petting her, maybe even hurting her with my jerks.
But of course she also learned that I came out of the seizures, that the shaking robot left my body, and I always came back to her. She knew that no matter how often the seizures came and no matter how bad they were, I still came back.
This time I’m not coming back.
For me, that’s the hardest thing about facing the end. It’s not fair to an animal who thinks you’re the most important thing in the universe. People understand, more or less. But Blondie - all dogs in this situation - Blondie will keep waiting for me.
So I have a favor to ask, Owen. I’m asking you because you know about dogs, you know their personalities and their needs.
Blondie would make someone a wonderful pet. She has more love in her than I’ve ever seen in anyone. I can’t imagine her going back to the shelter. It would destroy her just being there again. Never mind that most dogs don’t ever come out alive.
So would you please try to find a home for Blondie?
It would be a huge favor, but I don’t know who else to ask.
Thanks very much for considering it.
There’s one more thing.
I had the world in my hands when I played football. I knew a thousand people. Yet I never really had any close friends. But you showed interest in my poetry and talked to me about it. No one else ever came close to believing how important poetry was to me. You even organized the reading at the college. I’ve never had a friend who did that for me.
When you said you could help me
do a book of my poems, I didn’t know what to say. But I’ve never stopped thinking about that. I remembered that you said that more people would be interested if they thought my book had stuff about me and not just poems about wildness.
So I’ve written another poem for the book, even though I know the book may not ever happen. This poem is not about wildness. It’s called Won’t Need No Cane. In fact, I think that would be a good title for the book. I’m dedicating this poem to you, Owen.
Won’t Need No Cane
A broke-wing hawk no longer flew
Looked up to see the trees and sky
Was grateful for the gift of view
He’d never seen from perch on high
Confined to ground, no longer free
He’d never grow too old to soar
With wisdom gained, he now could see
Though battles won, he’d lost the war
by Adam Simms for Owen McKenna
When I was done reading, there was movement over on the dog bed. Blondie began panting, clearly heated too much by the fire. She pushed herself up to her feet and, moving slowly, she walked off the dog bed, came partway across the living room and stopped. She looked at me, then at Street. Blondie’s ears were back, her head hung low, and her eyes drooped with sadness. She looked very scared. Taking tiny steps, she gradually walked over to Street and looked up at her face. Then she lowered her head to rest it on Street’s lap.
Street reached out with both hands and caressed her head. “I’ll take Blondie,” she said.
About the Author
Todd Borg and his wife live in Lake Tahoe, where they write and paint. To contact Todd or learn more about the Owen McKenna mysteries, please visit toddborg.com
PRAISE FOR TAHOE GHOST BOAT
“THE OLD PULP SAVVY OF (ROSS) MACDONALD...REAL SURPRISE AT THE END” - Kirkus Reviews
“NAIL-BITING THRILLER...BOILING POT OF DRAMA” - Gloria Sinibaldi, Tahoe Daily Tribune
