California Bloodstock

by Terry McDonell

  It was an awkward reunion. They had dinner sent up to the suite. Naturally, the one among them who had the least understanding of how they were all tied together did most of the talking. T. D. Jr. scattered bits and pieces of the last few months about the table like a chef pushing hors d’oeuvres at dinner guests whose hunger confused him.

  Nobody ate much. They were sad, angry, and relieved, all four of them, all at once. Buckdown hated Slant for causing it all and then letting it happen. He felt bad about Taya, but he didn’t know what to do for her. Slant hated Buckdown for causing it all and then letting it happen. He felt bad about Taya, but didn’t know what to do for her. T. D. Jr. hated himself for not knowing what to do. He felt bad about Taya.

  What are we going to do? T. D. Jr. wanted very much to know.

  We take care of Taya, Buckdown said, and then we take care of them.

  Like you did before, Slant sneered.

  And you did?

  Don’t forget, Slant barked, I’m the one who lost his balls.

  Obviously.

  They were hopeless. Taya closed her eyes. They were hopeless and useless and didn’t have the slightest fluttering notion of what was going on inside her. She felt like a glass jar full of expanding stones, transparent, about to crack open. When she opened her eyes again the three of them were staring at her. She hated them.

  They could feel it.

  89

  T. D. Jr.

  T. D. Jr. sharpened another pencil. Since the delta he had found it impossible to relax. His nerves bristled like quills. A twitch had developed deep in his chest. He tried to blame his condition on the No See’ums, but his problem was far too complicated to be the handiwork of invisible bugs and he knew it. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. He wanted to speed the situation with Taya and Buckdown and his father toward resolution but couldn’t decide where to begin. His father and Buckdown argued and plotted by themselves. Taya walked the beaches alone or brooded in her room. No one would talk to him. He felt left out.

  In desperation he tried to work. Mornings, he scouted the various hills for appropriate angles from which to daguerreotype the bay but found that he couldn’t concentrate. Most afternoons found him in Cargo West, shouting broken sentences at anyone, with the exception of Pierre Wallingsford, who happened to be at the bar. He got so rude that Wild Emma warned him to leave the other customers alone or risk being persona non grata at the bar. He quieted down but began drinking heavily to show her who was boss. He slashed hysterical line drawings into his sketchbooks, breaking pencils, waiting for resolve.

  90

  Fatherhood

  Slant and Buckdown never settled the question of who Taya’s father was. It was impossible to tell. She looked a little like both of them. Her skin was very clear, deep, and smooth like Buckdown’s. Her hands were slender, almost elegant, like Slant’s. But in looking vaguely like both of them, she looked like neither of them. They both thought she looked like her mother. High cheekbones, larger eyes perhaps, but the same rich, black hair and full, round mouth. And now that she was nine-months pregnant, she seemed so soft and rounded and yet so very slender, like her mother had looked carrying her. But she had no father.

  Both Buckdown and Slant were sure it was the other guy. They each figured that if she were his daughter, he would know it. Just know it somehow, and neither did. But they didn’t want to know. It was more comfortable for them both that way. It was perhaps the only way that either man could make his separate peace with the memory of her mother.

  91

  Joaquin Peach

  When it came to questions of fatherhood, it turned out that Joaquin Peach had more character than Slant and Buckdown combined. When he was told that his favorite little Worm Eater at Cargo West was pregnant, he naturally assumed that she was carrying his child. And instead of ignoring her, he surprised everyone by stomping into Cargo West and buying her from Wild Emma. The men at the bar thought it was a big joke, but Peach was serious. He took her shopping and then had Richardson ferry them back to his new house at Benicia. It had nothing to do with love, Peach told himself, although he would surely love his son. It was a matter of birthrights.

  When they stepped ashore at Benicia he told her that he would name the child after Pizarro. She smiled. She had no idea who Pizarro was but was very happy to get away from Cargo West. She determined to make Peach happy. Perhaps some day she would tell him about the strange Mormon. His visits had been her only pleasure at Cargo West, even if she was not sure of the meaning of the strange eye that stared at her through the ceiling whenever the Mormon had come to call.

  Much to Peach’s surprise, he found her mysterious and interesting and pleasant to have around. She cooked for him and mended his clothes and was careful to clean things up or make things messy as he preferred. Christmas was coming and she seemed to add the appropriate warmth to his house, even though she was a pagan. He said that she was perfect for now, that he had started his line with her and that was all that mattered.

  92

  Zorro

  Although it is not clear when and where Zorro and His Own Ghost got together, they must have. How else to explain Zorro’s new style? When Taya came upon the old folk hero on the western slope of Telegraph Hill, he was on his hands and knees, helping field rodents repair some collapsed burrows; and gone were his swashbuckling black silks, replaced by bits of foliage and animal parts of the sort favored by His Own Ghost.

  You’ve changed, Taya said.

  So have you, Zorro told her. Which one did you wind up marrying?

  No marriages.

  Then you’d better marry me, Zorro said.

  It was outrageous, to be sure, but then up until now no one had bothered to ask her. She wasn’t about to marry anybody. That’s not the kind of a girl she was. But it was, finally, rather nice to be asked.

  That’s nice, Taya said, but no.

  Why not? I live with the animals now. You’d like it.

  Taya explained that it would be better if they were just real good friends. And, as seldom happens, from that point on they were.

  TWENTY-THREE

  93

  Christmas Cheer

  The Christmas celebration at Cargo West lasted three days. It was a mass drunk. Wild Emma hung pine boughs from the ceiling and the smell of fresh pitch mixed pleasantly with the stink of brandy and tobacco smoke. At one point a food fight erupted and chunks of smoked goose, bits of anchovy sauce, and bread pudding flew across the room and spattered the walls. Buckdown got drunk for the first time in sixteen years and tried to deliver a sermon relating to the spiritual life of animals. He was hooted down. The pilot contingent of Pierre Wallingsford’s French whores had finally arrived from New Orleans and wound up giving it away. T. D. Jr. slumped in a corner, his head lolling, and blithered odd bits of esthetic theory at the customers. Even old Money Balls joined the festivities.

  In the end, the celebrants heaped together in a tangle on the floor and commenced to amuse themselves in a most unearthly howling. According to eyewitness accounts, some growled like dogs while others roared like bulls. A few hissed like snakes. But most had crossed into a state of debauchery where they could imitate nothing save their own animalized selves. Taya was not amused.

  She resented their fun, their celebration of their own blind humanity. The child was very close now. She felt it kicking out the cadence of a wasted life, her life, aged and gone joyless, made hopeless by the unwanted little shit she carried inside her. She walked along the bay, watching the water birds, aching to fly out of herself, to get away. She felt the closeness of life like a heavy suffocating blanket. Hers was a bitter and finite despair with the cycle of life itself.

  In the dunes, she would lie on her back and scoop the cold sand up over herself in a mock burial. Then, tightening her body like a coil, she felt the vibrations of the two hearts beating inside her and screamed in angry bursts until her throat ached.

  Noel! Noel!

  94

  A Strang
e Worm Eater

  Shaboom scanned the bay. Two gunships with stars and stripes drooping over their taffrails lay side by side off San Francisco. He could see men in striped jerseys moving about their decks like blue and white ants. Three seagoing merchant vessels of questionable registry creaked in the tide closer to the mud flats. They were visited constantly by an array of rafts and cargo skiffs. The same old view.

  Shaboom moved to a spot on the ridge where he could see the mouth of the bay. His heart jumped. Finally, it was the Eagle. He shouted to the Burgetts. They watched the handsome vessel run smoothly into the bay, her sails snapping in the crosswinds. Shaboom pointed with glee to raking masts, obviously set for speed, her brass capstan heads and bells glinting in the sun, her mahogany rails sturdy and elegant. He jumped up and down with anticipation. It was time to move.

  He decided that Millard could handle Richardson and whoever had to be dealt with once they crossed the bay. He would go along, of course, but disguised as Millard’s Worm Eater, to avoid close scrutiny. Galon was in no condition to move unless it was absolutely necessary, so he would stay with the gold. Shaboom explained his plan, then took off all his clothes and rolled in the dirt. He then threw a crusty deerskin over his head and told Millard to lead him to Richardson’s dock.

  It worked. Richardson fell for the disguise so completely that he insisted Shaboom help out his own Worm Eaters with the pull across the bay. Shaboom blistered his hands on one of the starboard oars, while Richardson talked about the weather and advised Millard that he could find whatever he was looking for at Cargo West.

  The purchase of passage for three to the Orient on the Eagle, to sail in ten days, was accomplished without incident that afternoon by Millard, who slyly booked himself round trip. He made the arrangements over brandy at Larkin’s table at Cargo West with few questions asked. Larkin thought Millard’s name was familiar but he couldn’t place it. Old T. D. Slant could have refreshed his memory, of course, had he not been arguing with Buckdown on the floor above.

  Since business was light at that time of day, Millard’s Worm Eater was allowed to accompany his master in the bar, as long as he squatted unobtrusively under the table, which suited Shaboom perfectly. He could hear everything without being noticed, or so he thought until he peeked out between Millard’s knees and saw a nervous young man studying him from the bar.

  It was T. D. Jr., passing yet another day with his sketch pad, anticipating the arrival of the supplies he had ordered through Larkin and brooding over Taya’s refusal to let him comfort her. It is hard to say what he would have done had he known the identity of the man he saw dealing with Larkin. As it was, T. D. Jr. ignored him and concentrated on the peculiar figure under the table, fascinated by the flat round face with the slit eyes. Not your average Worm Eater, in spite of the familiar posture. T. D. Jr. sketched him emerging from a dark background as if from a cave.

  Shaboom was unnerved by T. D. Jr.’s focused attention and yanked at Millard’s pants legs. Millard understood and stood up, dropping several gold nuggets in front of Larkin as a deposit.

  Where’d you get these?

  Working for Sutter, Millard told him.

  But before Larkin could make further inquiries, Millard had led Shaboom out the door to find Richardson.

  Their passage back to Sausalito was choppy but uneventful. Shaboom pulled at his oar among the silent Worm Eaters and popped all the blisters he had developed that morning. Yet he barely felt the pain, preoccupied as he was by the possible motives of that crazy young man at the bar.

  Millard meanwhile sat confidently in the bow, pleased that all had gone well. He figured that everything had been taken care of without raising suspicion, and he reflected upon his new intelligence. He enjoyed being smarter than he had been before; too bad he wasn’t quite as smart as he thought he was.

  Larkin was naturally suspicious as hell. As soon as he had examined the nuggets, he sent one of the perfect Worm Eaters to fetch Joaquin Peach. When Peach came to him the next day, Larkin dispatched him to Sutter with a message on a piece of cloth wrapped around one of the larger nuggets like a fist.

  The message was to come at once.

  95

  Sewey

  There are some men who circle the edges of civilization like scavengers, men who by their existence alone spew the anguish of everyday survival over the collective consciousness of everybody else. They view life as a dirty joke and lurk the frontiers delivering punch lines of rancid sex and violence. Josiah Sewey, as we have already seen, was such a man, and at Benicia his psychopathy erupted once again.

  He arrived late in the afternoon. A pregnant Worm Eater was sitting in front of the house mending a pair of Joaquin Peach’s billowing white pants. Sewey could hear her humming on the cool breeze coming in off the water. He had not used any of his Worm Eaters since he had paid off the half-breeds with them at Vallejo’s Petaluma Adobe. They had seemed dirty and boring to him since then. The Worm Eater he saw before him in the late afternoon sun, however, was different. She looked good to him. He pushed his Worm Eaters up to the house and inquired about something to eat.

  She nodded and pointed to the string. She knew where they were headed. She had arrived at Cargo West the same way. How long ago she wasn’t sure. Could she give them something to eat, too?

  Sewey didn’t answer. While she went ahead and prepared some food, he prowled silently through the house. He found no signs of her master, no guns, and decided she was alone. He returned to the porch and waited for her to serve him.

  After he had eaten, she asked for payment. He laughed and unbuttoned his pants. She hit him in the shoulder with the pot she had served him from and ran into the house. He cursed and followed her, rubbing his shoulder.

  Time passed in brutal slapstick. He chased her about the kitchen. She hurled pots and cups at him. He swatted them away and grabbed at her clothes. She turned furniture over in front of him. He slapped her face. She screamed for help. His Worm Eaters watched from the doorway. She yelled that if they would help her kill him they would be free. He shouted that he would kill them all.

  He caught her by the hand and smashed at her face. She dropped to the floor and he fell heavily on top of her. The suddenly his Worm Eaters, still tied together, came up behind him and began beating on his back. She came to beneath him and clawed at his eyes.

  He exploded in rage. With a roaring heave, he threw them from his back and leaped to his feet, stomping down over and over with his heavy boot. Her face split open like a melon. He spit and turned to his Worm Eaters. They were crying hysterically, trying to run. He caught their rope and yanked. They fell and he dragged them screaming outside.

  He beat them and then staked them spread-eagle on the ground. He wanted to fuck them all but his limp cock would not rise. He ranted that they were to blame and fucked them with his rifle. He rammed the cold barrel into them one after another until they began to pass out, and then he climaxed into each with a squeeze of the trigger.

  When he was finished, the moon had risen. He felt better. He looked down and saw his cock finally rising erect in the silver light.

  96

  Taya

  Across the bay Taya prepared herself for the birth of the child by thinking about death. Buckdown had suggested it, telling her to smile at the inevitable and try to see the circles in the sky. Turn, turn, turn, and all that. Seasons, rebirth, dogs fighting and fucking in the night streets under her window. She saw the crescent moon, a lunatic death-smile pinned to a black sky hanging over the bay like a tarp.

  Moon, she said, it is not fair.

  Of course not, said the moon, grinning at her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  97

  The Hounds

  The new year cracked open like a broken mirror. Another celebration had taken place at Cargo West and even lower-minded debauches occurred at less prestigious establishments. The entire population of San Francisco wandered irritably through the muddy streets, bumping and jostling into each
other as if gone sightless in their communal hangover. Tempers flashed. Duels and vendettas, muggings and more obvious assaults mixed in a frenzy of general bad manners. Heroes, if there had ever been any, went into hiding and the Hounds were born.

  A fraternity of sorts, the Hounds organized with the declared purpose of assisting each other in sickness or when shortage or peril threatened any of their number. The result, of course, was a gang of public robbers. They affected uniforms, principally a sleeveless canvas jacket or vest with copulating dogs crudely sketched on the back, and pretended to be governed by a kind of military discipline. On the first Sunday of the new year, they paraded the streets in the name of law and order, and then spent the following day in the tents of inoffensive newcomers, extorting whatever the unfortunates had of value.

  Word of the Hounds spread fast, coming to Sewey as he rounded the southern tip of the bay. It was interesting news. After he settled with Wild Emma he might just join up. He smiled at the future, the options.

  Brannan, meanwhile, was worried as hell. The Hounds, he told Slant, could turn into a serious threat to law and order. And worse, suppose they were secretly working for Sutter, instigated by him to give San Francisco a bad name, while Benicia beckoned to newcomers like a peaceful nest from across the bay. The value of real estate could drop, Brannan cried, his real estate.