Improbable Fortunes

by Jeffrey Price

  Around two in the morning, Mallomar found himself in a disturbing dream. He was looking at the elk through his rifle’s crosshairs. There was a report, and the elk teetered and fell. A knife came into view and cut from its sternum down to its pelvis. The intestines, stomach, and liver were removed. Finally, the heart was wrenched free and held up in bloody hands. The elk, despite its vivisection, lifted its mighty head. But it was not the elk’s face he saw, but his own. If this elk is me, he wondered, who’s doing the cutting? Then he recognized the wedding ring that he had purchased in Johannesburg on the hand that was holding his heart.

  “Why are you doing this to me, Dana?”

  “This is what you get for enforcing the pre-nup.”

  “But I haven’t divorced you!”

  “No, but you’re thinking about it.”

  “That’s not true. I love you.”

  “We can’t have children.”

  “I never held that against you.”

  “Marvin, did you ever think it could be you that couldn’t have children?”

  “It couldn’t be me. I knocked up my girlfriend in college, for chrissake!”

  “Really? Let’s just take a look at your penis, then.” And with that, Dana took her drop point knife and started separating Mallomar’s genitalia from its abdominal fascia.

  A sharp pain radiated from Mallomar’s groin all the way to his feet. He moaned in agony. This monstrous hate! What had he done to deserve it? Then, as his mind swam to the surface of consciousness, he realized that the pain he was feeling was real. He reached down with his hand and felt fur. An animal was inside his sleeping bag biting his testicles—testicles that had been inadvertently flavored with the artificial cheese seasoning from Pepperidge Farm goldfish. Mallomar let out a scream so high-pitched that Buster, sleeping next to him, almost wet himself.

  “Oh my God, she’s killing me!”

  Buster jumped out of his bedroll and clicked on his flashlight. All hell was breaking loose at the foot of Mallomar’s sleeping bag. Buster grabbed it with his big hands and pinched it off. Mallomar, quaking and blubbering, slipped out of the bag and quickly put on his boxers and boots. Buster looked at the screeching lump that he held at arm’s length. He considered smacking it on a rock, but thought better of it. It was Buster’s rule to never kill anything he wasn’t prepared to eat. So he walked the sleeping bag away from camp and released the bottleneck. An aggravated pine martin—a cat-sized cousin of the weasel emerged, hissed at him then scurried up a blue spruce releasing a shelf of snow from a bough that fell on Buster’s head as a final insult.

  Buster sprinkled white gas on some damp wood and got a fire going, while Mallomar, hands trembling, uncorked his whiskey and took a long pull.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mallomar said after he had calmed down and dried his eyes.

  “Mr. Mallomar, dint ah tell ya not to bring any food in the tent?”

  “You did. But I was hungry.”

  “Ah guess so was that pine martin.”

  “That’s what that little fucker was? I’m lucky I still have my balls.”

  “Yeah, and one of ’ems not in such great shape,” Buster said, gesturing to one of Mallomar’s abraded testicles that was hanging errantly from his shorts.

  Mallomar finally saw the humor in all this and gave a wheezy chuckle.

  “I’m going to dine out on this story for the rest of my life!”

  “If it were possible to ‘dine out’ on all the dumb things ah done in my life, ah could jes quit workin’ entahrly.”

  He passed Buster a tin cup that was filled to the top with whiskey, but Buster thought one of them should be sober and demurred.

  “A pine martin.”

  “Yep.”

  Mallomar shook his head and then got very serious. “My wife and I are having some problems. I’m probably the one to blame. She’s very sensitive to the world. Me, I’m like a horse.”

  Jiminy, that’s not true, Buster only thought, but didn’t say. Mallomar was as complicated and delicate as a Swiss chronograph that had mechanisms for the day, the date, the tides, the phase of the moon, and five different time zones.

  “Goddamn! Life’s problematical, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a booger, Mr. Mallomar.”

  “I had this crazy notion that if I came out here and got rid of all the crap…separated the wheat from the chaff so to speak, I’d…” Then he trailed off without finishing his thought. “Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you never mentioned me crying to anyone.”

  “As far as ah’m concerned, you were cryin’ outta happiness,” Buster assured.

  “Goddamn pine martin,” Mallomar said once again.

  They sat quietly for a while. Buster caught a glimpse of Mallomar staring at him from across the fire.

  “You know, for some crazy reason, I honestly believe that you and I were meant to meet.”

  Buster kept a straight face and looked at the big cup of whiskey now in Mallomar’s hand. He wondered whether his client was capable of pulling off some kind of funny business. He decided to eliminate the alcohol part of the program.

  “Ah’ll jes stow this here bottle of whiskey away, Mr. Mallomar. Shame if a body stumbelt ov’r it in the night and cut a toe or somethin’.” Mallomar was watching him intently.

  “Ever hear of a place on Lame Horse Mesa called the Puster Ranch?”

  “Yessir.” The lack of enthusiasm on Buster’s part was telling.

  “Not a very good place?”

  “Well, ah really don’t want to speak ill of the place, considerin’ how poor ol’ Mr. Puster had to give ’er up.”

  “But you don’t think too highly of the place…”

  “It’s easy to lean back in the saddle and critic-size another feller’s effirts…when you don’t know how you woulda done.”

  “I get it. You don’t want to shitcan another man’s deal. Hey, if it will ease your mind, Mr. and Mrs. Puster are living in a million-dollar house in Naples, Florida—so I wouldn’t get too choked up about poor ol’ Mr. and Mrs. Puster.”

  “They live down in Florida?”

  “On the beach, baby.”

  Buster reconsidered the situation, not stopping to ask how Mr. Mallomar knew that.

  “Well, he was a nice man and all, but ah caint say Mr. Puster was much of a rancher. Fact is, the place when I saw it, was a damn fallin’ down wreck. Anythin’ that ever give out was dropped from the hand right where it broke!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And ’nother thing…people get all gooey-eyed when they see all that sagebrush. Fact is, when you have that much of the dang stuff, it means the place’s been over-grazed. It ain’t fit to feed anythin’ on ’cept mule deer.”

  “It’s not, is it?”

  “No, it ain’t. And that ain’t the worst thing about that place.”

  “I’ll bet it’s not.” Mallomar was looking like he couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit in.

  “There aint no water ’cept a little creek that runs dry by June. The last well they dug out there—they had to go down twenty-five hundred feet—cost ’em thirty thousand dollars. Water didn’t last a year!”

  “You make it seem like the place’s a complete loss…”

  “Well, ah wouldn’t go as far as that,” Buster said, now thinking he was some kind of genius. “See, they never changed anythin’ up there for over a hunnert years. A lot of these ranchers ’round here…they get onto one thing and they just stick with it and ride it into the ground. The sorry fact is thar too ig-or-ant ’n’ stubborn ta try anythin’ new.”

  “So, what would you do?”Buster stroked his chin pretending like he was thinking about it for the first time.

  “Well, first off, ah’d hire a bunch of kids to come up thar and pick up ev’r piece of scrap, ev’r piece of junk that’s layin’ around
thar…haul it off in thar own trucks—wouldn’t even have to pay for a dumpster. Then ah’d bush hog the sage and get one of them Forest Service fellas to put me in their Native Grass Seed Program—the government’s kind enuff ta give ya money for sech things. And once that grass come in, well sir, that’s when ah’d start me a cattle ranch.”

  “Well, Buster, I believe you’ve got yourself a good plan. I think you should implement it.”

  “Sir, that ain’t gonna be posserbull, some dang fool bought the place for five million dollars!”

  “Yeah…that was me,” said Mallomar, staring into the fire. Buster’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, Mr. Mallomar, please fergive me, sir. Me and my big dang mouth…”

  “No, you had it right. I am a damn fool for buying that place. I had some stupid idea about simplifying my life…”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that, ah guess…”

  “But what the hell do I know about ranching?” They both sat and looked into the fire. “That’s why I need someone who knows as much as you do.”

  Buster had no clue that Mallomar was guiding him ever so slowly into his dilapidated barn.

  “That’s prolly a good place to start. Git yourself a good foreman.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so much of a goddamn disaster if I get myself a good foreman. You’re right.”

  They sat and stared into the fire a few minutes more.

  “Say, why don’t you be my foreman?”

  “Aw, shucks, Mr. Mallomar, ah don’t reckon ah could do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah never done nuthin’ like that before. Allus worked for a foreman.”

  “You’ve got great ideas…so it can’t be you don’t think you’re smart enough.”

  “Well, thank you, sir, but a lot of people ’round here might disergree with you on that one.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what people around here think. And here’s a tip. If you want to get anywhere in life, neither should you.”

  “Ah’m pretty comferbull in the sich-eee-a-shun ah got right now,” Buster said unconvincingly.

  “Which is what?”

  “Well, nothin’ raht now, but…”

  “If you helped me turn that ranch into something, I’d be willing to pay you seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  Buster sat up. Seventy-five thousand! That was unheard of. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d be taking advantage of Mallomar at that kind of wage. On the other hand, the way Mallomar had been so sanguine about being taken for a ride on the Puster deal, Buster had the impression that no matter how hard Mallomar tried to get rid of his money, it would just keep sprouting back up like the hair on a woman’s legs.

  “Ah gotta be honest, Mr. Mallomar. You could find a lot of fellers ’round here that would do that job for a lot less.”

  “That’s true. But they’re not you. Five minutes ago you just gave me the whole operational plan—for free. Why should I trust anybody else?”

  “That beats me…”

  “Let me put it another way. I’m going to give that ranch two years to pay its own way. If it’s not self-sustaining by then, I’m dumping. And who’s going to buy it? Someone who can get their money back by carving it into thirty-five acre ranchettes. Is that what you want to see happen out there? Or would you like to see the ranch kept intact?”

  “Intack, ah guess, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Ah jes never thought a mysef as a foreman of a ranch and sech.”

  “I guess you’re holding out for an offer to run General Electric or something.”

  “No, sir. Ah dint mean it like that…”

  “Or maybe you don’t like me. You wouldn’t be the first person I rubbed the wrong way…”

  “Naw, ah like you fahn.”

  “Then what’s stopping you from taking advantage of a gigantic opportunity for yourself?”

  “Ah’ll be honest with you, Mr. Mallomar. Ah was kinda hopin’ to have a ranch of my own some day.”

  “How did you plan on paying for your ranch? Don’t you need money? How can you make money if you don’t want to work for someone?”

  Buster’s hands were shaking. He was not in Mallomar’s negotiating league. He haggled for a saddle once and wound up paying more for it than the original asking price.

  “How’s this? We build in a performance bonus of a hundred grand if you can get this place into the black in two years.” That sounded pretty good, even though Buster did not know what “in the black” meant.

  “Mr. Mallomar, ah ain’t a smart man. But, ah’m smart enough to know that ain’t a good deal for you.”

  “We’re in uncharted altruistic waters here, I admit. So do we have a deal?

  Mallomar reached across the fire to shake Buster’s hand. Was that the one that he used to touch his testicles?

  The image of Destiny having sex with Cord Travesty popped out of the fire and then crackled into the night air. Buster knew he could never win her back unless he proved himself in some way that captured the Stumplehorst’s imaginations. Or, he could remain just another cowboy sitting at the High Grade bar complaining about his boss and the way the world had gone to shit.

  “Well, okay… You got yorself a dang foreman.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Big Dog

  Before the ground could harden, construction of what was to be the Mallomar Residence began. Mallomar was serious about leading the minimalist lifestyle that he so admired about his new foreman, Buster. So in earnest was he, that he divested himself of all his worldly possessions. Various Catholic and Jewish resale agencies came to his Fifth Avenue apartment and collected all of his and his wife’s expensive clothing. Sotheby’s was called as well. They catalogued and crated all of the Mallomar’s paintings (twentieth century landscape through WPA), their silver service collections (English and French), their antique glass collections (Tiffany and Lalique), rare watches, Biedermeier furniture, Pahlavi rugs, and all of Mrs. Mallomar’s fine jewelry that she had received as birthday and anniversary presents over the years. Unfortunately Mrs. Mallomar was not present to share the joy of unburdening. She had had a setback with her drinking. Her five bouts of rehab clinic having failed, this time she was sent to an ashram in Fish Kill.

  The original concept of the new dwelling was to gut the old Puster ranch house, lift it up off the ground and set it back on a concrete foundation. The new basement, dug out of rock, would radiate a steady temperature of fifty-seven degrees—substantially reducing energy consumption. Native stone and salvaged barn wood was to be used in the interiors. The plans called for a modest kitchen with old-fashioned linoleum floors and two nice bathrooms with matching soaking tubs. Mallomar insisted that no modern telecommunication devices be present on the premises and had the interior designer comb the area’s antique stores to find old black rotary telephones. This was the house where Mallomar and Mrs. Mallomar would finally be able to get in touch with their real selves.

  For a while, Mallomar even toyed with the idea of going without electricity. But his resolve to live his life with simplicity was worn down by his Aspen architect’s resolve to have something to show in the upcoming “Ranch Edition” of Architectural Digest. He harangued Mallomar from morning till night with blueprints. Time and time again, he complained that Mallomar “wasn’t doing right by the site,” that putting a plebian house on a magnificent property was “cutting the legs off its resale value,” that for a renowned collector of art he was “missing the opportunity to create art himself.” The architect was relentless as the groundbreaking day approached. “Where were they going to put his office? Where was Dana’s yoga and workout room? Where was the home entertainment area going to go—with its twenty-five motorized leather seats, THX Surround, and its thirty-foot screen? Have you ever actually lived in a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house?” His
architect threatened to resign. “What you want is a kit house!” Mallomar blinked. By June, the simple plan had metastasized into forty thousand square feet with ten bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, a fully equipped gym, a gunroom, a fly-tying room, a state-of-the-art observatory with a computer-controlled telescope, and a four-thousand-square-foot Great Room modeled on the main dining area of the Ahwanee Hotel in Yosemite National Park.

  With quiet disapproval, Buster bulldozed the Puster ranch house and razed it on the following burn day. Realizing how much Mallomar was under the spell of his architect, Buster decided to plead his case to him. He mildly suggested to the architect that the barn and various faded, red outbuildings be saved for their “at-mo-spear.” Grudgingly, the architect agreed and told Mallomar he had an idea as to how to retain the historic ranch’s authenticity. Despite this small victory, the house became the talk of Vanadium’s Main Street, every day bringing a new rumor about a more outrageous Mallomar extravagance. Buster’s unease was compounded by the guff he was getting from cowboys in town who’d begun referring to him as Mr. Mallomar’s “caretaker”—a job title generally attributed to women. Mallomar could tell something was eating Buster and finally confronted him.

  “You don’t approve of this house. I get it.”

  “Mr. Mallomar, what you do ain’t none of my bidnis one way or ’nother.”

  “How much of your pay have you spent so far?”

  “Dang near none of it.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  Buster shrugged.

  “Ah got a place to sleep. You feed me…”

  “Isn’t there anything you want?”

  “A ranch. That’s what ah’m savin’ up for.”

  “But nothing other than that.”

  “Nope.”

  Mallomar started taking Buster’s frugality as a slight.

  “I’m picking up a moral superiority thing from you that I don’t like.”