The metal was heavy in my hand and I knew it was real. Someone a long time before had worked a ragged hole at the top of the coin to wear as a necklace. “What is it?”
“Dad says it’s a gold escudo, whatever that means.”
It was the first time I’d ever felt the need to own something. “How come you to have it?”
“I snitched it out of his sock drawer.”
Mark took the coin from my hand and weighed it in his palm. “How’d Uncle James get it?”
She glanced up at the house to make sure no one was coming down to check on us. “That snooty sonofabitch Bill Preston came into the hardware store to get some building materials for that house he’s having built not far from the river, about a mile from Palmer Lake. He traded Daddy what he owed for this. That feller said he’s been collecting gold for years, but he wouldn’t tell him nothin’ else. Daddy says he thinks it came from that treasure at Palmer Lake.”
I’d seen Bill Preston half a dozen times up at the store. He always wanted to pay with one of those Diner’s Club credit cards, but Neal Box wouldn’t take it. He insisted on cash. “I know him. Grandpa says he runs a Ford house out of Dallas.”
A wolf howled and we scooted toward the fire. I was already sweating like a pig before the fire collapsed and got hotter. I rubbed my finger over the gold eagle. The thought of a mule-train load of coins buried close by sent a tingle up my spine.
“Yeah, and Uncle Cody’s mad because he’s tearing up the land with a bulldozer he bought.” Mark fiddled with a strand of Pepper’s hair. “He’s pushed over fences that ain’t his and started cuttin’ roads through other people’s land that he calls easements. I heard Uncle Cody say Judge Rains’ already hauled him in for it, ’cause the way he’s doing it ain’t legal. He’s even killing trees somehow with poison. Said they’ll block his view to the river.”
I saw a blue-white flash as my Poisoned Gift flared to life—dreams and visions that haunted me at night, and sometimes came true during the day, but they weren’t clear enough that I could figure them out.
For a second we weren’t in a pasture, but in a wide meadow full of grass lit by a full moon above. A glittering golden stream of mist drifted down on a house perched on a ridge lined with crying skeletons standing in the yard, holding bony fingers toward the sky.
The vision went away as quick as it appeared, leaving me tired and empty inside. Neither of them noticed what happened. My mouth was dry and I had to work up some spit before I could talk. “Well…” I stopped when my voice broke and I waited to get hold of myself.
“You’re voice is cracking!” Pepper pointed and laughed. “That means your balls are gonna drop soon.”
“Hey!” Mark shoved her shoulder, but lightly. “I don’t want to hear that.”
I sure didn’t want to get into that discussion with my girl cousin. The psychedelic, space-age lead into “Reflections” by Diana Ross and the Supremes came on and sounded like robots, or that TV show Lost in Space, at the same time a wolf’s howl filled the air, much closer than before.
Another wolf joined in and they took to fighting and snarling, just beyond the edge of the firelight. One of ’em choked on an ear, or maybe a mouthful of hair, and belted out a hyena laugh.
“I’m done.” Pepper snatched the coin from my hand and took off toward the house.
“Good idea.” I followed her and Mark wasn’t much behind me as we sprinted toward the house.
Chapter Five
That same Saturday night, Mr. Green sat at the round table in the Howard Johnson’s motel room he shared with Mr. Brown. The Austin traffic outside was muffled by The Wild Wild West on the color television. Moisture cloaked the Texas capital in a wet blanket of heat and humidity that poured like a river from the Gulf Coast, and the government agents were enjoying the motel room with refrigerated air.
Mr. Green plucked a pack of Camels from the pocket of his white shirt, shook one out, and fired it up. His tie was off and both sleeves were rolled up. He was on his third pack of the day, one up from his usual two. “We may have a problem.”
Wearing nothing but a sleeveless undershirt and suit pants, Mr. Brown kicked off his shoes and leaned back against the wooden headboard screwed to the wall. The motel’s neon lights illuminated the full parking lot and empty swimming pool in the center. “You looked like you were going to puke back there at that airstrip.”
Mr. Green didn’t take his eyes from the snowy picture on the screen. “Got too hot.”
“It wasn’t that hot.”
“I was.” Mr. Green wiped at the side of his crewcut and tapped the ash off the cigarette. “I can’t stand this humidity. Remember, I’m from the Pacific coast, where it’s cool. Look, you think that pilot’s going to stay quiet?”
“He won’t talk.”
“How do you know that for sure?”
“I grew up around people like that.” Mt. Brown switched over to an authentic Texas accent. “He gimme his word and he’ll keep it, ’sides, them two stacks of cash’ll keep ’im quiet.”
“Wow! That’s great. I always thought you were from the Midwest by the way you speak.”
Mr. Brown realized he’d made a mistake and revealed a tiny bit of his past. It was bad business to do that, even though he knew more about Mr. Green’s own history than he’d like. “I meant farm people.”
“I always figured you for a city boy.”
“It doesn’t matter where I’m from. I lived close enough to the country to know those people. He’ll also feel guilty for taking the money from the government, tax-free.”
“If you follow that line of thinking, he might feel guilty for more than that. Both nozzles were dented. I saw it when I took them off. Not much, but a little. That brass is soft and it looks like something hit them.”
Mr. Brown tucked his chin into his chest in thought. “You didn’t say anything back there.”
“I had to think about it.”
“You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“He’d monkeyed with the sprayer. That worries me.”
“Maybe they were like that when you installed them.”
“Nope. He did something after he left.”
“That means he landed somewhere.”
Mr. Green blew two streams of smoke through his nose that looked a lot like the vapor that flowed from the plane’s nozzles. He dug under one fingernail with the other and examined the results. “Why do you think he’d do that?”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Brown plucked a bottle of Scotch off the nightstand. He poured two fingers into the water glass from the bathroom, added ice, and swallowed half. “Don’t say anything about it.”
“I don’t intend to. I got some on my hands.” His voice broke and he held them up as if to offer proof and maybe find some sympathy. “Look, I know the people we work for, and this scares me.”
Mr. Brown lit a Lucky, and crossed his sock feet. He balanced an ashtray on his lap to keep both hands free to handle the Scotch and cigarette. “They said it’s nothing but water with—what did they call it?—a benign bacteria. Marcus says we already have those bacteria in us. A little extra shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sure. That’s why they gave us those gloves and the lined boxes.”
“You use them?”
“I did, but there was a tear in one finger that I didn’t notice until it was too late.” Mr. Green’s chin quivered. “Do you think it’s safe, like they said?”
Mr. Brown drew a lungful of smoke. “Relax. We have to believe those eggheads, but the truth is I believe these damn things’ll kill us long before anything in those tanks will.”
Mr. Green took a long drag and blew smoke at the swag lamp hanging over the table. “You’re right. We’ll all die of something, sooner or later.” He attempted a sarcastic laugh that dissolved into a wet, phlemy cough.
“Yep,
and if they find out we’re building our own retirement plan, it’ll be sooner.” Mr. Brown pondered a valise sitting on the floor beside the television stand, thinking about the unused ten thousand dollars he’d split with his partner.
Chapter Six
On Monday, the cotton town of Chisum baked in the hot sun that was breaking all records for that time of year. The chuckling marble fountain in the town square pumped warm water that did nothing but hint at refreshment. Heat waves shimmered above the streets.
Texas weather could change in a matter of hours, and late fall was the worst. It was still nothing for the temperature to reach near triple digits and cause the whole town to look toward the north, waiting for the first blue norther of the year.
An old gentleman carrying a battered suitcase pulled the Woolworth’s glass door open. His black Stetson, dark coat, and faded Wrangler jeans were unusual for northeast Texas. The brass bell jangled as he entered the cool five-and-dime that smelled of plastic, cosmetics, astringents, with a touch of Pine-Sol.
The ceiling above was the original stamped-tin panels. The wooden floor creaked underfoot. On the left-hand side, a lunch counter ran the length of the building, paralleled by rows of cosmetics, toys, household items, and over-the-counter drugs and ending at a perpendicular aisle. It gave customers free access to turn down aisles at both ends of the store. The building was filled with an electric hum as ceiling fans moved the refrigerated air.
Helen Humberstone glanced up from behind the red and white Coca-Cola fountain and watched him pass the row of red vinyl stools with surprising ease for his age. His back was ramrod straight, evidence that he’d not lived a life of stoop labor like so many of the farmers from outside of Chisum.
The Beach Boys’ “California Girls” came through the tinny Bakelite radio on a shelf behind the counter as Helen constructed a Coke float. The old man took the last seat under the lighted plastic Dr Pepper sign at the far end of the counter. She recognized most of the old-timers in town, but the man in the dark sport coat was a complete stranger.
He tilted the cowboy hat back to reveal a lock of white hair. Smoothing a thick, well-trimmed gray mustache with one finger, he folded his hands on the Formica counter and began reading the menu board secured above two shelves full of plain off-white cafeteria plates. After a moment, he glanced down and studied a pasteboard menu with the daily specials.
The waitress slid the finished drink in front of a businessman at the end near the doors. He pulled the frosty glass close. “Thank you, Helen. This’ll sure perk up a pretty sorry Monday.”
“You’re welcome.” She winked and made her easy way toward the stranger, wiping her hands on a damp rag. She leaned her elbows on the counter, refolding the rag. “How-do. Looks like we have a new sheriff in this hot town. Can I get you a coke with lots of ice?”
His eyes were bright, promising mischief. They flicked to her beehive hairdo. “What kind do you have?”
“Co-Cola, on the fountain. We got Dr Pepper, RC, Sem’m-Up, Diet Rite, Big Red, and Fresca in the bottle.”
“I sure would like a grape Nehi.”
“Don’t got. Them I said is all we have.”
He nodded toward a two-foot-high glass dome covering round shelves full of sliced pie. “Well then, how about a piece of that coconut and a cup of coffee?”
“Hot coffee in this weather?”
“Down south they say it helps you feel cooler.”
“Down south?”
“In the Valley.”
“I don’t know about that.” Helen pulled an order pad close and plucked a pencil from behind her ear. Thinking, she drew a tiny tornado in one corner to start the flow of ink. Never been down there. “Pie and coffee. Comin’ right up.”
The white-haired man turned sideways on his stool, resting his right elbow on the counter. He watched a farmer in overalls leave a few coins on top of his check and walk into the bright sunshine. His eyes flicked through the large windows and rested on the Plaza marquee down the street, announcing the new Dean Martin western, 5 Card Stud.
Farther down the counter, a gray-haired woman shared a banana split with her grandson. The businessman with the Coke float checked his Timex and drew long and hard on the straw.
Helen returned with the pie. She slid an empty cup and saucer across the Formica and filled it. “Sugar’s right there. Here’s some cream.” Returning the pot to the burner, she leaned both elbows on the counter again and nudged the shot-size container toward his cup.
“Don’t need any sweetener, but thanks.”
She left it there and rested her chin on her hand. “So, you live here or just passing through?”
He cut a bite with the edge of his fork and chewed for a moment before swallowing. “I lived out in Center Springs here-while-back.” He blew across the surface of his coffee, cooling it.
“You got kinfolk around here?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yessum.”
Two scruffy men in their twenties came in under the jangling bell. Dressed in bell-bottoms, tie-dyed shirts, and worn-out sneakers, they split up. One with hair to his shoulders and long sideburns to his jawline veered toward the back. The blond sporting a wispy Fu Manchu mustache slouched onto the stool closest to the door. Despite the heat, he wore a denim vest with the sleeves cut off.
“Be back in a sec.” Helen pushed off from the counter to take the young man’s order. “What’ll it be?”
Fu Manchu barely glanced away from the door. “A coke.”
“What kind?”
He shrugged. “A Dr Pepper?”
“We only have it in the bottle. You okay with that?”
“Fine.”
“You want a straw?”
“Yes.”
“Your buddy want anything?”
His frustration was apparent. “I doubt it. Ask him your own- self.”
“Well, excuuuse me.” Helen opened the cooler and cold bottles rattled.
The old cowboy put down his fork. Taking another noisy sip of hot coffee, he watched the young man from under thick gray eyebrows. Between them and oblivious to everything except her grandson, the woman at the counter laughed and wiped chocolate syrup from the child’s face. She lit a cigarette, blew a cloud into the air, and rested it on a nearby glass ashtray.
As if it were a signal, Fu Manchu dug a crumpled pack of Camels from his jeans and lit one with a kitchen match scratched alight on his thumbnail. He cupped the flame between two hands, as if there was a breeze blowing in the building. His hands moved with the tiniest of shakes, and he waved the match out like it was soaked in kerosene.
The old man’s right eyebrow raised ever so slightly.
Helen returned. “Something wrong with the pie?”
He slid the half-empty cup toward her. “Not a thing. That much sweet stuff hurts my teeth, so I have to sneak up on it and eat a little at a time.”
“I don’t believe that.” Helen refilled his cup. “Them pearlies of yours look better than most that come in here. You either have great choppers, or they’re dentures. I bet you weren’t born in Lamar County. You don’t have the look.”
He tapped a tooth, the wrinkles in the corners of his smiling eyes grew deep. “They’re mine. Your daddy a lawman?”
Helen frowned in surprise. “No, why?”
“Just asking. Brother, granddaddy in that line of business?”
“Nope. You still ain’t said why you’re asking.”
“Because you’re inquisitive. Most little gals your age start conversations with their customers to flirt, but I’m too old.” The prominent crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes cut deep with smile. “So you’re just gen’ly nosey.”
Helen’s couldn’t decide whether to get mad or laugh. “I’m a waitress. I flirt with everybody.”
“Gets you better tips, huh?”
Get mad, or laug
h? “Sure does. Look, the reason I’m interested is that you’re sittin’ there in a hat, sport coat, jeans that ain’t Levis, and boots. You’re a whole ’nother animal for this part of the world.”
He watched the businessman finish his float and leave. “I’ve been told that before.”
She smiled, relaxed “So, you here on business, or visitin’ somebody?”
He laughed softly. “Yep.”
“My name’s Helen.”
“You can call me…Stranger.”
“Well, if you don’t beat all.” Helen rolled her eyes in fun and drifted down the counter to slide a check toward the grandmother. At the far end, Fu Manchu watched out the window. The bubbles from the carbonation pushed the paper straw high in the neck.
Stranger’s eyes took the measure of the counter as tense male voices rose two aisles over near the fabric section and ended abruptly. Ignoring his pie, the old cowboy slowly spun on the stool to face the door and Fu Manchu fiddling with his untouched Dr Pepper.
A soft yelp came from the manager’s office, accompanied by the sharp sound of breaking glass. Stranger put down his coffee cup. Resting his left foot on the floor, he twisted to look over his shoulder. Other than the radio and the grandmother whispering to her little one, the five-and-dime had gone quiet.
Stranger’s gray eyes flashed with lightning-bolt electricity. He tapped the edge of his pie plate with the fork to get the waitress’ attention. “Helen.”
Filling a glass at the fountain, she cut her eyes at him. “Yessir?”
His voice came low and steady. “Call the laws.”
“What?” She glanced around the store. “Why? What’s wrong?”
His voice whip-cracked with authority. “Call the laws right now!”
Helen’s face went white as a sheet at the order. She wheeled toward the pay phone.
The slap of running feet on polished tile broke the silence. Sideburns rounded the far end of the perpendicular aisle behind Stranger, charging past the display of hair curlers, brushes, and combs. “Go-go-go!”
Gold Dust Page 4
