by R. R. Irvine
O’Dell sat up. “They look like undertakers to me.”
“I saw two men in black suits at city hall,” Manwaring said.
“That’s them, two crows just waiting to peck our eyes out.”
Larsen shook his head. “They’re important men, vice presidents of Bonneville, and have the full backing of the town council.”
“So would I with that kind of money,” O’Dell said.
“This town’s been dying for years, Grady. You know that. Without Bonneville, we’re done for sure.”
O’Dell stood up, suddenly steady on his feet. “They can’t bring Lazarus back to life.” With that, he bowed to Vicki and walked out the door.
13
A FEW moments after the door closed behind Grady O’Dell, Vicki heard whoops of delight. She turned her head in time to see Jarvis and Grant ease away from the bar and head her way. Damn. She thought they’d left the place for good. At the moment both men were walking stiffly, like drunks trying to pass a sobriety test.
She glanced at Manwaring, who was eyeing Linda Fisher at the next table, or pretending to. Vicki swallowed her half-chewed mouthful and started to stand up, but too late. Jarvis and Grant dragged chairs away from an adjacent table and hemmed her in on both sides.
“Where’s Sir Galahad?” Jarvis asked.
“No poet to the rescue this time,” his cohort added sarcastically.
Manwaring, glimpsed out of the corner of Vicki’s eye, wore a forced smile.
“Mr. O’Dell has gone outside for some air,” Vicki said. “He’ll be right back.”
Jarvis pushed back his straw hat and grinned. “You see Norm there?” He pointed to another cowboy standing by the door. “He’s keeping lookout for us. What do you say, Norm?”
“The bastard’s long gone.”
“Why don’t you try calling him a bastard to his face?” she said.
“What’s going on, Vicki?” Manwaring asked.
Jarvis, who was on Vicki’s left, adjusted his chair until his back was to Manwaring. Grant moved too, closing in on Vicki until she could smell his whiskey breath.
Jarvis stretched his lips until his teeth showed. Seen up close, his eyes were so red they looked like they were about to bleed. “I say fuck Grady O’Dell.” He draped his arm across Vicki’s shoulder.
Manwaring stood up. So did Jarvis and Grant. Only then, seeing them side by side, did she realize just how big they were. Six-three at least, taller than Manwaring by several inches, not to mention outweighing him by fifty pounds apiece.
“I hear you’re her producer,” Jarvis said.
Manwaring nodded.
“Maybe you can settle an argument for us. I say that chink broad we see on the news is better-looking than your Mex. But my friend Grant here claims your Mex beats out the chink because she’s got a great mouth. A natural-born Mexican cock-sucker if he’s ever seen one, he says. What do you say?”
Vicki didn’t see the punch coming. One instant Manwaring was smiling, the next his fist slammed into Jarvis’s solar plexus. Jarvis gasped; his knees started to buckle. Manwaring hit him in the face. The impact of the blow knocked Jarvis onto Vicki’s lap. By the time she struggled out from under his dead weight, Manwaring was toe to toe with Grant, who looked happy to be restrained by Holland and Wilcox.
The bartender came running.
“Call the doctor,” Grant said.
“I’m calling the sheriff,” the bartender said.
Ten minutes later, when the pair had been taken away, Manwaring collapsed onto a chair. “Thank God I didn’t have to fight the second one. I think I broke my hand.”
Following the bartender’s directions, Vicki walked Manwaring down Main Street to Sheridan Avenue and turned right a block to Clark Street. Ellsworth’s small hospital, a converted Hoover bungalow actually, showed no sign of life except for a night light on the porch. She rang the bell twice before a woman appeared, wearing a bathrobe.
“Doctor is unavailable,” she said.
Manwaring held out his fast-swelling hand. The woman removed a pair of half-glasses from the pocket of her robe to get a better look. When she touched his fingers, Manwaring winced.
“Those look like teeth marks on your knuckles, young man. I can smell the drink on you, too. I suppose that means you got into a fight. I see the same thing every Saturday night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Human saliva is full of germs. You’re sure to get an infection if you don’t have that taken care of.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Vicki said, failing to keep impatience out of her voice.
“Maybe so, but like I said, Doctor isn’t here. He had to drive into Idaho Falls on personal business. He won’t be back until tomorrow noon.”
“Couldn’t you give him a shot of penicillin?”
“There’s tetanus to worry about, too,” the woman said. “I ought to know. I’m a nurse. But I can’t prescribe. Doctor has to see you first.”
“I think I’ve broken a bone,” Manwaring told her.
“You’ll need X-rays, then. Come back at noon tomorrow and we’ll take care of you.” The nurse smiled, somewhat maliciously Vicki thought. “In the meantime, wash that wound thoroughly.”
“Is there another doctor in town?” Vicki said.
“Only Dr. Wagstaff.”
“Are you talking about the deputy mayor?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s a veterinarian.”
The nurse smiled again. “Stacie’s the only other doctor we’ve got. She’s treated people before in emergencies.”
“Forget it.”
“Maybe you can give me something for the pain,” Manwaring said.
If she smiles one more time, Vicki thought, Manwaring won’t be the only one with a broken hand.
The woman clicked her tongue. “I should only give you aspirin, but judging by the looks of you, young man, you need something stronger. You wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
She left the door open and retreated inside. While they waited there on the front porch of the hospital, Vicki noticed how badly Manwaring was sweating despite night air cold enough to raise gooseflesh on her arms.
“I feel like I’m going to faint,” he said.
“You’ll have to wait till I get you back to the motel.”
Manwaring smiled around his clenched teeth.
Vicki took a deep breath. She’d never heard Manwaring complain before, even when he’d kept working right through a bout of pneumonia.
“I don’t expect you to fight for me,” she said.
“It was worth it.”
She was about to put an arm around him when the nurse returned carrying a paper cup full of water and a small white envelope. “There’s four Empirin and codeine in here. Take two now, and two again in four hours. I hope that will get you through the night.”
“Where does the veterinarian live?” Vicki asked.
“Out on Beaver Creek Road.” The nurse smiled and gave explicit directions.
14
IF VICKI hadn’t been warned to watch for a bright yellow Day-Glo mailbox, she’d have missed the turnoff. As it was, the sight of the rutted dirt road made her wonder if the nurse’s directions hadn’t been deliberately faulty.
A quarter of a mile later, she bumped to a stop in front of a six-foot chain-link fence. Beyond it stood a rambling ranch-style house, surrounded by lawn and illuminated by spotlights attached to the roof.
By the time Vicki opened the gate and parked in front of the house, dogs were barking frantically, though none were to be seen. The porch light came on and Stacie Wagstaff appeared in the doorway. She was barefooted, wearing cutoff jeans and a T-shirt that showed off the kind of perky nipples and heavy breasts that Vicki had prayed for during puberty. The veterinarian’s tousled hair gave the impression that she’d just gotten out of bed. Judging by the sudden interest in Manwaring’s eye, he’d like to join her there. Men were so predictable.
Be g
enerous, Vicki reminded herself. After all, he did break his hand in your defense.
“What’s wrong?” Stacie said.
“The doctor’s out of town,” Vicki answered. “His nurse sent us here.”
“Naomi Ashcroft loves her little jokes.”
Manwaring stuck out his injured hand. “Think of it as a paw.”
“First aid is as far as I’m willing to go, and I can’t charge you for that, because it would be unethical.”
Fifteen minutes later Manwaring’s hand had been disinfected and X-rayed.
“You have a cracked bone in your hand,” the veterinarian told him. “The same thing happened to me last year when a horse kicked me.”
The hand-me-down nylon cast she gave him was adjustable and fastened into place with Velcro straps. When she leaned over to attach it, those perky nipples of hers brushed Manwaring’s arm, bringing a look to his face that said her talents were wasted on dumb animals.
To keep from saying something obvious, Vicki stepped outside. The dogs, instead of barking, whimpered for company.
“Manwaring’s the one you want,” she said. “The sucker.” Even so, she went over to their fenced run and scratched the half-dozen noses thrust between the metal links.
The fence reminded Vicki of her first job in television. Chain-link security fencing, topped by barbed wire, had surrounded the station and even its parking lot. Getting past the guards required an ID badge, complete with laminated photo. Hers, she remembered, made her look very dark, so dark her mother was embarrassed.
“Now’s the time to change your name,” her mother had said. “You can pass for Anglo. Get another picture taken and change your name to Vicki Curtis. It would make me so proud to see my daughter, Vicki Curtis, on TV. I’ll change my name to match.”
Tears had filled her mother’s eyes. She’d dried them with a tissue plucked from the sleeve of her dress. She was a slender woman, who prided herself on not giving in to the tortilla and bean obesity that plagued most of her relatives. “It was your father’s idea that we should blend in and become Americans. So I ask you, what sounds more American than Curtis?”
“My father was a man of his word. The name Garcia meant something in this neighborhood.”
“We’re moving,” her mother said. “I was waiting for you to finish college and find work before selling the house.”
“Dad loved this place.”
“There are too many cholos moving into this neighborhood. Some as dark as niggers and no better than wetbacks.”
“Do you know why I got my job, Mother? Because my name’s Garcia. I fill their minority quota. They want me to learn Spanish in my spare time.”
“If we keep living around here, the cholos will teach you more than Spanish.”
“I’ll be getting my own apartment soon,” Vicki had said.
She turned away from the dogs, rubbing her eyes and remembering the look of betrayal on her mother’s face. Manwaring was standing on the porch watching her.
“Come on, Icky,” he called. “Get me back to the motel. I’m about ready to collapse.”
“Eccles is expecting you to call in,” she reminded him.
“You do it for me.”
“What about Reisner?”
“Call him, too.”
“You must be sick.”
“He will be if he doesn’t get some rest,” Stacie said, shooing them toward the car.
15
AT NOON the next day Vicki’s voice-over update, sandwiched between two sitcoms, reported that the fire was fifty percent contained. Aerial tankers were concentrating on hot spots in more remote areas of the Bitterroot mountains. Barring a major wind shift, Ellsworth was now out of danger.
As soon as she came off the air, Vicki unhooked her earpiece and followed Manwaring outside the up-link truck.
“Come on,” he said, cradling his injured hand, “Let’s get away from here for a few minutes.”
They hadn’t gone far down Main Street when the portable phone buzzed. Since Vicki was carrying it, she answered.
“I want you two in Los Angeles by tonight,” Reisner said.
“What about Manwaring’s hand?”
“He’ll live. Now put him on.”
Vicki handed Manwaring the phone. Rather than walk and talk at the same time, he settled onto the curb. Reluctantly, she joined him so she could listen in. They were two blocks from city hall, at the intersection of Main Street and Kamus Avenue, facing the Dairy Queen.
“Your story’s run out of steam,” Reisner said.
“I’ve got a broken bone,” Manwaring told him.
“Vicki said it was cracked.”
“Sorry,” she mouthed and turned away to stare up Main Street toward the Bitterroots. North, beyond the fire line that circled the town, the mountains were nothing but blackened mounds filled with the skeletons of pine, quaking aspen, and alder. To the south, the forest was untouched and no doubt responsible for the tangy fresh air that reminded Vicki of childhood picnics.
“Can Vicki hear me?” Reisner asked.
Vicki leaned against Manwaring’s shoulder. “Tell him that depends on what he has to say.” For the first time, she noticed a few gray hairs just above Manwaring’s ears.
“The Vice President is flying into L.A. tomorrow. It’s the usual kind of photo opportunity, a quick tour of the ghettos, followed by a promise of financial help, and a fund-raising dinner. I want Vicki with him in East L.A. Eccles has got an interpreter lined up so she can fake a little Spanish if necessary. Just before dinner, we’ve arranged a one-on-one interview at the Century Plaza, the kind of thing that can do wonders for your career.”
“For Vicki’s career, you mean,” Manwaring said.
“Just be there,” Reisner said.
“We’ve got a better story right here. If this fire turns out to be arson, that means a lot of people were murdered.”
“We can report that when someone’s arrested. Until then . . .”
“Sure, I know. When that happens, you’ll give it fifteen seconds of Lee Aarons with a map of Idaho superimposed behind him.”
“This is not a debate.”
Watch it, Vicki thought, recognizing something in Reisner’s voice. She’d heard it only once before, when he’d threatened to fire her for disregarding one of his arbitrary rules. She laid a restraining hand on Manwaring, who shook it off.
“Suit yourself.” She folded her arms. “I for one want to know if the Veep is the womanizer they say he is.”
“Give me another day,” Manwaring said. “Let me do a mop-up piece from Defiance. Vicki can speculate on the possibility of arson and its ramifications. We’ll be out of here before dark and in Idaho Falls in time to catch a red-eye to L.A.”
“Can you get someone to say it was definitely arson and murder on camera?”
“No problem.”
Vicki nudged him.
“I’ll give you this afternoon,” Reisner said. “But I want you covering the Vice President the moment he hits town. That’s seven A.M. tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll be there.”
Vicki sighed. Manwaring was at it again, testing the limits of Reisner’s rules. Each time he did it, he claimed to have expanded the parameters. I do it for future generation of field producers, he’d once told her. To see if we can get a little journalism into the show business of television. As to the truth of why he did it, Vicki used to think it was to impress her. Lately she wasn’t so certain.
“Picture this,” Manwaring went on, “the beauty of the primal forest contrasted with the devastation of Defiance. We can do slow fades. We can—”
“For Christ’s sake. You can stop the sales pitch.” Reisner hung up.
“Who are you going to get to say it was arson?” Vicki asked.
“Considering our deadline, we’ll have you quote the usual „highly placed sources.’ Now let’s get going.”
******
The moment the Ford turned off Targhee Road onto the narrow dirt
track that led to Defiance, Vicki felt grimy. A layer of cinders, like black snow, covered everything. Fallen trees were scattered over the landscape like pick-up sticks. Despite the Ford’s creeping pace, a cloud of soot surrounded them.
The weather had changed considerably. The afternoon sun was warm, but the shade was definitely on the cool side. Thunderheads were gathering above the Bitterroot mountains.
When the ruins came into sight, Manwaring told Holland to stop the car and get some establishing shots of the area. Vicki waited inside, holding a handkerchief over her nose and reading the script Manwaring had written for her. Frank Wilcox stayed with her since he wasn’t needed for the moment; his satellite porta-pak, its batteries fully charged, was stowed in the cargo area in case of emergency.
“We’ll do a walking tour from here,” Manwaring said when he returned to open the passenger door and help her out. He clipped the wireless microphone to the lapel of her khaki safari jacket, well away from the robin’s egg blue scarf that could have muffled her audio, and then stood back to get a good look at her.
“Well?” she said when he didn’t say anything.
“You look too . . .” He raised his injured hand as if unable to come up with the right word. “. . . clean, I guess. What do you think, Lew?”
The cameramen studied her in his viewfinder. “Smear a little soot on one cheek, like you see in the war movies. You know Reisner. He loves drama.”
Wilcox, who was leaning against the Ford, shook his head. “If we had a robot, we could roll it in the dirt.”
“Cut the crap,” Vicki said. “We’ll go as is.” Even so, she scuffed her feet, raising enough dust to take the shine off her jodhpur boots.
They began the walk-through. This time, as called for by the script, she described Defiance as it used to be: a community of hand-hewn cabins and meeting halls, where everyone shared alike in the work and its rewards, where they raised and harvested their own food, where they met God on their own terms.
Even as Vicki recited, she marveled at Manwaring’s ability to remember and assimilate detail. The thought crossed her mind that such detailed information might have been the result of his spending more time with the veterinarian than Vicki had realized.
