“Get down, Thud,” Cleo said. “Elwood, control your dog.”
“That’s a futile request, Aunt Cleo,” Professor Johnson said. “He’s in the lawless Old West, where men and dogs make their own rules.”
“Well, it may be the Old West out there, but in here, I make the rules.” Cleo lifted Thud’s paws off the countertop. She pointed her finger sternly at Thud. “No dogs on the counters.”
Thud licked her outstretched finger, then put his paws back up on the counter. Cleo could just imagine what her cooking instructor would say if he even saw a dog in the kitchen, let alone sniffing along the countertop.
“Where do you want these?” Professor Johnson said. “The rest of your things are right outside.”
“Well, I . . .” Cleo looked around. The building consisted of a café in front, a small kitchen in the back, and a tiny bathroom outfitted with a toilet, a sink, and an old cabinet. “I don’t have any idea. Daddy seems to have forgotten to give me a place to live.”
Thud suddenly started barking furiously. He chased a mouse across the floor. When the mouse dove into a hole in the wall, Thud stood snapping desperately where the mouse had been.
“Elwood,” Cleo said, “would you please do something? Or does the mouse get to make its own rules, too?”
“So far, it would seem fair to say yes,” Professor Johnson said. “But it appears Thud might be a game changer. You may borrow him if you like. Although I would suggest getting a cat.”
“Where am I supposed to get a cat?” Cleo asked, close to tears.
“You want a cat?” Pappy’s voice boomed through the kitchen. “I can get you a cat.”
Cleo tried to pull herself together. It was one thing to fall apart in front of her nephew, but coming apart in front of Pappy was something else altogether. Pappy walked through the kitchen and hoisted himself onto the counter. He had obviously gotten the “lawless Old West/making your own rules” memo.
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” Pappy said. “Besides a cat.”
“A bedroom might be nice,” Cleo said.
“Oh yeah, some of the buildings don’t have bedrooms,” Pappy said.
“What am I supposed to do, pitch a tent?”
“OK, one cat and one tent,” Pappy said. “Anything else? Jerry Lee and I will be running into town in a few days, so I thought I’d start a list.”
“Going into town? A real town?” Cleo tried to modulate her voice. “Where I can buy things?”
“Of course there’s a town! How do you think I’ve survived out here? Magic?”
“Magic is as good a guess as any,” Professor Johnson said, trying to pry Thud away from the mouse hole.
“There’s a town called Spoonerville about four miles from here,” Pappy said. “Use to take the Covered Volkswagen up there every month or so. But the dang thing overheats now, so now it’s just me and Jerry Lee. I can only get what we can carry between us.”
“I Googled this whole area while we were in Los Angeles,” Professor Johnson said. “I didn’t see any towns nearby. Only a big ranch.”
“That’s ’cause it’s not officially called a town,” Pappy said. “It’s just a little bitty place in the middle of the Rolling Fork Ranch.”
“But they’re happy for you to come buy supplies?”
“Haven’t run me off yet,” Pappy said.
As happy as Cleo was to hear that there was some semblance of civilization nearby, riding a mule four miles into town every night couldn’t possibly be anybody’s idea of a plan.
“What about my sleeping arrangements?” Cleo asked.
“Cutthroat told me that I was supposed to let you all figure things out for yourselves,” Pappy said. “But you’re new and you’re tired, so I’m going to take mercy on you this once.”
Cleo and Professor Johnson stared at Pappy. Pappy stared back at them. Cleo blinked first.
“Thank you, Pappy,” she said in her best Beverly Hills voice. “What do you recommend?”
“Well,” Pappy said, “we do have a hotel.”
CHAPTER 12
Although it made sense that his saloon was connected to his aunt’s café by an archway, Professor Johnson couldn’t imagine having to deal with her every day for six months. Family gatherings two or three times a year were about all he could handle. Not that family gatherings were always terrible. He patted Thud’s head as he remembered the Christmas four years ago when his aunt presented him with the puppy that would grow into Thud.
“My Better Beverly Hills committee is focusing on rescuing dogs this year,” Cleo had said, handing Professor Johnson the little brown-and-black dog with the forlorn expression. “You know, ‘shop at a shelter, not at a breeder,’ that sort of thing.”
“You rescued this guy?” Professor Johnson had said, holding the puppy up and examining him. “I don’t know much about dogs, but he looks like a purebred bloodhound to me.”
“Well, of course he’s a purebred,” Cleo had said. “I needed him for a photo-op.”
“I don’t think that’s quite the spirit, Auntie.”
“Fine, Elwood. If you don’t want the dog, I suppose he can stay with me. I certainly can’t let it get around that I returned him.”
“That’s all right, Auntie,” Professor Johnson had said, knowing a duplex apartment in Los Feliz wasn’t exactly the perfect place to raise a bloodhound. “I’ll take him.”
From that moment, Thud was a rescued dog.
Professor Johnson watched Thud sniffing out every corner of the saloon and made a mental note to investigate whether dogs were allowed on patios and in restaurants in Texas. He knew Pappy would say not to worry about it, but he was a stickler for rules. Although his grandfather, according to his own testimonial, seemed to have broken every moral code, Cutthroat always worked within the law.
The floors in the saloon had seen better days. But the bar itself was a work of art. It had a marble top, with a copper gutter running along the lip and a heavily carved dark wood base. He figured that the marble top probably kept drunken cowboys from carving graffiti into it. Behind the bar was a darkened, wavy mirror. He wondered if glass cleaner would save it or if he should start over with a new one.
How am I supposed to start, let alone start over?
The professor looked through his inventory. He found a limited assortment of small ware, bowls, trays, and—testing the taps—running water.
Cleo walked through their connecting archway dragging one of her heavy suitcases. Professor Johnson picked it up and put it on the bar.
“Thank you, Elwood.” Cleo breathed heavily from the exertion. “I brought a full bar from home for emergencies, but it looks like you’re going to need these more than I . . . well . . . that might not be true. But at least I know where to find the vodka if I need it.”
Professor Johnson looked over the assortment of first-class liquor his aunt was providing. Cleo took a seat at the bar. He glanced at his shelves. He’d have to do some heavy cleaning before these bottles could be displayed.
“Thank you, Auntie.”
“Don’t mention it. Make me a martini, no salad.”
“No salad?”
“Yes, it means no onions or olives. Not that it matters—I didn’t bring any olives or onions.”
“And I don’t know how to make a martini.”
“Then we’ll keep it simple. Just make me a scotch and soda.”
“I don’t know how to make a scotch and soda either.”
“Scotch on the rocks?”
The professor looked behind the bar and spotted a tiny refrigerator. He opened the door.
“No ice,” he said, pouring some scotch into a tall highball glass.
“Wrong glass, dear,” Cleo said, but she took the drink. “You’ll figure it out. Although I don’t know how. You can’t exactly take an online course out here, can you?”
The professor shook his head.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Cleo said. “I’ll teach you how
to be a bartender—I know just about every important drink—if you’ll do some prep work in the café. It could be our first successful barter.”
“Let me think about it.”
“This is an offer you can’t refuse,” Cleo said, leaning across the bar.
The two of them stared at each other. Cleo offered her hand.
“You’re going to be very good at this, Aunt Cleo,” Professor Johnson said, shaking her hand.
“You know something? I think I just might be. Will you be going over to Old Bertha’s tonight?”
“No, I have a small stockroom in the back and I can turn that into some sort of living space. I brought a sleeping bag.”
“That was good thinking.”
“I figured it might come in handy in a ghost town.”
The professor watched his aunt go back through the divide. She passed Thud coming the other way and absently patted the dog’s head. Elwood could not remember a time when she had ever done that. Perhaps his grandfather’s entrepreneurial spirit was in her blood after all.
He walked over to an old player piano covered in cobwebs. There was a stack of music rolls dating from the late nineteenth century up until the 1920s leaning against it. He moved the sliding panels to expose the spool box and was surprised to see a roll in it. He blew the dust away and could read the name of the song. It was “Sahara, Now We’re Dry Like You.” The date, 1919! He had no idea how to make a player piano work, although he sincerely doubted this one would rise to the challenge in any case. He noticed a pile of picture frames angled along one side of the bar. They were large and he couldn’t really see what they were until he propped each one up against the wall and stood back. Thud leaned against him as he surveyed the artwork.
He was relieved that they weren’t the oil paintings of nude or tightly corseted women that he had expected. Instead there were four watercolors, all of Fat Chance back when it was still a bustling town. There was no mistaking the stores and the boardwalk. Even though the paintings had faded, the town seen in the pictures still had more color than the sun-bleached city they had all just inherited. Professor Johnson stood, riveted at the sight.
This town really had been alive once.
Pappy strolled down the sidewalk, lost in memories. It was more than a quarter century ago, when he and Cutthroat Clarence were driving through the Hill Country. Cutthroat was looking to buy some land with rumored hot springs on it. He was determined to cash in on the latest spa frenzy that was sweeping the nation.
With charts and graphs from leading geologists, which pinpointed a few areas north of Austin, they had stumbled upon a road off a deserted highway with a rusted gate padlocked against trespassers. On the gate hung a sign which read Town For Sale.
Padlocked gate be damned, Pappy and Cutthroat had made their way down the trail to the town, which was covered almost entirely in tumbleweeds. Nailed to the ruined forge was another sign, this one welcoming them to Fat Chance, Texas. They wandered up and down the street, poking inside the few buildings that tumbleweeds hadn’t barricaded. Pappy knew when Cutthroat had made up his mind about something, and he could see that they would not be leaving Texas without purchasing the town.
“What are you going to do with a ghost town?” Pappy had asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Cutthroat said. “But you know me—it’s all about instinct. My gut tells me that Fat Chance is going to be something someday.”
Pappy knew better than to try to reason with him. If Cutthroat Clarence deemed a ghost town worth buying, nothing would stand in his way. Not to mention that Cutthroat’s batting average was exceptional. Although Fat Chance didn’t have any identifiable hot springs, both men took a fancy to the town over the years, and went about cleaning it up a little at a time. When the A-listers were traveling to Aspen or Paris or Bora Bora, Cutthroat and Pappy would spend their vacations—either separately or together—trying their collective hand at living a simpler life. In time, Cutthroat lost interest in the place, but one day Pappy just couldn’t bring himself to leave. He hadn’t heard from Cutthroat in years, when a letter arrived in Spoonerville for him, telling him of Cutthroat’s dismaying diagnosis and outlining his crazy scheme to turn the town over to these city folks.
Cutthroat must have known that Pappy would not be happy about sharing the town. Pappy had become a recluse. But, while he may have been mayor, sheriff, and banker of Fat Chance, Cutthroat still had the key to the city—and he had decided to unlock it.
CHAPTER 13
Powderkeg admired the circular saw. It was one of the best. There was also a wall full of screwdrivers, levels, handsaws, and almost any instrument a carpenter could dream of. Considering how dilapidated City Hall was and how broken-down some of the other buildings looked from his quick glances in the windows, he couldn’t believe his good fortune. But why was Cutthroat being so generous?
When he first met Cleo, he was collecting his pension from the army and making leather belts to supplement his income. He sold the belts at craft fairs all over the country and was working in Manhattan Beach when he caught his first sight of Cleo. Her hair, a perfect golden yellow, was twisted up on top of her head with long tendrils escaping the bun. Through the years, whenever he thought of her—which was more often than he would like to admit—he thought about that first glimpse. She was so much like her wonderful hair, reined in tight but with a few wisps looking for freedom. She’d bought a belt—tan with a small gold heart for a buckle. They had flirted; their chemistry was off the hook. As a craftsman, he could see that most of her accessories came from Tiffany’s, not from local artisans. He figured he didn’t stand a chance. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to give up. He always attached a small cardboard business label to all his leather goods and he scribbled his phone number on the one attached to the belt he’d just sold her.
She called.
Cleo had been cagey about her background. He knew she was twenty-two to his thirty-two, but any other information was hard to come by. She never talked about her family and always had a reason why she should meet him for their dates instead of having him come to her house. It was Cleo’s idea that they elope to Las Vegas. When there was no way to hide from her past any longer, she confessed to being rich. Not just rich, but stinking rich. Unlike many men, who might have felt angry that they had been duped or their manhood threatened by the bag of gold just dropped at their feet, Marshall had naively thought his wife’s status as an heiress wouldn’t impact their lives.
Then he’d met Daddy.
Cutthroat was furious when he heard the news that Cleo had gotten married. He loved his daughter and wanted her to be happy, but he nevertheless viewed her as a commodity. He viewed everything as a commodity. He was sure he could pick a more suitable husband than this leather worker! Cutthroat had called them to his office instead of his home to announce his terms. He informed them that he had decided to let the newlyweds be, but that he was washing his hands of them entirely. Until Cleo came home without a husband, she was on her own. She accepted her father’s terms, took her husband’s hand, and walked out the door. She’d cried in the passenger seat of the truck as they pulled out of the office parking lot.
“I miss my mother,” Cleo had said. “She always knew how to handle Daddy.”
It was one of the few times Powderkeg had heard her mention her mother, who had died when Cleo was in college. It became obvious very quickly that Cutthroat was the overpowering presence in the family.
Cleo gave real life all she had, but it wasn’t enough. She was not equipped to deal with flat tires, electric bills, and sacrificing a designer leather bag in order to buy high quality leather for making belts. Their luck was always terrible. Powderkeg jokingly blamed it on getting married in Las Vegas, but Cleo was convinced her father was secretly pulling strings so that they never caught a break. Fairs were overbooked, reservations were lost, money was always tight—he did odd jobs where he could find them, and the only jobs Cleo could ever seem to secure were waitress gigs
at truck stops and greasy spoons. After five years, Cleo had had enough. She called her father.
Cutthroat sent his plane.
It was impossible not to hear about the Johnsons over the years. They were hardly a low-profile family. One of them was always cutting a ribbon at a new charity as they opened their doors, or breaking ground on another building, or being honored as a patron of the arts. Cleo had already divorced him when he read that her brother and sister-in-law had died. Cleo had been very attached to her brother. Powderkeg knew she would grieve intensely but silently. There was no denying the Johnsons had shouldered their share of losses, but as Cutthroat always said, “Nobody feels sorry for the rich. Don’t let them see you sweat.”
Or cry, apparently.
He’d thought about calling her to offer condolences, but things had ended so badly between them. Cutthroat had made sure that there would be no communication between them—that was clearly spelled out in the divorce. Hearing from Powderkeg might make things worse, so he left it alone.
Powderkeg took one of the large levels off the hook on the wall and put it on the workbench. The table was perfectly level. That seemed odd, since the building itself listed heavily to the left. He put the level down on every surface he could find. They were all straight.
Maybe Cutthroat figured his ex-son-in-law needed a little more help than the others to finally make something of himself. Powderkeg opened another cupboard and a cache of leather spilled out. He burst out laughing.
CHAPTER 14
The jar of tomato sauce crashed against the wall of the grocery store. Wally stood in the middle of the room, preparing to toss another one.
“This is bullshit!” he yelled to the empty room. “BULLshit!”
As he prepared to launch the next jar, he stopped. He could see someone standing in the doorway, but the sun blocked his view. As the figure moved into the room, he could see that it was Powderkeg, his immediate neighbor to the east.
Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas Page 10
