Supercell

by H W Buzz Bernard

Chuck looked up. “Babe Ruth didn’t have a two-week season.”

  “I’ll bet he never went two weeks without hitting a home run.”

  “Something you’ve researched?”

  “Naw, it’s total bullshit. How would I know? All I know is you can’t afford to go around for the next ten days dragging your ass behind you and looking like a Bassett Hound who can’t find his bone.”

  “Were you ever a coach?”

  “No. I hate team sports. It’s just that someone has to boot you in the butt to keep you going and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Look, you aren’t the only one around here with something at stake. As a female agent, there are more than a few guys in the Bureau who’d like to see my tits get caught in a ringer.”

  In spite of himself, Chuck smiled. He had to admit he liked this down-to-earth, slightly profane FBI agent. For the first time, he allowed his gaze to fall on her left hand. No wedding ring.

  “I overheard one agent say just before I left,” Gabi continued, “that ‘She’ll probably end up in the Land of Oz and we’ll have to send in a SWAT team to rescue her.’ The next day there was a package addressed to Dorothy on my desk. Little red slippers.”

  To Chuck it sounded as if Gabi were describing good-natured ribbing as opposed to harassment, but he understood she was trying to make a point.

  The waitress returned with Gabi’s breakfast order—scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage—and placed it on the table. Chuck eyed it for a moment, then said, “Changed my mind. Same thing for me.”

  “Good for you, Fearless Leader,” Gabi said. “So what’s next?”

  Chuck stared out at the flat Kansas landscape while gathering his thoughts, then said, “The Land of Oz.”

  Gabi was about to stuff a forkful of eggs into her mouth, but stopped short. She held her gaze on Chuck, waiting for him to continue.

  “We need to reposition for Thursday. We’re going somewhere that’s become a legendary gathering place for storm chasers.”

  Gabi put the eggs into her mouth and chewed. She motioned with her left hand for Chuck to go on.

  “It’s in northeast Oklahoma west of Bartlesville. A motel and restaurant complex called the Gust Front Grill.”

  Gabi finished chewing. “The Land of Oz?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  AFTER LUNCH, Chuck had the team on the road again, pushing east through Wichita, then south on I-35, and finally rolling east on US 166 across Kansas. Gabi sat in the passenger seat of the Expedition, dozing on and off. Ty, as usual, rode silently in the rear with Stormy resting her head on his lap.

  Chuck turned south on a secondary road and they soon entered Oklahoma. Gabi stared out the window at the endless, rolling grasslands. Flat-based cumulus, cotton-ball tops alabaster in brilliant sunshine, dotted the sky. Their shadows, like animated spots on a Dalmatian, raced alongside the SUV, riding a stiff northwest breeze.

  “Not much here,” Gabi noted. A scattering of cattle and orphaned stands of trees, thicker along creek beds, seemed the primary features.

  “It’s an Indian reservation,” Chuck said.

  “The Osage?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard of it, seen it on a map. Never been here.”

  “Not much reason to come.”

  “Unless you’re storm chasing?”

  “It’s a good launching point in certain situations.”

  Gabi studied Chuck as they drove. He’d been handsome once, that was obvious. But now, perhaps beaten down by the events of life, he appeared older than he really was. His receding auburn hair, flecked with gray, couldn’t hide the fact he was no longer young. Not old, but past his prime. Square-jawed and sad-eyed, he was given to smiling wistfully at times, as though remembering something in his past he didn’t wish to share.

  He seemed a decent man, self-contained and introspective, but largely resigned to his own fate. Gabi wished he were a bit angrier, a little more willing to fight back, claw his way out of the professional dungeon into which he had thrown himself. But maybe he was just tired, as though the cross he was bearing were made out of mahogany and had forced him to his knees. She supposed that could happen to a man, and that perhaps there’s less pain in merely surrendering.

  Oddly, she found herself reviewing the lovers she’d had—the few, anyhow—and comparing them to Chuck. He certainly didn’t fit the mold of the self-assured, smooth-talking, slightly sexually aggressive males she’d found attractive in the past. Yet, there was something appealing about him. Perhaps it was just his vulnerability. No, something more. Stop it. She squirmed in her seat and turned to gaze out the passenger-side window.

  A half-hour and several turns later, they passed through a small town that time had left behind, a few blocks of yesterday. Not down-and-out by any means, but a place locked in a freeze-frame of the 1950s. On the other side of the hamlet, they approached a cluster of single-story log buildings perched on a low knoll and surrounded by a windbreak of oak and hickory trees. A weathered, barely readable sign announced the GUST FRONT GRILL AND LODGING.

  Smoke spiraled from a chimney of the largest building, presumably the grill. It featured a covered wooden porch spanning perhaps 75 feet either side of a double-doored front entrance. To the right of the grill, a long, narrow, rough-hewn structure—a fugitive from over a half-century ago, Gabi judged—offered lodging. A single, tiny window and a door opening directly onto a parking lot defined each room, of which there were about two dozen.

  “The Ritz in the Wild?” Gabi said.

  “No concierge service,” Chuck answered. “But it’s clean and comfortable.”

  “It must have something going.” She gestured at the parking area in front of the grill. Scores of vehicles—cars, SUVs, pickups, vans, motorcycles, and even a satellite TV truck—jammed the lot.

  “Think of it as an ad hoc convention of tornado chasers,” Chuck said. He parked next to a heavy-duty auxiliary generator bolted to a concrete pad at the far end of the lot. Adjacent to the generator, sited in a compact mound of earth, sat a slope-front storm shelter.

  An exhaust vent poked vertically from the shelter. Capping the vent, an aluminum turbine spun lazily in the breeze. Ty eyed it. “They take this tornado shit seriously around here, don’t they?”

  “Kinda,” Chuck answered without looking at his son.

  He exited the Expedition and walked toward the grill. Ty, Gabi, and Stormy followed. “I suppose, on second thought,” Chuck said as they walked, “it’s not so much a convention as it is something akin to a bunch of hunters sitting around a campfire after a long day. You know, swapping lies, telling tall tales about ‘the one they just missed,’ and speculating where the hunting is going to be best tomorrow or the day after that.”

  They entered the building.

  “Wow, time warp,” Gabi said. Flashes from psychedelic strobe lights—red, green, blue—bounced off the log walls while the throaty, soaring voice of Grace Slick spilling from banks of overhead speakers filled the sprawling interior—Somebody to Love.

  Gabi moved her head from side to side in time with the music. “I remember that from classic rock stations. The Jefferson Starship. Something from the ’70s.”

  “The ’60s,” corrected a gruff male voice from behind her. “And it was the Airplane then. By the end of the decade, we were all looking from somebody, or something, to love.”

  She turned to see who had spoken and involuntarily shuffled back a half step. She found herself looking into a deeply-tanned face folded with age and memories. Rheumy eyes appeared focused on her but seemed to be appraising something more distant. A thick, graying handlebar mustache, once black, drooped over the speaker’s jowls.

  Heavyset but not overweight, he wore a white cotton shirt, a scarred leather vest, tattered jeans, and battle-tested cowboy boots. Most notab
le, a black stovepipe hat with a feather jammed into the hatband perched on his head.

  He smiled slightly and extended his hand. “Sam Townsend,” he said. “Proprietor.”

  “Gabi Mederios,” she responded, “magazine writer.” They shook hands.

  His smile grew broader as he released his grip and stepped toward Chuck. “God damn,” he said, “I’d heard you were back in the game. It’s great to see you again, old friend.” Sam wrapped Chuck in a bone-crushing bear hug, then stepped back and looked him up and down. “None the worse for wear, I’d say.”

  “What a blatant bullshitter,” Chuck said. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

  Sam moved his eyes to Ty, then to Chuck, then back to Ty. “I know who this is,” he said.

  “Tyler Rittenberg,” Ty said.

  “I’ve heard about you,” Sam responded, as they shook hands. “I’m glad to see you with your dad.”

  Ty nodded. No smile.

  Sam maintained his grip on Ty’s hand and held his gaze for what seemed an instant too long to Gabi. Something passed between them. Not anything sexual, but certainly something unique, as though they were members of the same fraternity.

  Sam’s gaze fell on the dog.

  “That’s Stormy,” Chuck said.

  Sam squatted and ruffled Stormy’s fur. “You may have to wait outside, buddy. This is a people-food place.”

  Sam stood and asked, “What’s he do?”

  “She,” Chuck corrected. “Mostly sleeps and farts. But I think she has a sixth sense for storms.”

  Sam smiled, revealing a missing incisor, and nodded. “A service dog, then. Good. Welcome, Stormy. Come on in, all of you. Take a load off. Find yourself a booth. I’ll grab some beers. On the house.” Sam moved off, limping almost imperceptibly.

  The Jefferson Airplane faded away and Buffalo Springfield filled the void. Something about a man with a shotgun. The ’60s again.

  They found an empty booth in a corner of the grill. Gabi looked around. “All these people,” she said, “they’re storm chasers?” She had to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the din of the music and babble of conversation.

  Chuck examined the crowd. “Mostly,” he said. “There’s a TV crew, from a Tulsa station I guess, according to the truck outside. A couple of tour groups—”

  “Like what you used to have?” Gabi said.

  “Yeah, there’s about a dozen or so outfits that offer commercial tornado ‘tours’ now. That’s Silver Lining Tours over there.” He pointed to the center of the room, where a group of men and women clustered around a large, circular table. “And in the far corner there, that’s Tempest Tours. Cloud 9 Tours used to drop in here once in a while, but I don’t see them today.”

  Chuck continued to scan the restaurant. “The rest are independents. Onesies and twosies chasing for the thrill, the excitement, the spectacle. A few make money by selling storm videos to television stations. If they can get a network to upload their stuff, that’s a pretty good payday. And see those guys with the map spread out on the table?” He pointed. “That’s a university research team. I recognize their leader. They try to snuggle up to twisters, get all touchy-feely with high-tech instrumentation to see if they can figure out what makes them tick.”

  “Who’s the dame with the tattoos plastered all over her arms, the one who looks like she could bench press 300 pounds?” Gabi asked.

  “I don’t know her real name. She goes by Harley. Chases on a Fat Boy. Oh, and those guys next to her. They drive something that looks like an armadillo on wheels, a battle tank that they think they can punch into the center of a tornado with.”

  “Right,” Gabi said.

  Sam returned with the beers and plopped into the booth beside Chuck. “Some guy just came in, said he’s with you. A movie company or something. Needs some rooms for tonight. Legit?”

  “Jerry Metcalf, Global-American Cinema. Yeah, he’s legit. At least as much as guys from Hollywood can be. I’m trying track down an EF-4 or -5 for his cinematographers.”

  “Ummm. Tall order.” Sam knocked back half his beer in one swallow. “Maybe you need an Indian guide.”

  Chuck smiled. “Sam’s half Osage,” he explained.

  Sam nodded. “You guys gonna need rooms, too, I guess?”

  “Three,” Chuck said.

  “I’m full up, but I’ll make space for you and your movie buds. I think several of my rooms are about to develop plumbing problems.” He winked. “Good excuse for booting a few people and shipping them off with the rest of the diaspora. You’re always welcome on the rez.” He downed the rest of his beer. “Give your dinner order to the waitress. Take your time. I’ll be back when things quiet down.”

  The Grateful Dead replaced Buffalo Springfield. The strobes grew brighter as the ambient light from outside faded. The room continued to reverberate with music from another era, Zeitgeist from a time when America had changed.

  “So what’s his story?” Gabi asked.

  “Well, there’s a story and there’s a legend. Which would you like to hear first?”

  Chapter Ten

  TUESDAY, APRIL 30

  “I WANT TO HEAR the legend, of course, but let’s start with the story, the facts,” Gabi said.

  Chuck held his beer, a COOP Porter, up to the dwindling light as if to examine the beverage’s pedigree. Apparently it passed; he took a long quaff.

  “Here’s what I know,” he said. “White father, Osage mother. Grew up off the rez in Kansas. Drafted by the army in the early ’60s, served in Vietnam. Silver Star and Purple Heart. After his stint in the military he kicked around in the Texas oil fields for the next two decades. In the late ’90s he showed up on the rez and started building what you see now.”

  “Curious,” Gabi said. “He didn’t grow up here, yet he came back, so to speak. To his mother’s family home, I assume.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “How in the hell does he make any money?” Ty said, entering the conversation. “I mean, after the tornado-chasing season is over, who comes here? In the middle of frigging nowhere? A handful of tourists maybe? People trying to get lost forever? We’re in the middle of a prairie-grass desert.” He swept his arm at a nearby window.

  “All I can tell you,” Chuck said, “is that he loves storms and he loves chasers.”

  “But to Ty’s point,” Gabi said, “how does he survive?”

  “That’s where we get to the legend part,” Chuck said. He tipped the beer bottle to his lips before continuing. “In the late 19th century, huge oil deposits were discovered on the reservation. Fortunately for the Osage, they, unlike many tribes, actually owned their land. Eventually, many of them—those who weren’t murdered or swindled—became quite wealthy. I seem to recall reading someplace that when petroleum royalties peaked in the mid-1920s, the Osage were the ‘richest people in the world’.”

  “Hyperbole?” Gabi asked.

  “Probably. But the point is, many of the folks who lived here were extremely well off.”

  “So how does all this relate to Sam?” Ty said. “He certainly wasn’t around in the 1920s.”

  “But his grandparents, his mother’s parents, were,” Chuck said. “And they evidently were restrained in their spending and avoided the white man’s banks.”

  “Ah, so they probably made it through the Great Depression with their fortune intact,” Gabi suggested.

  Chuck nodded. “Leaving a large amount of money to Sam’s mother. And when she passed, Sam got it.”

  “I know it’s impolite to ask,” Ty said, “but how much?”

  “Rumor has it—and I emphasize rumor—millions,” Chuck said.

  “So that’s the legend?” Gabi asked.

  “Only part of it,” Chuck said.

  Gabi took a swill of her
beer, which she hadn’t yet touched, and leaned forward. “So what’s the rest of it?”

  A waitress, a plump, middle-aged Osage with a happy face and bright eyes, arrived to take their order.

  “We haven’t had a chance to look at the menu yet,” Chuck said.

  “No problem,” the waitress said. “It’s on Sam. Big filets, he said. Best in Oklahoma. You’ll love ’em. How ya want ’em grilled?”

  “Any seafood?” Ty asked.

  The Osage woman smiled solicitously, as if Ty were a learning-challenged youth. Using her thumb like a hitchhiker, she pointed outside. “Sea of grass here, not water.”

  Ty laughed. “Medium rare,” he said.

  The trio completed its order. The waitress looked down at Stormy, who lay quietly beneath the booth’s table. “Small steak for him, okay? Maybe not a filet.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said.

  The waitress left and Chuck resumed his story. “There’s long been a tale floating around within the storm chaser community that Sam indeed is a multimillionaire, and that his money is stashed right here, someplace in the Gust Front Grill. Like his grandparents, he doesn’t trust banks.”

  “That doesn’t sound too smart,” Ty said.

  “Ah, but here’s the rest of the story . . . the legend. And maybe it’s just a tall tale, but the money is supposedly guarded by a mysterious roommate of Sam’s named Monty.”

  “Ever met him, this Monty?” Gabi asked.

  “No one has.”

  “So it’s just a myth, then?”

  Sam returned and seated himself next to Chuck. “Things have quieted down a little,” he said. He looked at Gabi. “What’s a myth?”

  “Your friend, Monty.”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Monty is . . . well, he’s a loner. Keeps to himself. Sleeps a lot. Doesn’t eat much. But loves chicken.”

  “And he guards your money?” Chuck said. He drained the last of the COOP Porter from the bottle.

  Sam allowed a smile to creep over his face. “What money?”

  “Your mythical fortune.”

  “Yes, he guards my mythical fortune.” Sam laughed, a hearty rumble burbling forth from deep within him. He signaled the waitress for a beer.