The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

  He covered the mouthpiece and said, “Jesus, I almost forgot to call her for her birthday! I never thought I’d forget one of my kids’ birthdays.” For a moment he waited, then he sat up straighter, his expression becoming wary and defensive. “Yes, Charly… Yes, Shar agrees that we have a problem… She did, and she’s brought Hy in on it, too. He’s got one of his people coming to the house in two hours and—”

  My sister was speaking now. The set of Ricky’s jaw hardened, and he began to drum his fingertips on his thigh.

  I frowned, glanced at Hy. He shrugged.

  “Well, Charlene,” Ricky said in a flat tone, “you’ll just have to cancel and stay home.”

  She spoke some more; spots of red blossomed on Ricky’s high cheekbones and his eyes glittered. I tensed, feeling his pent-up anger.

  “I don’t care about that, Charlene,” he said, enunciating clearly and slowly. “What’s more important, our kids’ safety or your—Yes, that’s absolutely correct… Well, will you do that for me, Charlene? Will you just the fuck do that?” Abruptly he broke the connection, slapped the receiver into Hy’s hand, and reached for another beer.

  I said, “Ricky…”

  “You want to know what’s wrong, Shar? You really want to know?”

  “Only if you want to talk about it.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It’ll be out in the open soon enough. What’s wrong is that your sister’s got somebody else. It’s all over between us, she tells me.”

  I stared at him. Impossible. Except that the look on his face told me it was true. “Charlene, somebody else? Who?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” He took a big drink of beer and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, all the anger suddenly bleeding out of him. “Why don’t you ask her?” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion. “Nothing that’s going on with Charly has anything to do with me anymore.”

  Four

  The Two Rock Valley sprawls between the western limits of the small city of Petaluma and the coastal ridge line. Sheep and dairy cattle graze on softly rounded hills dotted with live oak and sculpted rock formations. Ranch buildings nestle in the hollows, protected by windbreaks of cypress and eucalyptus. Winter rains turn the grass a brilliant green; come spring it is dusted gold with wild mustard. But now, in late July, the fields beyond the three-strand barbed-wire fences were sun scorched, the trees dried to tinder.

  By tacit consent, we’d quickly dropped the subject of Ricky’s marriage. The rest of the way, he and Hy talked about the fans’ waning interest in baseball, our governor’s political aspirations, and the new record label. I contributed few comments; I was busy trying to reconcile my image of Charlene and Ricky with their reality, but the concept of my sister with another man simply wouldn’t fit the picture. Who was he? Why had she turned to him? And if it came to a divorce, how would the children, ranging from eight years to Mick’s eighteen, weather it? How would I weather it? I loved Ricky as much as I did my blood brothers; how on earth could I take sides?

  Change. Recently there had been too much change in my life. The demise of All Souls, the new offices, a deepening commitment to Hy that still held little of the security of a full commitment. How could I cope with yet another of the constants in my world disappearing?

  Finally I decided to put the subject aside for a while and sat quietly, watching hawks perform wheeling ballets on the early-evening thermals and listening to Hy and Ricky’s conversation.

  “The average country singer’s career peaks in five years or less,” Ricky was saying in answer to a question from Hy. “I’ve already got that beat, but I’m not fool enough to think I can go on forever, at least not on this level. Besides, I’m not sure I want to. After a while the performing gets to you. Being on the road so much is a pain in the ass, if you want to know the truth.”

  “So what you’re saying is that your interest in the label is a way to keep your hand in the business without the stress of fighting to stay on top.”

  “Yeah, as well as maintain my income level when my performance fees drop off. From the beginning I looked for ways to do that.”

  “So what else did you do—make investments?”

  “In a way. Retaining all publishing rights to your songs is like having an annuity, so as soon as I could, I set up my own music-publishing company. Lured a top pro in that field to run it by offering a percentage and gambled what extra cash I had on acquiring the rights to other people’s promising material. Then there’s Little Savages: Initially, building my own studio was an expensive proposition, but it’s starting to pay off. For the past three years I’ve done all my recording there and haven’t had to pay for studio time. One of the best sound engineers in the business, Miguel Taylor, lives on the premises and works cheap because he likes the desert. And I rent to other artists who want to work in a private place, get some R and R in as well. The studio has guest houses, a pool, tennis courts. Frankly, I like it a lot better than L.A. or the new house in San Diego.”

  “You spend much time over there?”

  “A fair amount. It’s an easy commute by air, and there’s a landing strip. Before all this shit with Charly started, I was thinking about taking flying lessons, buying a plane. But now… well, till I can get both that situation and the one with these notes sorted out, I won’t know what I’m doing.”

  “McCone or I’ll be glad to give you aviation advice, if and when.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that.”

  I said, “We won’t volunteer any other kind of advice, though. Not unless you ask for it.”

  Ricky glanced at me, surprised I’d spoken. “Appreciate that, Sister Sharon.”

  We’d been following a long line of taillights; now directional signals began to blink left. Our driver put his on too, and the car turned off onto a poorly paved secondary road bordered by open cattle graze. The pickup behind us stuck right on our bumper.

  I frowned. “This is a lot of traffic for—Oh! Don’t tell me all these people are going to the concert?”

  Ricky nodded. “My road manager told me the gate was close to twenty-five thousand; they’re coming from all over northern California, not just the county. What you’re seeing here are the late arrivals.”

  The driver opened the panel and said, “It’s about a mile more, Mr. Savage.”

  “Thanks. Did I give you that gate pass?”

  “I have it right here.”

  Ricky hunched down, peering out the side window. “Place is a big dairy ranch, belongs to a guy who’s head honcho in the victims’-rights movement up this way. His wife and daughter were murdered by a couple of drifters a few years back; they walked on a technicality, returned to the area, and killed a young girl. Got them dead to rights that time, but it didn’t bring her or the rancher’s family back. Since then he’s devoted his life to making sure victims aren’t lost in the judicial shuffle.”

  “Good for him,” I said. In spite of certain inequities in implementing our toughened stance on violent criminals—such as across-the-board application of Three Strikes You’re Out—I thought it an idea whose time had been far too long in coming.

  Ricky leaned closer to the window and whistled softly. “Will you look at that!”

  I peered over his shoulder. At the right-hand side of the pavement the land dropped off into a series of rolling hills. A blacktop drive snaked across the terrain from a pair of massive stone pillars to a faraway cluster of white buildings with red roofs. Beyond them a larger hill rose, and on it were parked thousands of vehicles. Late arrivals spilled over into the ranch yard, and people struggled up the hill, laden with coolers and picnic baskets and folding lawn chairs.

  “Jesus,” Ricky said. He turned to Hy and me, face flushed with shy pleasure. “This probably sounds like false modesty, but I’ve never gotten over the idea that all those people’ll come out to hear me. First time it happened was at this concert at the Hollywood Bowl. I couldn’t believe it, thought that somebody like Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash had put in a
surprise appearance.”

  The driver cut to the left, past the line of vehicles that was backed up at the pillars. Curious faces peered at the limo, trying to see who was behind the opaque glass. Two armed guards were stationed at the entrance; one came over, examined the pass the driver presented, then held up the line and let us through. The car glided along the blacktop, detoured past the ranch house and outbuildings, and followed an unpaved lane around the hill. The view on its other side made my breath catch.

  “Would you stop here a minute, please?” Ricky asked the driver.

  Below us lay a deep bowl with a silver-sheened pond at its bottom. A stage stood on its banks, and the area in front of it and the surrounding slopes were covered with people. They reclined on blankets or sat on folding chairs; most had some kind of picnic, from buckets of KFC to wicker hampers. The stage itself was bathed in garish artificial light that came from platforms to either side; roadies scurried around, and sound equipment screeched and droned. As we held there, a man’s amplified voice began making announcements that echoed off the hillsides.

  Ricky lowered the window.

  “… extremely fortunate to have with us tonight… Ricky Savage!”

  Cheers and applause, rising thunderously.

  “… and as opening act… Maxima!”

  More applause, but not so intense and ebbing quickly.

  I narrowed my eyes and studied the distant figures as they moved to the forefront of the stage. Even at this distance, Maxima looked squeaky-clean in plaid shirts and jeans, the men’s hair cut conservatively short, the woman’s—the Native American—in a long pigtail.

  Hy, a western buff, commented, “Roy Rogers’s Sons of the Pioneers, plus Pocahontas.”

  Ricky laughed. The scene below affected him as if he’d just had a triple shot of Carmen’s java. He whipped his head around, told the driver, “Let’s go.” To us he added, “With any luck at all, we won’t have to deal with those pissants tonight.”

  The lane dipped down now, behind a eucalyptus windbreak that screened it from the bowl. Ahead stood a group of trailers. The driver pulled the car up to one and hurried around to open the door. Ricky said to him, “You want to go down, enjoy the show, we’ll see you back here at midnight.”

  Outside the pleasantly chilled car the heat was jarring. The air hung perfectly still, perfumed by dusty dead grass and acrid eucalyptus. “What d’you think the temperature is?” I asked Hy, pulling off the cotton shirt I’d worn over a tank top and wishing I had on shorts rather than jeans. “A hundred?”

  “Damn near; it was over eighty in the city this afternoon.” He stretched his long limbs and glanced toward the darkening hilltops to the west, where the sky was a violent mix of gold and red and magenta. “No fog tonight, no relief for tomorrow.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder and we followed Ricky toward the trailer.

  As we came closer, a man carrying a clipboard came out to greet us. He was tall and thin, dressed all in black, and his hair fell to his shoulders in the kind of greasy locks that make me want to remind their wearers that the sixties are long over. His eyes were close-set and squinty; below them his nose and mouth protruded at an angle that called to mind an opossum’s snout; when he spoke, his small, sharp teeth completed the likeness.

  “About time, Savage.”

  “Hey, Rats. Meet Sharon McCone and Hy Ripinsky. This here’s Virgil Rattray, my road manager.”

  Rattray looked us over, not offering to shake hands. “Oh, yeah, the sister-in-law who’s a grown-up Nancy Drew.” To Hy he added, “Don’t know who you are, but I don’t suppose it matters.”

  Ricky grinned apologetically at us. “Everybody here?”

  “Band’s in trailers three and four.” Rattray motioned with his head, tresses swaying like dreadlocks. “They want to go over the new arrangement again. And Paul Ciardi, the rancher, wants a word with you; probably gonna make you an honorary member of the Grange for coming out for this thing.”

  “Okay. Equipment arrived all right?”

  “What d’you pay me for?”

  “And the stuff I asked for is in the trailer?”

  “Christ, Savage.” Rattray sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “Bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay, on ice. Six-pack of Beck’s, ditto. Two bottles of Pellegrino water. Antipasto tray. Sourdough—Basque variety. Fresh cantaloupe and strawberries. Change of clothes, plus your stage outfit. Maybe you want I should kiss your butt, too?”

  “Thanks, Rats, but later,” Ricky said mildly.

  Rattray scowled down at his clipboard. “Guy from the Santa Rosa paper wants an interview. I told him he could have five minutes while you’re on your way down to the stage. You go on at ten sharp; be ready at ten of.” Abruptly he turned and sauntered off toward the trees, whistling tunelessly.

  Hy asked, “He always that personable?”

  “You’re seeing him at his best. If Rats isn’t being a total shit, we know he’s off his feed.”

  “Why d’you keep him on?”

  “He’s a great road manager. A genius at bringing schedules together; even better at getting the equipment from place to place in good shape; has it set up and torn down in a flash. Plus he collects what’s owed to us and handles it honestly. Besides, Rats is open in his nastiness. In this business, that’s kind of refreshing.”

  “You trust him?” I asked.

  “To do his job? Yes. With anything else? No way.”

  I nodded and made a mental note to have a check run on Virgil Rattray. The road manager was in a position to do Ricky and his band either great good or great harm—and any evidence of tampering on his part might be difficult to spot.

  “Look,” Ricky said, “are you two planning on joining the others? I had a picnic packed in the car for them, but I’ve also got food here, in case you want to stick close.”

  I caught an undertone in his voice that told me he badly wanted us to stay. “We’ll stick with you. Any way we can get close while you’re on stage?”

  “What, you don’t think somebody’s going to—”

  “No, no, nothing like that. But Hy and I ought to observe how things operate during a concert, in case we need to protect you on tour.”

  Hy added, “I was checking on the way in: security looks good. You’ve got nothing to worry about. But like McCone says, we ought to be thinking ahead.”

  Some of the concern faded from Ricky’s eyes. “Okay, I’ll arrange it. In the meantime, I better see the band. Go on inside, keep cool, get yourselves something to eat.”

  He and Hy started for the respective trailers, but I remained where I was, scanning the terrain around me. The trees of the windbreak towered overhead, their ragged trunks and silvery leaves backlit by light from the bowl. The last of the sunset was ebbing behind the hills, and the show was well under way. Music boomed up, but I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad—only that it was loud enough to mask any nearby noises.

  Come on, McCone, I thought. What’re you afraid of? That somebody’s going to go after Ricky between here and the other trailers?

  All the same, I watched until he was inside number three before I turned and followed Hy.

  The trailer was reasonably large, with a seating area to accommodate four or five people. A buffet supper was laid out on a breakfast bar, and Hy had already helped himself. I dumped my bag, took some salami and cheese and sourdough, and joined him on the banquette.

  I asked, “Is security really as good as you made it out to be?”

  “So-so, but I told him what he wanted to hear.”

  “The stage layout isn’t bad. It’s backed by the pond, so we don’t have to worry about somebody approaching from behind. The spectators are at a comfortable distance.”

  Hy opened a bottle of beer. “So all we have to worry about is somebody rushing the stage and making it past the guards. Or a lunatic in a diving suit rising up from the pond like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

  “You can’t discount the potential for danger, though. W
hat about one of his own people getting to him? Or somebody on the hill with a high-powered rifle?”

  Hy was silent for a moment. “You carrying?”

  “No. This was supposed to be a social evening; I didn’t bring my gun to the office today.” I pushed my plate away, leaving most of the food untouched. “God, I hate this kind of situation!”

  “I admit I’d feel better if he were doing this gig after I had my people on the job.”

  “I don’t mean just tonight. The trouble with this kind of situation is that there’re too damn many angles of attack, too many possibilities. Whoever’s behind those notes could be anybody. Could come from any direction, at any time. Could have any motive. Could be somebody close to him or a complete stranger. Could escalate his or her activities, lay low for a while, or disappear forever. And I can’t overlook anything, not when it comes to the lives and safety of people I love.”

  “You’re not saying you’re scared, McCone?”

  “I am. I’d be a fool if I wasn’t. I don’t like cases where I’m this personally involved, where there’s this much at stake.”

  He twined the fingers of his right hand through those of my left and leaned forward till his face was close to mine. “Don’t let fear get in the way,” he said. “And remember—you and I, we make an unbeatable team.”

  At close to ten the night had gone black and star-shot, but the still air had none of the velvety quality I associated with warm summer evenings. This heat was prickly and rasped against my skin like a dull knife blade. It made me edgy, and I could tell it had the same effect on Hy.

  We boarded a golf cart in front of the trailer—Ricky in the seat ahead of us, chatting with the reporter from the local paper—and bumped downhill to the stage area. Maxima had finished; on and around the bandstand an army of roadies had been deployed. I spotted Virgil Rattray in their midst, clipboard in hand, shouting orders. The lights were blinding, making it difficult to see anything more than motion on the hillsides. To our far left, long lines snaked away from a row of portable toilets.