At first I thought he came into town to talk to Red about American Seasons and then stopped by to see me. That would make sense. Not that I actually ever saw Frozen Bear and Red together, but no doubt they were working earnestly on plans for American Seasons. But then I began to fear he was just using Cynthia in some way as part of planting the growing rumors of a western mining company surveying land outside Thread for an open air, low-grade iron ore mine.
“You’re from the reservation, aren’t you?” Josh walked over with his hand extended and a big smile on his face. Frozen Bear ignored the hand. It seemed to me I had seen that trick before.
“I’m a Lattigo, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, no, I wasn’t asking that, but I’m glad to know it. I was really wondering if you lived on the Lattigo reservation, because if you do, I have a question for you. Can we start over?”
Since Josh’s parents’ funeral, he had been in my restaurant nearly every day. He punched away at Bromley’s pomposity; he gave credibility to Claire’s fantasies; he sought to mine information from Mr. Packer; and he enticed smiles out of Danny. Only Thelma was resistant to his charms. “That boy is bound to be trouble,” she’d say.
Nothing Thelma could say would repress the energy and playfulness of Josh. It wasn’t surprising that Frozen Bear’s coldness didn’t put him off. “I was wondering if anyone had been talking to your tribal council about wanting to buy any of the reservation land,” Josh said.
“If there had been such inquiries, would I tell you? Is there some reason all you white people think you have the right to know every bit of our lives?“
“Not at all,” Josh replied. “I thought we could compare notes. My parents have owned some land butting up against your tribal lands for nearly twenty years. No one ever paid the least bit attention to it. Until now. It’s worthless swamp. Couldn’t even sell it as a hunting land before. Has some good blueberry patches here and there, and that’s about it.
“Now out of the blue, I get this insistent big city realtor who has a deal that she says I can’t pass up. She claims she’s representing a hunting club that’s trying to patch together a good-size private tract for their camp. Maybe I’ve lived in Los Angeles too long, but I think I’m being sold a story. Did you ever see Chinatown? Someone knows something that I don’t. I don’t like that. I don’t really need the money from the sale, so I’m just going to hold on to the land.”
“My advice is to take the money and run,“ said Frozen Bear, looking at me instead of Josh. A little smile teased the corner of his lips. “My guess is that somebody thinks they know something, but they don’t. Or more accurately, they don’t know the whole story.”
“What are you hinting at, young man?” demanded Bromley.
“Are you part of the hunting club?” Frozen Bear asked dismissively. “If not, why do you care?”
“So someone has been trying to buy your land?” probed Josh.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I’ve heard rumors about this mining company,” Josh began.
“That’s stuff and nonsense,” Bromley interrupted. “If anybody was planning to survey this township for possible mineral deposits, they’d have to go through the town hall for the appropriate licenses. No one has done that. There is no prospecting going on anywhere in this county. I’m certain of that.” He even pounded the counter for emphasis. The coffee cups rattled in their saucers. Cynthia rushed out of the kitchen with a new pot of coffee, then stopped, confused.
Like a cat playing with a wounded bird before going in for the kill, Frozen Bear replied. “Maybe it’s like the time I was told that there were no more liquor licenses to be had in the county, and yet it turns out that there was a piece of paper attached to this place, just sitting here unused for years. Someone didn’t think it was worth telling a poor injun drunk about that. Maybe no one thinks it necessary to tell a fat old man about prospecting rights.”
Bromley sputtered. Josh jumped in. “So there is somebody prospecting. I knew it. Someone’s trying to buy my land because it’s going to be worth a fortune when that mining starts. Someone’s trying to cheat me.”
“On the contrary,” Frozen Bear said, “someone cheated you and every landowner in this township a long time ago. Do your title searches and see who owns the mineral rights to your land. It won’t be you. It was all kept by timber companies at the turn of the century when they sold their cutover lands to whomever was stupid enough to buy these raped lands.”
“If there’s gold underneath my two hundred acres, you’re telling me I don’t own it. Is that what you’re saying?”
Frozen Bear shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not me who’s doing the telling. It’s the courts. The only people who have both land and mineral rights in this whole region are the Lattigo. They were part of our treaty rights. They are ours and ours alone.”
Josh slumped despondently. Bromley looked at Frozen Bear suspiciously. A look of comprehension passed over Cynthia’s face.
“That’s why you’re in the catbird seat, like Daddy said. If someone wants to open up a mine, they’re going to have to come to your land. All of the Lattigo will be rich. Won’t that be wonderful? I’m so happy for you.” She was bubbling with enthusiasm.
“I’m afraid not. Rich white men are seldom so generous.” Frozen Bear crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back. “We’re the last spot in the county that the mining companies would approach. They can buy the mineral rights to the rest of the county without worrying about buying the actual land. The rights undoubtedly still belong to some large anonymous corporation left over from an old lumber baron. When they acquire those rights, they can dig on your property and extract their iron, as long as they promise to restore the land to its natural state. We all know how quickly that would be. They could turn this entire township into a big ugly open wound, and there’s nothing you could do about it.”
“We’d get some good jobs,” Bromley said earnestly. “Economic development is always good.”
“Sure, and I have a bridge to sell you if you’re interested,” Frozen Bear turned back to Josh. “You see, if someone is trying to buy your land because they think the potential iron ore will make them rich, they’ll soon wake up to a very unpleasant fact. They don’t own anything of value. So sell. Sell big. Screw whoever is trying to screw you. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”
“I don’t think anything you’ve said is true. It’s just a god darn lie you’ve cooked up for some purpose of you own. That’s what I think,” Bromley was quivering with rage, as though he had been attacked personally.
Frozen Bear remained calm. “I think you will find that nothing I have said is untrue,” he said, and although he was responding to Bromley, his eyes remained focused on me. “Everything is true. I do not lie. It’s just all in a day’s work. Right, Wally?”
Stephen walked in with a large tray and set it down on the side table. He efficiently and quietly cleared away the soup dishes, and in exchange deposited a new plate with two small birds, delightfully roasted, their skins a crackling brown, with a pilaf of wild rice, walnuts and cranberries to the side.
“Looks like bird food,” Van Elkind said, motioning toward the rice. “I thought we were having scalloped potatoes.”
“Bird food seemed more appropriate with all these fowls being served, don’t you think?” and Stephen was out the swinging doors. Each of the American Seasons principals had before us a beautiful plate of food.
Van Elkind grimaced at his food. “Let’s talk about land purchases. Progress has been excellent. We have transferred significant portions of Red’s land to the new corporation, as well as Oxford’s major timber holdings. With the capital infusion from Tes’ sources, we have been quietly buying small parcels needed to round out the boundaries of the land and to connect with the Lattigo reservation.
“At this point, we have offers out on approximately eighty per cent of the acreage we are seeking. In almost every case, our offers have bee
n accepted. In fact, I am pleased to inform you that we are significantly below our planned budget for acquisition. We have been going in with low offers initially, and they are being accepted. As a result, the base price of land countywide has dropped nearly ten per cent over last year. We should be able to pick up the remaining acreage at equally advantageous terms.”
“Don’t you feel guilty?” I asked.
“What does that man mean?” asked Haligent.
“I mean you’re spreading these lies about an apocryphal mining company that’s planning to rape the land. People want to get out before it’s too late. Most people don’t realize how many other people have already sold their land. If they did, they wouldn’t be buying this cock and bull story about the mining company. They would know something was up.”
“I may be wrong, Mr. Pearson, but I was under the impression that you had been brought in as our public communications specialist, to help us with a disinformation campaign. No one requires you to be our conscience.” Haligent picked up the tiny drumstick from the squab and used his teeth to pull all the flesh from the bone in a single slurp.
“Hold on. I never agreed to do anything. You invited me to one dinner, and you told me stuff I didn’t want to know. And I kept my mouth shut. That’s more than I owed you.”
“Yet here you are again,” Frozen Bear noted.
“Please,” Haligent said wearily. “You two have gone over this previously. It is of no interest to anyone else. We each have something we all need in order to succeed.” Haligent preened as though preparing a major speech.
“American Seasons is about money, and making more of it. Nothing more to it. Mr. Trueheart has significant landholdings that we need for this project. He also has a great deal of influence with local politics. Henry and Jonathan Oxford have additional holdings and access to financial markets. I can leverage capital. Mr. Frozen Bear brings his tribe’s legal rights to gambling, the most precarious asset we have, which is why the risk and rewards are so great. And we’re willing to bet hundreds of millions on it. Why? Because Mr. Frozen Bear and his lawyers have convinced me that they can prevail in court. And if they do, American Seasons will be a mint for making money.
“Priscilla Jouer is the best there is in amusement park design. But that brings us to you, Mr. Pearson? What can you bring, beside your pricks at our conscience? Henry convinced me we needed someone local who understood local thinking, who had a national perspective and ability to communicate. He thought that person was you. He involved you accordingly—against my better judgment, I might add.
“But don’t play holier-than-thou with us. My bank holds your mortgage. Red controls the town board that could take away your liquor license in an instant. A few well-chosen, well-placed complaints from Henry and your tourist business disappears. You need us. We don’t need you.
“So play along. Encourage your patrons to sell their land if they should mention getting an offer. And when the real news emerges, be enthusiastic. Ensure the town sees it for the benefit it will be. It’s in your best interests.”
The entrance of Caleb Wheeler fascinated Bromley. He bounded forward to address the new arrival. Frozen Bear looked at me and said, “Remember Tes’s warning.” Then he walked over to Wheeler, shooed Bromley away and led Wheeler to a table in the far corner.
Bromley was moored midway between his usual stool and the business-talking duo. He stood there wavering, his Sansabelt pants pulled tight across his broad stomach, his checked-print dress shirt open at the collar, and a bolo tie left loose around his eighteen-inch-plus neck. Wheeler with a neck just as thick encircled his with an expensive designer tie accompanied by a top-of-the-line Brooks Brothers suit. And then there was the casually dressed Frozen Bear in a well-worn pair of Calvin Klein jeans and stiffly starched Ralph Lauren garnet red shirt.
Bromley made his move. “Wally, come over.” His imperious tone suggested he had decided to play the elderly statesman. “There’s someone I want you to meet. It’s Mr. Wheeler. He is a very famous man, very rich. Don’t be shy. Come on over.”
Wheeler didn’t bother to look up until Bromley and I were directly at the table. A small and unstable square had been formed. Bromley cleared his throat. Wheeler looked up. It was as though he had never seen me before in his life.
Frozen Bear smiled at me, “Bromley, didn’t I ask you to leave us alone? Mr. Wheeler and I have business to conduct. And Wally, could you have Cynthia come over with menus. Caleb and I have decided to have dinner.”
Bromley pulled me back to the counter and his favorite stool while whispering in my ear. “That Indian is up to no good, I tell you. I hear he’s been spending a lot of time down in Madison. Just last week, there was a deputy secretary from the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Lattigo. Something’s afoot, I tell you.”
“What do you suppose those two have to talk about?” mused Mr. Packer back at the counter. “It reminds me of things I used to study.”
“I’m not allowed to tell you,” said Bromley.
Cynthia headed over to the table with two menus. Frozen Bear and Wheeler each took one, opened them briefly, barely scanned the selections, and then motioned her back to the table. I was miffed. My menu was interesting enough that it should take anyone, no matter how specialized their tastes, at least a few minutes to decide among the many tantalizing opportunities.
Cynthia was walking back by the counter. “So what are they having?” I asked. Maybe they were going to start with a nice bowl of the chicken soup with spaetzle. Thelma had the magic touch when it came to German noodles, and today the broth was pure genius. Maybe one of them would try my escalopes of Wisconsin baby veal. I’d have to convince them to save room for dessert and try the cranberry-steamed pudding that I was serving with a vanilla hard sauce. It was a perfect end for a December meal.
“Hamburgers,” Cynthia said.
“Always a good choice,” said Claire.
“But there are no hamburgers on the menu,” I nearly shouted.
Claire looked at me like I was nuts. “Neither is a fish fry. You always make me a fish fry when I want it. I know you got ground round in that kitchen. Serve them a hamburger.”
“That’s not the point.” I murmured. “Besides Cynthia is the one who sells you the fish fry. We’re only supposed to have fish fries on Fridays. Fridays. Fish. It’s a Catholic thing.”
Josh started laughing.
“Wally, I’ve often wondered,” Mr. Packer began, “why you opened a restaurant. Do you suffer from some internal compulsion to disturb the accustomed rhythms to which we have all danced over these many years?”
Bromley threw up his hands in disgust. “Listen to this man. He lived in Europe once and taught college and now he thinks he’s Sigmund Freud. Wally’s just running a business. In a business you sell what you got. If you don’t got ground beef, you don’t sell hamburgers.”
“I have ground beef,” I pointed out. But I was stuck on Bromley’s statement that Mr. Packer had been a college professor.
“Then sell them the hamburgers,” Bromley said pleasantly. He seemed to have perked up tremendously after he heard their order. “Josh, do you think Mr. Wheeler might be the person trying to buy your land? Maybe everything that Indian just told you was a ruse because his tribe wants to get the land. The two of them look to me like they’re talking money.” Cynthia was walking by with a small basket filled with little bottles of catsup and mustard. He drew her over with a conspiratorial shake of his head. “Stay close. Fill up their water glasses or something. I want to know what they’re talking about. Your father would want to know too. Do it for us.”
Josh broke in, “I don’t think they’re talking about my land. There was something about the way Chip discussed the mineral rights that made me believe him. I’m going to check into it.”
“Sometimes truths are only partial, those old lumber barons didn’t always know what they were doing,” Mr. Packer said enigmatically.
Cynthia was walking back our way. Bromley l
eaned forward in anticipation and to catch her before she went back into the kitchen. “What did you hear?”
She waved him quiet and looked at me, “Will they get their burgers?”
“Let Thelma make them what they want,” I said in disgust.
She went through the swinging door. Several minutes later, she came back out with two platters containing the hamburgers and fries. Thelma had already started them before I gave my approval.
“I think that Chip is pretty cute,” said Josh. “I wonder if he’s seeing anyone.”
Bromley looked at the young man with bewilderment. “How did your parents raise you? You go off to Los Angeles. You get all these god darn crazy ideas”
“Let the boy date who he wants,” Claire said. “I never found it hurt me to have lots of boyfriends. More people to look after you when you get sad.”
Cynthia giggled. We looked over to the table. She and Frozen Bear were exchanging some kind of small talk. A broad smile broke through the fat rolls of Wheeler’s face.
“I bet they’re just trying to confuse her,” grumbled Bromley. “By the time she gets back here, she will have forgotten whatever they were talking about. She’s not that bright, you know. Was held back a year in school early on. That’s why she’ll be turning 19 soon. Red’s always worried about her good sense.”
Whatever the tale, it was taking a while to tell. Cynthia was vibrant and relaxed as she listened. Wheeler had the air of a paternalistic uncle who had just arranged a great deal for his favorite nephew. I noticed a catsup stain on his designer tie. My eyesight was better than my ears. I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation. But Cynthia’s joy was like little peals of Christmas bells ringing through the air.
She was walking back toward us. “Now we’ll find out,” Bromley said. Frozen Bear and Wheeler returned to their intense conversation.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 25