Stealing Fire

by Win Blevins

  This didn’t make sense. He was killed in a motel room. He hadn’t been out in the desert that long. Surely they could tell if the man had been shot or knifed. Where the death-wound was, and if he had tried to defend himself.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Immolation.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “His body was burned beyond recognition. The police could not determine if he died before the fire or if he was burned alive.”

  My heart went down to my stomach. “I am so sorry.” And I was. Helen had seen Iris with Payton’s body, so someone had dragged him out to the desert and torched him. If they’d wanted him to go unrecognized, they wouldn’t have left his wallet and keys. One very sick person was on the loose.

  Practicalities. “What about a funeral?”

  “Helen called a mortuary in Flagstaff. It seems redundant, but he is being cremated properly, and his ashes are being brought up here. Mrs. Wright, Helen, and I were the closest thing he had to family, so one of us will take his urn. I don’t even know where to put it.”

  “Are they sending a hearse up with it?”

  “No, no, no. Helen’s father said he would pick up the remains and bring them to her,” he said, “although I don’t know that she wants them. Jake Fine is a steamroller, but he’s trying to make amends.”

  “So, now that Payton is dead,” I said, “it doesn’t matter that he was an Episcopalian from old money.”

  “Apparently,” said Wright. “When it comes down to it, we are all ashes to ashes. The earth doesn’t give one damn what we are, and to the earth we return. The great mother, she loves us all.” He pursed his lips. “Yazzie?” Wright said, “would you send Mose over, if he’s not busy? I find him a great comfort.”

  “I’ll send him, and I’ll tell him to ask you to think about who must have done it.”

  Forty-eight

  I got Iris from the mess tent, and we gathered up her sketching materials.

  I filled her in on the details on our way to the Gouldings’ house to get Grandpa. He was coming down the stairs while I was racing up.

  “You just about knocked me over, Yazzie. Where’s the fire?”

  Iris and I looked at each other.

  “You going to clue me in?” he said, looking from one face to the other.

  I did.

  “Jesus God.”

  “You got that expression from your old girlfriend.”

  “No, I got that from life.”

  “What do you want to do, Yazzie?” my grandfather said.

  “I want all of us in a group when Jake Fine arrives. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but we should be together,” I said. “Frank Wright would like your company now. How about you go to their cabin and stay until we come and get you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We were heading away from Goulding’s just as John Wayne was leaving his small stone cottage. He was happy to see us for about ten seconds, and then he caught our expressions, the ones that say, life has gone south, and fast. “Trouble,” he said. “Lay it on me.”

  I did. “I should go tell Mr. Ford,” I finished.

  “Yazzie, I know Ford,” Wayne said. “My guess is that he loved meeting Mr. Wright, but now he isn’t crazy about having him around. Wright would feel the same way if Ford brought a movie crew to Taliesin. It messes up the work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I think this mess, however it plays out, will go a lot easier if you let me give Ford the news.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “That Mr. Fine is arriving to bring a friend’s ashes to his intended, and then you’ll be headed out, the whole lot of you,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like a big deal, does it?”

  “I think there will be trouble in spades.”

  “So do I, kid, so do I, but let’s let it happen when it happens. I have two hours before my next shot. The lighting guy knows my skin by heart—he can get someone else to stand in for me. I want to meet this guy Fine.”

  “You sure that’s all right?”

  “I’m sure they’re not going to can me,” Wayne said.

  We walked together to the Wrights’ cabin. Olgivanna took one look at Wayne, and I swear her panties almost fell off. He pretended he didn’t notice, and so did her husband. I told them that Mr. Fine should arrive this afternoon with Payton’s remains. Until then, we could sit on the outskirts of the set, just outside their cabin.

  We sat on folding chairs. Wayne brought us lunch from the mess tent. We sat eating roast beef sandwiches and bananas. Wayne pulled out a cigarette, lit it off the end of the one he was already smoking. I wanted to talk to him about the sacred nature of tobacco. Like everything else, including going to church, moderation was enough. But now was not the time.

  Wayne tried to ease us all by telling us the names show business had given him before everyone settled on John Wayne. He talked about being a kid. Growing up in the Mojave Desert, riding horses with his brother along the irrigation ditches. Grandpa nodded his head in satisfaction. No wonder Wayne looked so natural on a horse.

  Then company arrived. Mr. Wopsock joined us, and he’d left his fancy duds in his motel room. He and Grandfather greeted each other as if they were brothers. Wopsock had a nice pair of Tony Lama boots, worn to that perfect place where they’re still in one piece, but they’ve stretched enough to fit just the way a boot should.

  Wayne gave me a look and asked to have a private talk with me.

  “Only a few feet away, though, just beneath those piñons,” I said.

  “Okay by me, kid.”

  “What is it?”

  “Couple of things. First of all, you okay with that other Indian sitting with you?”

  “He and my grandfather made friends. He’s a businessman from Salt Lake. Has a chain of department stores through Utah, Wyoming, and Idaho. Grew up here. He wants a change. Back to his roots.”

  “Okay, then. I got another question for you,” he said. “That guard with red hair?”

  “Finnerty. Security.”

  “It’s the right shirt and ID tag for security, I’ll give you that.”

  “Problem with him?”

  “Don’t know. He’s been eyeing your wife. You’ve got it all over him in every way, but don’t be surprised if he makes a play for her.”

  “Iris?”

  “And don’t ever let your wife think no guy would be interested in her but you.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “I know. Here’s the thing. I come out of nowhere because of a reason, and it’s not just looks and height and all that other hooey,” Wayne said. “Million guys out there better-looking than me. I came out on top because I take stock of people. Kid, I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Just spit it out.”

  “Your wife’s been drawing the crew when we’re not shooting.”

  “That’s okay with Ford. She did that during his last shoot.”

  “I got it. But she’s mostly drawing pictures of that guard who’s been looking at her.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Just … pay attention.”

  I looked at the ginger head and beard, and wondered what Iris found interesting enough to draw over and again. Maybe it was, like Grandfather said, the fact that there was something weird about him, something off. Artists like things that feel odd. Makes their work more interesting.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Wayne said. “I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind, until my next scene comes up. I’m going to really nail Ward Bond this time around—it’s my turn. He’s gotten me three times in a row now.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said. If I had a big brother, I’d want him to be like Wayne. Full of smarts and fun.

  When it was almost time for his scene, Wayne caught a glimpse of Finnerty heading toward the camera. He mumbled, “I swear the Pirate Queen would be envious of that guy’s head of hair. Must be straight off the boat.”

  “The Pirate Queen
?”

  “Maureen O’Hara. Great guy, my best friend, and she has a mean right hook.”

  Wayne walked over to Mr. John, had a couple of words, went through the routine of starting the take, did his lines perfectly—“Cut and print!”—and then disappeared into the crowd of actors. Iris sat next to me, holding my hand, keeping a steady eye on Finnerty. That was it.

  “What is it with you and that guy?”

  “What guy?” she said.

  I looked right into her eyes and waited.

  “Oh, that guy,” she said. “Nothing. His face interests me, that’s all.”

  “Well, cool it, all right?”

  Grandpa coughed into his hand, and I had a feeling he approved of me putting my foot down.

  Forty-nine

  I didn’t know what was taking Fine so long to show up. Maybe we’d figured wrong. If he took forever, my nerves would be shot. I hadn’t seen Helen, either. My stomach felt like it was tied in a knot up around my gullet. Wayne was tired of the same old, same old—his words, not mine—and joined us. Only one more shot, and he was finished for the day. My stomach relaxed a little.

  I asked Grandpa if he had seen Helen. He had not. The Wrights had not. Wayne had no idea who Helen was. I scanned the crowd, hoping Helen was close by, hoping she was safe.

  It crossed my mind that Fine might be later than I’d expected because he wasn’t coming alone, but dismissed that stray idea. If Jake Fine struck at anyone, he wouldn’t be the striker, and it would be far from the madding crowds, not in a throng of a hundred people, some of them famous.

  Time was coming on to the magic hour. The glow on the stone bluffs was beginning to make the upper mesas vibrate with liquid light.

  No one around but the necessary cast and crew. Except for the actors, the same guys I’d met last year.

  Wright leaned in close to Wayne. “Excuse me,” Wright said, “you’re quite famous. Rich. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I sense we’re heading into trouble. Meaning my wife and I and Yazzie and Iris. Why would you take this situation on?”

  “That’s why.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Because you’re in trouble, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You’re a good man. Old-fashioned.”

  “I’m a very flawed man, but right is right, and that’s the end of the story.”

  “You see everything in black and white.”

  “God, yes,” Wayne said. “You gotta stick up a fence and stand on one side or the other.”

  “I envy you.”

  “You’re probably thinking I’m too dumb to see all those shades of gray.”

  “Seeing them is a blight,” said Wright. “You and I, we both have the same creed. I am what I am. That’s what I tell the Feds when they roust me over nothing.”

  Wayne sat back and studied him. “Hang tight, friend, you’re an old man who’s hit a rough patch. Goldman here will get you through.”

  I had scanned the thinning crowd in the last of the golden light, magic hour. No Helen. I looked for Finnerty. He was still on guard, leaning in the doorway of the mess tent. He was checking the folks, too, first a look inside the tent, then a look outside. His eyes often came back to Iris. I’d have a talk with him when this whole thing was over. No tough-guy stuff, just a low-key conversation. Tough-guy stuff would send Iris up the wall.

  I went back to our little band. Still all there, until Wayne excused himself. Said it was time for him to get over to the makeup man. Wright got a kick out of that.

  “What?” Wayne said.

  “Sir, I’m a master of disguises and I love costumes. But even I have never worn makeup.”

  “Well, you got a right to laugh about that, pal.” He sauntered off to be covered in pancake and a little eyeliner.

  “What do we do now, Yazzie?” Iris said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Yes. Stay with me,” I said. “The Wrights and Grandfather and us—we’re going to find Helen. Big group, but if we hang together we’ll be in good shape.”

  My grandfather whispered to me. “Big bunch for you and me to take care of, Yazzie, if something happens.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.” My thoughts were sure of that—I didn’t know how things could go wrong—but I had the jitters. I got up and started toward the camera. “I’m going to ask Ford if I can borrow one of his security guards.”

  Ford said, “Hell, take two of ’em.” I grabbed the tall guard, Kelly his name was, and Finnerty. Neither wanted to leave the set, but Ford chased them off. Our crowd headed toward Goulding’s trading post like a band of misfits. Mr. Wright looked smaller by the day, and I was worried about his health. Grandfather must have felt the same way about him—he was focused on boosting Wright’s spirits. Pretty soon Wright laughed. “Mose, you are a real case!” Grandpa would be tired tonight, no doubt about it.

  Iris chatted with Mrs. Wright. She asked about the book Olgivanna was writing and how it was coming along. Mrs. Wright said it would be a lot easier to write if she ever had one moment to herself.

  The guards followed on our trail, talking about a poker game they’d played last night with Ward Bond and Wayne. Bond had cleaned them all out, and then he gave them their money back. On their salaries, that was a piece of good luck.

  And there was Helen, looking like a little girl, lost, standing in front of the driveway up to the Gouldings’ house. She was wearing a thin sweater, tugging on one of the threads that had come loose.

  * * *

  One look at her, and I knew what she had done. She only looked that way around the person who loved her most, even though his love made her small. Our father made her less than. Insignificant. She had phoned him to deliver her and destroy her. Both.

  Father would be in for a surprise.

  Fifty

  I kept my voice soft and low, gentle as if I was coming up on a stray kitten. “Helen? What are you doing here by yourself?”

  “My dad. I’m waiting for my father.” Helen looked at her left wrist, habit, but she wasn’t wearing a watch. She seemed satisfied. “He called from Cameron. He should be here any minute.” A thin smile tried going up at the corners but couldn’t make the climb.

  She looked at all of us as if we were strangers. She looked at the tall guard. She looked at the ginger-haired guard. “It’s not necessary. You can all go about … whatever you were doing. He’s bringing an urn with Payton’s ashes.”

  Finnerty backed up as if to protect the Wrights, but too late. Mrs. Wright was standing by Helen’s side in a moment, mothering her, putting her arm around her.

  “It’s all right, dear. We’re here.”

  “I don’t know what to do with them. The ashes.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  “I didn’t ask my dad to bring them here,” she volunteered. “Dad didn’t even like him.”

  “Fathers rarely like our beaus, dear.” More patting from Mrs. Wright. “He’s trying to make up for that.”

  And then—grand entrance!—Jake Fine drove up in a fancy car, bigger than a boat, cream powdered with rust-colored sand.

  He stepped out of the car and strode straight toward Helen. It was clear Mr. Fine was not in a good mood.

  “Jesus, I have a business to run,” he said. “I don’t need to drive clear to the ass end of nowhere to pick up and deliver the ashes of some GD boyfriend of yours who was totally useless.”

  “I didn’t ask you—”

  “You didn’t need to. You’re my kid. What was I gonna do? Leave him there?”

  He handed her the urn.

  “I could have—”

  “You could have stayed in Los Angeles, married a nice guy, lived in a house with a decent kitchen, had one kid and another on the way, plus a pool in the backyard. That’s what you could have done. No, you had to have aspirations. Dreams. Ridiculous.”

  Iris seemed about two feet taller than usual—her back was that ramrod
stiff.

  “And look at this pathetic bunch. Wright, you owe me money. You tried to con me into trading work on the design for the twenty grand, but I wasn’t taken in. You’re a sorry has-been is what you are, living on other people’s ideas of your past glory.”

  We had bunched up, no one knowing what this maniac would do or say next. I edged to the front, itching to take him down.

  “And you, my blessed son,” Fine blustered on, “what have you got to say for yourself?”

  * * *

  He was looking straight at the guard we knew as Finnerty.

  Fine stood straight and strong, seemed to grow about two inches taller, barged across the drive, and yanked the ginger hair off Finnerty in one tug.

  We all moved away from the pair, just wanting to get out of range. I was furious at myself for not realizing the son of a mobster had been around us for several days.

  “You getting in the movies now?” Fine barked in his son’s face. “Play-acting? It figures. You haven’t done one adult thing in your supposed adult life. And let’s get that damned beard off your face.” He ripped it off. “You make me sick.” Finnerty’s real hair was black.

  I felt like I was on a roller coaster and my stomach was lurching. I’d bet the others felt worse.

  Helen had the guts to take a few steps toward her father, followed by Mrs. Wright.

  Helen threw words at Fine. “What kind of father says that to his son?”

  Mrs. Wright said, “Mr. Fine, you’re a small, horrible person.”

  I took her by the arms and pulled her back. Helen and her father were rolling into a showdown of wills that had started sometime around her birth, or her brother’s birth.

  Her voice was low when she spoke, and full of snarl.

  “Father,” she said, “your son, my brother, has sickened you since the day he was born.”

  Fine was very quiet. He was deep in his reptilian mode. “I think you’re probably right about Rick. But you, Helen,” he said, “you I have loved completely. Doesn’t that make up for it?”