“We’ll just make the canyon off-limits to guests. That way the problem’s solved,” Marshall said.
Frank’s business at Sand Canyon was finished. Well, not quite. He had to return in a couple of weeks. He figured he’d make an appearance for the opening luncheon, take a phone call, and leave on pressing business. He didn’t want to rub shoulders with these people, especially when the club members showed up and started shooting domesticated birds and tethered game. His inner coyote was definitely restive.
As he was leaving, Ewan Campbell made a point of asking Frank if he could buy him a pint sometime. Frank thought Campbell would fit in at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, if the big South African could keep from punching one of the Grumpy Wrench Gang, most likely Ben Shaw, a man who never put fetters on his hostility. Shaw’s inner coyote was healthy and well fed. Frank was envious.
“Sure, I know just the place,” Frank responded. “I’ll treat you to a Sierra Nevada.” Then he remembered Linda’s request to see if he could wangle an invitation to the opening. “Say, could I bring a guest to the luncheon? She’s a local reporter, and a good friend of mine.”
“Why not,” Campbell said. “Give her name to Carl down at the gate. Tell him to check with me.”
Before Frank stepped into the SUV, he glanced up at the western ridge overlooking the blinds. He had that feeling of being watched. He turned back to the ranch house. The big South African waved. That must’ve been it, he thought.
13
•
Frank and Ewan Campbell squinted into the wind coming off the Sierra as they crossed the dirt parking area adjoining the Joshua Tree Athletic Club.
“Where’s the valet parking?” Campbell yelled against the blast.
Frank pushed through the heavy door into the dim interior. “This is the place.” The patched-together tavern and its ragtag owners always put him in a good mood. “And here’s the master of ceremonies,” he said, stepping up to the bar. “Ewan Campbell, meet Jack Collins, owner and operator of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. You might say Jack is the patron saint of desert rats.” Frank’s mood was buoyant. The first part of his mission to Sand Canyon for the BLM had come off without a hitch. Dave Meecham would be pleased. “So where’s the rest of the team?”
“Out and about.” Jack was guarded.
“Jack has a couple of partners”—Frank laughed quietly—“that require watching.”
Collins ignored Frank’s remark. “What brings you to the Mojave Desert, Mr. Campbell?” Jack inquired, shaking Campbell’s hand.
“I’m with Sand Canyon.”
Jack shot Frank a quizzical look.
“How ’bout a couple of Sierra Nevadas,” Frank said, ignoring Jack’s unstated question.
“That’s the hunting ranch you’re with?”
“The same,” Campbell said.
“Ewan’s from South Africa,” Frank said.
“Oh, I see,” Jack mumbled.
“So I thought I’d show him the hot spots and our desert hospitality.” Frank’s expression suggested that Collins let it slide.
“Welcome, Mr. Campbell, a friend of Frank’s is a friend of mine.” Jack’s broad face expanded into beamish bonhomie. “This your first time in the Mojave?”
The big South African looked about, taking in the bar, the ancient gold pans against the far wall, and the snooker table opposite the bar. “Nee und ja.” He smiled. “I worked security for West Rand Mining. I grew up in the big dig, the Witwatersrand, South Africa. So you see, this place is familiar, even though I haven’t been here before, mining camps being mining camps, wherever they are.”
“That’s the Rand in South Africa that this district here was named for?” Jack said. “You know, our Johannesburg borrowed its name from there in hopes of being as rich as the richest place on earth.” Jack was clearly impressed.
“The very same.”
“Why’d you leave, if you don’t mind my asking?” Jack asked. “They wanted me to start spending time underground.” He made a sour face. “Way underground, more than a mile. I don’t care for that.”
Frank nodded. “Not for me either.” Frank was out-and-out claustrophobic.
Eddie pushed through the leather-padded doors with Cece Flowers in tow. They stood waiting for their eyes to adjust to the soft light.
“What’s up there, Redhawk?” Jack said, reaching into a refrigerator for an icy mug. “A tequila and grapefruit juice for you, Ms. Flowers?
“You look down in the mouth, my friend,” Jack said, mixing her drink. He placed a beer in front of Eddie.
Eddie took a long pull from his beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Thanks, Jack.” He sighed and turned toward Frank and Ewan Campbell. “How’re you doin’, Frank?”
“Eddie, this is Ewan Campbell. Ewan, Eddie Laguna and Cece Flowers. Eddie’s a genuine Native American guide,” Jack said with a smile.
“Hello, Ms. Flowers, Eddie.” Campbell nodded.
“Call me, Cece, Ewan,” she said in a husky voice.
“I like your hat,” Eddie said. “Never seen one like it.”
“It’s from South Africa,” Campbell said.
“So what’s been ringing your bell?” Frank asked, winking over at Jack.
“Very funny,” Eddie said. The jokes about his bell were wearing thin. His face gathered into a frown. “We haven’t had much luck in locating Cece’s mine”—he sighed—“and now my truck’s acting up.”
“Acting up?” Jack said.
“Quit running.”
“Eddie knows the desert better than anyone I know,” Jack said, quickly changing subjects before Eddie asked to borrow his truck.
“Nothing like gold fever to concentrate a man’s efforts,” Campbell said.
“Ewan’s from South Africa, Eddie. He used to work for a gold mine.”
Eddie brightened. “Yeah?”
“I’m no expert about finding gold. That’s for the geologists. So what’re you trying to hunt down? I’d be interesting in hearing about it.”
Eddie nodded and recapped the difficulty of trying to locate Ms. Cecilia Flowers’s lost mine, given how hard it was to find benchmarks a hundred years old and the vague description of the mine’s location in the letter.
“Well, it sounds like a tall order.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, for sure.”
“Nobody can find it if Eddie can’t,” Jack chimed in.
“Except I don’t know gold ore from a rock.”
“If it’s knowing what’s real gold and what isn’t, most people can’t tell the real thing from the fake,” Campbell said. “The thing that separates the genuine article from the phony is the acid test. Give it the acid test, and the gold shines out like the sun on a bright morning.”
“Sure.” Eddie looked from Campbell to Jack Collins and back. He’d had his leg pulled once too often, especially by the owner of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club.
“Ewan’s telling you the truth, Eddie. Most gold’s got a mark on it to show how pure it is. Like twenty-four karat or fourteen karat.” Jack tugged a ring from his finger. “See the mark here?”
Eddie peered at the inside of Jack’s ring and saw 14kt.
“That mark shows that it’s gold, but not pure. Other metals have been mixed in to make it stronger. Pure gold is a very soft metal. You can dig into it with a pocketknife.”
“I won’t be looking for lost rings with marks on ’em, for Christ sakes.”
“That’s true enough, Eddie, but there is a way to tell the false from the true.” Ewan Campbell’s voice dropped, his expression suddenly earnest. “What they do is put nitric acid on it. If it’s not gold, it turns green or brown. If it’s real gold, the acid doesn’t touch it. That’s how they know what it’s made of.”
Eddie gave Jack a long look. “You guys aren’t just making this up?”
“Nope, it’s the truth, on my mother’s grave,” Jack touched his chest.
Campbell nodded gravely. “Same with people, Eddie.
I’ve seen men turn as green as cabbages around nitric acid, but the hearts of gold just call for another drink.”
Collins broke out laughing.
“I knew you guys were bullshitting me.”
“Not really, Eddie,” Frank said. “Just the part about the cabbages.”
Eddie sighed. “Didn’t know it. Didn’t even know there was a test.”
“Nobody said you’re a mining engineer,” Jack added.
“Yeah, well, we’re about done looking anyway.” Eddie looked glum.
“That’s true, Jack.” Cece said, in a whispery voice. “All I have is the map, the letter, and my dreams.”
Frank thought she was laying it on pretty heavy, but the rest of the male contingent seemed to be lapping it up.
“You don’t mind me saying so, Ms. Flowers, it takes a lot of money to run a mining operation,” Campbell said. “The people who make the strikes rarely get rich. It’s the developers who make all the money, and that requires investors. The days of picking up high-grade ore and retiring in a month are long gone; mostly they were never here.”
Cece reached into her canvas bag and pulled out the pink quartz. “What about this? You think this is worth investing in?”
Campbell held the ore up to the shaft of sunshine coming in through the diamond-shaped door light. He whistled softly under his breath. “Did this come from your mine, Ms. Flowers?”
“A long time ago, yes. It’s all I have.”
“Well, if you can find the rest of it, I’d say it’s more than worth developing. I’d say you have a real find.”
Cece smiled. “Oh, thanks so much, Ewan. That makes me feel so much better. You don’t know how discouraged I’ve been.”
Campbell frowned in thought. “Tell you what, Cece. If you’ll trust me with your ore, I think I know some folks I can show it to.”
“Oh, do take it, Ewan. That would be just wonderful of you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I was about ready to give up.”
Campbell turned to Eddie, whose slight figure had receded into the gloomy light. “Find it for her, mate. You find it, and we’ll dig up some investors. Now it’s up to you.”
Eddie’s outsized teeth flashed in the gloom. “That’s what we’ll do, Mr. Campbell—and thanks.”
“Well, I’ve got to be going. No rest for the wicked.” Campbell smiled at Jack. “I imagine that keeps us both busy, right, Mr. Collins?”
Jack returned the smile. “The devil finds work for idle hands. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Campbell.” He reached across the bar, and they shook hands.
“Good luck with your treasure hunt, Eddie.”
“Thanks,” Eddie said, bobbing his head, the silver bell voicing his gratitude.
As Frank and Campbell departed, Eddie leaned across the bar. “Say, Jack, you think I could borrow your truck until mine’s running right?”
Jack sighed. “Yeah, but take care of it, Eddie. I’ve had that truck a long time.”
“Thanks a lot, Jack.” There was a time when most people wouldn’t have trusted Eddie around the corner with a rag doll. Now he had friends who would lend him a truck. Pride washed over him in a great wave. He wasn’t used to it.
•
Frank and Campbell pushed through the doors into the hot afternoon sun. The wind had died down, and the smell of creosote bush drifted into the air, sharp, dry, and acrid.
“That was a nice thing you did,” Frank said.
“The Sand Canyon membership wipes their arses with banknotes. They’re nothing if not rich.”
“I mean Eddie.”
Campbell shrugged. “Oh, ja, he is a good guy.”
“Twenty-four karat.” Frank smiled.
“Marshall asked me to keep an eye on you,” Campbell said as they got into Frank’s pickup.
“How come?” Frank asked.
“He has you picked out as an unfriendly.” He waited for Frank to respond. “I did some checking up. I’d say he has a point.”
“Why are you telling me? Seems like I would be easier to keep an eye on if I didn’t know you were watching.”
Campbell’s laugh was humorless. “Right you are, mate. Spying’s not my line of work.”
“Finishing off wounded animals for rich phonies on pretend safaris doesn’t seem like your line of work either.” Frank pulled onto 395 and headed northwest toward the Sierra.
“It’s not.” He pulled sunglasses from his pocket and put them on against the afternoon sun. “My old line of work wasn’t much better.”
“Which part? Chief of security, West Rand Mining, or South African Defense Force? You left the SADF in 1994 when the new armed forces incorporated guerrilla units from the African National Congress and other anti-apartheid groups.” Frank looked over at his passenger. “Everybody checks on everybody. Why’d you leave the army?”
Campbell laughed. “To keep from being murdered. You know all that bullshit about karma, things coming round. Well, it was my turn to be hunted. I’d been a good soldier. I took the king’s shilling, so to speak, so I did my duty and killed black people for my country. Not just the guerrillas, no, no. I was with one of the special units whose job it was to suppress trouble before it happened, which meant quieting troublemakers, people who spoke up, tried to organize.” His voice trailed away. “So after I got out, I did the same fucking thing for the mine owners.”
He looked directly at Frank, his expression somber. “Mercenary. Gun for hire. This job for Sand Canyon is a step up.” He chuckled softly. “Marshall and his investors hired me to put Sand Canyon together and make it work. They want a place where their guests can do what the hell they want in the privacy of their own club, and they want it to be secure.” He stared out the window. “That’s how a man winds up wiping other people’s arses.”
“Why don’t you get out? Nobody’s holding a gun to your head.” Frank brought the truck to a stop where 395 joined Highway 14.
“I told them I’d see it through to opening day. Then I’m gone. That’s what I signed on for. That’s what I’ll do.” He fished a cigar out of his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead. I’ll blame the stink on Jack Collins.”
Campbell smiled. “Good guys. Good place.”
“Yeah, the best.”
“No, nobody’s holding a gun to my head, but I’ve taken their money.” He grinned. “A promise for services yet to be rendered.”
Frank thought about making promises. “What if you gave your word to the wrong people? What if things changed? What if you give your word to people without honor, people who make up their own rules? You keep your word then?”
“Ja.”
“I’d say that makes you a fool.”
Campbell gave Frank a hard look. “They’re the ones paying the bill.” His expression softened. “Look, when I’m finished with Sand Canyon, I’m finished with guns. I’m a photographer. Pretty good, too. I’ve got my first showing down in Palm Desert in less than a month.” He puffed on his cigar. “Come on down where I can keep an eye on you and I’ll take your picture.”
“Sounds good.” Frank liked Campbell in spite of his past. There but for the grace of God, he thought. Walk away, Ewan, while the walking’s good.
14
•
From his perch in the cupola, Frank watched the lightning flickering along the tops of the Inyo Mountains on the far side of the valley. The distant rumbling of thunder swelled and faded in jagged counterpoint to the flashes of blue light. He imagined sheets of rain sweeping across the high desert, the dry washes swollen with rivers of brown water. Not a good time to be in the plateau country, a good time to be in the caboose. He shivered in the damp air and pulled the tails of his shirt down over his bare legs.
He’d slipped from their bed, taking care not to wake Linda, finally asleep after a fitful night of tossing about. Her words had banished sleep, and his own words kept replaying in his head like a stuck record. He’d been caught unawares, flat-footed as a fool in motley.
>
They’d decided to celebrate Linda’s birthday with dinner at the Seasons. She wore beige slacks, low heels—heels were a rarity—and a light blue silk blouse, looking like a million. He’d basked in the envious stares cast in his direction, more than likely curious stares—what’s a pretty woman like you doing with a guy like that? stares—but that was fine with him.
“I’m hungry, Flynnman, and I’m not counting calories tonight. Let’s splurge,” she’d said, and they had: crab cakes and fumé blanc for appetizers, salmon for her main course, rack of lamb for his. For dessert they’d split bread pudding topped off with caramel sauce, followed by a good port. Wonderful!
“Do you know how old I am, Flynnman?”
He’d thought for a minute. “Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-four,” she’d said, her face serious.
“Her beauty untouched by time.” He had smiled foolishly, pleased with his comment.
“Where do you see yourself in five years, Frank?”
“Jesus, where did that come from?” he blurted. “I’ve never given it much thought,” he added quietly. “Why?”
“Time marches on.” She made a face. “Birthday blues and all that.”
“I guess I don’t worry about the future all that much because right now seems okay. More than okay. Right now seems great.” He grinned his most disarming grin. “You can’t really do all that much about the future anyway.” He shrugged. “It just comes and turns into the present—where we live. In the present.”
“What is that, mañana, Paiute wisdom, or Irish folklore?”
Frank tried to collect his thoughts. He was being tried and convicted for something, but he wasn’t sure of what.
“Common sense,” he replied, his voice flat.
“Things change, Frank. Either you have a hand in them or you drift.”
“What’s the matter with drifting? It’s better than running around chasing after a career, making bucks, and buying stuff. In my book, drifting’s okay.”
“Maybe for you. Planning for the future is common sense, too.”
“I plan for the future every time I set my alarm clock.” Smartmouth speaks, he thought. “Look, how’d we get from celebrating your birthday to future shock?”
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