Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  It’d been a strange evening, not at all what I expected. As the night wore on, the other men at our table, one by one, fell away. Shaw left around ten o’clock. Pangborn drank himself into a stupor and had to be taxied home at midnight. Insley wandered off with a blond lady in a green dress who I was pretty sure arrived with a different fella.

  That left me alone with Underhill, while Roscoe loomed off to the side, keeping an eye on us. Underhill talked and talked—about his secret car that he was planning to reveal to the world next week, about his trip last year to Nazi Germany to inspect their race cars, about his favorite brand of cigars, about nearly everything under the sun—until all of the band members had finished packing their instruments. Why I stayed so long, I don’t know. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to tell Underhill that I had to wake up early in the morning to go to church. On my way to the exit, weaving around tables of night owls, I spotted Heinrich and his table of raucous Germans laughing and toasting. He gave me a little wave as I went past him, and I mouthed the word “hello.”

  Exiting the building, I overheard the coat check girl calling the taxi company to request a cab for Underhill. I passed through the front doors, jingling my keys in my hand, watching a tipsy Underhill standing with the help of crutches next to Roscoe, waiting for a black-and-yellow sedan. I could not, in good conscience, let them ride in a taxi when I had a car of my own parked down the street. I asked them to stay put briefly until I could return and pick them up. I jogged into the night until I reached my car. As per my instructions, Roscoe and Underhill waited, and I soon pulled up at the curb across the street and gave a double honk.

  En route to the Hotel Utah, Roscoe sat in the backseat while Underhill resumed talking. He seemed to be a compulsive talker. He kept saying, “It’s not enough!” I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I quietly requested clarification. “It’s not enough!” he repeated.

  “Pipe down, Underhill,” said Roscoe. “You’ll get ticketed for violating the noise laws.”

  “Nonsense! They’ve no such things in America!”

  “They sure as hell do,” said Roscoe. “If you keep carrying on like that, they’ll slap you with one to prove it. Three of them things and you’ll end up in jail. I promise you the accommodations there aren’t as regal as the Hotel Utah.”

  Right then, the Hotel Utah, a white, ten-story glazed terra-cotta tower on South Temple and Main, came into view. The building gave off an ethereal green glow, as if bathed in a mysterious light. I turned onto South Temple, steered into a U-turn, and braked in front of the entrance, where doormen in caps and long coats waited to assist.

  “My home away from home,” said Underhill. “Right here is fine.”

  I stopped, put the car in park and idled.

  “It was good of you to give us a lift back, Art,” said Underhill. “Come up for a drink, why don’t you?”

  Underhill was giddy. I couldn’t take him seriously with his hair dangling in front of his eyes.

  “I would, but I have to get up at the crack of dawn,” I told him. “Thank you for dinner. The food was delicious and I enjoyed the company.”

  “What about tomorrow night?” asked Underhill. “We’re planning on spending the evening down at the Old Mill for…”

  “He’s busy,” said Roscoe. “Ain’t that so, Art?”

  “It’s good of you to ask,” I told Underhill. “Maybe some other time.”

  Underhill sighed. “You know what’s wrong with this town? No nightlife! What if the desire to go out dancing should strike me at three A.M.? What am I to do?”

  Roscoe’s head popped between us, like a jack-in-the-box springing over the seat. “I’m under orders to get you back to your room by midnight, Cinderella. It’s already past one. Let’s shake a leg.”

  “She’s up there,” said Underhill.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My fiancée. Her airplane came in earlier tonight.”

  “In that case, don’t let me hold you up,” I said. “You must be eager to see her.”

  Underhill blinked at me in the dim light. “Did you ever have the feeling that your life is a charade?”

  “No. I can’t say I have.”

  “You’re fortunate.” He bowed his head and whispered, “It’s not enough.”

  “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that tonight,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, Underhill, you’ve had too much to drink,” said Roscoe, getting out the car. He slammed the rear door hard and opened the passenger-side front door. He leaned Underhill’s crutches against the running board, then he seized him by the elbow, but Underhill jerked his arm free. Roscoe made an angry face. “Oh, it’s gonna be that way, is it?”

  “Give us a minute,” said Underhill, looking up at him.

  Roscoe eyed me. I gave him a single nod, to confirm it was OK.

  Roscoe sighed and told Underhill, “Your crutches are here, when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lund.”

  Roscoe straightened and slammed the door. He strolled over to a maroon awning near the revolving door and lit a cigarette. After a long moment of silence, Underhill stared at me and his words came out slowly.

  “I can’t stand it anymore, Art,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I’m beginning to despise it all. My greedy manager, my sniveling brother, my suffocating fiancée—I wish they’d leave me alone. I’m in love with somebody I can’t have. I want to leave it all behind—the sycophants, the fast cars, the long nights of revelry. I want to go somewhere far away, where nobody can find me. Forget about the speed records and competitions, the money and the unattainable aspirations my parents have imposed on me. Far, far away from here.” He reached out and pressed his fingertip against the dashboard clock. “I bet you think I’m mad.”

  “No, not at all. I’m sure a good night’s sleep will help you see things differently in the morning.”

  He pulled his finger away from the clock, and he eyed me again. “Two years ago, when I first came here, I read about a young artist that went missing, a man named Everett something or other.”

  “Ruess,” I said, pronouncing the name Roo-iss. “Everett Ruess.”

  “Ruess?”

  “Yeah. He was from California. He disappeared in the fall of ’34, down around the Canyons of the Escalante.”

  “Everett Ruess. I won’t forget that name again. Sounds like you know his story. He wandered off into the desert and was never seen or heard from again. Search parties spent months looking for him, to no avail. It was as though he melted into the land, became one with the earth and sky. Four years ago…”

  “Going on four, this fall,” I said.

  “No sign of him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you suppose happened to him?”

  “There are theories floating around,” I said. “Some say he drowned in a flash flood. Others think he might’ve fallen into a slot canyon. I remember the papers quoting one fellow who theorized that he took a squaw as his wife and went to live on the Navajo Reservation. Who knows where the truth lies? It’s all mixed up in legend.”

  “I know I’m going to sound like a lunatic, but…”

  He stopped in midsentence.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “Would you take me there?”

  “Where?”

  “To that place where he disappeared. Where did you say it was? Escalante?”

  “Yes, that’s what it’s called. No, I can’t take you there. It’s late.”

  “I shall go on my own then.”

  “Do you mind if I pass along some advice?”

  “By all means.”

  “If you really want to go down there and see it, hire a guide,” I said. “I know a few I could recommend.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Have you been?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you guide me through there?”

  I shook my head. “That country
swallows people whole. It can erase a man as if he never existed. Half that area isn’t even mapped out yet. I don’t know the terrain well enough. We’d both get lost with me guiding us. Sorry. At least I know my limits.”

  “Suppose I were to pay you?”

  “Pay me?”

  “Yes, the sum of ten thousand dollars, to guide me through the Escalante and show me the place where Mr. Ruess walked off into the desert. Would you do it?”

  “Like I said, I think you need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Would you do it?” he repeated.

  I looked at his earnest expression, turned blue by lights outside of the car. “No,” I said. “If you’re willing to fork over ten G’s, you shouldn’t have a problem hiring the best guide in the business.”

  “Nigel was right about one thing. You’re honest, Oveson. I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to encounter an honest man.”

  “It’s late,” I reminded him. “I have to go to church in the morning.”

  “Yes, of course!”

  He opened his door, grabbed the crutches propped against the running board, and used them to maneuver to his feet. I stole a look at the bandages, wrapped thickly around his injured ankle, as he stepped onto the sidewalk with a crutch under each armpit. He closed the door, leaned into the open window and, for a few seconds, he seemed to want to say something meaningful.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” he said. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  “You repaid me with that nice dinner,” I said. “That’s a whole lot more than I expected. Good night.”

  “Good night, Art.”

  He crutch-walked to the building and the doorman assisted Underhill in getting inside. That’s when the tornado came spilling out of the lobby and onto the front sidewalk. By “tornado,” I mean Roscoe locked in a ferocious argument with Nigel Underhill, voices shouting, arms flailing. I rushed out of the car to help the doorman break it up. Gripping Roscoe’s stony bicep, I pulled him a few steps backward, and the doorman stepped in front of Nigel and eased him away.

  “You’re fired, Lund! You hear me? Fired! I’ve never known anybody so brazen and insolent! Don’t bother coming back tomorrow!”

  Roscoe broke past me and got in Nigel’s face. “Fuck you! I oughta wring your puny neck right now!”

  I pivoted in front of Roscoe and separated him from Nigel.

  “Are you threatening me?” Nigel yelled.

  “I quit this fuckin’ detail!” shouted Roscoe. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go screw yourself, ya squirrely little tea-and-crumpets, Buckingham Palace prick.”

  “What a big man, spewing out such sophisticated insults!”

  I continued to block Roscoe, but he nearly outflanked me.

  “I want my money, you weasely little fuck!” Roscoe hollered.

  “What money?”

  “Don’t gimme that! You owe me almost an entire week’s pay! Cough it up, ya fuckin’ chiseler.”

  “C’mon, Roscoe,” I said. “You can pick it up later, after you’ve cooled down.”

  Clive Underhill now blocked his infuriated younger brother near the revolving door.

  “What is this all about, Nigel?”

  “That incompetent oaf was supposed to have you back here by midnight!”

  Roscoe breathed hard between clenched teeth, ready for a fight.

  “How ’bout I give you a ride home?” I suggested.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice hoarse from shouting. “I’m gonna need one. My car is at home. These pricks sent a car to pick me up.”

  We climbed into my idling car, pulled doors closed, and I steered out into South Temple, heading in the direction of Roscoe’s house in the Marmalade District, a quaint neighborhood to the west of Capitol Hill. Roscoe pulled off his bow tie, rolled down the window, and pitched it out onto the road. He cursed under his breath, and he took out a flask, unscrewed the top, and gulped down the remains. “Ah,” he said, as he pulled it away from his lips and twisted the lid back on.

  “What was that all about back there?” I asked.

  “You saw what an arrogant prick he was at the Coconut Grove. Well, when we got back to the hotel just now, he ran up to me in the lobby and started shouting at me for not getting his brother back by midnight. Can you believe it? I’ve got a good mind to go back there and—”

  “Leave it be,” I said. “You’re better off.”

  He nodded and let out a shaky exhale. “You’re a true pal, in every sense of the word.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “How come they hired you in the first place?”

  “Underhill was getting threats,” said Roscoe. “Shaw didn’t want to involve the police. He was afraid of unwanted publicity.”

  “What kind of threats?”

  “Death threats,” said Roscoe. “Shaw told me Clive was averaging three or four a day back in England, ever since he publicly quit some fascist group over there. Shaw was afraid for Clive’s safety.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But I’m glad I’m no longer anchored down to that lousy detail,” said Roscoe. “Let those high-and-mighty English ball-breakers hire someone else. I’ve had it with their snooty horseshit. The pay is decent, but it ain’t worth the headaches.”

  I slowed to a halt in front of Roscoe’s darkened bungalow at the end of an unlit cul-de-sac.

  “Have you heard from Rose?” I asked.

  “No. Still no word from her.”

  “Hey, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?” I asked. “We’d love to have you. We miss you, Roscoe. Come on. Say yes.”

  “Can’t,” he said. “I’m busy. Some other time, though, huh?”

  “Sure. Some other time.”

  He stared at me in the darkness. “Have you given any thought to my request?”

  Last time I saw Roscoe, which was over lunch at the Chit-Chat Luncheonette downtown, he begged and pleaded with me to leave the Salt Lake City Police Department and go into business with him as his partner at Beehive Discreet Investigations. Tempted though I was to go the route of free agent, a steady paycheck was ultimately more appealing, and eventually won out.

  “I have,” I said. “I can’t afford to leave the force now.”

  Roscoe grinned. “I thought you said you were fed up with the bureaucracy.”

  “I am,” I said. “But I’ve got bills to pay.”

  “I understand. Say no more.”

  He got out of the car and closed the door, headed up the front walkway, and trotted up porch steps. I waited until lights went on inside. When they did, one after another, I felt a wave of pity for my friend.

  Since going into business as a private detective four years ago, he’d been lobbying me to quit my job and join him. He knew I was tired of all the red tape at Public Safety—the forms that needed to be typed out in triplicate, having to account for every little detail of everything I did, witnessing the petty turf wars between squads. I’m pretty sure Roscoe thought I would turn things around by bringing more structure and efficiency to his agency. He probably also figured that having the names of two detectives on the frosted glass window of the office door—especially if one of them happened to be a devout Mormon—would instill greater confidence in potential clients. And knowing Roscoe the way I did, I’m sure he would’ve been all too happy to let me do the heavy lifting, thereby giving him a chance to relax a little more.

  I worried about my friend. If it weren’t for the meager pay that the Union Pacific and Denver and Rio Grande Western railroads threw his way, hiring him to police the rail yards and evict hoboes from trains that passed through here, I don’t think he’d have any money at all. To add to his challenges, around the time he quit the police department four years ago, he traveled to Denver to meet a daughter he’d abandoned when she was an infant. Rose had been living with her grandparents for years, and when she hit her teens, Roscoe decided he wanted to make up for all those missing years by trying to be a good father to her.

 
; She arrived in Utah in 1934, a brainy and reticent girl, not unlike my eldest daughter, Sarah Jane. Over the years, however, Rose developed into a rebel with a taste for hard liquor, aggressive boys, and fast cars. Her insolent streak was a mile wide, and she had little patience for her father’s many short-term relationships. Women came and left Roscoe’s life on a weekly basis, and such turbulence gained Rose’s full disapproval, which she voiced often. She challenged her father by wearing provocative clothing and lots of makeup. She was always affectionate with me, calling me “Uncle Art” and hugging me whenever she greeted me. I never once saw her embrace her father.

  Rose and Roscoe quarreled repeatedly. One night, in May of this year, following a particularly heated exchange, Rose lit out in the middle of the night to parts unknown. Her decision to run away left Roscoe a basket case. He paced the floors and took up smoking again. He worried something terrible was going to happen to his daughter and he’d never see her again.

  I asked him what they had fought over. They’d had a bitter knock-down-drag-out about a lad that Rose was dating that Roscoe didn’t approve of. The kid, a college dropout named Teddy Duncan, had been busted numerous times for shoplifting and thieving. Rose told Roscoe she was in love with Duncan. Roscoe called Duncan a “heel” and Rose a “fool,” and he told her she didn’t know what she was doing. Rose stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. At some point in the night, she climbed out her window and took off.

  Two weeks later, a postcard arrived in Roscoe’s mailbox showing a painting of the Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. Postmarked Los Angeles, May 16, 1938, with a return address on Franklin Avenue, it contained a short note from Rose:

  Hello Father: Writing to let you know I am okeh and staying with a new friend, Margaret, until I get my own place. Newspaper is full of apartment ads. Will find one soon. Your loving daughter, Rose Sylvia Lund.

  Roscoe gave me the postcard. Knowing I’d been transferred the previous year to the two-man Missing Persons Bureau in the Salt Lake City Police Department, he begged me to use my connections to locate her. I vowed I’d do my best, and assured him that the arrival of the postcard in the mail was an encouraging sign.