“Whatever you want,” Pammie replied, handing Cat a business card that said PAMELA M. CATERING FOR ALL OCCASIONS with a phone number and e-mail address. It wouldn’t be long before the Yippie I O lost a salad girl and gained a competitor. Sally wondered if a restaurant called Pamela M had a chance in a place where most people liked a steak that was pretty much indistinguishable from the plate.
“Don’t forget to leave room for the strawberries,” said Quartz, clapping an arm around the genius-chef-in-training. “Or eat dessert first.”
They were using paper plates and cups, paper napkins and plastic flatware. Sally guessed that the caterer had decided that the inconvenience of washing dishes in the restroom sink trumped the desirability of not adding to Wyoming’s solid waste problem.
Still, the buffet was clearly calculated to give the least offense possible. Pammie had even prepared special dishes to satisfy the most stringent dietary rules. Kali and Lark each received a plate heaped with beautifully colorful, carefully cut, enticingly garnished and uniformly raw fruit and vegetables. Each was handed a paper-wrapped pair of wooden chopsticks and a bottle of spring water. As everyone went back into the main room, arranging him- or herself on a chair or the couch, Kali and Lark sank into cross-legged positions on the floor, setting their plates in their laps, and went to work with the chopsticks. Quartz was last to arrive, with a heaped-up plate. Pammie remained in the kitchen room, restocking platters, checking the temperature on the soup, nibbling a chocolate strawberry with a huge grin on her face.
A catered vegan lunch, complete with custom-made raw meals. It had to be a milestone in the history of Wyoming. Sally half expected somebody to come running in with a bloody cow carcass, or, at the very least, a bag of burgers, either to save the luncheon guests from malnutrition, or to protect the state’s endangered cultural identity.
This was, however, a business meeting held in the temporary offices of Wild West, and everyone seemed to be waiting for Stone Jackson, obviously the most powerful person in the room, to make his move. He made pleasant small talk, efficiently polished off his soup and sandwich, drank a cup of tea, and powered down two helpings of slaw. And then, without appearing the least bit aggressive or assertive, he assumed control and opened the meeting. “Let me begin by asking for a volunteer to take notes,” he said, brandishing a yellow pad.
Quartz raised his hand, and reached down to retrieve a laptop computer sitting by his side. Good lad, Sally thought. Raised late enough in the second feminist wave not to have absorbed the notion that the secretarial grunt work belonged to women, and long enough into the information revolution to be accustomed to taking notes into a computer.
Stone nodded thanks at Quartz, and moved on. “Why don’t we start by summing up what we know so far,” he said. “The concert will take place on the Saturday night of Thanksgiving weekend. That gives us not quite four weeks to ramp up. Terry, ticket sales are looking good, right?”
“They’ve been selling like crazy, even though the talent isn’t completely nailed down. We’ve had phone and Internet inquiries about everything from motels and restaurants to RV hookups. Looks like people will be flying and driving in from as far away as Phoenix and Seattle.”
“Hope it doesn’t snow,” Sally couldn’t help saying.
Everyone glared at her. She vowed not to open her mouth again. If they didn’t want to think about the oh-so-predictable Thanksgiving blizzard, fine. Let them figure out what to do with ten thousand irate would-be concertgoers, demanding refunds because they were iced down in Colorado Springs, or freezing their asses off at Little America, or spending a night in the Denver International Airport. Or because half the talent was sitting on the runway at LAX, waiting for global warming to take effect.
“I’ve been working on the lineup,” Stone said. “So far, it’s looking pretty good. Bonnie can’t make it, unfortunately—”
Uh-oh. That might dampen Dwayne’s enthusiasm.
“But Emmylou’s on board, and she mentioned that Linda and Dolly might want to come.”
Linda and Dolly? The Millionaires would be ecstatic, especially Jimbo, who’d even made a pilgrimage to Dolly-wood. And then Sally recalled, with a blast of hot grief, what had befallen the bass player.
“David and Graham are in, too,” Jackson added.
Sally broke her vow. “Linda and Dolly and David and Graham. Wow! It really sounds to me like you’ve got more than enough without my band,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Stone, fixing her with a let-me-handle-this look. “We support local music.”
“Thomas, we’ve just lost our bass player, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, I did hear,” he said, looking at Nels, who closed his eyes. “Another one of these hunting accidents. Was he an old friend?”
“Well, no,” said Sally. “He’s only been with the band a little while, but it’s horrible, nonetheless. The guy had a wife and a couple of kids, and a job at the cement plant. I’m sure they’re hurting every which way.”
Stone looked thoughtful. “Would you be willing to go on with somebody else sitting in?” he said. “I could get you a bass player, if it came to that. Or if you’ve got somebody else who could fill in, I could sit in on guitar or piano and sing some harmonies.”
Stone Jackson could sit in with the Millionaires? Sally could actually be singing harmony with beloved Tommy J? “I guess we could manage. Dwayne’s played bass for us a lot anyway.”
Stone turned to Terry Kean. “Hey T.K., would it be possible for us to earmark some of the proceeds from the benefit for a fund for the widow and kids? A gesture of compassion to a local guy who died the same way Nina did?”
“Not a problem,” said Kean. “It’s up to you all.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Cat said. “Gun violence is a terrible problem.”
“I don’t believe this,” Kali said, quiet but adamant. “I can’t believe you think Wild West should be subsidizing people who go out into the woods with deliberate intent to kill.”
“But that’s not what we’d be doing,” said Whitebird, looking not at Kali but at Cat. “We’d be reaching out a helping hand to the needy family of a local victim of gun violence. It’d be excellent community relations.”
Sally had pegged Whitebird as a PR type. Now, as Cat nodded in agreement, she knew he was also a pretty shrewd ass kisser.
“I think it’s a decent thing to do,” said Cat. “I also think it’s important to make the local connection. In every project I’ve ever been involved with, success has depended on that link. Wild West needs to be about the West in general, and Wyoming in particular,” she finished, looking around the room to see who agreed. Stone obviously did, since he’d made the suggestion in the first place. Whitebird wagged his head emphatically. Quartz smiled pleasantly; Sally wondered if he might not be just the tiniest bit high. Willen said nothing, and Kali and Lark glowered.
Sally had her doubts. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d better ask Arvida Perrine, Jimbo’s widow. If she’s willing, I guess we could do a couple of songs in his memory.” She wouldn’t dwell on the irony of doing a tribute to Jimbo Perrine at what Jimbo would doubtless consider some kind of pagan tree-fucker festival. Maybe they could really show their respect and display some of his taxidermy while they performed.
“I don’t know about the songs, but we can certainly kick in some bucks. And let me be very clear about this: We want you involved,” Cat said bluntly, closing the subject. Sally still wondered why.
Kali had fallen silent, finishing her lunch. Now she set her empty plate on the coffee table with deliberation. “You’ve recruited some impressive performers,” she told Jackson, and then looked around the room. “But who will speak for the foundation? Who should deliver the political message?”
“As director,” Whitebird said quickly, “that would be my job.”
“And what,” Cat asked, “is the political message of Wild West? That hasn’t been clear to me, but the
n, I’ve been out of the country a lot in the past couple of years. I’d assume that we’re talking about the kinds of environmental and social objectives Nina and I have believed in since we were kids, and supported with money and time since we’ve had enough of both to spare a little. Protection of wildlife habitat, restoration of riparian environments and grasslands, and, at the same time, sustainable, vibrant rural communities. It’s a balancing act that involves paying attention to tradition and a sense of place, keeping on top of the latest scientific and humanistic research, thinking hard about growth, details, deadlines, and practicalities, and keeping ordinary people in the loop when big decisions are being made.”
Nels Willen nodded vigorously.
“The UN’s got projects in places like Ghana and Bangladesh,” Cat added. “Working with NGOs. With everything from forest conservation programs to rural manufacturing co-ops. All about the small scale and the local. Incredibly important, totally nonglamourous work,” she said.
Whitebird nodded, but his eyes were remote. The man was not listening. “Of course, of course,” he said vaguely. “Although we’ve been thinking that in order for Wild West to get some initial attention, we should pick a cause that makes a splash. A hot-button issue.”
“And that would be... ?” Cat asked.
Kali spoke softly, but with vehemence. “Animal abuse,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like what they do to animals in this place. Between the legalized murder of everything from pheasants to moose, and the death-camp cattle culture, it’s intolerable.”
“Death-camp cattle culture?” Cat asked.
“You know what she’s talking about,” Lark put in. “The castrations and the ear notching, burning hot brands seared into their hides, pens where they force-feed them druggedup, chemical-laced corn, railroad cars to the slaughterhouses, poking them all the way with electric prods. And they have no more idea of what’s happening to them than the Jews who were rounded up and—”
Jeez. Such a promiscuous mixing of cows and Jews. In Sally’s informed opinion it was, to say the least, not kosher.
“That’ll do, Lark,” Nels Willen said softly.
Stone’s response was diplomatic. “I’m sure some of you feel passionately about animals,” he said. “And there’s a time and a place for that message. But I’m hoping that this concert can be a way to bring people together to remember Nina, and to pledge to support a broader message of caring for the earth, for the place and the places each of us call home.” He sent a warm look around the room. “We should mention some specific goals, but we don’t want to push people away.
“Look: You all loved her. That makes you kin, in a way, with millions of people who had the pleasure of hearing her glorious voice, of admiring her deep commitment to what she believed, even when they didn’t agree with all of it. We want to put up a big tent.”
Lark sulked. Kali’s face was expressionless. Whitebird played with his beads.
“We had a call yesterday morning from an Internet zillionaire in Palo Alto,” said Terry Kean. “Said he went to a concert at the Cow Palace in sixty-eight where Nina sang ‘I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore.’ He was so inspired, he decided to drop out of Stanford and do what he’d always dreamed of doing, which was to invent a language that a machine could understand. Now he runs a Fortune 500 company and owns two major sports teams and the newest hotel on the Vegas Strip, and he wants to buy a block of a hundred tickets and fly his top managers in for the show. He’d also like us to forward Wild West’s prospectus and annual report to his wife, since she handles their philanthropy.”
“Prospectus and annual report?” asked Whitebird.
“Or whatever you have on the projects you’ve done, and what you’re planning. This guy could turn out to be a big benefactor.”
“The prospectus won’t be available for some time.” Kali’s voice didn’t rise above whisper volume, but it carried a heavy chill. “Most of our projects are in the drawing-board stage.”
“I expect you to show me the drawings,” said Cat, “and we’ll decide what needs to be inked in, and what gets erased. We won’t have time for a prospectus, but we can at least work up a nice-looking brochure to circulate to potential donors. Who does your publications work?” she asked.
“We’re, uh, still working on that,” said Whitebird.
Cat narrowed her eyes, shook her head, and aimed her gaze at Terry Kean. “What,” she asked, “have we already had to advance? No numbers—you and I can talk about that later. Just tell me who’s already cashing foundation checks, and who’s expecting a check in the mail.”
Kean began to tick off items on his fingers. “The ticket-booking consortium, the stadium, the light and sound people, the trucking company, the travel agent—”
“Enough,” Cat said. “I get the picture. And I assume the checks haven’t bounced,” she added.
Whitebird looked at Kali.
“No,” she whispered, licking her lips. Sally noted that her tongue was very pink and pointed, but it wasn’t forked. “The checks are quite good. The endowment has more than enough cash on hand to cover the advance expenses. I’ve made sure the bank account is in order.”
Sally wondered if mongooses got as still as Cat Cruz, before launching into battle. “I’ll look forward to seeing the checkbook and the bank statements. It’ll be interesting to see how Nina planned to allocate that cash, before she was killed. I’d be surprised if there’s enough to cover the losses if the benefit tanks, and I’m wondering what you all would have me do about that.”
“I can write a check,” Stone volunteered.
Cat put a hand on his cheek. “That’s sweet of you, honey. Let me check out the books, find out what’s what, and maybe line up a few other big donors. Get me your zillionaire’s name, Terry,” she said, “and I’ll give him a call.”
Quartz looked up from his keyboard and spoke for the first time. “Ms. Cruz, I know how busy Kali’s been, just getting everything up and running. I’d be glad to work with you on getting the books in order. I took a couple of accounting classes.”
“At Reed College?” Sally was incredulous.
“Nope. Portland State. The summer after my senior year in high school. Actually, I’ve been freelancing with H&R Block during tax season,” he admitted.
The French Revolution, and apple pies, and laptop computers, and smoking weed, and tax returns. Those Unitarians, Sally reflected. Always hedging their bets.
Chapter 12
Hollywood at the Wrangler
“That oughta do it. Everybody here knows what they have to do between now and November 24. Just be sure to keep T. K. and me in the loop on everything. We can be in touch by phone and e-mail until then,” Stone finished, giving them his e-mail address, home phone, and cell phone numbers.
“Keep me posted out at Shady Grove as well,” said Cat. And then, with a look at Kali and Whitebird, “I’ll be in touch with requests for information I can’t find out there. If there are any problems, I’d like to be able to handle them before we spend a lot more money,” she finished ominously.
Cat Cruz willing and weather permitting, this was going to be one hell of a show. With Stone Jackson headlining an all-star program, and Terry Kean managing the enormous job of pulling together a major musical happening in Wyoming in the winter, you had to get excited in spite of yourself. Randy Whitebird said that the Night for Nina (as they’d decided to call the event) could be the biggest thing since Farm Aid. For Sally, that put things in perspective. Had Farm Aid actually made money? She couldn’t remember what she’d heard. Willie Nelson had top billing, and everybody knew how good he was with the financial stuff.
“I can really use that drink now,” Cat told Sally as they got into their coats. The skies had been calm and sunny when Sally arrived, but she’d seen clouds building up over the Snowies as she’d walked from her house to the Wild West office, bundled in her warm fleece jacket and gloves.
Sally looked at Stone, assuming he’d be coming with
her and Cat. “You two go ahead,” he told her. “I want to visit with the folks here a little longer, then catch a ride back over to the courthouse. Cat, I’ll call you on your cell and find out where you are, and let you know if I need to be picked up.”
Sally could understand Stone not wanting to hang out in a bar, but what was this about the courthouse?
“Detective Atkins,” said Cat, as if the name were an answer. “He wasn’t quite finished when we were. He asked Thomas to come back after the meeting.”
They went down the flight of dingy stairs and out the door, into genuinely crappy weather. Big globs of icy mush plopped on their jackets and in their hair as Sally followed Cat, at a run, toward the car. Cat Cruz did rental cars Hollywood style. Sally wondered which car company doing business at Denver International rented Lexus SUVs.
“Where shall we go for a drink?” Cat asked.
“Depends what you’re in the mood for. Bistro or saloon?” Sally offered.
“When I’m in the U.S., I live in the Santas—Monica and Fe,” Cat explained. “My life is lousy with bistros.”
“All right then. The Wrangler it is.”
The Wrangler it was, complete with the aroma of stale beer, the slightly sticky plank floor, and the thin twilight illumination of a barroom on a cloud-shrouded afternoon. It wasn’t Sally’s favorite atmosphere, but, she had to admit, it wasn’t altogether unknown. Or altogether unwelcome.
They found a table in a back corner by the pool tables, where they’d neither disturb nor be distracted by the hard-living crowd of regulars at the bar. Sally had developed a fairly firm rule against drinking hard liquor before five, and it wasn’t even four. But when Cat ordered a double vodka martini, very dry, three olives, it seemed antisocial to settle for a beer. So Sally requested coffee with a shot of Jim Beam, a compromise drink. The coffee would suck, but it would be warm and caffeinated and vastly improved by the addition of whiskey. She took a sip and remembered those long-ago times, playing the summer rodeo circuit, when she’d considered this particular drink a breakfast beverage.
Bye, Bye, Love Page 12