Presumption Of Death

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  “Well, George Hill is used to getting his own way, and he has a concrete grievance.” She told Paul how the Hills had lost their right to subdivide. “Danny worked for him a lot. If I had to pick, I’d say George, but then again, he’s got health problems and I can’t see him climbing a steep trail. I don’t know.”

  “We’ll just keep gathering information, and you’ll be able to link up those impressions,” Paul said. “I think you learned a lot.”

  “I think you better slow down.”

  “Anything you know about this place we’re going? Cachagua?”

  “Ca-sha-wa,” she corrected.

  “But a hard g for agua?”

  She shrugged. “It’s how we pronounce it here. Hmm, Cachagua. I always thought of it as this magical valley in the middle of the forest, timeless, quiet, the sun always shining. It’s sensationally beautiful and remote.”

  “Can’t wait to see it, then.”

  “But it’s probably not so quiet at the moment. Remember Ben mentioning the old dam up there? The San Clemente? The locals fish and hike there. The village, what there is of a village, is built right next to the dam. Well, there’s talk of putting in a bigger dam.

  “Ah, you think the idea of a new dam has the locals worked up,” Paul said.

  “Sure it does. The Salinas Valley growers are running out of water. The locals feel like the water’s being stolen from them.”

  “We’re gonna wring the earth dry before we’re done,” Paul said. “The truth is we don’t think very well.”

  “Hey, Paul. That last line is one of Ruthie’s Twelve Points.”

  “So it is. They’re contagious.”

  “Water is the big issue in the West. The South steals from the North. Las Vegas steals from the whole state and neighboring states too. Mono Lake is suffering. Salmon die in Oregon because the Feds divert water to the farms. There just isn’t enough fresh water to go around.”

  “But it’s so hot and still here. I feel,” Paul said, giving the wheel a spin, “like someone heading into the waving fields of Iowa, one of those outposts where there should be miles of untouched neat rows of corn, American frontier, peace, and no issues.”

  “Visit Iowa. I’m sure you’ll find they’ve got fights about pesticides, the end of small farming, whatever,” Nina said. “Meanwhile, California’s got its water fights.”

  Stiff and impatient with the long drive, they arrived in Cachagua before noon. Even the spectacular views of forest, wineries, and horses along the way hadn’t diminished the feeling that they were riding into the Wild West, visitors to a place they did not belong. The village, a clearing in the woods with a couple of mom-and-pops and a dusty county park with a tot lot, had only one gathering place of note, the bar.

  “Alma’s. I could use a drink,” Paul said.

  She knew he meant a real drink, the kind that actually hydrated. They parked in full sun in the dirt lot, and Nina followed him through the door of the long, low brown shack.

  After the blazing summer sun, the dimness and cool inside provided a haven. Four men already sat at stools along the bar, three grizzled from years in the outdoors, and one down at the end, gray-bearded but wearing a couple of gold rings in his right earlobe. All eyes turned toward the tourists who had driven up in a fancy red Mustang convertible. Paul gave the men a nod.

  “Ice water,” he said.

  “Ice water,” Nina echoed. She checked the menu chalked on a board behind the bar. “And nachos.”

  Paul said, “And add a couple of turkey sandwiches on wheat.”

  “White’s what we serve,” said the woman behind the bar, not unfriendly, but not smiling either.

  “White’ll be fine.”

  When the water arrived in drizzling, cold glasses, they drank thirstily. Down the bar, the three cowboys resumed what seemed to be a comfortable, ongoing discussion, with an occasional sideways glance toward them. They griped about the lack of jobs, the drought, the divorces, and the child support, and no fact went uncontested. While heated, the conversation was peppered with peevish humor.

  After a suitable time, Paul asked the bartender what was going on with the dam. She answered, “Nothing bad has happened yet,” and retired to a stool by the curtain that led to the back, but the question set off the others at the bar. Nina quickly dubbed them Cowboys One, Two, and Three, since the three sitting together wore identically battered denims and work shirts, and from the smell of them, seemed to be taking a break from a morning of arduous outdoor labor.

  “Smoke, dust, traffic, blasting, medical problems, strangers in the park… that’s what’s gonna be goin’ on if that damn dam gets built.” Cowboy One wore jeans that rode too low over scrawny hips. His drooping eyes looked permanently unhappy.

  “It’s a Godzilla,” said Cowboy Two, a beat-up young man wearing a hard-used tan cowboy hat. All Nina could see of him was his mouth and chin. “And we’re Tokyo. It’ll lay waste to this town.”

  “You know what they want to build?” asked Three, a short, plump man who squinted as if needing to protect sensitive eyes from even this murky light. His baseball cap and sunglasses sat on the bar. “A concrete wall two hundred eighty-two feet high, quarter of a mile long. That’s four hundred feet wider than Hoover Dam. You ever seen that?”

  One and Two shook their heads.

  “You get to Vegas, you’re not thinking about dams,” said One.

  “Well, this thing is gonna drown one of the prettiest valleys in the Ventana wilderness. The Los Padres Dam already forces the steelhead salmon that run the river here to climb the highest ladder in the country to spawn. Destroy over a hundred acres of habitat, some of it wilderness. Spotted salamander. Steeleye. We can forget about fishing.”

  “Bastards,” said One and Two, drinking deeply of their drafts.

  “Bastards,” agreed Three, keeping up.

  They drank again. So did Paul and Nina.

  “They say it’s gonna cost us a hundred twenty-five million dollars,” Three went on. “Hell, it could cost three times that.”

  “Shit,” said Two. “You kidding me?”

  “That’s what the Sierra Club says,” Three said, nodding.

  “Bastards!” Two said.

  “The Sierra Club?” Three asked.

  “All of them. Outsiders. Why can’t they leave it alone? The old dam’s done the job all these years. We don’t want any more water. It’s all for people who live miles from here.”

  “Somebody’s getting rich off this.”

  “And there’s no tellin’ who.”

  “So the damn developers can keep building until we all live up each other’s asses,” said Three. “Let ’em get their own damn water.”

  “I didn’t move out here to listen to noise and deal with hammering, hollering, and hauling all day long,” Two said.

  “Damn right,” One agreed.

  “Somebody’ll blow it up, we get lucky,” said Two.

  “I’ll do it if you’ll do it,” said Three.

  This statement resulted in a long period of silence, as if the boys needed time to adjust to the change in dynamic before continuing. Down at the end of the bar, the fourth customer, the one with a gray beard, nursed a glass of ale.

  He wore paint-spattered shorts and sandals, and on the floor beside his stool rested a folded easel, confirming Nina’s impression that he was an artist rather than a housepainter. She knew many of the people in the area formed a loose-knit community of artists and craftspeople.

  “Let me know how to join the posse when the time comes,” the artist contributed now.

  “Oh, good idea, Donnelly,” said the lady bartender from her perch in the corner.

  “That’s right. Run ’em out of town,” said One.

  “A hundred and eighty trucks a day rollin’ in!” Two said. “Think of it! We only got eight hundred people in Cachagua. That’s one truck per four people!”

  “Not like they’re gonna hire locals either.”

  “Place’ll be cr
awling with Mexicans,” Two went on.

  “Shut up, Randy. I’m Mexican, in case you forgot,” said Three.

  “Yeah, but you’re my friend,” Two said.

  “And how about the Esselen Indians? Here for at least a thousand years. There are ancient relics all over the place, grinding stones, all that. The Esselens have been fighting this idea for years. Shouldn’t somebody listen to them?” Three asked.

  “My sister’s husband is part Esselen. He’s all right,” said One. “I agree with you, they ought to be considered.”

  “Ditto,” Two added.

  Nina and Paul ate their sandwiches, paying close attention.

  “You folks from around here?” asked Three of Nina and Paul. Having finished his current beer, he moved his mug back and forth along the bar, agitating for service.

  “I grew up nearby,” Nina lied. She had grown up in Pacific Grove, fifty miles away in a whole different culture, but she certainly felt she knew these guys intimately. Any one of them might have been her first boyfriend, the skinny-dipper and bad boy, refocusing all his lawless youthful energy into a hard job and bar talk.

  “You do look familiar,” Cowboy One said, examining her. “I think I used to see you at the Bucket.”

  “I doubt it,” she answered, feeling the red creep up her cheeks and down her neck.

  “No.” He showed his teeth. “I’d remember you.”

  The others at the bar cast sidelong glances at her, then looked innocently back into their beers.

  She could feel Paul bristling beside her, so she hurried to erase the naked frolicker who seemed to have taken up residence there beside them. “We’re looking for… a friend of a friend. Danny Cervantes?”

  “Dead,” said One, his eyes gloomier than ever. “Don’t you read the paper?”

  “Danny spent many a evening here, drinkin’ Coronas,” said Two.

  “Seems obvious this is just plain what it looks like, a case of Danny being Danny,” said Three. On this sobering thought, the rest of the guys drank again.

  “You really think he set those fires?” Paul asked.

  “I don’t think he had a thing to do with those fires,” said Cowboy Three. “I ain’t gonna speak ill of the dead.”

  “Last time he was in here, you sure had a different version. Started with F and ended with loudmouth asshole,” said Cowboy Two.

  Cowboy Three sucked in his cheeks. “That’s because he was with Coyote that night.”

  “Now, Coyote, he was Danny’s good buddy.”

  “Uh huh,” said Nina.

  “So what’s your interest in Danny?” said the artist.

  “Actually, it’s Coyote I’d like to talk to,” Nina said.

  “Why?”

  How easily the lie flowed. “Danny’s uncle, Ben, found something in Danny’s room that belonged to Danny’s friend-I guess that’s Coyote, and my friend and I were coming out here anyhow to walk around the dam, so we said we’d ask around.”

  This was rewarded with nods and pursed lips. Paul nodded too.

  “Couldn’t be money,” Cowboy Two finally said. “Coyote sure ain’t got any of that, and Danny wouldn’t have saved it for him if he did.”

  “Could you tell us where Coyote’s camp is?” Paul said.

  “He’s got a camp out Arroyo Seco way.”

  “Way out there,” Nina said.

  “But you could just leave him a message at the one place we all go to when it all comes down.”

  Nina nodded and smiled.

  “Where’s that?” Paul said, and the whole bar, including Nina, said, “The Mid-Valley Safeway.”

  “Ah. Right. We all have to buy groceries,” Paul said.

  “Right,” Two said. “Even if he lives mainly on grilled squirrel.”

  “What else can you tell us about Coyote?” Paul asked.

  Two laughed. “He only talks when he’s drunk, but then you can’t shut him up. He collars you. The bar empties out when Coyote gets to talking about how he caught that big steelhead and gutted it and how good it tasted fried in a pan over a campfire.”

  “How about the rest of you?” Paul asked. “You know the man?”

  “He’s just… prickly. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why he yells at you if you say hey,” said Three, setting the roll of his stomach into movement as he chuckled. “Or even try to use the head, if he’s in there. He lives so deep in the boonies, he probably thinks the running water here is really special.”

  “I remember he said once he grew up around Lake Tahoe,” said One. “But that’s right. Mostly he talks about hunting and fishing.”

  Nina and Paul looked at each other.

  “Hey, Donnelly, you were drinkin’ with him last week!” Three said suddenly.

  Donnelly, the artist, had been watching them. He seemed to be working up some steam. “Boys, I don’t trust these people,” he said. “They come in here and they want to know where a man who likes his privacy lives. Who are you people?”

  Surprised, Nina gave him her full attention. He had a twitchy, drumming presence that made Nina think about the dangers of crack cocaine. He seemed old to be abusing stimulants. In her experience older addicts preferred to mellow out.

  “Just what we said,” Paul said with his innocent look.

  “Lies. You’re the System.”

  “The System?”

  “The fucking exploiters and spies.”

  “Oh, them. No, we’re just friends of Danny’s uncle.”

  “IRS,” the artist said, counting on his fingers. “County sheriff. Welfare. Repo man. Child support. Which is it?”

  “Look, I’m not after your friend at all. Danny left two hundred bucks in an envelope marked Coyote and his uncle wanted him to have it. Nobody cares what it’s for-drugs, loan, work, whatever. Screw it. We tried. We’ll buy dinner at the Sardine Factory instead. Let’s get out of here,” Paul said, turning to Nina and nudging her off the bar stool.

  “Wait.” Two’s strong hand grasped Paul’s arm. “So it was money after all? Let’s see this envelope.”

  “She has it.” Paul nodded casually toward Nina.

  She opened her mouth and closed it. Opened it again. “I tossed the envelope,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out ten twenties she had just received from the ATM and flipped the edges like a deck of cards.

  “Lies,” said Donnelly. “Don’t tell them anything.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Donnelly. You oughtta ease up on the controlled substances,” said Two, which brought on a hearty laugh from his compadres.

  “But-”

  “I said shut up. You hear? These nice folks come here to do a good deed. So shut the hell up.” He glowered at the artist, who stroked the gray soul-patch on his chin rapidly a few times and then got off the bar stool and walked out without a backward glance.

  Two said, “He oughtta get some sleep. Now. About getting Coyote his money.”

  “Coyote come in here regularly?” Paul asked.

  Two shook his head. “Could be weeks before he stops by again. He has a younger brother he takes care of and I don’t think he likes leaving him alone.”

  “How old?”

  “Twelve, maybe thirteen? Less said about that kid, the better.”

  “Big-time screwed up,” One stated.

  “Screwed up how?” Paul asked. “Drugs?” Drugs were on both their minds at the moment.

  Cowboy Three squeezed his little eyes littler, and snorted. “Drugs might have helped that kid. I’m afraid it’s probably too late to get him anywhere near normal.”

  “You should meet Nate. Then you’ll have the full picture,” said One.

  “Does he come in here?”

  “Not hardly. You’d have to go out there to the tent to see them both, probably. But if you do that, watch it. Coyote keeps a pit bull.”

  “Yeah, a real friendly animal,” said Cowboy Three, adjusting his hat back on his head. “Just like us.” That made all three of the men at the bar laugh. Hopping off his stool, Cowboy
Two doodled a map on a napkin for Paul and Nina. “Go back to G-16 where it goes left around Sycamore Flat back to town. You want to take a right there instead, onto Arroyo Seco. He lives up a dirt road in Wood Tick Canyon. It’s a long way.”

  This time Nina drove. She kept the air conditioner blasting on her arms while Paul dozed on the seat beside her. He slid back and forth, first against her, then against the side door as the road zigzagged around the canyons and hills of the Paloma Ridge. When they came to the main turn, she woke him up. “I need you to navigate. Pull out that map the guy gave us, okay?”

  “Hey, I’m still alive,” he said, opening his eyes.

  “You don’t trust my driving?”

  “Of course I do or I wouldn’t let you drive.” He found the map in his pocket and studied it. “It’s irrational, this need I feel to scream when you take a blind curve fast, so I close my eyes to keep the peace.”

  “So you’re letting me drive? I’m not taking a turn at the wheel as an equal?”

  “It’s just a figure of speech. Lighten up, babe. I had a brainstorm when we were talking to the cowboys. Remember the one who was talking about Godzilla?”

  “No. You thought of something about Coyote?”

  “No, this is another verse for our monster song.” He sang in a deep growl:

  I am Godzilla-and you are Tokyo

  I am Godzilla-and you are Tokyo

  I just can’t help it-I’ll try not to bite

  I’m gonna lay waste-to you tonight

  “They’ll love it at the Grand Ole Opry. Speaking of turns,” she said, “is there a turn coming up?”

  It should have been right there, although almost an hour of searching nearly convinced them otherwise. The snarl of dirt roads ended in gullies, fences, boulders, and debris. They finally located the right turn, exactly where the map showed it.

  “How did we miss it?” Nina said, taking the pitted road too fast, irritated and tired, feeling as dusty as the road. As the afternoon progressed it had only grown hotter. They finally spotted a distant gray tent in a clearing up ahead. Nina parked. Paul jumped out of the car, closing his door silently while Nina pulled socks out of her bag and put them on along with her hiking boots. She also pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, unsnagged her rolled-up sleeves, and buttoned them tightly at the wrists.