One by one, the tent flaps lifted and the inhabitants crawled out into the sunlight, blinking like moles. There were ten of them, all told. Most walked upright, but one platinum blond woman chose to hop along on all fours like a bunny rabbit while one of the men kept his arms stretched out while he swooped in a looping pattern around the outside of the circle, like a little boy pretending to be a jet plane. All regarded Dov with suspicion and jealousy.
"Who is this?" one woman wanted to know. She looked like a Barbie doll that had been left out in a sandstorm. "I've been camping out here for two whole days, and I still haven't been contacted by my spirit guide, which I think is all Mimsy's fault, by the way, because she went and hogged the spirit of White Buffalo when it showed up, even though it was obviously supposed to be mine, and if this guy can just come waltzing in here and join up on the Vision Quest at the last frickin' minute like he was boarding the A train, for God's sake, then my aura is gonna be entirely thrown out of whack and I want a refund!"
"The great spirit guide White Buffalo says to tell you that Courtney speaks with forked tongue," another woman tranquilly told Sam. She was built on the same model as the first whiner—a toned, tanned, and tucked physique enhanced by strategic lumps and bumps of silicon, saline, and collagen. "The great spirit guide White Buffalo also says that if Courtney can't remember that my name is no longer Mimsy but Flower-in-the- Crannied-Wall, then it's no damn wonder she can't get a spirit guide of her own."
"Oh yeah? Well if you ask me, the only spirit guide that should've shown up to claim you is a double-dyed bitch," Courtney sniped. "You've got no right to White Buffalo and no right to that name! If anyone should be Flower-in-the-Crannied-Wall, it's me!"
"How would you like my boot so far up your Crannied Wall that you sneeze shoelaces for a week?" Mimsy countered. Her self-satisfied serenity had blown away like a tumbleweed and she was ready to rumble. This was serious. The woman doing the bunny hop paused, the swooping man stood stock still, the other Seekers froze on point like a pack of bird dogs, eager to watch a good old-fashioned catfight. Only Sam looked worried.
I'll bet, Dov thought. Now I see how he's been pulling in the serious money all these years. This is much bigger than the fetish bead market: made-to-order Vision Quests for the financially affluent and spiritually destitute. Sure, take them out into the desert, burn some herbs, chant your grocery list at them, have them thump on some drums, and make them go on a fast until they get their Vision. How long do you think these overgrown spoiled brats would go without food before they start seeing things? Or imagining that they do.
Only trouble is, this fight isn't imaginary, and if one of these two Minnehaha wannabes gets hurt, she'll hire Big Chief Sues-With-a-Vengeance and hold the company responsible.
Dov had always had a keen nose for Brownie Point Earning opportunities. The only reason he'd managed to finish college was his ability to ingratiate himself with his professors while all the other suckers were burning brain cells by actually studying. He figured that if he could defuse the impending Mimsy-Courtney blowup, he'd be in good with Sam, which meant Sam's considerable financial clout would be backing him when it came time for the corporate showdown with Peez.
Sam could also provide Dov with another, perhaps stronger sort of influence: Having one of Edwina's old lover's on his side could only help Dov's chances for persuading her to give him the company. It was a win-win situation, and both of the winners were Dov, just the way he liked it.
Eyes on the prize, Dov took action.
Amazing how fast he was able to slip out of his clothes and stand there naked under the startled eyes of Sam's little group of Seekers. The hardest part of his impromptu striptease was kicking free of his lace-up running shoes and yanking off the socks beneath, but he managed to do so and to make it look like part of a ceremonial dance step. Now, as bare as a lizard, he proceeded to leap and stomp and cavort all around the earth circle, raising his voice in the nearest thing he could remember to a genuine Indian chant. (Could he help it if it was the lyrics to an Israeli rain dance, left over from Edwina's days of full immersion in folk culture studies?)
As he completed his orbit, Dov was pleased to note that Mimsy and Courtney had dropped their feud in favor of gaping at him like a pair of beached halibut. Objective number one achieved, he thought gleefully. Commence accomplishment attempt on objective number two.
Flinging himself at Courtney's feet, despite the grit that scraped his bare knees raw, Dov bowed his head, raised his arms, and declared, "Hail, Woman-Who-Is-Worthy. I am he who is sent from the Great Spirit to bring you word that you have been chosen. From this day forth, your spirit guide shall be Great Goo-ga-li-moo-ga-li, the White Otter, and your tribal name shall be Lives-Long-and-Prospers."
"Yeah?" Courtney brightened. "Nifty!"
"No fair!" Mimsy wailed. "She didn't get a Vision! How come she gets a spirit guide and a name and everything like this? Like it's— it's— like it's some kinda pizza delivery or something? And how come she gets an otter for her spirit guide? Otters are way cuter than buffalo! I want the otter!"
"Behold!" Dov shouted, leaping to his feet. Naked as he was, there was plenty of beholding for the assembled Seekers to do. "Behold that your mighty shaman, Master Sam Turkey Feather, has used his powers to summon me from the realm of the Great Spirit through long hours of self-sacrifice, fasting, and chanting. He has placed me within this body so that your eyes may see me and so that I may walk among you and give you the spiritual gifts which all of you have earned. Verily, even those of you who have already been vouchsafed a Vision of your spirit guides shall have these same Visions confirmed and sanctified. So decrees the Great Spirit, for never in countless generations has he ever known a group as worthy of this special blessing as all of you!"
A chorus of approving murmurs ran through the group. Why wouldn't they approve? The Great Spirit had just confirmed their own inflated opinions of themselves. Dov took that opportunity to duck into one of the dome tents and leave it to Sam to handle the loose ends. Alone in the dark he smiled, more than satisfied with how well he'd handled the situation. He'd saved Sam's bacon and now Sam would have to give him his approval and backing. It was that simple.
The tent flap lifted.
* * *
"You," Dov said as the Jeep jounced down the road heading back for the Blue Coyote Diner. He sounded as prickly as a giant saguaro cactus. "You, Sam Turkey Plucker, are one sneaky son of a bitch."
"Compliment accepted," Sam replied, grinning ear to ear. "Don't blame me. Did I make you take off all your clothing and declare yourself the Great Spirit's messenger boy?"
"No, but you're the one who told that nest of yuppie toad-lickers that the reason I'd appeared to them in the form of a naked man instead of an animal was because there was only one way for me to confer the Great Spirit's official tribal names on them."
"I didn't hear you complaining when you were conferring Courtney and Pookie and Heather and—"
"Yeah, but how about when you sent Gerald in to see me? Not only was I half dead from conferring Nicole—let me tell you, it's no wonder her spirit guide's a bunny rabbit!—but I do not swing that way."
"Neither does Gerald. Trust me, he was just as relieved as you when the Great Spirit beeped you to report back to headquarters ASAP, though I think Prescott was a little disappointed."
"Prescott? He the one doing the air show?"
Sam nodded. "I'll go back and give him his tribal name myself, with no conferring, thanks. Now if I could only remember what kind of bird he saw in his Vision, hawk or eagle."
"It couldn't have been a turkey buzzard?"
"Not if I want him to tell all his friends to come see me for all their gen-yoo-wine authentic Native American spiritual needs. How would it sound? 'Hey, man, it's the greatest thing: I just paid some old injun three thousand bucks to tell me that my spirit guide is a turkey buzzard! You should try it. Maybe he'll tell you that your spirit guide is a muskrat.' I don't think so. That kind o
f money changes hands, you give the customer eagles, hawks, bears, buffalo, wolves, like that, or you go back to the reservation."
"Glaminals," Dov mumbled.
"Say what?"
"Glaminals," he repeated. "The glamorous animals. The ones the customers can casually mention at cocktail parties and get all their friends staring at them enviously instead of rolling on the floor laughing. You know what I mean."
"You bet I do."
"So ..." Dov tapped his chin. "Three thousand dollars a pop. Impressive."
Sam dismissed Dov's admiration. "That's a low-end package. No frills. My high-end Vision Quests go for up to five and a half K, all major credit cards accepted. Discounts for senior citizens, not that any of the buyers I attract would ever willingly admit to being over thirty-five, let alone fifty."
Dov whistled long and low. Now he really was impressed with Sam's setup. "Is that why you tossed me to the wolves? Afraid I was going to muscle in on your market share?"
"Kid, I couldn't let you steal all my thunder. What if you had been able to 'confer' all of them? They'd tell their friends and then everyone who came to me for a Vision Quest Weekend Package would be expecting the same treatment. I had to do something so they'd understand it was a one-time-only experience. I mean, have some mercy: I'm not as young as I used to be."
"Who is?"
Dov intended his flip response as a joke. Sam didn't take it that way.
"No one is," he said. "Least of all your mother. She and I— Well, it was a long time ago, but still, I'll never forget it, or her." He lapsed into a silence that did not permit interruption. The sun-washed miles rolled past outside the Jeep. In a while he spoke again: "You see me as just a hustler, don't you?"
"I see you as a businessman," Dov said calmly. He was picking up some odd vibes from this man and he wasn't sure what to make of them. It was true: He did think of Sam as little more than a snake-oil salesman, peddling Enlightenment to the terminally trendy, yet every instinct in him screamed that he was wrong, that this man held some of the true power within him.
Mom would never have wasted her time with him if not, he thought. Even when she was still in her teens, she knew where to look for the real magic.
"A businessman," Dov repeated, "who actually happens to be a shaman, too. A real one."
Sam nodded. He seemed pleased, though he didn't crack a smile. "Kid, I'd like to come with you, see your mama, put everything I've got into trying to heal her."
Dov fidgeted uneasily. "I— I appreciate the offer, Sam, but when I leave you, I'm heading for Los Angeles."
"Your mama's dying and you're heading in the opposite direction?" Sam's brow looked like a thunderhead. "And there I was, wishing that you were my son."
"It's business!" Dov said. He was surprised at his own tone of voice, pleading so abjectly for Sam's understanding and approval.
"What kind of business makes you put your family second? From there it's just one small step to forgetting you've got any family at all."
The words stung like scorpions. For an instant, Dov forgot that he was here to curry Sam's favor and gain his backing for the takeover. "Oh, like your family must be so proud of how your selling their culture by the pound to a bunch of yuppies?" he snapped.
"They're not," Sam replied, his voice cold. "Most of them no longer count me as kin. Some don't even count me as alive, but I'm both. Even if they pretend I'm not there, I still do what I can to stand by them. That twenty dollars I put down back there in the Blue
Coyote? Our waitress is my great-niece. She doesn't speak my name, I don't try to make her, but I go there every day for breakfast and I always leave her plenty. I know she needs it."
Sam pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He looked Dov right in the eyes and said: "When I was growing up, we couldn't afford a lot of things. Regular dental care was one of them. You see what my teeth look like? I could change that if I wanted, now, buy me a smile that would blind an army, but I don't. I leave it the way it is so I'll never forget where I came from, or how it made me who I am."
He got out of the Jeep and walked a little way into the roadside scrub. Dov followed him, not really understanding why he felt compelled to do so. When the shaman had gone far enough away from the car for his liking, he tilted his head back and began to chant. Dov listened, and something inside him stirred, something told him that this was not the same sort of flimflam that Sam fed to his willing marks. This was the real thing. This came from the heart, from the soul, from the earth itself. Dov didn't know the words, but he could pick up the tune, and he did his best to hum along. He didn't feel stupid for trying.
When Sam finished his song, he looked at Dov. "Here," he said, reaching into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He pressed something into Dov's hand. "Charms to guard her. Send these to your mother, since you can't be bothered to bring them to her yourself. Tell her that Sam Turkey Plucker sang for her spirit and also sends her his promise that he will perform a healing ritual for her body."
"Sam, you know what the company means to Mom—" Dov began.
"Kid, if you're fishing for my endorsement to have you take over E. Godz, Inc., forget about it."
"You mean my sister already saw you?" Dov silently cursed Peez for a shifty-souled varmint.
"I mean I'm not saying yes or no to you or your sister or anyone until I have to. Your mother's still alive; don't be in such a rush to divvy up what's still hers."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Hey, spare me the speech about how you're really doing all this for her, okay?" Sam started back for the Jeep. "My people have a long history of white folks telling us how whatever they do to us, with us, at us, it's all for only the best reasons. You know what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?" Dov nodded. "Well, look around you." Sam's gesture embraced the endless miles of glorified goat tracks crisscrossing his home turf. "Not a lot of paving done out here at all."
* * *
"Ahhhh, decent air conditioning at last!" Ammi rested on the armrest tray of Dov's seat and basked in the blessed coolness of the L.A.-bound jet's first-class cabin. "No offense, boss, but your pants pocket was starting to smell like a prairie dog's armpit."
Dov said nothing. He was gazing out the window, watching the blood red mountains slip away beneath them.
"Hello?" Ammi probed. "Earth to Dov! Please tell me you're not deciding to go off on one of those cockamamie Vision Quest scams yourself! I can come up with about twenty- seven better ways to drop five grand over a weekend, and I'm just jewelry."
"It's not always a scam," Dov said absently. "He can do the real thing, but that's not what the customers want. They'd throw a fit if you served them coffee that wasn't hand- picked, hand-roasted, hand-ground and hand-brewed, but when it comes to spiritual fulfillment, they want it instant or not at all."
"Whoa. Sounds like he got to you big time." Ammi clicked his nonexistent tongue.
"I think he did." Dov pressed his forehead against the window.
"So does that mean we're heading back? Going to visit Edwina, see how she's doing?"
"And give Peez a chance to snatch the company right out from under me?" Dov sat up straight and knocked back his glass of single malt. "No way."
Chapter Eight
Peez stared out the window of her hotel room at the prospect of downtown Seattle. To the north, in the distance, the unmistakable shape of the Space Needle towered over the many and varied attractions of the great metropolis on Puget Sound. Flowers bloomed in a riot of gay colors in the city parks, museums bided patiently as drowsing dragons over their treasure troves of art and artifact, and if you listened really, really hard, you could swear that you heard the strains of all the different kinds of music that the city nurtured and enjoyed. Had she taken the trouble to go up to the rooftop restaurant, her journey would have been rewarded by a view of Mount Rainier, so far away yet somehow seemingly so close.
Peez did not bother. S
he had other matters on her mind.
"It's raining," she said.
"Gee," Teddy Tumtum said, trying not to sound too sardonic and failing miserably. "It's raining. In Seattle. In the springtime. Color me shocked. My gracious goodness me, what were the odds? And this just in: It is somewhat dry in the Sahara Desert."
"There's no need for you to get sarcastic with me." Peez scowled at the small stuffed cynic.
"Someone better," Teddy Tumtum countered. "It's the only thing that ever seems to motivate you.'
"How the hell is sarcasm a motivational tool?"
"Simple: You piddle around a task, not really doing anything about achieving it, I sneer that you'll never get it done because you haven't got what it takes, you get all hot to prove how wrong I am, and that's when you put your butt in gear and actually get the job done! It's been this way since you were in grade school, missy. I know; I was there, and what a long, boring trip it's been."
"That's not true!" Peez objected. "I'm a highly motivated self-starter."
"Buzzwords, bah! Then why have you been hanging out in this hotel room for the past twenty-four hours instead of going out there and making your next business call? Don't bother to answer, you'll only waste more time trying to come up with a lot of self- justifying blather. I'll tell you why: It's because Fiorella shot you down in flames and you're afraid that this next guy—whatzisname—is going to do the same. That'd mean two strikes on you, and you're totally convinced that your baby brother's been batting a thousand in the meantime."
To Teddy Tumtum's surprise, Peez didn't jump back at him to point out that Fiorella might have snubbed her, but Ray Rah and the Chicago mob had given her their wholehearted support. Instead she subsided into a hunched-over knot of glumness and muttered, "Yep. You're right, Teddy Tumtum. That's exactly why I've been putting off my next call. Sure, I told myself it was just because I was jet-lagged, but I couldn't even fool me with that one. Not when I've known how to do a Jet-lag Begone spell from the time I was twelve."
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