by Simon Toyne
‘OK, Mister Creed,’ he said. ‘Here comes my first question.’
Chapter 3
‘So my mom’s favourite singer of all time was Julie London. Man, she loved that gal – way more than any of the dudes she ever brung home. Anyways whenever those dudes up and left again she’d always get drunk and play Love on the Rocks over and over – not the song, you understand, I mean the whole damn album. Consequently I know that damn album way better’n any red-blooded man oughta. So my question to you is,’ Billy-Joe paused for effect and a smile crept across his face. ‘What is the name of the fifth track on side two?’
Another murmur passed through the crowd and heads were shaken. If anybody had any idea what the answer might be they certainly weren’t going to own up to it.
Solomon ran a finger down the side of his empty water glass and sucked the condensation off it, focusing on the torrent of information rushing through his mind in response to the question, a river of facts about Julie London, her life, career and recording history. He had discovered, in the few days he could actually remember, that information came so easily to him that it was as much of an effort to filter out the things that were not relevant as it was to decide what was. But there was also a bitter twist to this almost bottomless gift of knowledge. Because the one thing he truly desired to know above all else was about himself, and on that subject he knew almost nothing. The only reason he knew his name was because it was stitched into the label of the tailor-made jacket he wore. But if he looked in a mirror he did not recognize the man staring back at him, though ask the stranger in the mirror anything else, anything at all, and he knew the answer instantly: even the identity of an obscure statue in an even more obscure town.
‘“The Man That Got Away”,’ Solomon said. ‘The fifth track on side two of Love on the Rocks by Julie London is “The Man That Got Away”.’
There was a silence punctuated only by murmured questions and the low, steady drone of the jukebox.
Billy-Joe stared at Solomon for a long second before his poker face cracked and a smile exploded across it. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘How in the hell do you know a thing like that?’
‘Is he right?’ people asked in the crowd. ‘Did he get it right?’
‘Hell yeah he got it right,’ Billy-Joe said, and the room exploded into noise.
‘Looks like you need to up your game, son,’ someone shouted, then he turned to the crowd. ‘And if anyone wants a little side action, I got twenty bucks says this fella’s going to answer whatever questions Billy-Joe throws at him.’
‘I’ll take that bet,’ someone replied, and the room hummed louder as more bets were placed.
Billy-Joe sat quiet and still on his stool, staring at Solomon like he was a puzzle to be solved. Solomon just stared ahead, scanning the menu on the wall and doing his best to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
When the room settled Billy-Joe rubbed his hands together like before. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I figure any man can answer an obscure question about Julie London ain’t likely to be too interested in sports, so let me pitch this one atcha.’ He paused, waiting for complete silence in the diner before speaking again. ‘In nineteen and seventy-eight,’ he said, keeping his voice low, ‘there was a ballgame ’tween the Rangers and the Baltimore Orioles. Now during that game an Orioles fan had a heart attack and was gonna die right there in the stands, only one of the players jumped up off of the bench and saved that man’s life. What I want to know – is the name of that ball player.’
A murmur rippled through the crowd and heads shook. Solomon stared at the menu on the wall and focused on the information pouring through his head in response to the cowboy’s question:
Texas Rangers … 1978 season … finished second in the ALW behind the Kansas City Royals …
The information began to take shape now, forming vague images like half-forgotten memories as his mind sank deeper into the details.
… evening of July 17th … away game at the Baltimore Memorial Stadium … grey skies but still summer warm and close, like a storm was coming … the game is halted in the seventh when a shout goes up behind the Orioles dugout …
Solomon’s mind continued to freefall through clouds of facts until they formed images, as if he was remembering something he had once witnessed himself:
… the crowd behind the dugout form a circle, their attention on the centre and not on the field. The shout goes out again, clearer this time: ‘A doctor. This man needs a doctor.’ The man who shouts looks around, eyes white and frantic. Another man lies at his feet. Big guy. Not moving. Nobody comes forward. Time slides to a halt …
… 1978 … July … Jimmy Carter in the White House … Grease playing to packed houses in the movie theatres … 1978, when ballplayers still earned regular pay cheques and had second careers.
The silence is broken. ‘Here,’ someone calls out and there’s movement in the away team dugout as one of the Rangers’ pitchers stands, moves to the edge of the field and vaults over the guardrail. The crowd parts as he climbs the seats and watches on as he drops down by the big guy. This pitcher has one good season left and knows it. He’s in his second year residency at a Pittsburgh hospital. He administers CPR to the stricken fan like he’s done a hundred times in the ER and mouth-to-mouth like he was taught. The fan coughs and groans and the pitcher keeps working steadily, pumping his chest, hand-over-hand, working the heart now he’s breathing again, keeping it going until the ambulance arrives. The fan’s name was Germain. Germain Languth. And the Rangers’ pitcher was called:
‘Medich,’ Solomon said and turned to the cowboy. ‘George “Doc” Medich. He saved the man’s life and the game was resumed. The Rangers went on to win two to nothing.’
There was a pause as the whole room held its breath. Billy-Joe stared at Solomon in disbelief. ‘Now how in the hell did you know that?’
The room erupted into noise and money was waved in the air as more side bets went down. Some still bet against Solomon, but the majority were now with him. Hands were shaken and attention turned back to the dusty stranger at the centre of it all.
There was one question left and the cowboy looked edgy, his eyes darting around the room as he tried to come up with a question that might still win him the bet. Solomon stared ahead at the menu. Steak and eggs and home fries, that’s what he would order. Or maybe the special, whatever that was. His stomach growled in anticipation, lost in the hubbub of the room. One more question.
Then the trucker stood up with a sharp scrape of metal on concrete and pointed his thick finger at Solomon. ‘I see the angle now,’ he swung the finger round to Billy-Joe and poked him in the chest. ‘You’re working together, ain’t ya? You two’s grifters. This whole goddam thing’s a set-up.’
Chapter 4
Billy-Joe spun away from the trucker’s finger and squared up to him. ‘What you just call me?’
The trucker jabbed the finger into his chest again. ‘I said this here’s a con and you two’s workin’ it together. How in the hell else could he answer a question like that?’
Billy-Joe looked up with the same cold challenge as previously. ‘So how’s this con work then, genius? You think we travel around Texas hitting diners so that I can deliberately lose a bet to someone I’m secretly workin’ with? Where’s the grift in that?’
The trucker pointed at the crowd. ‘I bet you got a third guy, ain’t ya, whippin’ up interest and layin’ down some side bets?’
‘Bullshit,’ Billy-Joe said and bumped his chest against the trucker’s.
The trucker pulled himself up to his full height and glared down at the cowboy, holding his ground, the eyes of the crowd upon them. No one saw Rita step out of the kitchen and pop the cash register, though they all heard the crash it made when she slammed it shut again. The hollow clang echoed away in the silence that followed and Rita moved away from the register, looking around the room and making sure everyone felt the full weight of her disapproval.
‘I didn’t ask fo
r you boys to start waving your dicks around over some stupid ass bet.’ She shot a glance to the back of the room where the man in the booth was back to reading his newspaper. ‘But if y’all are gonna start pickin’ fights then I’m puttin’ a stop to this thing right now.’
A collective groan went up in the room and a short, round man in a Coors Light T-shirt stepped forward. ‘Aw come on now Rita, that ain’t fair.’ He held his sweat-stained rancher’s hat in front of him like he was pleading for his soul on a Sunday. ‘Just ’cause these two’s gettin’ all worked up, don’t mean the rest of us have to suffer none. I say let the cowboy ask his last question.’
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
‘I still say it’s a con,’ the trucker muttered.
‘Then don’t put any damn money down,’ the man in the Coors Light T-shirt said. ‘But don’t be ruining things for the rest of us.’
The trucker puffed himself up again and turned to face this new challenger as the noise in the room started to rise.
‘If I may,’ a voice cut through the noise, so calm it was as distinct as a shout. All eyes turned to Solomon. ‘Might I suggest a solution.’ He turned to the room. ‘You all want to see if I can answer the last question.’ There was a general nodding and murmurs of agreement. Solomon turned to the trucker. ‘But you don’t trust Billy-Joe here to ask it?’
The trucker shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not.’
Solomon looked over at Rita now. ‘And you just want this to be over.’
Rita said nothing, but it was clear which direction her opinion lay.
‘Then why don’t you ask the last question? Everyone knows you here, I assume, so no one will think you’re working with me on some kind of con. So you ask the question, I’ll try and answer it, the wager will end, one way or another, and everyone will get what they want.’
The mutterings started up again and Billy-Joe frowned as he took in the proposal. ‘But if you ask the last question and he cain’t answer it, who gets the quarter?’
‘You can have it,’ Rita said. ‘And if he gets it right I’ll stand him a meal on the house. That work for ya?’
Billy-Joe nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, sure. I guess.’ He looked up at the trucker. ‘You OK with that?’ The trucker frowned hard as he tried to figure out the new angle and when he couldn’t see one he nodded and sat back down on his stool.
‘And no more damn bets,’ Rita said, lifting the hatch in the counter and stepping out into the main diner area. ‘Let’s get this thing over with so we can all get back to our dull, uneventful days. Can’t handle all this excitement on a Wednesday lunchtime.’ She strode across the floor to the display case of Native American souvenirs, snatched the framed photograph from the wall above it then walked back to the counter. ‘Here’s my question,’ she said, and laid the photograph down on the counter in front of Solomon. ‘Tell me what that says.’
The room went quiet as Solomon looked down at the photograph. It had been taken in a cave, the flash of the camera lighting the centre but falling away to a deep black at the edges. Some of the symbols had caught shadow, showing that they were petroglyphs, carved into the rock not painted on the surface, meaning the message they carried was important. Solomon studied the symbols and opened his mind ready for the usual flood of facts that came in answer to any question. But this time was different. This time the information that came was indistinct and inconclusive, more like a bank of fog than a clear flowing river, and in the silence of the room he caught a whisper, one man confiding to another at the edge of the crowd. ‘He ain’t gonna answer it,’ the voice said. ‘That’s written in Suma and ain’t a man alive as can read it.’
Solomon focused on the symbols, using the word he’d overheard to shine new light on them:
Suma … Zuma … nomadic hunter-gatherers … descended from the Mogollon peoples … first mentioned in 1630 in despatches regarding Franciscan missions … allied themselves with the Spanish and gave land for Catholic missions in exchange for help in subduing their main rivals the Apache … the Spanish converted some of the Zuma and betrayed the rest … last known Zuma brave died in 1869 and the native language was lost … scholars believe it may have been Uto-Aztecan or maybe Athabaskan …
Solomon tried translating the symbols using each of these languages in turn. Neither made sense. He needed more information.
‘Where was this photo taken?’ he asked.
‘About a mile north of here,’ Rita replied, her green eyes studying Solomon with curiosity. ‘There’s a system of old caves on the edge of this land. Why you askin’?’
‘Because different peoples have different meanings for things depending on where they come from.’ Solomon held up the photograph and pointed to a symbol near the bottom of the message. ‘This one, for example, the broken arrow. To the Northern Suma it means peace, but to the Western Suma it means a broken promise. Now I’m guessing it is Western Suma, and that’s how this place got its name, but I wanted to check before I answered the question. There is a steak dinner riding on it after all.’
The hum in the room deepened and smiles spread on the faces of those who’d bet on the stranger.
Solomon’s eyes drifted across the markings, their meanings emerging clearly now he could filter it through the knowledge of their origin.
‘It’s an agreement,’ he said, ‘between a man named Three Arrows in the Wind and a white man from across the great sea to the east – European, I’m guessing. It doesn’t say the man’s name but he’s represented here by a symbol that looks like the head of a cow or maybe a buffalo.’ Rita stiffened and Solomon looked up. ‘You know who that is?’
She nodded. ‘The conquistador who first came here in 1534 was a man named Álvar Núñez Cabeza deVaca. Cabeza deVaca is Spanish for …’
‘Cow’s head,’ Solomon said, finishing her thought. He looked back at the photograph, translating the symbols easily now as his eyes drifted over the petroglyphs. ‘DeVaca did a deal with the chief in this area. He was promised safe passage across these lands, everything from the Snake River in the south, to Two Bears Pass in the west, Three Arrows Cave to the north, and Flat Rock to the east.’ Solomon looked up at Rita. ‘Do those landmarks mean anything to you?’
She nodded. ‘They used to call the Rio Grande Snake River on account of the way it meanders through the land. Flat Rock is now a town, and Two Bears is what they now call the Double Bluff Pass. The caves mentioned are the ones this message is carved in. What else it say?’
Solomon studied the edges of the image where the flash had not quite reached and the petroglyphs fell away into darkness.
‘It looks like deVaca made this pledge in the name of someone else,’ he pointed at a petroglyph disappearing into shadow and only partially visible. ‘See that symbol. I think that denotes deVaca’s chief, but without seeing it properly I can’t say for sure.’
‘Bullshit!’ All heads turned as the man in the booth rose from his seat, his newspaper abandoned behind him. He walked over to the counter, people stepping out of his way as he came and stopped in front of Solomon. ‘You don’t know what those markings say. No one does. The last man alive that could speak the local Suma dialect died over a hunnert and fifty years ago.’ He looked Solomon up and down like he was a curiosity in a roadside museum. ‘We’ve had people through here trying to figure out what those markings say, people from all kinds of fancy colleges. Now if they couldn’t figure it out why in the hell should anyone believe that you can? I think you’re full of it, mister. I don’t think you know what this says any more than I do.’
Solomon smiled. ‘Well, sir, you are entitled to your opinion. However, as far as the laws relating to gambling in the great state of Texas go, you are not a party to this wager and so your opinion does not matter, legally speaking.’ He turned to Rita. ‘As the person who took over the bet, the only opinion that matters as to whether I answered the question or not is yours.’
Rita looked over at the man from th
e booth and nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Nobody can prove what these symbols say one way or another so I guess it was kind of a dumb question for me to ask.’
The man from the booth looked pleased, though several members of the crowd did not as they saw their potential winnings slipping away.
‘However,’ Rita continued, ‘seeing as I ain’t the kind of person as would cheat a man out of a meal because I went and asked him a dumb question.’ She turned back to Solomon and pointed at the menu on the wall. ‘Let me know what you want. You just won yourself a wager.’
Chapter 5
The diner erupted in noise. Men who’d bet on Solomon whooped in victory and those who’d bet against him shook their heads in disbelief.
The man from the booth leaned in and pitched his voice low so it slid beneath the noise. ‘You’re lucky Rita has such a kind and generous heart,’ he said. ‘You try this shit anyplace else in West Texas you’d wind up getting shot.’ He glared at Rita. ‘No wonder this place is on its ass.’ He shook his head and marched off back to his booth.
Solomon smiled at Rita and waited for her to notice. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘Daryl?’ Rita shook her head as if even saying his name was wearisome. ‘He ain’t friends with no one. ’Cept maybe the banks. What you wanna eat?’
‘Steak, please, as rare as you dare. Also two eggs, fried and sunnyside, and some home fries if I may.’
She nodded. ‘Drink?’
‘Ice-water would be fine. Can I ask you a question?’
‘Depends. Do I have to buy you another steak dinner if I give you a wrong answer?’
Solomon smiled. ‘No, this one’s on the house.’ He pointed down at the photograph. ‘The Indian chief mentioned in this agreement, are you by chance a relative?’
Rita nodded slowly. ‘My family name is Treepoint. I think my great-granddaddy changed it in the thirties or forties. I guess Three Arrows in the Wind was too much to fit on a cheque.’