While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  After a few hours, he stopped for a sandwich and a bottle of beer, then went back to it. The sun was high now, so he left his jacket on the porch. As he labored, every now and then he glanced up the hill where the narrow road disappeared into the trees. His work sometimes took him up to the site of the old estate, for weeding and general maintenance around the scorched remnants of the manor house and outbuildings. Once he had enjoyed walking up the road, or climbing the trail that led up there, to sit among the ruins and reflect on the kind of wealth that could build such a place, and what had become of it.

  But no longer. Not since that night he had spent there, waiting for men to come and kill him and a young girl named Clea. The waiting was followed by terror, gunshots and sudden death in the dark. And now that he knew three bodies lay buried up there, somewhere among the oak and eucalyptus that ranged along the ridgeline, he could never think about the old estate in quite the same way.

  So, as he pried another cantaloupe-sized rock out of the wall, he thought instead about Rose Galen and the shock of seeing her again. About the years that had accumulated on her face like a road map of worry. About the eyes that could still bore in on him. But his thoughts soon turned to older memories. Of Smoke on the Mountain, and the actress who showed up on the set one day, who stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Rose. Never done a western, but I’m willing to learn. If you’ll bear with me, maybe we can make this fun.”

  He hadn’t seen the irony at first. He was Medallion Pictures’ newest cowboy actor, in his second starring role, and pretty full of himself. It took a while for him to realize that Rose was not only a few years older than he but also much more experienced at acting. He never found out whether her experience originated in movies or the theater, only that he was learning to rely on it. The truth was, he was not a very good actor. He was stiff and clumsy and often unable to commit the simplest dialogue to memory. His value to Medallion, such as it was, lay in his looks and his ability on horseback.

  Time and again, Rose would step in whenever he stumbled and quietly offer the advice he needed. “Remember, the camera’s not there,” she whispered once. “Look at me and Joseph and the others, and when we’re talking, don’t look like you’re ready to say your line. Act like you’re absolutely fascinated by what we have to say. Especially me,” she laughed. “You could listen to me go on all day.”

  Another time, after he blew a line over and over, she asked the director for a break, took him aside, grinned, and said, “It’s a stupid line, so don’t worry about the exact words. Here’s what’s important: The man’s a crooked lawyer, the contract is phony, and people are being cheated. Here’s what else is important: You’re the only one who cares about this. Now go give him hell.”

  He surprised himself by doing just that. The director wasn’t happy with the improvised dialogue, but it worked.

  Beyond her abilities, though, he knew she was troubled. Even while doing her usual good work, there might be liquor on her breath. When the crew was setting up for a new shot, she would sometimes walk away and sit under a tree, and he knew not to interrupt her. In the midst of being helpful to him, she seemed to need help herself, and he didn’t know how to offer it.

  After several more hours of work, Horn reached the south end of the wall and re-cemented the last loose rock. Then he rolled the wheelbarrow up to the cabin, where he used the shovel to scrape out the remnants of cement from the wheelbarrow, then hosed down everything. Most of the canyon was in shadow now, the late afternoon sun painting a bright stripe of brown and green across the top of the far canyon wall. He was mounting the uneven stone steps of the cabin, beginning to think about supper, when he heard the phone ring inside.

  “I couldn’t remember if you had paid your phone bill lately,” Mad Crow said. “Glad to hear you’re still hooked up with the outside world.”

  “Whenever you pay me on time, my bills get paid,” Horn said. It was an old joke.

  “So was that really Rose, or just the bad lighting in there? How did it go?”

  “Not very well. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “You could make it now.”

  “I don’t know, Indian....”

  “Look, I had my heart set on a hamburger last night, and you ducked out on me. Now I’ve got the grill fired up, and the meat laid out, and you’re going to help me eat these little critters. So climb in that beat-up thing you call a car and come on over here, all right?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The coals in the fifty-gallon drum had died down to hot ash. The burgers had been consumed, along with the beans and the ears of corn. The two sat in large, rough-hewn chairs out on the uneven lawn in front of Mad Crow’s ranch house, each man with a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon nestled comfortably in his crotch.

  “Want to do a collection?” the Indian asked. “Guy out in Westwood. A professor at UCLA, for God’s sake. He teaches math, and he’s supposed to have come up with this system to beat the table at poker. Only thing is, he keeps losing.”

  “Guess he still needs to work out a few bugs,” Horn said.

  “That’s right. Meantime, he’s into me for more than three hundred. I know he’s good for it, but here’s the thing: The other day his wife calls and begs me to stop him from playing. Says she’s afraid he’s going to go off the deep end one of these days. I told her I can’t bar him from my place as long as he respects the rules. But I got to thinking that maybe I shouldn’t carry him anymore, ’cause that just encourages him. So why don’t you go collect what he owes? For the usual percentage.”

  “Sure,” Horn said. “I’ll get the address when we go inside.”

  “Got it right here.” Mad Crow leaned over to hand him a slip of paper. “Try not to embarrass him in front of his wife.”

  “Don’t worry. You know, you wouldn’t have any of these problems if you’d just—”

  “Just run the casino, and forget about shylocking? I know. Maybe I like it. Maybe I’d rather be the banker to some of these dopes instead of sending them out on the street for their money, where they pay twenty percent and get their fingers broken when they can’t come up with it.”

  “Maybe you like the extra income.”

  “That too.” Mad Crow pulled at his beer and grinned over at Horn. “But if I didn’t have the occasional bad loan that needs collecting, what would you do for a career, my out-of-work cowboy buddy?”

  When Horn didn’t answer, Mad Crow cleared his throat. The knotted ropes beneath his seat cushion groaned as he shifted his bulk. “That was some asshole of an idiot talking just now,” he said after a moment. “Had no business saying that. I think I’ll kick that dumb ass out of this yard so’s we can get back to our beer drinking.”

  “You go right ahead,” Horn said. “Give him a kick for me too.”

  Off in the stable, one of Mad Crow’s horses whinnied in an excess of equine emotion. It was now fully dark, the only illumination coming from the dim glow of the coals and the light behind them on the front porch of the house.

  Mad Crow cleared his throat again, a sign Horn had learned to read as unease or embarrassment. “I get a little worked up on the subject of earning a living,” the Indian said. “Don’t pay me no nevermind, all right? Only thing is, I’m the first one in my family to have anything like this.” In the near-dark, Horn saw him sweep an arm around to indicate the whole of his ranch. “I’m not saying my relatives are all poor and miserable. Hell, my oldest brother lives by himself out on the reservation, doesn’t have a pot to piss in, but hunts and fishes and lives his own kind of life. I guess I’d call him happy.

  “But I’m the one that came to the big city. And after a while, some of them followed me here.”

  Horn had heard the story before, but he didn’t mind. “And now they work for you,” he prompted.

  “That’s right. Now I got seven cousins and nephews—and a niece—on my payroll. And they’re doing pretty good. I got a right to be proud of myself.”

  “So be proud.�
��

  “You know what he called me?”

  “Who?”

  “My brother.” Mad Crow got up and went to the ice bucket, where he fished out two more beers. He opened them and handed one to Horn, who waited to hear the rest.

  “Last time I visited, a bunch of us were in town, eating and drinking. My brother called me a civilized Indian. He said it like it was something I should be ashamed of. I almost uncorked one on him, but my sister was there—Cassie’s mama—and I didn’t do anything. Maybe I should’ve.”

  “No, maybe you shouldn’t have.” Mad Crow seemed to be getting morose, and Horn wanted to change the subject. He heard another whinny from the stable, followed by the sound of a heavy body against boards. “You’ve got an unhappy horse in there,” he said. “Is he lonesome?”

  “I suppose,” Mad Crow said. “He’s a mustang I bought at auction couple of weeks ago. Got him cheap, and I thought I’d make him into a saddle horse, but it was probably a mistake. He’s mean and bad-tempered. The hands are afraid of him. He broke Paco’s thumb.”

  “That never stopped you before,” Horn said. “I never saw a horse you couldn’t—”

  “Why don’t you do it for me?”

  “Me? Why would I want to—”

  “Twenty bucks in it for you.”

  “I’m too old to get stomped by some horse. And besides, you’re a lot better at that than I am.”

  “Flattering me won’t work. Tell you what, I’ll flip you for it.” He pulled a coin out of his pocket. “You call it.”

  “I’m not calling anything. It’s too dark to see, anyway. Handle the horse yourself, and leave me out of it.”

  “In the old days I would’ve, but I’m getting tired,” Mad Crow said with a sigh. “This thing with Cassie. What with her and the business, I got no time to spend on some ornery stallion. Maybe I’ll just sell him.”

  “Suit yourself. How’s she doing?”

  “Cassie? Oh, just great.” The reply was sarcastic. “She hates the job I gave her, the clothes she has to wear at work. Says it doesn’t make sense to have her hair in braids like an Indian girl while she wears cowboy boots and a fancy skirt and a Stetson.”

  “Well, it doesn’t,” Horn said. “You got to admit that.”

  “It’s just business,” Mad Crow said defensively. “The customers like it. But you can’t talk to her. I only took her in, gave her a job and a place to stay, because her mother’s my favorite sister. I thought Cassie wanted to work, earn some money, maybe go to college—she’d be the first girl in our family to do that, and she’s smart enough. But she spends all of her time carousing—the booze and the boys. She’s wilder’n any of her brothers. Reminds me a little bit of the way I used to behave back when I was a young buck, before I became a pillar of the business community.”

  “So she takes after you. Aren’t you flattered?”

  “God help me. And you haven’t heard all of it: That guy we messed with at the bar last night? Turns out he wasn’t exactly lying about the way it happened with her. I had a talk with one of my dealers today. He said it looked to him like she invited that guy out to the parking lot.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “I know. If it happened that way, then maybe the rest happened like he said. Maybe she suggested they get together later. Maybe the money wasn’t even his idea....” Mad Crow’s voice trailed off, as if he lacked the heart to go on.

  “I’m sorry, Indian.”

  “And it’s not like she’s some kid I can send home to her mama if she doesn’t behave herself,” Mad Crow said. “She’s pretty much grown—turns twenty-one in a few months.”

  “Is she around tonight?”

  “Hell, no. She’s never around. Borrows a car almost every night, heads out to have a good time someplace. Tonight she’s got the Caddy.” He snorted. “Must want to impress somebody.” Mad Crow cursed almost inaudibly. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “Tell me about Rose.”

  Horn recounted the events of last night, ending with the farewell on the steps of the rooming house. “Doesn’t make a good story, does it?”

  “No,” Mad Crow said. “When you get to like somebody and then lose track of them, you hope they go on to a happy ending somewhere, like the kind our movies used to have. Hers doesn’t sound like that.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You know why I liked her? Because she had class, but she acted like plain folks. Because the movie business is full of people in love with themselves, and she wasn’t like that. She was better at what she did than most people we worked with, but she wasn’t all puffed up with herself. I saw her working on you, giving you tips. Let me tell you something: It helped.”

  “I was pretty bad, wasn’t I?”

  “You were pretty bad. But you got better, and she was the reason. You had some good years out there on horseback, with your faithful Indian trailing along....”

  “Until it all went bad.”

  “Right. Until it went bad.”

  “You saying I owe it all to her?”

  “Well, I’d say at least part of it.”

  “Did you have a little bit of a crush on her, Indian?”

  “You bet.” In the dark, Horn couldn’t see the grin, but he could sense it. “Didn’t you?”

  Before he could answer, they heard the faint ring of the telephone from the house, and Mad Crow heaved himself up to answer it. A few minutes later he returned. “Damn.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That was Rusty, over at the Dust Bowl. Cassie’s there, and she’s making some kind of trouble. I’m going to have to go get her.” Horn heard the jingle of car keys. “I’ll take the truck.”

  “I’ll drive you over,” Horn said, getting up.

  “I think you’ve done me enough favors in the last day or so.”

  “Bullshit,” Horn said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The Dust Bowl, a honky tonk popular with farm and ranch workers, was a few miles from Mad Crow’s spread in the northern San Fernando Valley. The place stood on a county road surrounded by flat, open land, bean fields and lemon groves. They could see the winking neon sign long before they reached it.

  “Shouldn’t have told her about this place,” Mad Crow muttered as Horn pulled off the road and into the Dust Bowl’s half-full parking lot. They spotted Rusty Baird, the owner, coming out to meet them.

  Baird nodded to both men before speaking to Mad Crow. “It’s okay, Joseph,” he said. “I guess it’s over. She’s gone.”

  “Any damages?” the Indian asked.

  “A light fixture and a few broken beer bottles,” Baird said. “She got a little wild with a pool cue. You don’t owe me anything. I’m just glad it—”

  “You let girls shoot pool in this establishment of yours?”

  “Well, not usually,” Baird said a little defensively. “But it’s hard to say no when she’s got her mind set on doing something. You know that.”

  Horn pointed over to where the Cadillac convertible sat in the lot. “How did she leave?” he asked Baird.

  “She went off with a couple of guys she was shooting a game with. Don’t know where to.”

  “Describe them for me.” Mad Crow’s voice was flat.

  “Mexican boys,” Baird said. “They were in a truck, headed north.”

  In seconds, they were on the road. Horn had the accelerator near the floor, and the big Mercury engine—installed by the head mechanic of the Medallion Pictures motor pool to create a stunt car with a souped-up heart inside a drab exterior—pushed the Ford up to seventy. The country road was narrow and straight and illuminated only by the car’s headlights.

  Barely two minutes later they saw the truck. It had stopped on the right shoulder, and Horn cut his lights and slowed, finally halting about twenty yards short. They got out quietly and advanced. The truck, with weathered slats rimming the bed, was used for hauling produce. It sat with its engine off but headlights on.

  As they drew
up to the rear, they heard a retching noise. Off in the ditch that bordered a walnut grove, a young man knelt, heaving. He seemed oblivious to all but his own distress.

  “Never mind him,” Mad Crow whispered. “You hear that?” It was music, coming from the truck’s radio. Peering around, they could see Cassie and the other young man dancing in the bright headlights, like a couple of ballroom dancers on a spotlighted stage.

  “What do you think?” Mad Crow asked.

  “I think we do this quick and easy, no trouble,” Horn said. “Listen, we know the key’s in the ignition, right? So here’s what we do....”

  They split up, Mad Crow to the right. Horn quietly got behind the wheel of the truck. Up ahead, Cassie, in a brightly colored dress, clung to her partner, who wore boots and dungarees and a faded shirt. The song was Al Dexter’s raucous Pistol Packin’ Mama, but they were attempting a clumsy and drunken waltz. Every now and then she threw her head back in a mock swoon. The man gripped her tightly, his right hand cupped around her rear.

  Mad Crow moved into the light and grabbed her by the arm, wrenching Cassie away from her partner and dragging her back along the side of the truck. She screamed in rage, and the Mexican stumbled, caught himself, and then muttered something as he prepared to go for the intruder. Just then Horn fired up the truck’s engine, jammed it into gear, and tromped on the accelerator. The man jumped aside with a startled yell, then started after the truck. But it was out on the road now, lurching along, and Horn soon left him far behind. He drove for about a half-mile, then stopped and got out, leaving the key in the ignition. After a minute, the Ford pulled up, Mad Crow behind the wheel and Cassie, grim-faced, sitting up front. Horn got in beside her, and they turned around and drove back. When they passed the two young men trudging along, one of them still holding his stomach, Mad Crow stopped and leaned out the window.

  “Your truck’s up the road,” he said. “Shouldn’t drink if you can’t hold your beer. And by the way, if you see this young lady again, you stay away from her.” Then he drove on.