by Alan Mulak
“Lighter.”
McKenzie chuckled.
Alex took a few deep breaths and looked up at the stars. “Your brother’s a sheriff?”
“Yep.”
“And you own a shotgun? And maybe even some ammo?”
“Yep.”
“Wow! You’re full of surprises.”
McKenzie turned and shot Alex a look of exasperation. “Clearly, I’m not the only one.”
29
Nothing Ventured…
Amanda Wolfe rolled over and cuddled close to Mike. “Are you awake?” she whispered.
“No.”
She ran her fingers lightly over his face.
Mike smiled. “That feels good. I’ve noticed you’re a toucher.”
Amanda pressed her cheek to his chest. “Took you long enough.”
"I noticed it right away when we first met."
“Is that okay?”
“Fine with me.”
A few heartbeats later, she said, “It’s how I sense things, by touching them. I think it’s a gift of some sort.”
Mike grunted. “So how do I feel to you? Do I pass your test?”
Amanda chuckled softly. “Do you think we’d be lying here naked if you didn’t?”
More tender moments passed.
Finally, Mike said, “I think it’s your turn to put on the coffee.”
“That’s what you said yesterday.”
“It was worth a try.”
They lay quietly, holding each other, as the early morning sunshine began leaking through the cracks in the blinds. Heftig lay sprawled across the foot of the bed, taking up way too much space.
Mike stretched and said, “I dreamed of Rob Santos last night.”
“That’s the first one in quite a while, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Let’s see…what month are we in?”
“July.”
“Well, the last time Rob showed up in my dreams was back in May, when the fishing got good back home.”
“No, you dreamed of him last month. We were in your apartment. I had come down for the Livingston Taylor concert. Remember?”
“How the hell do you remember those things?”
“Magic. Now about the dream last night, was it a good or bad one?”
“Mostly good. We were camping on some stream somewhere which was good, but he was bummed out about something…which was not good. But the fishing nearby was great…which was good. So I guess the goods win, two to one.”
They cuddled together for another minute or two.
Amanda asked, “Do you regret your decision about Rob?”
“Which decision?”
“Not to reach out to him at this time.”
“I’d be able to follow your line of questioning much better if I had a cup of coffee.”
She pinched his nipple.
“Ow! And to answer your question, no….at least most of the time. Sometimes I think about life passing by and get all worked up and start down the give Rob a call path, but then come full circle again, and decide to let things be…for now.”
They fell quiet again, enjoying the warmth of each other.
Amanda asked, “Yesterday, you said something about buying a new car. Were you serious about that?”
“Well, shit, the way I’ve been piling miles onto the old Trooper, the tires are going to fall off really soon.”
“That’s not my fault, is it?”
“Of course it is. If you didn’t keep luring me up here for wild, erotic weekends, I wouldn’t be putting almost six-hundred miles a week on the old heap of rust.”
“Are you complaining?”
Mike paused for a beat, and then said, “Are you kidding?”
Amanda pinched his nipple again.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You took too long to answer.”
Mike propped himself up on an elbow. “This brings up something I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
DuPont paused. Well, here goes. “I bought a winery in Creon, France. That’s just outside of Bordeaux. Well, actually, my family bought it. I’m going to run it.”
“You did what?”
“Well, I figured since I took all those business courses, I might as well put them to good use.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“I’m a DuPont. The trust fund administrator is legally obliged to provide financing for any worthy investment by an heir of DuPont. And that’s me.”
“What do you know about making wine?”
“Nothing.”
“What kind of wine will you be making?”
“No idea.”
“How…”
“A friend of mine at work, the Dean of Students, told me about this small winery coming up for a private sale. He said it’s a good investment because the big wineries are gobbling up all the small farms and if I can buy this before the big guys get it, it’ll be like a solid growth-stock investment. He said I could run it for a few years then pound a for-sale sign out front and unload it for some serious dough. And what the hell; if I prove to be a total incompetent – which is likely - I could still sell the land and vines for whatever I put into it – and drink up whatever is left in the cellar."
Silence.
Then Mike said, “And maybe you could come with me?”
More silence.
“You know,” he said, “we’ve pretty clearly established we love each other and even say it from time to time - you more than me, I know, I know – and we’re not getting any younger and this business of driving up here every weekend is getting old and your cops and robbers business will still be here if the wine adventure flops and you keep saying the winters here really suck and…
Amanda sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts, and looked Mike in the eye. "It's been a long time since I've lived with a man but I have to admit; lately, I've been thinking it might be a good idea." She stared at Mike, then poked the dog and asked, "WoAiNi, what do you think?”
Heftig’s tail went into hyper-wag.
The lay in each other's arms for a while, and then Mike broke the silence.
“There’s one thing I need to do before we fly off into the sunset.”
Amanda exhaled. “I knew this was coming.”
Mike blinked a few times, and then sarcastically, asked, “You did? Hah! Want is it then, Miss Smartypants?”
Ignoring his taunt, she asked, “I thought you weren’t going to do that? You said something about blowing his cover and respecting his decision. Remember?”
Mike shook his head slowly. “For the life of me, I don’t know how you do that. And yeah, that’s what I had said, but…”
She put her finger to his lips. “It’s okay. I wondered how long it would take you to change your mind. I understand. Really.”
Mike sat up. “I’m glad you do. I’ve got this mixed bag of emotions over this. Part of me wants to go find him and wring his neck. How could he turn his back on me? I thought we were pals for life. And another part of me is worried that he’s gone off the deep end, and maybe needs help. I mean, what the hell, he did that for me. And then there’s part of me…” He blew out a stream of air and stared off to some other time and place.
“Let me finish your sentence for you,” Amanda said tenderly. And then there’s the part of you that misses your friend. Right?”
“Yeah.”
He lay back. Amanda put her head on his chest.
“When are you leaving?”
“Soon. Maybe tomorrow if I can get a flight. Want to come along?”
Amanda reached out from under the covers and scratched the dog’s ear. “No. This is all about you and your friend Rob, or Alex as he now calls himself. You have to do this on your own. I’ll take care of Mr. WoAiNi while you’re gone.”
Then she wistfully added, “I wish I had a friend like you.”
Mike squeezed her tightly. “You d
o.”
Two days later, Mike took the first available flight out of Manchester, NH, which after a few stops, terminated in Albuquerque, NM. There, he rented a KIA SUV and drove five hours north to Dolores where he checked into the Rest Easy Motel. His legs, weary and stiff from the drive needed stretching, so he pulled on his coat and went for a stroll.
He walked with a purpose and a plan. To avoid getting lost, he was to: walk five blocks this way, take a right, five more blocks that way, take another right, five more blocks, and make one more right turn and return to the start.
But the plan quickly dissipated. Dolores was a tiny hamlet of a town, with undersized houses in various states of upkeep, each with a fenced-in yard and a barking dog or two. As Mike walked along, the dogs would run to the fence, announce their presence with authority, and then retire back to where they came from. But it was a pleasant place to walk. Other than Main Street, the roads were unpaved. Canyon walls towered up to the north and south. A river, the Upper Dolores, meandered on its way to the reservoir. Being late October, the leaves were down, scattered about here and there. There were a library and post office and fire/police building and competing churches. Public schools were clustered at the north end of town. At the south end was the Dolores River Brewery – Mike made a note to pay it a visit – and a Mexican Restaurant that unlike back east, looked authentic.
Being just shy of seven-thousand feet above sea level, the air was thin and entirely devoid of moisture. And with wood stoves burning throughout the town, the smoke hanging motionless in the windless air, it smelt and felt like autumn.
Mike jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and kept walking, taking it all in. What do these people do? Where do they work? And most curious of all, how did Rob Santos find his way here?
After strolling around town for an hour and likely seeing most all there was to see, he stretched out on the jelly donut motel bed - soft in the middle - and stared at the ceiling for twenty winks. After a few minutes, he took out his mobile phone and punched in a now-familiar number.
“Hi Mike, how was the flight?”
"Let me guess; you just knew it was me calling. Right?”
“Nope. Caller ID.”
“Ah yes. A psychic who’s gone high tech. The bad guys don’t stand a chance.”
After the exchange of pleasantries, Mike got right to it.
“So now what do I do? This is, as we thought, a tiny town, but even so, where do I begin? All I’ve got to go on is a post office box number. If he’s dug in out here, the last thing I want to do is start asking around and in doing so, he’ll hear that someone is looking for him. If that happens, I might as well catch the next flight back because he’ll disappear again.”
Amanda thought for a moment and then asked, “Can’t you use his P.O. box?”
“Nope. I tried at the post office, where they looked at me like I was some sort of terrorist. They told me they couldn't give out a street address due to privacy laws."
Just then, a Waste Management trash truck went rumbling by.
Mike sat up. “Let me call you back. I just had an idea.”
He hustled out of his hotel room, jumped into his rental SUV, and took off after the trash truck. On North 6th Street, he caught up with the lumbering Waste Management vehicle. Mike pulled over, got out of his rental and with official-looking papers in hand (the rental agreement), and approached the trash men.
“Mornin’,” Mike said.
A bored trash man nodded.
“I’ve got to deliver four big boxes. They’re pieces of IKEA furniture. Those morons back in dispatch who printed my invoice here,” Mike waved the car’s rental agreement, “only provided me with a name and PO box. By any chance, can you tell me where this guy lives? Otherwise, I have to drive all the way back to Albuquerque.”
The trash man emptied a green waste barrel into the back of the truck, then, over the roar of the hydraulic lift which compacted the load, shouted, “I can’t but my brother Jerry can.” He leaned around the corner of the truck and using hand signals, beckoned for a second man to come.
The second man approached, spotted Mike and scowled. “I’m Jerry Mahoney. What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Mike said. “Just looking to deliver some furniture. Don’t have an address. Dispatch only provided me with a PO box.” Again he waved the rental agreement.
Jerry, relieved it was a trivial matter and not the usual unhappy customer complaining about trash men pawing through their rubbish in search of collectibles such as Penthouse Magazines, exhaled. "What's the name?"
Mike studied the Avis Rental agreement. "Let's see; it's here somewhere. Ah, here it is. Delvecchio. Alexander Delvecchio.”
Jerry scoffed. "Oh, that guy. He lives right over there on Riverside Drive." He checked the clipboard which was hanging from the side of the truck. "Number Fifteen. Strange dude. Some kind of a hermit. Got lots of guys like him around here." Jerry pointed down the street. "Just drive down there and take a right at the stop sign. He's the third or fourth house on the right."
Mike looked down the street to where Jerry was pointing. “Hey man, thanks a million. You saved me a wasted day and a whole shitload of driving.”
Jerry dismissed Mike with a wave, and then turned and yelled at the driver. "Let's move."
The truck rolled forward, leaving Mike where he stood, staring down the street.
It was then the butterflies arrived.
Mike stood frozen in place for several minutes – his feet unable to move. The street where Rob lived was about a hundred yards away. He’d come all this way and now…
"Hey buddy? You okay?"
Mike snapped out of his paralysis and looked around. In the front yard of the nearby house, some guy with a Boston Red Sox ball cap was leaning on his rake. A pile of leaves was at his feet.
Mike looked at the guy, and said, “Yeah. I’m fine.” Then, as a feeble attempt to explain what he was doing, added, “Just admiring the scenery.”
The guy chuckled. “Well, if you’re looking for something to do, you could help me rake my yard and admire to your heart’s content.”
Mike smiled. “Tempting but I think I’ll pass.” Then he walked down the street.
Fifteen Riverside Drive was an unspectacular, nothing special small house. In the driveway was parked a mud-splattered, 2012 Ford F-150 pickup truck. Mike felt his knees grow weak. He walked past the house, up onto a path along the berm that hugs the river, and took a seat on a park bench. From there, he stared at the house.
After a dozen or so leaves drifted to the ground, he took out his phone.
“And?”
Mike blinked a few times then smiled. “That’s how you answer your phone? And?”
“Success?” ABBA’s Waterloo was playing in the background.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sitting across the street from his house. A truck is in the driveway.”
A few more leaves drifted by.
“So you’re going to go knock on his door. Right?”
“Maybe.”
"Mike, you've just traveled across North America to check with your friend. Please don't tell me you're not going through with this."
“That’s exactly what I was just thinking.”
More leaves.
“If that’s what you want to do, it’s okay.”
“Amanda, there’s something I’ve never told you.”
“I’m here.”
“Well, it’s like this: I’m a coward.”
Another pause, then he asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m trying not to laugh out loud.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“I know. This thing you’re trying to do, it’s not easy. I could go on and on about fear of rejection and all the associated scrambled emotions that go along with it, but what’s the point. We’ve talked this to death. Maybe you need to go have a beer and give it some thou
ght.”
Mike stared at the house, and a few more leaves drifted by. “I’m going to do it. Later.”
And with that and a stomach full of butterflies, he got up purposefully strode across the street, up the wooden steps and banged on the door. Nothing. Then he banged again. More nothing. He looked in the window. No one home.
He turned around and stood, with hands on hips, muttering, “Well I’ll be dipped in shit.”
Mike walked the three blocks to the Brewery and pulled up a seat at the bar. The place was about half-full. Not bad for a weekday afternoon.
An attractive woman with a ponytail set a coaster down in front of him.
“Hey there,” she said with a smile. “I’m Lucy. What can I get for you?”
Mike looked up at the chalkboard, where the beers were listed. “Which one of those is similar to a Sam Adams?”
Lucy pointed. "The third one down, our IPA is my choice."
“Based upon that recommendation,” Mike said. “I’ll take a pint. And maybe some munchies as well.”
“Chips and salsa okay?”
"Perfect. And where's the restroom?"
She pointed over her shoulder.
Mike got up and ducked in to take care of business. It was while he was in mid-stream, someone knocked on the door.
“I’ll be right out,” Mike said.
“No rush,” came the answer.
It took a few beats to sink in but then, with hair standing on the back of his neck, he recognized the voice. As quickly as possible, Mike finished the task in hand, flushed, and then threw open the door. No one. He looked up and down the hallway. No one. With all the casualness he could muster, he returned to the bar. His beer and chips were waiting for him.
“Excuse me,” he said to Lucy. “Who was that guy in the hallway just a minute ago?”
As Lucy looked over her shoulder, her smile faded ever so slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t notice.”
Mike nodded, looked all around, and then sipped his beer.
The next morning, Mike sat in his rented SUV, watching Rob’s house from the empty parking lot of a nearby church. He was half-way through his large black coffee when Rob’s front door swung open and out onto the porch stepped Roberto Santos. In his arms were waders, a fly rod, vest, hat, and a bag with what must have been lunch.