CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
"And So to Bed"
Beadles felt the blood frothing in his chest. His heart played paradiddles. He'd tried using satellite imagery before to locate the Azuma through the university. But he hadn't know for what he was looking. It only became apparent now that he had the amulet in his possession.
"Can you give me the GPS coordinates?"
Ninja stroked the keys and the printer chattered. "Already done, son. You need a place to crib? You lookin' 'bout baked."
"Yeah."
Ninja pointed to the far end of the loft, separated by a series of incongruously beige and institutional acoustic dividers. "Go crib over there. I got to catch some too. Can't keep doin' crystal."
"No you can't," Gregorio rumbled from the sofa.
"My heart beatin' like a tom tom. You want some valium?"
Beadles was so exhausted he knew he would sleep through the bounce valium provided. "Sure."
Ninja gave him one of the pink tablets. He washed it down with Mountain Dew, went outside, got his overnight bag out of the Jeep and returned. "Can I park out front?"
"No prob," Ninja said. "They a bathroom off the side back there."
Beadles walked behind the screens and found four military-style bunk beds made up with tight sheets and khaki blankets. Some personal items were scattered on one. Beadles took the one at the other end of the line. The bathroom had a sloping concrete floor with a drain in the middle and a shower head protruding from the wall. He stripped and took a hot shower. He put on his skivvies and slipped beneath the clean sheets. It never occurrred to him that Ninja would take off and seek the stronghold himself. Nor did he worry how vulnerable he was, sleeping under a jailbird's roof. The vibe he got off Ninja was a very intelligent young man trying to hide it.
Beadles shut it all off. He was asleep within minutes. He slept dreamlessly for some hours, got up in late afternoon to visit the bathroom and when he returned he saw that Ninja was sawing logs on the far cot. Beadles instantly went back to sleep.
Desert. A cookie sheet in an oven with an intolerable incandescence beating down like a KGB interrogator. Hot. So hot. And thirsty. Beadles could not, dare not raise his head to that awful light. It would sear his eyes and burn out his brain. His mouth was mired in muck. He scooped it out with his fingers like bailing a boat. It was a thick rubbery substance. No matter how much he scooped it kept pouring into his mouth.
He tried shielding his eyes with his hands. He could barely see--just his shadow in front of him as he trudged east toward a distant butte. It was afternoon. He looked down and saw eggs and pancakes sizzling on the desert floor. He trudged on, dying for a drink.
He was at the butte. He scrambled up the scree apron and began climbing a lava chimney, searching blindly for hand and toe holds. He opened his eyes. A rattlesnake stared at him from six inches, jaws wide, teeth aching, maracas shaking.
Beadles climbed on. He opened his eyes. A nest of milk-colored scorpions danced on a tiny shelf. He clmbed on.
He emerged at the top. It was dark.
Beadles woke with a start, sweating, wrapped in the khaki wool blanket and sheet. He peeled them off and sat n the edge of the cot breathing heavily. It was dark out. He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. He'd slept twelve hours.
Beadles went into the bathroom and took another shower. A cold one. When he stepped back into the big room Ninja was seated on his cot pulling on an XXXL Bulls T-shirt.
"Give me a half hour to get my shit together and we'll hit the road, Jack," he said.
Beadles stared. "What?"
"'At's right. Omma come with you. Protect my investment."
"What investment? All you did was twist dials for an hour."
Ninja flashed a slash of white. "People pay me big bucks to do that. Been thinkin' bout applying to the CIA, get on that sweet gummint gravy train."
Beadles adopted his best professorial tone. "I'm afraid it wouldn't work, Ninja. People are watching me. You'd attract too much attention."
Ninja stood and puffed. "Whatchoo sayin? No respectable college professor be travelin with a nigger?"
"I'm not a racist," Beadles declared despising himself.
Ninja grinned. "See? See? I gotchoo goin. I pay half the expenses we can take my donk stead of that peckerdick redneck wagon you got."
Beadles shook his head. "No can do. I'm not the only one looking. I can't attract any attention! Not until I have incontrovertible evidence that the Azuma existed."
"That be the gold?" Ninja headed around the partitions. "Le's get some coffee goin."
Beadles followed. 'It could be the gold, it could be an authentic record of their civilization. Heiroglyphs. A temple or dwelling. Something that sets them apart from the other known civilizations of the Colorado Plateau."
"You want to see my donk?"
"Ninja, I'm fine. I'll give you a contract. I'm not looking to grab the gold and run. It's worth a hundred times more as authenticated artifacts. I'm trying to vindicate myself! I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by betraying you. But this is something I have to do alone."
Ninja poured Javatime ground coffee into the coffee machine. "Let me think on that."
***
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
"The Copper Kettle"
Summer checked into the Kayenta Hampton Inn under the name Alice Showers. She'd never been religious although she'd attended a Baptist Sunday School at Maria's insistence, a twenty-four mile round trip to Hanes Baptist. She had a hard time believing the old stuff but there was no denying Grampa Ned's power. It was an electro-magnetic field affecting anybody who came close. And she'd seen Ned and others do amazing things. Handle rattlesnakes. Walk on hot coals. Always, always they preached the gospel of the old ways, worship of the sun and moon, worship of the earth.
Summer was twenty-nine and desperate. What did she have to show for her hardscrabble life? No husband, no children, no future. She'd wanted to go to school and become a nurse but her grades weren't good enough even with affirmative action. Twenty-nine, broke, a pole dancer.
"I must be stupid," she said softly.
She had no choice but to believe in the old ways. What else did she have left? She was uncertain exactly what awaited her at Shipapu but she had to find it. Along the way she would find a champion. She came to Kayenta because of the search.
After showering she went out through the lobby and walked across the baking highway to the Copper Kettle Lounge. It was six o'clock. The Copper Kettle was a family-friendly stucco joint, parking lot filled with cars from half the States come to visit Monument Valley. She went in through the front. A Navajo girl seated her at a small table in the big dining room, with a view of the highway and the hotel. She'd ditched her cell phone in Hava, fearing that Vince would somehow track her using his mob connections.
Maybe taking the Camaro was a dumb idea. He might have let her go if she'd left his ride. No. Not after she slipped him the rufies. She'd seen Vince break a guy's arm for looking at him crosswise. She shrugged it off.
Come on, girl! Get some balls! She touched the Beretta in her pocket.
Her waittress came. She was young and Indian. "Would you like something to drink before ordering?"
"I'll have an Absolut martini straight up with an olive."
"Perfect." The waitress handed her a menu advertising "authentic Native American cuisine." She passed on the rabbit and rattlesnake and when the waitress returned with her drink, she ordered the meatloaf and a salad.
"Perfect," the waitress said.
Summer was in a good position in the corner to see the whole room, which was three quarters full. Four families traveling with young children. Some long-necked college boys on vacation, their tanned, lean physiques suggesting they were mountain bikers or climbers. A couple truckers in caps. The pleasant murmur of conversation and clinking silverware filled the room. On the walls were framed photographs including a couple Ansel Adams, two Georgia O'Keefe prints and paintings by local artists depicting the landscape, daily life and spirituality.
The waitress made her rounds. "How is everything?"
"It's good."
"Perfect."
The waitress turned to go. "Ma'am," Summer said, "would you bring me another martini?" She gestured toward the window. "What's out there?"
The waitress looked at her quizically. "Excuse me?"
"To the northwest. Is there anything out there between us and the Utah border? I mean apart from Monument Valley."
The waitress scrunched up her nose. "Just Gap."
"Gap? What's that?"
"Basically, just a bar and a gas station trying to be a town. Kids like to go out there and ride dune buggies or trip in the desert. It's a good way to die. People pass through there and go out in the desert and you never hear from them again."
"How far?"
"Sixty miles or so. Why? There's nothing out there."
Summer smiled. "I like out of the way places."
"Well it doesn't get much more out of the way! I'll be right back with your drink."
Something tugged at her. Tugged her northwest. Sixty miles. She could be there tonight but then the waitress returned with her martini. She already felt the effects of the first. She'd acquired the taste from a guy she'd dated, a high-roller from Palm Springs twenty years her senior. Decent guy, treated her well, probably better than any other boyfriend. But not for her.
She gazed into the martini's oily depths before tilting the glass to her lips and feeling its shivery contents. Stupid glass though. She would have preferred it in a tumbler. Easier for the waitress, easier for her. But maybe that was the point. Make the glass as ungainly as possible and the glass would tell you when to stop drinking. Palm Springs had once told her that the "champagne coupe" had been modeled on Marie Antoinette's breasts. The martini glass must have been modeled on Madonna's.
The second martini hit. Summer felt a knot at the base of her neck start to loosen. God she couldn't wait to get back to her room and take a hot bath. The early evening sun turned western walls white. Summer turned and looked out the window at the hotel across the street. A gray Humvee slid beneath the porte cochere too fast. A knot coalesced in Summer's gut.
The driver opened his door and got out. He wore a cowboy hat. It was Vince.
With a bolus of dread in her stomach Summer searched through her backpack and found Earl's card.
***
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
"That's Earl, Brother"
"We're at the casino in Many Farms," Earl said. "We can be there in forty-five minutes."
"Please come," Summer said into the house phone as the maitre' d seated a family of four. "I'm in the Copper Kettle directly across the street from the hotel."
"We're on our way."
Earl sounded excited. She hoped that the sight of four big bikers would discourage Vince. Maybe hand him a beating.
Maybe he wouldn't find her. After all, hotel policy forbade giving out information to strangers. Vince could be very persuasive when he wanted. Even charming. She'd seen him turn it on. He'd turned it on her once.
Shaken, she returned to her table. An inch remained of her martini. She badly wanted a smoke but she'd given it up a year ago and hadn't had a butt since. She thought about bumming one--she'd noticed a pack of Marlboros behind the entry dais, but then she'd have to go outside to smoke it. If she didn't want to be seen she'd have to go around back where she couldn't keep an eye on the hotel. She decided to stay where she was. He had no way of knowing.
She couldn't go to the cops, not after what she'd done. There was no stolen car report. But they'd pick her up on the rufie charge. She had a record. She'd been arrested for soliciting. It was all a misunderstanding. She was still paying off the lawyer.
She lingered. She couldn't stop herself from staring across the street willing Vince to get back in his Humvee and move on. Move on! The motel wouldn't give him any information. That was against policy. But what if he charmed the desk clerk? What if she were a young woman? Vince was an experienced pimp which meant he had a black belt in seduction. He could meet a woman and have her in bed an hour later. He'd told her so many times.
The waitress saw her change in mood and stayed away except to deliver her bill. The dining room peaked around seven-thirty and then began to thin. Still Summer sat with her half-finished martini staring across the street.
Oh please, she prayed. Please Earl and your mighty Big Wheels, get here! Get here now! She stared at her watch like a kid in junior high willing the seconds to pass faster. She gulped water, went to the ladies' room.
By eight there was only one other family in the restaurant.
What was he doing over there?
The waitress came by. "Are you all right?"
Oh my God, Summer realized. She thinks I can't pay the bill.
Summer opened her backpack, took out her wallet and laid a twenty in the black bill folder.
"I'll be right back."
Summer thought about fleeing into the desert out the back. But what good would that do? Vince would discover soon enough she'd been there.
The waitress returned with her change. Summer left twenty percent and looked out the window. The tall, broad-shouldered man in a cowboy hat walked across the highway toward the restaurant. Summer froze like a seized piston, torn between fleeing and pleaing. Tell the management it was a jealous boyfriend. Call the cops. But those were short-term solutions at best.
He would be at the door in seconds. Summer grabbed her backpack and hurried down the little corridor to the ladies' room. She went inside, went into a booth and locked the door. She sat on the toilet rim shaking.
Stupid, she thought. She'd trapped herself. Summer never was any good at sneaking around. She should have fled into the desert, or at least hidden in the parking lot until the Big Wheels got there. The door opened. Summer's heart stuttered. She waited breathlessly her knees pulled up. A woman entered the other stall and relieved herself. Summer bent down and saw her Crocs. The woman washed her hands and left.
Please go away please go away please go away.
The lavatory door slammed open as no woman had ever pushed it. Summer trembled, awkwardly balanced on the porcelain doughnut. She willed herself to shrink to an infinitesimal size. She was a black hole disappearing into her own gravity. No air moved through her body.
The stall door exploded inward from the impact of Vince's boot. Summer scrunched up, her extremities drawn in like a spider. Vince grinned and stuck his thumbs in his belt.
"Well here you are, darlin'! Let's go."
He reached in, took a fistful of her hair and dragged her out like a kitten, her backpack dangling from one shoulder. He ripped open the lavatory door, gripped her bicep and marched her down the short corridor to the main dining room gripping her arm like a chimpanzee with a banana. There were no diners. Earl and three other big hairy guys in colors and boots formed a line beween Vince and the door.
My champion
.
"Let her go, dipshit," Earl said, fists balled. The guys behind him were just itching to get into it. Summer saw it in their eyes. The perfect way to end their vacation--heroically stomping a woman beater. Living up to their own image. Summer had never been so grateful to see someone in her life. Summer saw the waitress cowering behind the front desk next to a man she assumed to be the manager. He was a short, slight Indian with a buzz cut and glasses.
"The police are on their way!" he said in a squeaky voice.
"You want to let her go now?" Earl repeated stepping forward.
Vince grinned, released his grip on Summer's arm, took two steps forward arms flying up to seize the back of Earl's neck pulling him into a vicious head butt that sounded like someone whacking a steer with a sledge. Earl let out a muffled cry and tottered back, flood erupting from his nose. Vince grabbed Earl again, this time by his black leather lapels and swung him into the path of the dude on the left, a linebacker sort with a G.I. Joe beard.
Two Big Wheels on the right closed in. Vince flicked his leg up and sidekicked one in the chest so hard he flew back and smashed into a table. Without pause, Vince turned the sidekick into a reverse spinning back kick and tagged the second guy in the crotch. The only Big Wheel still on his feet was G.I. Joe, suddenly reluctant. Vince grinned and closed in on him.
That's the last thing Summer saw before she fled the dining room out the front door racing blindly across the highway. A semi laid down the air horn as she sprinted in front of him, ten feet from the massive chrome grill. Tears filling her eyes Summer ran to her truck, got in, started the engine and pulled out onto the highway heading west. As she accelerated up through the gears a Sheriff's Deputy passed her going into town, lights flashing, siren blaring.
It wasn't until Kayenta was a faint glow in her rear view that she remembered the pistol she carried in her pocket.
***