Stealing Fire (20 page)

“What I am asking is if it makes any kind of sense to you.”

The sheriff's wife shot her husband Look Number Two.

He said, “I have to admit, it doesn't.”

“You'd want to clear the path to love, not burn it down,” the lawyer said, “if you know what I mean.”

I calmed down. Almost. I wanted to take care of my wife, but I couldn't hear much more of this without losing my cool. I breathed deep and tried to figure out what they'd said. Tried to focus. To put the pieces together. Okay, I believed that the morning clerk could remember Iris's name. It had been a good idea to erase it from the register, but the sheriff was right. Her name was memorable and so was she. So is any single woman checking into a motel.

Then a lightbulb went on over my head.

I wrote it out and handed it to the lawyer. Wayne leaned back against the wall again, just being himself, which was plenty.

“Does the morning clerk remember if the woman, Helen Fine, checked in alone? And was a Payton Wood registered?”

“We didn't ask her that.”

“It's morning. She's on duty. Why not get her on the phone and ask?”

The sheriff called the operator, and he was connected to the clerk at the motel.

“Uh-huh, yes, I see, oh! Thank you, hold on, please.” He put his hand on the receiver.

“Miss Fine checked in yesterday with Mr. Fine. No Payton Wood on the register.”

The sheriff turned to Iris. “The truth. Were you having an affair with a married man?”

The lawyer let Iris answer. “I haven't had an affair with anyone but my husband, and yes, he is married—to me. Mr. Fine could be a husband or father or brother or lover or some other relation. This Mr. Wood, whoever he is, could have used the Fine name. I wouldn't know.”

The sheriff spoke with the motel's desk clerk again. “Are you able to describe Mr. Fine?” He listened to her.

“Okay, yeah,” he said, “I'll call you or come by if I need anything else.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“She said she never really got a good look at Mr. Fine. He was nice-looking, and that was all she can swear to.”

“Have you got anything to hold my client on?”

“There is the fact that she was present at the death of Mr. Wood.”

“According to Mrs. Fine, also present at the death. Any physical evidence other than the word of a possible suspect?”

“Physical evidence?… Not really.” The sheriff looked stumped.

“It's time you arrest Mrs. Goldman or release her,” the attorney said. “All this malarkey getting bandied around, especially this early in the morning, is making me pretty aggravated.”

“I don't know.”

“I'm trying to help you make up your mind to do the right thing. And,” the lawyer said, “I'm starting to wonder if you're on the take—this is all so far-fetched.”

The sheriff blanched. “Mr. Goldman here. He might have motive.”

“He was in Monument Valley with Mr. Wayne.”

Wayne said, “Yep. That's an alibi, although none needed, and airtight.”

The lawyer said, “No one needs an alibi. We're missing the most important thing of all. Bodies. A body. Mr. and Mrs. Fine in person, alive. The body of a Mr. Wood, dead. We've got blood in the motel room, and that doesn't mean a damned thing,” he said. “Sheriff, I don't know exactly how this mess started, but the county will hear about this proceeding.”

“I got something to say.” Mr. Wayne stepped forward and was visible again. “Goldman has been the model of decorum. If someone accused my wife of being unfaithful, right in front of God and everyone, I would have busted everything I could get my hands on. It makes me mad just to think about it,” he said. “And handcuffs! Count on it … Iris is a good guy, and she's out of here, one way or another.”

I stood up. My 6
′
6
″
and Wayne's 6
′
4
″
were a statement.

Iris ran into my arms.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?”

He turned. It was the sheriff's wife. “Would you mind giving me your autograph?” She had a lined piece of paper torn from the back of the phone book.

Wayne picked her up and spun her around. “I am a sucker for redheads.” She laughed with the voice of a fifteen-year-old. He signed the yellow, lined paper and gave her a smooch right on the cheek.

Her husband was amazed.

“What?”
Wayne said. He had his hands on his hips. “You gonna arrest me for flirting with a married woman?”

“No, sir. Glad to see her so happy.”

“You're welcome.”

Iris, Wayne, and I walked down the stairs and into the sun. Nothing was cleared up, but the mud was settling. Mostly, my wife was at my side. Wayne said he wanted to sit in the bed of the truck until we hit the rocky part of the road.

“Give you kids some time to be alone.”

When the road said it was time to pull over, and he climbed in, six legs made a real tangle in the cab.

I congratulated him on how terrific he'd been.

“Anything I said that you wouldn't have said?”

“If I'd been allowed to? Not a thing. You helped me keep my cool, though. Thank you.”

“Kid, sometimes new actors ask me for advice. I think it applies to situations in normal life, too. Here goes. Talk slow. Don't use a lot of words. Use a low voice—screeching makes you seem weak.”

“Sound advice.”

He sat back and thought a little more. “And don't wear suede cowboy boots. Someone splashes on them by mistake at the urinal, and they look like hell.”

*   *   *

There was a lot of work to do before I left Flagstaff.

First things first. Finally the little bitch from Santa Fe left the motel room. I couldn't believe I'd been so chatty with her. She had been so easy to talk to, but then she showed up in Flagstaff at exactly the wrong moment! Very strange. I'd make a few calls and take care of her.

I got out of that damned closet with the cheap paneling and started pulling Helen together. I held her. I was loving. I was kind. I wished we could have a normal relationship—whatever that was—but it didn't seem like that could happen in this lifetime. She would have made a better wife than anything else. A real partner. I pushed that thought away. I did understand why Payton had loved her.

I calmed her down and told her to get back to Taliesin. She promised that she was able to drive. She was not going to say anything about this to anyone. Not about any of it. She was going back to the studio and do what she did best—work.

I'd take care of Payton's body and spare her the grief. Then I got out of there before the cops came and got interested in me.

 

Thirty-three

By the time we all got back to Goulding's, we were completely beat. Mike had made a special meal for Wayne, and she took it to him in the stone cottage, his private quarters during shooting. I saw one, then another, of his boots flying out the window.

“You need some airing out, fellas,” he said.

While Iris and I ate at the picnic table outside, we could hear him snoring. It took a lot of energy to be John Wayne, I figured—mellow, but ready to spring in a minute. Grandpa had talked to me about Wayne's politics. I thought he was a great guy, and that was all I had to know. Too many squabbles people get into over things that aren't real. Wayne had said some goofy stuff about Indian people. On the other hand, he didn't treat me any different than white folks. As a matter of fact, he treated me a whole lot better than he had treated the sheriff. It's how people act, and how they know what's right or wrong in the way they treat people, that counts … even when you can't believe some of the stuff that comes out of their mouths.

First thing, after eating and washing up, I asked Iris to hit the hay. I wanted to check on my grandfather and Wright. They'd probably been on edge all day, and I wanted to know what was going on with them, too. Mr. Wright, he had better be okay, or security was going to have to answer to me for it. Soon as I thought that, I figured it was from spending the day with John Wayne, and I'd better get back to being myself. He'd taught me some important lessons, and I'd keep them, but I know how to play me best.

I was getting paid to do one job—protect the Wrights and the documents. Also, it was okay to leave them safe for most of a day and get my wife out of the hoosegow. Otherwise, a lot of stuff was not my business. Especially the question of who killed Payton was not my business. If I lost focus, I endangered my clients.

I walked down to the mess tent. There were a few predawn lanterns glowing. There was the sound of tableware clinking, workers getting ready for breakfast. I peeked inside the tent to see if anyone I knew was stirring. There were Grandfather, Mr. Wright, and from the ID tag on his shirt, a security guy. Grandfather and the security kid were playing cards, betting pennies, and knocking back shots of whiskey. Mr. Wright was writing notes and drawing on the tablecloth with a mechanical pencil. Even at the age of eighty, right then, I would have picked Wright as a guard over Mose and the security man.

Gads, they'd obviously been worried sick about me, and themselves, all day and night. I had to get over worrying about people who might be worried about me. No cheese down
that
tunnel.

Mr. Wright heard me first. The other two were higher than a kite and laughing over who knows what. I am half sure they didn't know themselves. Wright sort of looked like a priss sitting there, haughty, his too-long cardboard tube in his lap, feeling like he was a better human for not drinking to excess. He had to depend on other people for his safety, so I guess he had a right to be put out.

I came up behind my grandfather and the guard. I said, “Who's winning?” They both almost fell off the picnic benches, and Grandfather knocked over the guard's shot of whiskey.

“For God's sakes! You trying to give me a coronary?” That was Grandpa.

They tried to pull themselves together, but there wasn't enough glue.

“What if I'd had a gun?” I said. “Do you know how easily I could have taken Mr. Wright and the plans to the Guggenheim out of here, and into there?” I pointed to the wild, lonely desert.

“Wright's sitting at the same table with us.”

“You seemed about ten thousand miles away, to me.”

“All right, all right, you made your point.”

Then I read the riot act to the security guard. “What is your name?”

“He's Finnerty,” came the voice behind me. It was Ellis, a guard I knew.

“That's Finnerty. He's a new hire.” Ford liked to hire Irish people. I understood he felt connected by blood. They were good in a fight, cocky, but they also drank too much, in my opinion. “For tonight he's watching Mr. Wright.”

“I'm going to have to tell Mr. Ford about this breach of security.”

“Don't do that,” said Ellis. “He just doesn't know the ropes. I'll set him straight.”

I shrugged okay and said to Grandpa, “Was it you who brought out the whiskey?”

My grandfather nodded.

“Finnerty,” I said, “we're fine, don't worry about it. But watch your step.”

“Thank you, thank you.” The young man looked like he was going to cry.

“And don't get into any fights, either.”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Wright, delicate bones, and all of 5
′
6
″
in his shoes, looked as if a small woman could have kidnapped him and demanded ransom.

I helped hoist them both up and off the bench. The guard needed a hand on his elbow to steady him, and my grandfather tripped over a bare root and fell down. No damage done. Mr. Wright stood and proceeded as if he were the queen of England with his walking cane in one hand and a folio tube, instead of a scepter, in the other.

I walked the guard to one of the two big tents where the crew slept, and then I walked Wright and Grandfather to their cabin. Wright helped steady my grandfather. When Wright got to the door, my grandfather tried to keep up. Then he said, “Frank, give me a minute, will you? I don't feel so hot.”

I had never seen Mose Goldman get to the point where he felt like he was going to get sick.

“In these close quarters, better outside than in if it's going to happen,” Wright said.

“Are you able to lean against this door, Grandpa?”

“Of course. Especially if it'd just stop moving.”

I was pretty annoyed with this entire situation.

I asked Mr. Wright to stay outside with him while I checked the room to make sure it was all clear. Access to the attic had been sealed. Water closet and under the beds—good. I asked Grandpa to do whatever he needed to do to sober up, at least enough to keep his world from spinning. After they were safely inside and the door was locked, I'd climb into bed with Iris, who had spent last night in jail. It wasn't a big-city pen, and her cell was the sheriff's kitchen, but being held by the law is being held by the law. It's the holding zone to a future that will never be quite the same. Losing your freedom—what could be worse?

I left Grandfather leaning against the door frame and walked Mr. Wright to his bed and started to help him clamber in.

“Yazzie, I appreciate the help, but I'm not inebriated, and I've been able to get myself into bed since the nineteenth century.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay.”

“Just making sure, you know, with Grandpa and the security guy out of it.”

“Oh, the guard was a fine fellow. Hasn't been here from Ireland long. Never been to Wales, more's the pity, but the Irish and the Welsh—the Scots, too—drink is our weak spot.”

“They should have been more attentive.”

“I haven't been able to draw plans for days now. Just had them rolling around inside my head. The white paper table cloths were a relief.”