The Juliet (22 page)

Becky said, “You do not need to do this. They are making you a whore.”

The term was no longer popular. The girl’s eyes widened, and the seamstress was moderately amused. “Take her easy, Mrs. Mayor.”

Becky lowered her tone. “What I mean to say is, some forms of play are dangerous.”

Mollina stepped out of the corset, awaiting further instructions from the seamstress, but the woman was already packing up her pins and tapes. Construction of the garment would begin immediately. When the woman left, Mollina said, “This trick is nothing, Mrs. Skinner, though I thank you for your concern. If my Poppa was still alive I’d have second thoughts. ‘Course if Poppa was alive I’d still be sweeping stalls in the rodeo show.”

Becky wanted to tell the girl it wasn’t the trick that worried her, but if she explained her dread it would cast a pall over the whole production. Motion picture people were a hardy lot, but they were credulous and highly superstitious. She’d made a tidy sum selling food by day and reading palms and cards by candlelight every night after supper, but Marcus cautioned her not to go too far with her entertainments. He didn’t want her spooking the crew into leaving Centenary prematurely. An uneasy feeling expressed as portent carried weight in this company.

* * *

The smell of smoke woke Marcus, and he was alone in the bed. It was dawn, but only barely. He wore a sleeping shirt that hung to his knees. When he arrived in the main room he saw that the front door was left open, and beyond it was the shape of his wife in her dressing gown, her back to him as she stood on the edge of the bluff that overlooked Centenary. A breeze stirred her red hair away from her neck.

A black ribbon of smoke seemed to curl right out of the top of Rebekah’s head, and it took the sound of panicked voices from across the basin before Marcus deciphered the optical illusion.

“What burns?” he asked.

“The Opera House,” she replied. She moved and now he could see not one but two thin blades of smoke rising from the cupola at the south end of the roof.

When he reached Rebekah, he placed his hands on her shoulders and tried to assess the damage long distance. He decided it was minor. Marcus was past the age where he would scramble down the stony path to offer assistance, and it was hardly a conflagration.

“It appears to be a small fire,” he said. “A very, very small one.”

GHOSTS

Chapter 8

March 24, 2005: Death Valley, CA

In the days since Dexon’s death, tourism in the Valley doubled, and the restaurant at the Alkali was slammed. The skinny, white manager worked the bar, getting around on a cane, and when he needed more speed, he scooted around in an old battered wheelchair with a big number 5 spray painted on the back. Even injured he was more skilled than his floor workers, who were sloppy and inexperienced. A blonde server had just dropped a tray of six tumblers of orange soda, and now she was coming through with a mop. As this was her second spill in less than a half hour, the diners’ shock was muted.

Nene and Baron ate salads at a two-top against the wall. The server rolled through with the big yellow bucket on wheels, and the Glatters continued to eat while they lifted their feet from the floor so she could work beneath them. It was obvious that the young woman was miserable, but still she managed to ask them, “You all enjoying your stay?”

Baron nodded. “It has been a once in a lifetime experience. We’re due to leave camp Sunday.”

The bucket foam went flat as the water turned brown, and the server wiped her face with the back of her forearm. “You’ll miss the Indigo bush blooms. They’re just about to pop.”

A man at the next table made a fussy noise as a stray trickle of soda threatened his pristine track shoes.

“Anyway,” the young woman said, as she pushed her bucket over to the next table, “If I don’t see you again, happy trails.”

“You too, sweetheart.”

Nene’s deliberateness made Baron nervous, but they agreed that hitting the road before their check-out day would draw unnecessary attention.

Baron asked, “Are you serious about going out to Goler Wash today?”

“We’re treasure hunters, Baron. We need to hunt treasure.” She sipped her tea. “Besides, I want to see you swinging that two hundred-dollar metal detector.”

“I’d rather go to Vegas.” He speared a grape tomato with his fork. It was softer than he liked. All the vegetables were growing dull now that they were past Wednesday. “I’m feeling lucky.”

Nene chuckled and leaned back in her seat. She and Baron were tired and happy, as if they’d been making love all night. Talking about The Juliet had kept them awake. She pushed her salad to the edge of the table and wished she could light up. She liked to follow every virtue with a vice, just to keep things in balance. It was a rhythm she’d learned from some discount Maharishi back in the days when she was still Kimber Logue.

Then her face dimmed. Baron asked, “What is it?”

“Just a pang. It’s nothing.”

“A pang.”

“Do you think they found him already?”

“Could be. The desert’s as bad as a small town. One doctor, one church, one drug dealer, etcetera, etcetera. Maybe his services were missed.”

“The girl who dropped the soda. She worked for Carter. Funny that, her in the middle of everything.”

“My point exactly. Out here, everyone is in the middle of everything. That girl better hope the cops have no imagination or else she’ll wind up in jail.”

Terry brought the check and dropped it on their table, and Baron signed it. The food at the Alkali was good, but he was getting sick of it.

As Nene and Baron made their way into the foyer, they could see that the bar was almost as full as the dining room. A huge framed poster had been recently hung on the north wall. It was for
Gallows River
, Rigg Dexon’s last big-budget film. The poster depicted the actor in front of a burning mansion, wearing a long duster coat and Stetson, with a pistol in one hand and a torch in the other.
Gallows River
was a notorious seventies mess with a Great White Hero to make it all okay.

The innkeeper leaned on his cane and asked a sweating customer to repeat his order. The conversations were loud and so was the music, some station playing thumpers from the 80s and 90s and calling them “oldies.” Scottie looked feverish, unaware that the cowboy’s boots were planted just over his shoulders.

Nene said, “Looks like Dexon’s about to take a leak on Mr. Nash’s head.”

Baron found her meanness delightful when it was directed at someone else. “Hey, I have an idea. Instead of crawling around the desert looking for buffalo nickels and shotgun casings, how about we return to the scene of the crime?”

“Christ, Baron.”

He smiled as he led Nene out of the restaurant into the sunshine. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” The highway that divided the restaurant and motel from the campground was empty. Oblivion in both directions. Nene and Baron crossed without looking.

“The hippies are back, Darling. I saw it on the Death Valley message boards. The locals are complaining that all these filthy Burning Man types are showing up in Centenary, camping out in the pretty flowers.”

As they neared their trailer, they heard Missy barking from inside. It shuddered as she ran the circuit from window to window.

“Your people,
Nene. They’re coming because of Dexon’s death. They’re looking for The Mystery House and singing your song.”

“You’re shitting me,” she said.

“Not at all.” Baron went into the trailer ahead of her and did the obligatory hello dance with Missy.

Nene paused on the metal step and considered the possible implications of reconstituted fame for the legend of Kimber Logue.

“Too bad I’m dead,” she muttered, before lighting a cigarette and going inside.

* * *

Tony was restless. He was supposed to be at a tournament, but with Scottie off the main floor he needed to stick close, not that he was any good at managing. By the time the lunch rush died down, the dining room was a mini disaster zone: tables were stacked with dirty dishes, diners were complaining as they walked out, and Willie dragged her bucket around like a dog on a leash. In the doorway to the kitchen, Raymond the cook leaned on the frame, surveying the damage. He was dripping in sweat in his red-grease-smeared apron. A handful of customers remained, chomping away at their meals as if they were shackled to their tables and waiting for the end times.

Tony said, “Looks like you have everything under control here, Raymond.”

Raymond smiled gently. “Burn it down.”

Tony wanted nothing more than to take a fast drive through an empty desert, but that would have to wait until the season was over. Wherever the wildflowers bloomed in a batch bigger than a kiddie pool, petal peepers acted like the rules didn’t apply. Their land yachts drifted over lanes without signaling, and sometimes they even stopped dead in the middle of the road to set up their tripods and easels, often dragging their oxygen tanks with them just like they did in the casinos. Tony did not begrudge them their simple pleasures, but tourists sure did get in the way.

The restaurant door chimed, and Tony closed his eyes, wishing the customers away.

“Hey Daddy.”

Dawn. There was a pink streak in her hair, and she had put on a couple of pounds since he’d seen her last. That was good news. They embraced, but instead of hello, Tony said, “Why aren’t you at work?”

“No one’s at work, Daddy. It’s D Day. D for Dexon. All the kids are out partying at Centenary. I got the message this morning.”

“You should be off the high school stoner network by now.”

Dawn ignored him. “I’m going out there. Thought you might want to come with me.” Dawn had Larissa’s bones, Tony’s coloring, and the milkman’s blue eyes. She was so pretty it was hard for him to remember all the times she’d screwed up in her young life. And slinging fudge at the Sunoco was not a career starter.

Tony said, “You a history buff all of a sudden?”

“Maybe I’m sentimental.” She rummaged through her purse. “Tell me again how I was conceived on the grave of Lily Joy.”

“That’s one of your mother’s tales.”

They moved into the bar where Scottie was juggling himself and his customers. His forehead was creased with the permanent concentration of a pour master, but he brightened when he saw the girl. “Dawn,” he called out, almost forgetting that he could not pull a pint and wave in his current state.

“Hey, Mr. Nash. You be careful now.”

They’d been telling everyone who asked that Scottie’d hurt himself training for the big run.

Dawn and her father hopped up onto stools at the end of the bar that turned out to be unoccupied because they were unsteady. At the other end sat two men in bike leathers speaking German and drinking Coronas. They were with a dramatic-looking blonde woman in leopard print everything. Scottie hadn’t been pretty in a thousand years, but every once in a while he attracted a shark, the kind of woman he’d have to study before taking her on. After he finished serving a flushed golfer, Scottie returned to the woman and spoke a few quiet words to her, as if they’d left an important conversation hanging in mid-air.

Tony was about to interrupt his partner again, but Dawn touched his forearm and signaled him off. She looked meaningfully at the woman in leopard skins and whispered, “Don’t cock block.”

“You got it all wrong, sweetie. He’s probably talking about Willie.”

Dawn frowned. Apparently her mother had gotten her up to speed on that situation. Then she spotted the Dexon poster. “Holy crap, when’d that go up? You’re supposed to care about this shit, Daddy.”

“I care about other shit. Can I get a short one, Scottie?”

“Me too,” said Dawn. “Just joking.”

Scottie poured her a soda, and the Germans watched. “The poster was your father’s idea. I can’t tell if he’s being sentimental or ironic.”

Dawn said, “You know they offer a course on
Gallows River
at UCLA. And not because it’s a good movie, either.”

“It was a different time,” Tony said.

Scottie let the bar support his weight for a moment as he pointed out the particulars to Dawn. “Just take a close look at the tiny, cowering figures in the background of the poster. A more diverse collection of stereotypes you couldn’t wish for—a noble runaway slave, a noble floozy, a noble Indian mystic. Not one of whom could survive the Wild West without aid of Dexon’s brand of frontier justice.”

Dawn said, “That picture doesn’t even look like him.”

Tony said, “You never saw a Dexon film in your life.”

“No, but I met the guy. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want to go to Centenary.”

“You met Dexon?”

“That last day. He came to the Sunoco, and I got his autograph. I think it was the
last
autograph he ever gave. I hate to sound like a creep, but it might be worth something.”

“So that’s why you’re making the scene. You’re looking for a collector.” Tony wasn’t totally crazy about Dawn coming into money.

“Making the scene.” Dawn cringed. “Yeah, I was thinking I could start saving up for tuition. Again.”

Scottie had abandoned his leopard lady entirely. “Autographs aren’t worth that much, love.”

“But you won’t believe what he wrote.” She pawed through her fake Gucci clutch and pulled out the card, slapping it on the top of the bar.

Tony barely recognized the cowboy on the front of it. He flipped it over and held the card away from him, trying to find the right distance from which he could decipher the loopy purple writing.

Lovely to meet you Miss Dawn Turner.

I finally found my Juliet.

Yours, Rigg Dexon. XXXOOOXXX

Dawn said, “He told me it was my lucky card.”

“Ssh.” Tony read it again, this time out loud. “‘I finally found my Juliet.’ Ha. Better not show Willie.”

Scottie took the card and stared at the signature, all those Xs and Os.

Dawn laughed. “Every guy thinks he’s Romeo.”

Tony was about to criticize Dawn’s literacy, but Scottie cut him off. “We’ll buy it,” he said. “Name your price.”