Crow Fair: Stories

Motherlode

In the hotel mirror, Dave adjusted the Stetson he so disliked before pulling on the windbreaker with the cattle-vaccine logo. He was a moderately successful young man, one of many working for a syndicate of cattle geneticists in Oklahoma, employers he had never met. He had earned his credentials from an online agricultural portal, the way other people became ministers, and was astonishingly uneducated in every respect, though clever in keeping an eye out for opportunity. He had spent the night in Jordan at the Garfield, ideal for meeting his local ranch clients, and awoke early enough to be the first customer in the café, where, on the front step, an old dog slept with a canceled postage stamp stuck to his butt. By the time Dave had ordered breakfast, several ranchers had taken tables and were greeting him with a familiar wave. Then the man from Utah, whom he’d met at the hotel, the one who said he’d come to Jordan to see the comets, appeared in the doorway, looking around the room. He was small and intense, middle-aged in elastic-top pants and flashy sneakers. He caught the notice of several of the ranchers. Dave had asked the elderly desk clerk about the comets. The clerk said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about and I’ve lived here all my life. He doesn’t even have a car.” Though he’d already ordered, Dave pretended to study the menu to keep from being noticed, but it was too late: the man was looming over him, laughing so hard his eyes shrunk to points and his gums showing. “Don’t worry. I’ll get my own table,” he said, his fingers drumming the back of Dave’s chair. It gave Dave an odd sense of being assessed.

The door to the café kept clattering open and shut with annoying bells on a string. Dave enjoyed all the comradely greetings and gentle needling, and even felt connected to the scene, if loosely. Only this fellow, sitting alone, seemed entirely set apart. But he kept attracting glances from the other diners. The cook pushed plate after plate across his high counter as the waitress struggled to keep up. It was a lot to do, but it lent her star quality among the diners, who teased her with personal questions or air-pinched her bottom as she went past.

Dave kept on studying the menu to avoid the stranger’s gaze and then resorted to making notes about this and that on the pad from his shirt pocket.

The waitress, a yellow pencil stuck in her chignon, arrived with his bacon and eggs. Dave gave her a welcoming smile in the hope that when he looked that way again, the man would be gone. But there he was still, now giving Dave a facetious military salute, then holding his nose against some imaginary stink. The meaning of these gestures eluded Dave, who was disquieted by the suggestion that he and this stranger knew each other. He ate and went to the counter to pay, so quickly the waitress came out from the kitchen still wiping her hands on a dishcloth and said, “Everything okay, Dave?”

“Yes, very good, thanks.”

“Put it away in an awful hurry. Out to Larsen’s?”

“No, I was there yesterday. Bred heifers. They held everything back.”

“They’re big on next year. I wonder if it does them any good.”

“Well, they’re still in business, ain’t they? No, I’m headed for Jorgensen’s. Big day.”

Two of the ranchers, done eating, leaned in their chairs, their Stetsons back on their heads while they picked their teeth with the corners of the menus. As Dave pushed his wallet into his back pocket he realized he was being followed to the door. He didn’t turn until halfway across the parking lot. When he did, the gun was in his belly, and his new friend was in his face. “Ray. Where’s your ride?”

“You robbing me?”

“I just need a lift, amigo.”

Ray got in the front seat of Dave’s car, tucked the gun into his pants, and pulled his shirt over it, a blue terry-cloth shirt with a large breast pocket full of ballpoint pens. The top flap of the pocket liner was courtesy of “Powell Savings, Modesto, CA.”

“Nice car. What’re all the files in back?”

“Breeding records, cattle-breeding records.”

“Mind?” Without awaiting an answer, he picked up Dave’s cell phone and began tapping in a number. In a moment, his voice changed to an intimate murmur. “I’m here, or almost here,” he said, covering the mouthpiece as he pointed to the intersection: “Take that one right there.” Dave turned east at the intersection. “I got it wrote down someplace, east two hundred, north thirteen, but give it to me again, my angel. Or I can call you as we get closer … No cell service! Starting where? Never mind, a friend’s giving me a lift”—again he covered the mouthpiece—“your name?”

“David.”

“From?”

“Reed Point.”

“Yeah, great guy, Dave, I knew back in Reed Place.”

“Reed Point.”

“I mean, Reed Point. Left the Quattro for an oil change, and Dave said he was headed this way. Wouldn’t even let me split the gas … So, okay, just leaving Jordan now. How much longer is that gonna be, Morsel?… Two hours! Are you kidding?… Yeah, right, okay, got it, I’m just anxious to see you, baby, not being short with you at all.”

Ray turned away and murmured softly, lovingly, and then lifting his eyes to the empty miles of sagebrush, snapped shut the phone and sighed. “Two fucking hours.” Except for the gun in his pants, Ray could have been any other impatient lovebird. He turned the radio on: Swap Shop was playing: “Broken refrigerator suitable for a smoker.” Babies bawling in the background. He turned it off. Dave was trying to guess if he was a fugitive, someone Dave could bring to justice for a reward or just the fame, which might be good for business. He had tried every other promotional gambit, including refrigerator magnets with his face beside the slogan DON’T GO BUST SHIPPING DRIES.

“Wanna pick up the tempo here? You’re driving like my grandma.”

“This is not a great road. Deer jump out all the time. My cousin had one come through the windshield on him.”

“Fuckin’ pin it or I’ll take the wheel and drive it like I stole it.”

David sped up slightly. This seemed to placate Ray, who slumped against the side window and stared at the passing landscape. An old pickup went by the other way with a dead animal in back, one upright leg trailing an American flag.

“Ray, do you feel like telling me what this is all about?”

“Sure, Dave, it’s all about you doing exactly as you’re told.”

“I see. And I’m taking you somewhere, am I?”

“Uh-huh, and waiting around as needed. Jesus Christ, if this isn’t the ugliest country I ever seen.”

“How did you pick me?”

“I didn’t pick you, I picked your car. You were a throw-in. If I hadn’t a took you along you’d of had to report it stolen. This way you still got it. It’s a win-win. The other lucky thing for you is you’re now my partner.”

The road followed Big Dry Creek, open range with occasional buttes, mostly to the north. “I guess this is the prairie out here, huh, Dave? It’s got a few things going for it: no blood on the ground, no chalk outlines, no police tape. Let’s hear it for the prairie!” Ray gaped around in dismay, then with rising irritation sought something that pleased him on the radio. After nearly two hours, passed mostly in silence, a light tail-dragger aircraft with red-and-white-banded wings overtook them and landed about a quarter of a mile down the road. The pilot climbed out and shuffled their way. Dave rolled down the window to reveal a weathered angular face in a cowboy hat, sweat stained above the brim. “You missed your turn. Mile back turn north on the two-track.” Ray seemed to be trying to convey a greeting that showed all his teeth but was ignored by the pilot. “Nice little Piper J-3 Cub,” Ray said, again ignored.

The pilot strode back to the plane and taxied straight down the road. Once airborne again, he banked sharply over a five-strand barbed-wire fence, startling seven cows and their calves, which ran into the sage scattering clouds of pollen and meadowlarks.

Ray said, “Old fellow back at the hotel said there’s supposed to be a lot of dinosaurs around here.” He gazed at the pale light of a gas well on a far ridge.

“That’s what they say.”

“What d’you suppose one of them is worth, like a whole Tyrannosaurus rex?”

Dave just looked at Ray. They were coming on the two-track. It was barely manageable in an ordinary sedan. Dave couldn’t imagine how it was negotiated in winter or spring, when the way was full of the notorious local gumbo. He’d delivered a Charolais bull somewhere nearby one fall, and it was bad enough then. Plus, the bull tore up his trailer, and he’d lost money on the deal.

“So, Dave, now we’re about to arrive I should tell you what the gun is for. I’m here to meet a girl, but I don’t know how it’s gonna turn out. I may need to bail, and you’re my getaway. The story is, my car is in for maintenance. But you’re staying until we see how this is going, so you can carry me out of here if necessary.”

“Let’s say I understand, but what does this all depend on?”

“It depends on whether I like the girl or not, whether we’re compatible and want to start a family business. I have a lot I’d like to pass on to the next generation. Plus, I got a deal for her that’s even more important than the ro-mance.”

The next bend revealed the house, a two-story ranch building barely hanging on to its last few chips of paint. “He must have landed in that field!” said Dave while Ray gazed at the Montana state flag popping on an iron flagpole.

“Oro y plata.” He chuckled. “Perfect. Now, Davey, I need you to bone up on the situation here. This is Weldon Case’s cattle ranch, and it runs from here for the next forty miles or so of bad road that leads right into the Bakken oil field, which is where all the oro y plata is at the moment. I’m guessing that was Weldon in the airplane. I met his daughter Morsel through a dating service. Well, we haven’t actually met in person, but we’re about to. Morsel thinks she loves me, so we’re just gonna have to see about that. If she decides otherwise, she still may want to do the business deal. All you need to know is that Morsel thinks I’m an Audi dealer from Simi Valley, California. She’s going on one photograph of me standing in front of a flagship Audi. You decide you want to help, you may see more walkin’-around money than you’re used to. If you don’t, well, you’ve already seen how I make my wishes come true.” He patted the bulge of blue terry cloth.

Dave pulled up under the gaze of Weldon Case. Before turning off the engine, he saw Weldon call out over his shoulder to the house. Dave rolled down the windows, and the prairie wind rushed in. Weldon stared at the two visitors, returning their nearly simultaneous greetings with a mere nod. “It’s the cowboy way,” muttered Ray through a forced smile. “Or either he’s retarded. Dave, ask him if he remembers falling from his high chair.”

As they got out of the car, Morsel appeared on the front step and called out in a penetrating contralto, “Which one is he?” Dave emerged from the driver’s side affecting a formality he associated with chauffeurs. A small trash pile next to the porch featured a couple of spent Odor-Eaters. Ray climbed out gingerly, hiding himself with the door as long as he could, before raising his hand and tilting his head coyly and finally calling to Morsel, “You’re looking at him.” Noting that the gun was now barely concealed, Dave quickly diverted attention by shaking Weldon’s hand. It was like seizing a plank. He told Weldon he was pleased to meet him, and Weldon said, “Likewise.” Dave lied about his own name, “Dave” all right, but the last name belonged to a rodeo clown two doors down from his mother’s house. He had never done such a thing in his life.

“Oh, Christ,” she yelled. “Is this what I get?” It was hard to say whether this was positive or not. Morsel was a scale model of her father, lean, wind weathered, and, if anything, less feminine. She raced forward to embrace Ray, whose chronic look of suave detachment was briefly interrupted by fear. A tooth was not there, as well as a small piece of her ear. “Oh, Ray!”

Weldon looked at Dave with a sour expression, and Dave, still in his chauffeur mind-set, acknowledged him formally as he fell into reverie about the money Ray had alluded to. But then Dave could see Weldon was about to speak. “Morsel has made some peach cobbler,” he said in a lusterless tone. “It was her ma’s recipe. Her ma is dead.” Ray put on a ghastly look of sympathy that persuaded Morsel, who squeezed his arm. “Started in her liver and just took off,” she explained. Dave, by now comfortable with his new alias, thought, I never knew “Ma” but good riddance. Going into the house, Weldon asked him if he enjoyed shooting coyotes.

“I just drive Ray around.” And observing Ray tuning in, he continued obligingly, “And whatever Ray wants I guess is what we do … whatever he’s into.” But to himself he said, Good luck hitting anything with that shit pistol.

He didn’t volunteer that he enjoyed popping the bastards out his car window, his favorite gun the.25–06 with the Swarovski rangefinder scope and tripod he bought at Hill Country Customs. Dave lived with his mother and had always liked telling her of the great shots he’d made, like the five hundred yarder on Tin Can Hill with only the car hood for a rest, no sandbags or tripod. So much for his uncle Maury’s opinion: “It don’t shoot flat, throw the fuckin’ thing away.”

Dave, who also liked brutally fattening food, thought Morsel quite the cook. Ray, however, was a surprisingly picky eater, sticking with the salad, discreetly lifting each leaf until the dressing ran off. Weldon watched him with hardly a word, but Morsel grew ever more manic, jiggling with laughter and enthusiasm at each lighthearted remark. In fact, it was necessary to dial down the subjects — to heart attacks, highway wrecks, cancer, and the like — just to keep her from guffawing at everything. Weldon planted his hands flat on the table, rose partway, and announced he was going to use the tractor to tow the plane around back. Dave, preoccupied with the mountain of tuna casserole between him and the cobbler, hardly heard him. Ray, small and disoriented beside Morsel, shot a glance around the table looking for something else he could eat.

“Daddy don’t say much,” said Morsel.

“I can’t say much,” said Ray, “not with him here. Dave, you cut us a little slack?”

Dave, using his napkin to conceal a mouthful of food, managed to say, “Sure, Ray, of course.” Once on his feet, he made a lunge for the cobbler, but dropping the napkin he decided just to finish chewing what he already had.

“See you in the room,” Ray said sharply, twisting his chin toward the door.

Weldon had shown them where they’d sleep by flicking the door open without ceremony when they’d first walked past it. There were two iron bedsteads and a dresser atop which sat Dave’s and Ray’s belongings, the latter consisting of a JanSport backpack with the straps cut off. Dave was much the better equipped, with an actual overnight bag and Dopp kit. He had left the cattle receipts and breeding documents in the car. He flopped immediately onto the bed, hands behind his head, then got up abruptly and went to the door. He looked out and listened for a long moment and, easing it shut, darted for the dresser to root through Ray’s things. Among them he found several rolls of cash in rubber bands; generic Viagra from India; California lottery tickets; a passport in the name of Raymond Coelho; a lady’s wallet, aqua in color and containing one Louise Coelho’s driver’s license, as well as her debit card issued by the Food Processors Credit Union of Modesto; a few Turlock grocery receipts; a bag of trail mix; and of course the gun. Dave lifted it carefully with the tips of his fingers. He was startled by its lightness. Turning it over in his hand he saw that it was a fake. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes, but he was compelled to acknowledge that there was no hole in the barrel. A toy. Carefully returning it to where it was, he fluffed the sides of the backpack and leaped to his bunk to begin feigning sleep. He was supposed to be at Jorgensen’s by now, with his arm up some cow’s ass. But opportunity was in the air. He’d need to get rid of the smile if he wanted to look like he was asleep.

It wasn’t long before Ray came in, making no attempt to be quiet, singing “Now Is the Hour” in a flat and aggressive tone that hardly suited the lyrics, “ ‘Sunset glow fades in the west, / Night o’er the valley is creeping! / Birds cuddle down in their nest, / Soon all the world will be sleeping.’ But not you, huh, Dave? Yeah, you’re awake, I can tell. We hope you enjoyed Morsel’s rendition of the song, lyrics by Hugo Winterhalter.”

At length, Dave gave up his pretense and said, “Sounds like you got the job.”

“Maybe so. But here’s what I know for sure: I’m starving.”

“Must be, Ray. You ate like a bird.”

“Couldn’t be helped. That kind of food just grips the chambers of my heart like an octopus. But right behind the house they got a vegetable garden. How about you slip out and pick me some. I’ve already been told to stay out of the garden. But don’t touch the tomatoes; they’re not ripe.”

“What else is there?”

“Greens and root vegetables.”

“I’m not going out there.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

Ray wasted no time reaching for his JanSport to draw the gun.

“Here’s a meal that’ll really stick to your ribs,” he said.

“I’m not picking vegetables for you or, technically speaking, stealing them for you. Forget it.”

“Wow. Is this a mood swing?”

“Call it what you want. Otherwise, it’s shoot or shut up.”

“As you might guess, I prefer not to wake up the whole house.”

“And the body’d be a problem for you.”

“Very well, very well.” Ray went to his pack and put the gun away. “But you may not be so lucky next time.”

“What-ever.”

Dave rolled over to sleep, but his greedy thoughts went on unwillingly. He had planned to head out in the morning. He was expected at ranches all around Jordan. As it was, he’d have to explain himself at Jorgensen’s. He had a living to make, and were it not for his morbid curiosity about Ray and Morsel, to say nothing of the possible business deal, he might have snuck out in time to grab a room in Jordan for the night. But the rolls of money in Ray’s pack were definitely real, and his hints of more to come made him wonder how anxious he was to go back to work.

“Ray, you awake?”

“I might be. What d’you want, asshole?”

“I just have something I want to get off my chest.”

“Make it quick, I need my z’s.”

“Sure, Ray, try this one on for size: the gun’s a toy.”

“The gun’s a what?”

“A fake. And, Ray, looks to me like you might be one, too.”

“Where’s the fuckin’ light switch? I’m not taking this shit.”

“Careful you don’t stub your toe jumping off the bed like that.”

“Might be time to clip your wings, sonny.”

“Ray, I’m here for you. But I’m not an idiot. Just take a moment so we can agree about your so-called gun, and then we can have some straight talk.”

Ray found the lamp and paced the squeaking floorboards. “I gotta take a leak,” he said, heading out to the porch. “Be right back.” Dave wondered whether he’d been too harsh, sensing defeat in Ray’s parting remark. Dave could see him silhouetted in the moonlight in the doorway, a silver arc splashing onto the lawn, head thrown back in what Dave took to be a posture of despair. Surely, he could squeeze this guy for something.

By the time Ray walked back in he was already confessing … an appraiser in Modesto, California, where I was raised. I did some community theater there, played Prince Oh-So-True in a children’s production of The Cave of Inky Blackness, and thought I was going places. Next came Twelve Angry Men—I was one of them — which is where the pistol came from. Then I was the hangman in Motherlode. Got married, had a baby girl, lost my job, got another one, went to Hawaii as a steward on a yacht belonging to a movie star who was working a snow-cone stand a year before the yacht, the coke, the babes, and the Dom Pérignon. I’d had to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Eventually, I got into a fight with the movie star and got kicked off the boat at Diamond Head, just rowed me to shore in a dinghy. I hiked all the way to the crater, where I used the restroom to clean up and got some chow off the lunch wagon before catching a tour bus into Honolulu. I tried to sell the celebrity-drug-fueled-orgy story to a local paper, but that went nowhere because of the thing I’d signed. Everything I sign costs me money. About this time, my wife’s uncle’s walnut farm went bust. He took a loan out on the real estate, and I sold my car, a rust-free ’78 Trans Am, handling package, W72 performance motor, solar gold with a Martinique-blue interior — we’re talking mint. We bought a bunch of FEMA trailers off the Katrina deal and hauled them to California. But of course we lost our asses. So the uncle gases himself in his garage, and my wife throws me out. I moved into a hotel for migrants and started using the computers at the Stanislaus County Library, sleeping at the McHenry Mansion, where one of the tour guides was someone I used to fuck in high school. She slipped me into one of the canopy beds for naps. Online is where I met Morsel. We shared about our lives. I shared I had fallen on hard times. She shared she was coining it selling bootleg OxyContin in the Bakken oil field. It was a long shot: Montana. Fresh start. New me. But, hey. I took the bus to Billings and thumbed the rest of the way. By the time I made it to Jordan I had nothing left. The clerk at that fleabag almost wouldn’t let me have a room. I told him I was there for the comets. I don’t know where I come up with that. I had to make a move. Well, now you know. So, what happens next? You bust me with Morsel? You turn me in? I can’t marry her anyway. I don’t need bigamy on my sheet.”

“You pretty sure on the business end of this thing?” Dave asked with surprising coldness. He could see things going his way.

“A hundred percent, but Morsel’s got issues with other folks already being in it. There’s some risk, but when isn’t there with stakes like this.”

“Like what kind of risk?”

“Death threats, the usual. Heard them all my life. But think about it, Dave. I’m not in if you’re not. You really want to return to what you were doing? We’d both be back in that hotel with the comets.”

Ray was soon snoring. Dave was intrigued that these revelations, not to mention the matter of the “gun,” had failed to disturb Ray’s sleep. Dave meanwhile was wide awake, and he began to realize why: the nagging awareness of his own life. So many risks! He felt that Ray was a success despite the wealth of evidence to the contrary. What had Dave accomplished? High school. What could have been more painful? Yet, he suffered no more than anyone else. So even in that he was unexceptional. There was only generic anguish, persecution, and lockdown. He didn’t have sex with a mansion tour guide. His experience came on the promise of marriage to a fat girl. Then there was the National Guard. Fort Harrison in the winter. Cleaning billets. A commanding officer who told the recruits that “the president of the United States is a pencil-wristed twat.” Inventorying ammunition. Unskilled maintenance on UH-60 Black Hawks. “Human resource” assistant. Praying for deployment against worldwide towelheads. Girlfriend fatter every time he went home. Meaner, too. Threatening him with a baby. And he was still buying his dope from the same guy at the body shop who was his dealer in eighth grade. Never enough money and coveralls with so much cow shit he had to change Laundromats every two weeks.

It was perhaps surprising he’d come up with anything at all, but he did: Bovine Deluxe, LLC, a crash course in artificially inseminating cattle. Dave took to it like a duck to water: driving around the countryside (would have been more fun in Ray’s Trans Am) with a special skill set, detecting and synchronizing estrus, handling frozen semen, keeping breeding records, all easily learnable; and Dave brought art to it. Though he had no idea where that gift had come from, he was a genius preg tester. Straight or stoned, his rate of accuracy, as proved in spring calves, was renowned. His excitement began as soon as he put on the coveralls, pulled on the glove lubed up with OB goo, before even approaching the chute. With the tail held high in his left hand, he’d push his right all the way in against the cow’s attempt to expel it, shoveling out the manure to clear the way, over the cervix before grasping the uterus, now that he was in nearly up to his shoulder. Dave could detect a pregnancy at two months, when the calf was smaller than a mouse. He liked the compliments that came from being able to tell the rancher how far along the cow was, anywhere from two to seven months, according to Dave’s informal system: mouse, rat, cat, fat cat, raccoon, Chihuahua, beagle. He’d continue until he’d gone through the whole herd or until his arm was exhausted. Then he had only to toss the glove, write up the invoice, and look for food and a room.

Perfect. Except for the dough.

Morsel made breakfast for the men — eggs with biscuits and gravy. At the table, Dave was still assessing Ray’s claim of reaching his last dime back at Jordan, which didn’t square with the rolls of bills in his pack. And Dave was watching Weldon watching Ray as breakfast was served. Morsel just leaned against the stove. “Anyone want to go to Billings Saturday and see the cage fights?” she said at last, moving from the stove to the table with a dish towel. Dave alone looked up and smiled; no one answered her. Ray was probing the food with his fork, still under Weldon’s scrutiny. The salt-encrusted sweat stain on Weldon’s black Stetson went halfway up the crown. It was downright unappetizing in Dave’s view and definitely not befitting any customer for topdrawer bull semen. Nor did he look like a man whose daughter was selling dope at the Bakken, either.

At last Weldon spoke as though calling out to his livestock.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Ray.”

“Well, Ray, why don’t you stick that fork all the way in and eat like a man?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Case, but I will eat nothing with a central nervous system.”

“Daddy, leave Ray alone. There’ll be plenty of time to get acquainted and find out what Ray enjoys eating.”

Weldon continued to eat without seeming to hear Morsel. Meanwhile, Dave was making a hog of himself and hoping he could finish Ray’s breakfast, though Ray by now had seen the light and was eating the biscuits from which he had skimmed the gravy with the edge of his fork. He looked like he was under orders to clean his plate until Morsel brought him some canned pineapple slices. Ray looked up at her with what Dave thought was genuine affection. She said, “It’s all you can eat around here,” but the moment Dave stuck his fork back in the food, she raised a hand in his face and said, “I mean: that’s all you can eat!” and laughed. Dave noticed her cold blue eyes, and for the first time he thought he understood her.

She smiled at Ray and said, “Daddy, you feel like showing Ray ’n’ ’em the trick.” Weldon ceased his rhythmic lip pursing.

“Oh, Morsel,” he said coyly, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

“C’mon, Daddy, give you a dollar.”

“Okay Mor’, put on the music.” A huge sigh of good-humored defeat. Morsel went over to a low cupboard next to the pie safe and pulled out a small plastic record player and a 45, which proved to be a scratchy version of “Cool, Clear Water” by the Sons of the Pioneers. At first gently swaying to the mournful dehydration tune, Weldon seemed to come to life as Morsel placed a peanut in front of him and the lyrics began, luring a poor desert rat named Dan to an imaginary spring. Weldon took off his hat and set it upside down beside him, revealing the thinnest comb-over across a snow-white pate. Then he picked up the peanut and with sinuous movements balanced it on his nose. It remained there until near the end of the record, when Dan the desert rat hallucinates green water and trees, whereupon the peanut dropped to the table, and Weldon just stared at it in disappointment. When the record ended, he replaced his hat, stood without a word, and, dropping his napkin on his chair, left the room. For a moment it was quiet. Dave felt he’d never seen anything like it.

“Daddy’s pretty hard on himself when he don’t make it to the end of the record. But,” she said glumly, thumbing hair off her forehead as she cleared the dishes and went into the living room to straighten up, “me and Ray thought you ought to see what dementia looks like. It ain’t pretty and it’s expensive.” Soon they heard Weldon’s airplane cranking up, and Morsel called from the living room, “Daddy’s always looking for them cows.”

Dave had taken care to copy the information in Ray’s passport onto the back of a matchbook cover, which he tore off, rolled into a cylinder, and stashed inside a bottle of aspirin. And there it stayed until Ray and Morsel headed to Billings for the cage fights. She’d left Dave directions to the Indian small-pox burials, in case he wanted to pass the time hunting for beads. But at this point, by failing to flee in his own car, Dave admitted to himself that he had become fully invested in Ray’s scheme. So he seized the chance to use his cell phone and 411 connect to call Ray’s home in Modesto and chat with his wife or, as she presently claimed to be, his widow. It took two tries a couple of hours apart. On the first, he got her answering machine, “You know the drill: leave it at the beep.” On the second, he got Mrs. Ray. He had hardly identified himself as an account assistant with the Internal Revenue Service when she interrupted him to state in a voice firm, clear, and untouched by grief that Ray was dead. “That’s what I told the last guy, and that’s what I’m telling you.” She said he had been embezzling from a credit union before he left a suicide note and disappeared.

“I’m doing home health care. Whatever he stole he kept. Killing himself was the one good idea he come up with in the last thirty years. At least it’s prevented the government from garnishing my wages, what little they are. I been all through this with the other guy that called. Have to wait for his death to be confirmed or else I can’t get benefits. If I know Ray, he’s on the bottom of the Tuolumne River just to fuck with me. I wish I could have seen him one last time to tell him his water skis and croquet set went to Goodwill. If the bank hadn’t taken back his airplane, there wouldn’t have been even that little bit of equity I got to keep me from losing my house and sleeping in my motherfuckin’ car. Too bad you didn’t meet Ray. He was an A-to-Z crumb bum.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear about your husband,” said Dave mechanically.

“I don’t think the government is ‘terribly sorry’ to hear about anything. You reading this off a card?”

“No, this is just a follow-up to make sure your file stays active until you receive the benefits you’re entitled to.”

“I already have the big one: picturing Ray in hell with his ass enfuego.”

“Ah, speak a bit of Spanish, Mrs. Coelho?” said Dave, who would have rather heard mention of some oro y plata.

“Everybody in Modesto speaks ‘a bit of Spanish.’ Where you been all your life?”

“Washington, D.C., ma’am,” said Dave indignantly.

“That explains it,” said Mrs. Ray Coelho, and hung up.

Dave could now see why Ray was without transportation when they met. Wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail renting cars or riding on airplanes. He got all he needed done on the library computers in Modesto, where he and Morsel, two crooks, had found each other and planned a merger.

Apart from the burial grounds there was nothing to do around there. He wasn’t interested in that option until he discovered the liquor cabinet, and by then it was almost early evening. He found a bottle labeled HOOPOE SCHNAPPS with a picture of a bird, and he gave it a try. It went straight to his head. After several swigs, he failed to figure out the bird, but that didn’t keep him from getting very happy. The label said the stuff was made from mirabelles, and Dave thought, Fuck, I hope that’s good. Then as his confidence built, he reflected, Hey, I’m totally into mirabelles.

As he headed for the burial grounds, Dave, tottering a bit, decided he was glad to have left the Hoopoe schnapps back at the house. Rounding the equipment shed, he nearly ran into Weldon, who walked by without speaking or even seeing him, it seemed. Right behind the ranch buildings a cow trail led into the prairie, then wound toward a hillside spring that didn’t quite reach the surface, evident only from the patch of greenery. Just below that was the spot Morsel had told him about, pockmarked with anthills. The ants, she’d claimed, would bring the beads to the surface, but still you had to hunt for them. Dave muttered, “I want some beads.”

He sat down among the mounds and was soon bitten through his pants. He jumped to his feet and swept the ants away, then crouched, peering and picking at the hills. This soon seemed futile, and his thighs ached from squatting; but then he found a speck of sky blue in the dirt, a bead. He clasped it tightly while stirring with his free hand and flicking away ants. He gave no thought to the bodies in the ground beneath him and continued this until dark, by which time his palm was full of Indian beads, and his head of drunken exaltation.

As he crossed the equipment shed, barely able to see his way, he was startled by the silhouette of Weldon’s Stetson and then of the old man’s face very near his own, gazing at him before speaking in a low voice. “You been in the graves, ain’t you?”

“Yes, just looking for beads.”

“You ought not to have done that, feller.”

“Oh? But Morsel said—”

“Look up there at the stars.”

“I don’t understand.”

Weldon Case reached high over his head. “That’s the crow riding the water snake.” He turned back into the dark. Dave was frightened. He went to the cabin and got into bed as quickly as he could, anxious now for the alcohol to fade. He pulled the blanket up under his chin despite the warmth of the night and watched a moth batting against the windowpane at the sight of the moon. When he was nearly asleep, he saw the lights of Morsel’s car wheel across the ceiling, before going dark. He listened for the car doors, but it was nearly ten minutes before they opened and closed. He rolled over against the wall and pretended to be asleep but watching as the door latch was carefully lifted from without.

Once the reverberation of the screen-door spring had ended, there was whispering. He perceived a dim shadow cross his face, someone peering down at him, and then another whisper. Soon their muffled copulation filled the room, then paused long enough for a window to be opened before resuming. Dave listened more and more intently, comfortable in his pretended sleep, until Ray said in a clear voice, “Dave, you want some of this?”

Dave stuck to his feigning until Morsel laughed, got up, and left with her clothes under her arm. “Night, Dave. Sweet Dreams.”

The door shut, and after a moment, Ray spoke. “What could I do, Dave? She was after my weenie like a chicken after a June bug.” Snorts and, soon after, snoring.

In the doorway of the house, taking in the early sun and smoking a cigarette, was Morsel in an old flannel shirt over what looked like a body stocking that produced a lazily winking camel toe. As Dave stepped up, her eyes followed her father crossing the yard very slowly toward them. “Look,” she said, “he’s wetting his pants. When he ain’t wetting his pants, he walks pretty fast. It’s just something he enjoys.”

Weldon came up and looked at Dave, trying to remember him. He said, “This ain’t much of a place to live. My folks moved us out here. We had a nice little ranch at Coal Banks Landing on the Missouri, but one day it fell in the river. Morsel, I’m uncomfortable.”

“Go inside, Daddy, I’ll get you a change.”

Once the door shut behind them, Dave said, “Why in the world do you let him fly that plane?”

“It’s all he knows. He flew in the war, and he’s dusted crops. He’ll probably kill himself in the damn thing. Good.”

“What’s he do up there?”

“Looks for his cows.”

“I didn’t know he had any.”

“He don’t. He hadn’t had cows in forever. But he looks for ’em long as he’s got fuel, then he comes down and says the damn things was brushed up to where you couldn’t see ’em.”

“I’m glad you go along with him. That’s sure thoughtful.”

“I don’t know about that, but I gotta tell you this: I can’t make heads or tails of your friend Ray. He was coming on to me the whole time at the cage fights, then he whips out a picture of his ex-wife and tells me she’s the greatest piece of ass he ever had.”

“Aw, gee. What’d you say to that?”

“I said, ‘Ray, she must’ve had one snappin’ pussy, because she’s got a face that would stop a clock.’ I punched him in the shoulder and told him he hadn’t seen nothing yet. What’d you say your name was?”

“I’m Dave.”

“Well, Dave, Ray says you mean to throw in with us. Is that a fact?”

“I’m sure giving it some thought.”

“You look like a team player to me. I guess that bitch he’s married to will help out on that end. Long as I never have to see her.”

Sometimes Dave could tell that Ray couldn’t remember his name, either. He’d say “pal” or “pard” or, in a pinch, “old-timer,” which seemed especially strange to someone in his twenties. Then when the name came back to him, he’d overuse it. “Dave, what’re we gonna do today.” “Dave, what’s that you just put in your mouth?” “I had an uncle named Dave.” And so forth. But the morning that Morsel slipped out of their room carrying her clothes, he summoned it right away: “Dave, you at all interested in getting rich?”

“I’m doing my best, Ray!”

“I’m talking about taking it up a notch, and I’m fixing to run out of hints.”

“I’m a certified artificial inseminator,” said Dave, loftily. If he had not already scented the bait, he’d have been home days before. But this was a big step, and he knew it was a moment in time.

At least on the phone she couldn’t throw stuff at him.

“The phone is ringing off the hook. Your ranchers wanting to know when you’ll get there.”

“Ma, I know, but I been tied up. Tell them not to get their panties in a wad. I’ll be there.”

“David,” she screeched, “I’m not your secretary!”

“Ma, listen to me, Ma, I got tied up. I’m sparing you the details right now, but trust me.”

“How can I trust you with the phone ringing every ten seconds?”

“Ma, I can’t listen to this shit, I’m under pressure. Pull the fucking thing out of the wall.”

“Pressure? You’ve never been under pressure in your life!”

He hung up on her. He knew he couldn’t live with her anymore. She needed to take her pacemaker and get a room.

Morsel was able to get a custodial order in Miles City based on the danger to community presented by Weldon and his airplane. Ray had so much trouble muscling him into Morsel’s sedan for the ride to assisted living that Dave’s hulking frame had to be enlisted to bind Weldon, who tossed off some antique curses before collapsing in defeat. But the God he called down on them didn’t count for much anymore. At dinner that night, Morsel was still a little blue, despite the toasts, somewhat vague, to a limitless future. Dave smiled along with them, his inquiring looks met by giddy winks from Morsel and Ray. Nevertheless, he felt happy and accepted, at last convinced he was going somewhere. Exchanging a nod, they let him know that he was a “courier.” He smiled around the room in bafflement. Ray unwound one of his wads. Dave was going to California.

“Make sure you drive the limit,” said Ray. “I’ll meanwhile get to know the airplane. Take ’er down to the oil fields. Anyway, it’s important to know your customers.” He and Morsel saw him off from the front stoop. They looked like a real couple.

“Customers for what exactly?” Dave immediately regretted his question. Not a problem, as no one answered him anyway.

“And I’ll keep the home fires burning,” said Morsel without taking the cigarette from her mouth. David had a perfectly good idea what he might be going to California for and recognized the advantage of preserving his ignorance, no guiltier than the United States Postal Service. “Your Honor, I had no idea what was in the trunk and I am prepared to affirm that under oath or take a lie-detector test, at your discretion,” he rehearsed.

Dave drove straight through, or nearly so, stopping only briefly in Idaho, Utah, and Nevada to walk among cows. His manner with cattle was so familiar that none ran from him but gathered around in benign expectation. Dave sighed and jumped back in the car. He declined to be swayed by second thoughts.

It was late when he drove into Modesto, and he was tired. He checked into a Super 8 and awoke to the hot light of a California morning as it shone through the window onto his face. He ate downstairs and then checked out. The directions he unfolded in his car proved quite exact: within ten minutes he was pulling around the house into the side drive and backing into the open garage.

A woman in a bathrobe emerged from the back door and walked past his window without a word. He popped the trunk and sat quietly as he heard her load then shut it. She stopped at his window, pulling the bathrobe up close around her throat. She wasn’t hard to look at, but Dave could see you wouldn’t want to argue with her. “Tell Ray I said be careful. I’ve heard from two IRS guys already.” Dave said nothing at all.

Dave was so cautious, the trip back took longer. He overnighted at the Garfield again so as to arrive in daylight, getting up twice during the night to check on the car. In the morning, he was reluctant to eat at the café, where some of his former clientele might be sitting around picking their teeth and speculating about fall calves or six-weight steers. He was now so close that he worried about everything from misreading the gas gauge to getting a flat. He even imagined the trunk flying open for no reason. He headed toward the ranch on an empty stomach, knowing Morsel would take care of that. He flew past fields of cattle with hardly a glance.

No one seemed around to offer the hearty greeting and meal he was counting on. On the wire running from the house to the bunkhouse, a hawk flew off reluctantly as though it had had the place to itself. Dave got out and went into the house. Dirty dishes sat on the dining-room table, light from the television flickered without sound from the living room. When Dave walked in he saw the television was tuned to the shopping network, a close-up of a hand modeling a gold diamond-studded bracelet. Then he saw Morsel on the floor with the remote still in her hand.

Dave felt an icy calm. Ray had done this. Dave patted his pocket for the car keys and walked out of the house, stopping on the porch to survey everything in front of him. Then he went around to the shop. Where the airplane had usually been parked, in its two shallow ruts, Ray was lying with a pool of blood extending from his mouth like a speech balloon without words. He’d lost a shoe. The plane was gone.

Dave felt trapped between the two bodies, as if there was no safe way back to the car. When he got to it, a man was there waiting. He was about Dave’s age, lean and respectable looking in clean khakis and a Shale Services ball cap. “I must have overslept,” he said. “How long have you been here?” He touched his teeth with his thumbnail as he spoke.

“Oh, just a few minutes.”

“Keys.”

“Oh right, yes, I have them here.” Dave patted his pocket again.

“Get the trunk for me, please.” Dave offered him the keys. “No, you.”

“Not a problem.”

Dave bent to insert the key, but his hand was shaking so that at first he missed the lock. The lid rose to reveal the contents of the trunk. Dave never felt a thing.