Marisi
Ornstein
It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in the Land of Enchantment and not yet midnight.
A man of twenty-two floats timelessly in the arms of his new bride, serenaded by distant wind chimes. His belly perks up in a rumble and she giggles, “Forget to eat again?”
“Rode all day. Made my best time on the old water road through the hills.”
As Billy’s lips meet Paulita’s, the buzz running through his body makes him smile so wide that his jaw cracks, “You sail through my mind when I’m riding and I miss you so deep in my gut, I can’t breathe.”
“Let me sleep, Billy.” She fluffs her pillow, “Eat something.”
“Gonna get a slice of beef.”
“Good. Go.”
He pulls his filthy road shirt over his head, adjusts his silver and turquoise squash flower necklace and steps into his only pair of trousers of royal blue corduroy.
“You want some beef?”
“Please”, She throws the blanket off, “It’s too hot to be awake.”
He sits on the bed, lays his hand on her tummy, “Are you happy?”
She brushes her curls from her eyes and holds her new wedding band up to the moonlight, “Our baby is safe in my tummy and I love you.”
Paulita pulls him close and kisses him forever, then playfully pushes him away, “Let me sleep, love. Go, eat.”
As he stands, Billy takes in the faint scent of a cigar rolling in through the window and freezes.
He slowly lifts a sturdy knife with a heavy wooden handle from the bedside table.
Paulita lifts her head from the pillow, “Everything alright, Billy?”
He kisses her, “Stay inside. No matter what. Stay here, inside.”
Closing the door behind him, Billy lingers on the porch a moment.
Lifting his eyes to the layers and layers of stars in the New Mexican sea in the sky, Billy lets his mind flow as far as it’ll take him, envisioning a future only he can see.
↓ Next
Billy walks barefoot over gravel through Pete Maxwell’s ranch, glancing to the silhouettes on the amber curtains of the adobe houses where the ranch hands live with their families.
He enters the smokehouse, slices off a strip of beef and slips out, slowly making his way along a low wall to get a better view of the house.
From behind an ancient Eucalyptus, he watches two men on Pete’s front porch smoking cigars, armed with shotguns and three pistols each.
Billy enters Pete’s house through the side door and makes his way down the hall to Pete’s bedroom. He listens outside the door a moment, then cracks the door and peers inside the dark room.
A breeze blows the curtain and a crisp slice of moonlight beams through, revealing a shadow seated in a chair by the window.
Billy squints, “¿Quién es?”
He hears the jolt of a pistol cock as a sharp flash of moonlight glints from the seven and a half inch barrel of a forty-four forty caliber Colt Single Action Army revolver, and time evanesces.
Billy shifts on his feet, “¿Quién es?”
As his eyes adjust to the dark, the face of Pat Garrett appears, “Hey now, William.”
“Hey now, Patrick. That a Marshals badge you’re wearing?”
“Fuck you.” Pat’s grin disappears, “Have a sit, Bill.”
The hammer of Pat’s Colt reverses and time kicks back into gear.
Billy sits on the side of Pete’s bed facing Pat, “Light a lamp why don’t you?”
Pat raises his hand, “Keep it dark. I got two Marshals outside.”
“Do you, now.”
“I do.”
Pat’s eyes drift to the ceiling, “Fact is, William, Governor Wallace hired me for money I already spent. I got one week to deliver you. Unofficially, I’ve been ordered to bring in a corpse.”
“My corpse have some value?”
“It does. You’d be surprised.” Pat crosses his legs, “Seems you’re too well-known and well-liked for a public trial.”
“Well known by who?”
“Lots of people, apparently. They even got a name they’re calling you.”
“What kind of name?”
“They’re calling you Billy the Kid.”
“Who the fuck is calling me that?”
“Everybody. They got dime books about you published in New York City.”
“Horse shit.”
“Nope.”
“Any of it true?”
“Nope.”
Billy falls silent for a long moment, “War’s over. Trouble’s done. They ought to leave me alone.”
“Life don’t work that way, Bill.” Pat takes a toothpick from his pocket, “You stirred the wrong pot, Billy.”
“Righteous, all them I put down. I sparked and won a bonafide fuckin war of righteous retribution. I got no care for nobody’s pot.”
“I know it. But, my knowing it don’t change nothing.” Pat shifts in his chair, “If you got an idea to get us out of this, William, speak it now.”
Billy sits up straight, “I’m gonna build roads.”
Pat shakes his head like he’s got a moth in his ear, “Roads to where?”
He smiles wide, “Roads to everywhere.”
Pat tilts his head, “What in the fuck are you talking about?”
Billy taps Pat’s knee, “I mapped a network of all the old trails and trading roads running through New Mexico, Arizona and wherever else I rambled, and marked all the rail stops. I found there are no roads connecting all them new towns popping up to none of the rail stops. Folks in them towns gonna need trading roads they can travel on. I’ve already visioned to build them, and I got a plan how to earn.”
“How?”
“That ain’t none of your business.”
Pat stares, “What do you know about building roads?”
“I know what I got to know. Far as I’m concerned, they’re already built.”
Billy’s green eyes sparkle into a smile, “I know them old roads like I know my own self. My roads gonna twist and bend and rise over rivers, gonna run smooth over mountains, cutting down time and flowing wherever the fuck they wanna flow.”
Pat hangs his hat on the bedpost, “I’m in a real tough spot here, Bill. Think of something.”
Billy leans in, “Arrange a meeting with me and the Governor. Five days, in Taos.”
Pat’s head snaps back, “How the hell would I do that?”
“Make some shit up, Pat. Tell him you shot me dead. Say you had to beat it out of town to avoid being beat to death and hung by Pete’s ranch hands. Tell him you took my corpse up to Taos so it wouldn’t be stole, me being famous and all.”
Billy winks, “Invite him to smoke a cigar over my corpse. He may find it’s worth the trip.”
“You asking me to help you assassinate Governor Wallace?”
“This ain’t about killing, it’s business. Consider the future. We ain’t nothing except what we leave to our kin. In this case, it’s a fortune to be had.”
Billy looks to his hands, “We don’t matter. All that matters is the future we create. Time spins. It goes forward and back and then forward some more, in a stream. Life’s about creating a future, Patrick. Think on it.”
They sit in silence a long moment.
Billy speaks gently, “Shoot off a couple rounds in the wall.” He points his thumb to Pete, “Pete’ll dig a grave, drop a box of dirt in the ground, plant a marker. I’ll be certified dead. Never heard from again. I’ll disappear.”
Pat squints, “Where are you gonna disappear to?”
“None of your fuckin business.” Billy’s eyes go dead, “I’ve told you all you need to know and we’re done talking. State your answer.”
Pat’s eyes widen, “My answer?”
“State your answer, Patrick.”
Billy slides the knife with the heavy wooden handle between two floorboards, close at hand, while Pat checks his right hand, measuring the distance to his Colt.
Billy stares, “Do we have a deal?”
Pat shifts in his chair, “We have a deal.”
“Why?”
“Cause I been through hell with you and I’m still alive.”
“Good choice.” Billy locks into Pat’s eyes, “Know why?”
Pat shakes his head.
“It was a good choice because them Marshals you think you got, both of them work for me.”
Pat’s right eye twitches. He turns his face away.
“I expected you tomorrow night. You’re a night early, Patrick. Why?”
“Nerves.” Pat takes a pull of rotgut from a pocket flask, “No patience.”
“Get some. Can’t trust a man with no patience.” Billy makes an adjustment in the back waistband of his trousers, “I need you to do this one task and to hold to the story of me dead in this room, and we never cross paths again. I’ll make it worth your while. Understood?”
“I got to live with being the man killed Billy the Kid?”
“Yes. So, live it large. Write a fuckin book.” He lifts his knife, “Break from the story even once to so much as your cat, you become part of the landscape.”
Pat sits with that.
Billy runs his thumb over the initials carved into the knife’s heavy wooden handle, “My father, he left this knife with my mother to give me in case he never came back from sea. I made it mine. All I got is names. Too many names.”
Pat stares at the floor.
Billy sheathes his knife and stands, “Taos. Five days. Undertaker’s shop.”
Pat stands to his full height of six foot five, his head grazing the ceiling.
Billy lights a candle and opens the curtains, signaling to the Marshals that all is well.
He points to the door frame, “Land one bullet there, chest high. Another there, in the mantle.”
Pat fluidly fires two quick bullets exactly where Billy pointed, holsters his pistol and grabs his hat.
Billy laughs, “They really are gonna beat and hang you if you don’t get gone and quick.”
Pat grabs his hat and exits, calling to the Marshals, “Get! Ride!”
Billy watches them disappear, as ranch hands are already gathered in the street, armed to the hilt.
He studies the angle of the bullet holes while flipping his knife into the air and catching it by the wooden handle, time and time again.
When he’s satisfied with his forensics, he flips his knife, catches it by the handle, and slices a surgical incision in his forearm.
Billy watches his blood pour to the floor, pooling and dripping through the floor boards, “In the long run, no matter the situation, Pete, truth always matters.”
He tears his shirt and ties a piece of fabric around his arm to stop the bleeding, as Paulita rushes into the room and into his arms, sobbing.
Billy holds her.
She stops sobbing and stomps her foot on the dirt floor, “I do not stay inside.”
“I understand.”
“I heard gunshots. Who would I be if I stayed inside?”
Billy removes his silver and turquoise squash flower necklace, “I’m sorry.” He puts the necklace on Paulita and this seems to calm her, “Never worry. Never.”
He takes a small pistol from a pouch sewn into the back of his trousers and hands it to Paulita, “Never be without a pistol. We aren’t other people anymore.”
“No? Who are we?”
“We ain’t who we are yet. We’re still who we’re gonna be.”
“You’re gonna need some dresses.” He juts his chin to Pete’s armoire, “Hey, Pete. Lend me a clean shirt? I got a meeting.”
“Take what you need.”
Billy reaches for a crisp blue shirt and gently unfolds it before gingerly putting it on and checking himself in the mirror, “Never had a blue shirt.”
“It matches your trousers.” She pushes her belly against his back and wraps her arms around him, “You look like a gentleman.”
Henry McCarty, the gentleman, wraps his arms around his wife and feels a deep warmth grow from the soles of his bare feet and straight up his spine.
He closes his eyes and breathes deep and deeper, watching the candlelight, as it backlights the veins in his eyelids, turning them into roads, expanding and intersecting off into the kaleidoscope horizon, open rolling and flowing, free as rivers, wherever the fuck they want to flow.
↓ Next
Governor Lew Wallace, a tightly-wound man with a sharp white beard, sits at a table in a Taos hotel room before an untouched breakfast of steak and eggs, while three armed marshals wait by the door.
He glances at his pocket watch, rises from the table, leaves the room and makes a beeline towards the lobby, where Pat Garrett and his two Marshals are waiting.
Lew ignores Pat and the marshals and blows through the door and across the street to the undertaker’s establishment with his own marshals in tow.
Pat catches up and takes the lead down a dark hallway, sliding a heavy metal door open for Lew to enter the undertaker’s workshop.
He closes the door behind Lew and stands facing the five marshals, exhaling through his thick moustache with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun across his chest.
Inside the workshop, Lew looks to the metal corpse slab and is stunned to see Billy sitting at a table, “Welcome to Taos, Governor Wallace.”
“Fuck you.” Lew spits on the floor and makes a move to exit.
Billy sharply whispers, “Sit.”
Lew walks to the table and sits.
When Lew is settled, Billy sits and stares at Lew, “I must have sent you twenty letters providing a strong case to pardon me. You ain’t wrote back to me once.”
Lew stares.
“Aside from the information and facts, it hurt my feelings. I’m worth more than nothing.”
Billy takes a strawberry candy from his pocket, unwraps it and pops it into his mouth, “I’m willing to put all that behind us and move forward.”
Lew glares, “Are you, now.”
Billy settles into his chair, “Absolutely.”
Lew feels a single ball of sweat slowly travel from the nape of his neck, clear down his back.
Billy leans in, “I got an opportunity for you, Governor.”
“You ain’t got shit, you little prick.”
Billy leans back, “I’ll tell you what I got, I got a mind that’s over-active. If I don’t keep my mind busy, I run into trouble. You want more trouble?”
Lew’s lip curls, “No, thank you.”
“I did what I did and I’m done.”
Billy sits up straight, “My name is Henry McCarty. And, I got a way gonna keep my mind busy for the rest of my long life. Wanna hear it?”
Lew places his hat on the table, “Do I have a choice.”
Henry centers his boots flat on the floor, “Roads.”
Lew cocks his head, “Roads?”
“I’m gonna build a network of cargo hauling roads that will be mine to own, organize, operate and earn from for as many generations as my bloodline flows.”
Lew stares, “Come again?”
“You can keep the railroad, you and your pals. I don’t want no part of the rail. It’s an old man’s game. Obsolete.”
Lew tilts his head, “Railroad’s obsolete?”
Henry nods, “It is now.”
“Why?”
“Rails are linear. Roads go wherever they want.”
Lew’s eyes dart from side to side.
“You’re gonna help me build roads, Lew. Here’s how.”
Henry rolls up his sleeves, “I been traveling the old trails over this territory and further since I was a kid. I learned them trails out of necessity, I been surviving on them all my life. Got them mapped, too. Drew them on paper.”
He draws an invisible map with his finger on the table and illustrates, “Your tracks can only reach towns along the rail line. That’s fine for big towns like Santa Fe, but take a town far from the tracks, like Taos. Taos is fucked and outta luck. That’s how come I asked you to meet me here.”
Lew stares at Henry in disbelief, “How are you alive?”
“That ain’t the fuckin point. Listen.”
Henry runs his hand through his curls, “How long did it take you to ride to Taos from Santa Fe?”
“Three days. Well, four.”
“It took you four days. That’s right. Know why it took you four days? Because there are no railroad tracks running to Taos.”
Henry watches as a fly lands on Lew’s bald head and seems to be looking straight at him.
“There are no proper roads, neither. You had to fight your way over wild country and rough trails, through hard passes and over mountains, like a fuckin donkey. But, you’re not a fuckin donkey. Are you, Lew. You deserve proper roads. I’m gonna build them for you.”
Lew unbuttons his starched collar.
Henry flashes a smile, “My roads will have you traveling smooth and on time through all that wild in all the right places.”
Lew opens his mouth to speak, but Henry continues, “My roads will reach the people where they live and provide them with the goods they need. That’s commerce.”
He winks, “That’s good business. Right?”
Lew endures as a stream of sweat now streams down his back, “Are you talking about laying a local road from Santa Fe to Taos?”
Henry grins, “My roads are gonna lead back to my hometown.”
“Where’s that?”
“New York fuckin City.”
Lew maintains, “I have got six armed Marshals outside that door.”
Henry smiles, “I have a knife in my boot and a pistol in my waistband. I’m much quicker with the knife.”
He folds his hands on his lap.
“I need your influence. You and your pals in politics. I need to build legitimate and stay legitimate. It’s got to be legal. Signed paperwork, documented, from territory to territory.”
Lew wipes sweat from his head, “What’s mine in return?”
“I’ll make you a rich man.”
“I’m already a rich man.”
“Not this rich, you ain’t.”
He offers Lew a strawberry candy.
After a moment, Lew takes the candy, unwraps it and pops it into his mouth.
“Dreams too large for most folks to comprehend have shaped the world. Dreams and visions turn the tides beyond what most folks can imagine. This vision’s mine and it’s my birthright to see it through. And, I will see it through, Lew.”
Lew sucks his candy.
Henry takes his time rolling his wax candy wrapper into a perfect ball, “Wherever I ride, Lew, I meet folks who work the road. We share the same trails in all kinds of weather over vicious terrain. Outlaws and ramblers, we take care of ourselves, but the haulers are working. They’ve got to make time. They need rules. Organization. Protections. Structure. Fair pay. I care about them and how they survive. They’re the lifeblood of the system.”
Lew speaks forcefully in a low whisper, “Who do you think you are and where do you come off with any of this?”
“I’m smart as a whip, plus, I got vision.”
Lew sits back, “I expected you on a slab, you little bastard.”
“You see the sense in this, I know you do. I know you see how it fills a need, and how it’ll help folks, no matter where they are. It’ll encourage growth of all kinds.”
“I know you can’t see what I see, and that’s fine. Some day, though, you will.”
Henry gently takes a tintype photograph from his shirt pocket and carefully hands it to Lew, “My wife, Paulita.”
Lew takes his time with Paulita’s photograph, then hands it back to Henry, who carefully slides it back into his shirt pocket, “I’m looking to my kin not yet born. Gonna put food on their table. Put them to work. Give them purpose.”
Some flavor of respect comes over Lew, as he studies Henry, “Where were you educated?”
“My Mama taught me to read and write, taught me math. A pal from England taught me all else. Gave me books. Homer. History books. Taught me science. Law. That’s how come I was able to make all that sense in all them letters I sent that you never replied to. His name was Henry Tunstall. You know the name?”
Lew decides to change the subject and talk business, “How do you earn?”
“Anybody who sets wheel to road for commerce pays a toll. Beyond that information, my business is my own.”
“With all due respect, Governor, I ain’t asking permission. I’ll build my roads regardless of you. I’m offering you opportunity.”
Henry leans in, “I need your skills and resources in policy and politics. I need funding and the right doors opened at the right times. That’s all. Politics.”
Lew is silent.
Henry clasps his hands on the table, “What’s your answer?”
Lew picks up his hat and begins to stand, “I’ll take it into consideration.”
Henry’s eyes flash, “You will decide in that chair.”
Lew’s face flushes as he places his hat back on the table and sits.
Henry sucks his candy, “Deal?”
After a moment Lew stands, extending his hand, “Deal.”
Henry remains seated, his hands folded on his lap, “Why?”
“It benefits me.”
Henry clasps Lew’s hand and pulls him forward, “Don’t ever lie or steal from me. Never work against me. Don’t never mention my name or allude to knowing who I am. I’ll be watching you.”
He lets go of Lew’s hand, “You’ll never be able to trust anyone again.”
Lew wipes the sweat now dripping into his eyes, “Why is that?”
“Out of every five men around you, I’ll own at least three.”
Lew cocks his head, “Is that so.”
Henry grins, “Judging from the number of marshals outside that door, it’s rightly fuckin so. In this case, I own all six.”
Lew glances down to the table, “I thought you were a common bandit.”
“I ain’t a thief.”
Henry brushes a curl from his eyes, “I sparked and fought a righteous war for my pal Henry Tunstall, who your men assassinated while he was riding alone and unarmed. You lost that war. To me. Remember that.”
Henry stands.
He adjusts the cuffs of his filthy blue shirt, “Meeting’s over.”
Lew stands awkwardly a moment, before sliding the door open and leaving the room.
Henry turns his face to the morning sun beaming in through the window, warming a deeply satisfied mind.
↓ Next
Henry is perched on the porch of a sweets shop, chewing cherry licorice, overlooking the main street of a small town south of Taos.
Across the street, in front of the butcher shop, an aproned butcher around Henry’s age is being viciously berated by a big man with a red face, wearing a heavy woolen suit and derby.
Henry gets off his perch and walks to his horses.
One horse is laden with gear and the other just a simple saddle.
He tosses a carrot to his laden horse and she catches it and chews. He throws a carrot to his unladen horse and it bounces off its forehead, “Next time.” He throws another carrot and the horse catches it, “Told you.”
The argument across the street escalates and the racial epithets begin to fly at the butcher.
Henry unties both horses and comes around to gain a better view of the action in the street.
As the big man tears at the butcher’s apron and connects with a punch to the face, the butcher gracefully counters with a powerful right hook to the man’s jaw, rendering him unconscious before he hits the mud.
The butcher steps back and shifts a fourteen inch carving blade sheathed on his belt. He removes his apron to wipe the blood pouring from a cut above his right eye, and watches as a group of angry people gather around the unconscious man lying face down in the street.
Henry mounts the laden horse and leads the other horse behind him.
As the butcher crosses the street to get some water from a pump, Henry drops a pistol in the mud and slowly rides up the street.
The butcher looks at the pistol on the ground, as Henry drops the reins of the unladen horse, leaving the horse standing still.
As eight furious men move towards the butcher, he scoops up the pistol, mounts the horse, and follows Henry out of town.
A couple of hours later, Henry and the butcher are riding up an ancient trading road through the mountains. Henry speaks without turning around, “Handy trade, butchering.”
The butcher laughs, “Between extortion and rent, I keep nothing.”
Henry turns and looks at him, “The big guy, he your landlord?”
“Was.”
The butcher looks up to a spiraling hawk, then down into the valley where a group of pursuers are riding after them at a quick clip, “Riders coming.”
Henry rides slow and calm, “How long you had that shop?”
The butcher turns back to the riders, “Three years.”
Henry rides even slower, “What’s your name?”
“Name’s Samuel.”
Samuel glances back at the pursuers, now making their way up the hill. He checks his pistol to see if it’s loaded.
Henry comes to a stop, dismounts and sits on a rock, “Get off your horse.”
“Why?”
“So you don’t get your head blown off.”
Henry skips a rock off a cluster of boulders.
Samuel dismounts and crouches, readying his pistol. The riders are so close he can make out their faces.
Henry whistles sharp and loud and a burst of rifle shots come whizzing above the heads of the riders in a surgically precise manner. The riders panic, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Samuel searches for the source of the gunfire, “Who was that?”
Henry watches as the dust cloud disappears, revealing the riders galloping at full speed through the valley back to town.
Samuel stands, “Who was that? They with you?”
Henry draws a perfect circle in the sand with a stick, “You want a job?”
Samuel laughs, “You gonna give me a job?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of job?”
“Building roads.”
Samuel scans the landscape in all directions, “Out here?”
“For a start, yeah.”
“What kind of roads?”
Henry ricochets another rock, “Anywhere anybody needs to go, I’ll build them a road.”
Samuel squints, “Who are you, man?”
Henry throws a strand of cherry licorice into his mouth and gives one to Samuel, “You said ‘extortion’. People around here ain’t learned that word yet. That’s a city word. What city you from?”
Samuel kicks a rock loose with the heel of his pristine lace-up boot and skips it down the hill, “New York City.”
“What street?”
“Rivington Street.”
“Fancy.”
Samuel laughs, “What do you know about Rivington Street?”
Henry mounts his horse and begins to navigate up the hill.
Samuel looks up to see seven hawks circling.
He mounts and follows, “Why did you help me?”
“You got integrity.”
“How do you know I got integrity?”
“You coulda took the easy path.”
“What would that have been?”
Henry glances back, “Could have slit his throat with that sword you got in your belt.”
He tosses a canteen over his shoulder to Samuel, who plucks it out of the air without even looking, “Your job, does it pay?”
“My job will pay your great grandchildren’s grandchildren.”
“Not a bad job.”
Henry pops another strand of licorice into his mouth, “Long as you’re honest.”
Samuel stops his horse, “Mister. Hey. Listen to me.”
Henry turns and Samuel stares him in the eye. “I don’t care who you are. Nobody got to tell me to be honest. You heard?”
“Heard.”
Samuel looks up to eleven hawks circling, “I don’t know your name, I don’t know nothing about you. Don’t know why you’re offering me a job, don’t know how you know Rivington Street, and I don’t know where I’m headed.”
Another hawk joins. Samuel now counts twelve hawks, “That said, I’ll take your job.”
Henry smiles, “Enthuzimuzzy.”
He turns and rides nimbly up the hill, avoiding the deep cuts in the hard sand, scampering up the rocky old trade route that countless people dug many thousands of years ago with the repeated steps of their bare feet.
Samuel lingers a moment, watching twelve hawks circling high above, then rides up the hill just as deftly as Henry did.
Hours later, Henry and Samuel are sitting around a fire.
Henry is carving a figure out of a hunk of wood with his knife.
Samuel hears a rustling in the trees and sees eleven men emerging from the darkness to tie up their horses. He watches them tend to the horses with great care, “How come your pals don’t ride with you?”
Henry throws a stick into the fire, “I need distance.”
“Distance from what?”
“Whatever steals my mind. Whatever’s in the way.”
“Of what?”
“My vision.”
Samuel takes two short thin cigars from his vest pocket and offers one to Henry, who studies it, “I do know the value of a quality cigar, and I thank you. Yet, I don’t smoke tobacco much.”
He puts it behind his ear, “If you don’t mind, I’ll save this fine cigar for a future time.”
“I don’t mind.”
Samuel lights his cigar, “What’s your name?”
Henry carves at the figure in his hand.
Samuel studies Henry out of the corner of his eye. He turns his collar up against the wind and decides to say what he’s thinking.
“Telegraph says the man they call Billy the Kid was shot in Fort Sumner. A few days ago. He rode with eleven pals. Regulators. Folks around here say it ain’t true, they’re saying Billy escaped. You got an opinion on that?”
Henry carves.
Samuel stares into the fire, “Mind if I ask a question?”
Henry lifts his eyes, “Nothing better than a question.”
“Do you have a problem with the fact that I know who you are?”
Henry turns to Samuel, “Rest easy, Samuel.”
He looks into the flames, “We’re gonna be good pals.”
One of the regulators walks up to the fire, nods to Samuel, and makes room for the other men to gather.
Henry points his knife to Samuel, “This is Samuel. A man of integrity.”
Vague and exhausted grunts of welcome come from the men.
One of them packs a long pipe, lights it with a burning twig, take s a pull and passes the pipe to Samuel, who inhales and passes the pipe onwards.
Through the flutter of flames, Samuel’s eyes drift over the faces of the young men who have seen and done enough to where they don’t appear to be young anymore.
All except for Henry.
Henry is timeless. It’s difficult to get him into focus, as if he’s in perpetual shimmering motion, even while still.
“My spare.” He tosses a red, black and white handwoven blanket to Samuel, “It’s clean.”
Samuel wraps himself in the blanket and lays back. His eyes follow the embers from the fire up to see twelve hawks spiraling intertwining patterns in the sky, “Them hawks have been following us all day.”
“Them hawks have been following me my whole life.”
He throws the figure he was carving into the fire and watches it burn, then lays back on his own blanket, also red, black and white, “The day I don’t feel them hawks with me will be the day I die.”
Henry and Samuel drift off to sleep, as twelve hawks fly imperfect circles in the sea of the New Mexican sky, so far beyond the stars.
↓ Next
Henry’s new lace-up boots tap the cobblestones as he walks up Fulton Street near New York Harbor, searching for his father.
He scans the faces of the sailors and dock workers looking for a set of eyes that look exactly like his.
The fires inside the metal grated spheres swinging from posts lighting the street singe his cap, as he weaves through the stream of approaching faces, registering every set of eyes within his scope.
He can’t help searching down the alleys, too, glimpsing indelicate silhouettes engaged in nothing good.
The stench of rotting fish and human spew is overwhelming, but it’s the stench of home, and he breathes it just fine.
A one-legged sailor is being attacked by a wild dog for stealing its food and nobody gives a shit, it’s justice.
As he gets closer to the sailing ships, Henry notices the cargo is being hauled by men and women of all ages, from all over the world, everyone working together, and he makes a mental note to reflect this ethic on his roads.
He flashes back to walking these streets as a child, learning new languages from the sailors from far away places, hearing stories about where they’ve been. He was always intrigued by the exotic symbols and stories sewn into their skin with ink.
Henry’s eyes close as he lets a memory flow from the perspective of his five year old mind. He sees his father emerge from a crowd of exhausted sailors pouring from a ravaged ship, dropping his duffle, lifting him high into the air, and wrapping him up inside his homemade coat that kept him warm on the sea, round Cape Horn.
Henry’s heel catches on a cobblestone, and all he sees are strangers.
He slips into a dark bar filled with the sounds of sick murmuring and clinking glass. Dilapidated sailors and a few Mermaids line the bar, lost in reverie and nursing rotgut drinks. There’s a floor level trough running the length of the bar, so that patrons can relieve themselves without losing their place.
Henry scans the room, but no familiar eyes does he find, so he pops a strawberry candy and hits the street, weaving through the stream of faces rushing towards him.
He spins back in time and draws a detailed map in his mind of the dark, putrid alley off Mulberry where he and his pals spent their time stewing up crimes to impress the older criminals of the neighborhood, who were allowed to walk up the eight steps, knock three times on the old wooden door, and enter the room where unimaginable secrets that rule the Five Points take form and flight.
Henry buttons his jacket, hoping the meeting he set in that same room behind that old wooden door will go as he visioned it, and not get he and Samuel killed on the spot.
As he reaches the corner of Mott and Bayard, Samuel arrives right on time, “If I’m gonna be part of this, Henry, I need to know what I’m part of.”
Henry checks his pistols, “I organized my old pals to offer an opportunity of business.”
“You’ve organized criminals.”
“Yeah.” Henry looks to Samuel with a shrug, “Crime counts for ingenuity here, Sam. It’s how we survive.” He squares his new boots, “I was born a hundred yards from where we stand. This ain’t Rivington Street, man.”
Samuel looks to the full moon, “What kinda business?”
“Transport. I’m structuring a flow of commerce from Coney to the Pacific, North to South. Roads need commerce. I’m here to organize it.”
Samuel stares, “You’re organizing crime.”
“I’m organizing crime. Absolutely.”
Henry checks his knife in his boot, “That’s what you’re part of.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to be part of. I didn’t come home to die.”
Henry holds Samuel’s eyes, “You with me?”
Samuel checks his pistols, “I’m with you.”
Henry checks his pocket watch, “Most of the commerce, the cargo will be legit. But, crime is crime, it happens sometimes. Might as well own it.”
“Right. Why not.”
“Why not. Exactly.” Henry checks his pistols, “Check your pistols.”
“I just checked them.”
“Check them again.”
Samuel checks his pistols again and shifts the blade in his belt.
Henry glances around, “You’ll meet men tonight who’d scare the teeth off a wolf. Don’t stare, no matter how gruesome. Keep your eyes traveling, never let them land. No telling what’ll combust. Let’s go, I’m never late.”
They walk up Mulberry and turn into a wide alley filled with stink, silence and shifting shadows.
Henry watches a group of kids huddled at the far end of the alley, then glances up through laundry ropes to twelve hawks against a full moon. He looks to the old wooden door and climbs the eight steps for the very first time.
He knocks three times on the old wooden door, and winks at Samuel, “Welcome to the road, Sam.”
The door opens and they flow into the dark room where unimaginable secrets that rule the Five Points take form and flight. The room is so dark and quiet it would seem empty if not for the twenty or so people crammed inside.
As Henry’s eyes adjust, he scans the room and watches as the savage faces of these adults shift back in time to the faces of young boys six, seven years old, as Henry remembers them, so much so that his spine tingles, “Welcome, friends. Thank you for accepting my invitation, I’m honored.”
A voice so raspy it hurts to hear blurts out, “You a big shot now, Willie?”
Henry’s temper rises at such a quick clip that he is nearly knocked off his feet, “Who’s that?”
A chair creaks as a figure rises, cloaked in an overcoat and a slouch hat over his left eye. He walks to Henry with a tricky limp and gets a bit too close, “Who’d you kill for them clothes?”
“I had this suit made by a tailor in Santa Fe.”
“Welcome home, Bill.”
“Name’s not Bill.”
Henry leans in, “Name’s none of your fuckin business.’”
“Right.”
Jimmy turns and addresses the room, “Anybody knows anybody who ain’t here and oughta be, speak the fuck up. Now.”
The room somehow relaxes as the men settle in. Jimmy takes his time traveling back to his chair.
Henry takes Jimmy’s place, “Those who know me know I ain’t here. Those who don’t know me, I thank you for being here. I realize what it took for you all to make the trip to Mulberry, and I’m offering opportunity to make the trip worth your trouble.”
He removes his cap, “I been West.”
As he speaks, he meets every eye in the room, “Saw it all. Up close. Words don’t do justice to description. It’s a wide open world out there and I got a way to make use of it.”
He hangs his cap on a peg on the wall.
“I’m building a series of roads heading out West. Reason I asked you here is, I’m organizing a network of cargo hauling on these roads with the potential to turn business our way. Create commerce, legal or not. Anybody interested?”
More than a few walk out, leaving twelve men sitting in the darkness.
Henry takes off his jacket, hangs it on a peg.
“Times are evolving, opening doors of options that weren’t never imagined. It’s my hope we can find strength in trust and move into the future together, because I have an idea that will take us beyond the local and span the years into the future.”
He speaks low, “I’m gonna give our particular skills a reason to exist in an expanding landscape of commerce that will only grow more lush in time.”
A man knocks on a table, “How do we earn?”
“You pay protection for your wagon and cargo, along with a toll for the right to put wheel to road and you’ll be free to earn and practice commerce any way you choose. As long as it’s within the scope of ethics. Our ethics. Based on the morals of the Points and the traditions of the open sea.”
A man in the corner knocks three times on his table and the rest of the men do the same.
“If we form an alliance built on mutual earning and respect each other’s routes and interests, we got a private game that never ends.”
Another man pipes up, “What do you mean you’re gonna build roads? You gonna own them?”
“What I mean is none of your concern, I’m here asking if you want to do business on them or not.”
Henry knocks on the table, “It’d be a powerful union if we in this room were to organize. Who here has an interest in talking further?”
A man with a thick Sicilian accent perks up, “I got an interest.”
Henry recognizes the man and involuntarily wells up for a millisecond.
He rolls his sleeves down, “Give us a vote, Jimmy.”
Jimmy walks to Henry and knocks on the table with his ring, “Vote.”
Slowly, everyone in the room knocks three times on the tables and walls.
Jimmy turns to Henry, “All in.”
Henry looks from face to face, “Honored.”
Jimmy calls out, “Whiskey!”
Whiskey is delivered and candles are lit, revealing the faces of people from all over the world, together as one. Jimmy drinks his whiskey and shatters his glass on the floor, the other men do the same.
Henry raises his glass, “Onwards, friends, to the future.”
As the room erupts in conversation, Jimmy walks to Henry, “What’s the larger picture?”
Henry ignores him and puts his cap back on, “Thanks for the invites.”
“I don’t need thanks. Gimme some money.”
Henry peels a hundred from his billfold, “Set another meeting. Tomorrow night, same time.”
Jimmy smiles and a vertical scar straight down the right side of his face creases in a way that makes Henry wince.
“I knew you was different.”
Henry looks at him, “Different how?”
“We all knew how to fight.”
Jimmy thinks, “You took something from the fight. You advanced us, brought us business. You accomplished ideas. Then, one day, you was gone, and we was left empty handed.”
“I was never here.” Henry leans in, “Understand?”
Jimmy grins sending a waft of stink from inside his mouth, “You was here just as you’re here now. I know you. Keep that in mind, Billy Kid.”
He breaks from Henry and walks outside.
Henry makes a mental note of how a man who can’t be trusted can get in the way of the flow.
As he follows Jimmy down the steps, Henry takes Jimmy’s shoulder, spins him around and gently slides his knife through his ribs and into his heart, “You talk too much, Jim.”
Henry holds Jimmy’s eyes until they go vacant, then props him on a crate against the alley wall, his hat over his eyes.
As he cleans his knife on Jimmy’s coat, he slips the hundred from Jimmy’s vest pocket, whistles to the group of kids huddled in the darkness and hands the hundred to the smallest kid among them, “Split it even.”
He juts his chin to Samuel, who is watching from the top of the steps, “Tell them fellas, another meeting tomorrow night. Same time.”
Samuel catches up to Henry, who is already strolling down Mulberry Street, his mind sailing towards his future, as it manifests itself in every tap on every cobblestone that his stiff new lace-up boots can find.
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The sun vibrating and searing from Miami Beach’s ocean is blinding in a way that’s assaultive, asserting to the world the magnificent grandiosity of the Fontainebleau Hotel.
It’s the first day of the year, somewhere in the 80’s, and anxiety is running high for the Christmas and Hanukkah crowd from New York, Toronto, Philadelphia, Jersey, Montreal and Cleveland, all flying home tomorrow to frigid climes.
The daily morning lounge chair scramble is in full swing up at the pool under the shadow of the famous high dive platform towering against the sun way too high up in the air.
Pool attendants dart from lounge chair to lounge chair, robotically turning down the cushions at the speed of light, accepting folded twenties for placing starched white and bright blue towels to perfect spec, and accepting fifties and hundreds for holding the most cherished lounge chairs.
A few cocaine induced skirmishes spark among the husbands, but the fights are quickly quelled by the wives in their high hairdos and screaming jewelry, the morning sun sizzling their coconut oiled skin.
Even the seagulls are feeling the morning anxiety, wildly diving, swooping in low and fast, grabbing food right out of hands, scaring the living shit out of everyone involved.
In the cool, peaceful shade of a spacious royal blue private cabana on the beach, complete with a shower, Leo Sanger and Beatrice McCarty have just finished making love on a pillowed bed and are catching their breath.
Beatrice kisses him and leaves the bed to take a quick shower.
Leo slides on his Persols, wondering how Beatrice’s energy can be compassionate and so vicious all at the same time.
She dresses in an intricate yellow lace over-shirt and red Pashmina, wrapped just shy of her bikini line and pours fresh orange juice from a table offering fruit, coffee, ice water, tea and fresh blueberry muffins.
“Come back to bed, Beatrice. Please.”
“I have a meeting.” She hands a glass of juice to Leo and he gazes at her through Italian forest green glass, “Let’s have breakfast together.”
She holds up a blueberry muffin, “I only have time for this.”
“Where are the kids?”
“She’s safe with Will.”
“Beatrice, I beg you. Come back to bed.”
She smiles and lets her Pashmina fall to the floor.
Will and Veera are walking on the beach, far from the hotel, carrying sticks of drift wood to pop the blue neon hell-balloons, the Portuguese Man-O-War dotting the beach, careful not to step on their long translucent purple tentacles that deliver a painful venom stinging like your skin’s on fire.
Will is wearing Levi’s Five-O-Ones that he cut off and has an old knife with a heavy wooden handle sheathed on his belt.
As they stroll, he notices something bobbing in the waves and realizes it’s an old man in the water. He whips a knife off his belt, shoves it into the sand and dives into the ocean after the old man. He manages to pull him back to shore and lays him on the beach, as tourists gather around.
Veera stares into the man’s purple face, “Is he fuckin dead?”
“Come on.” Will scoops up his knife, “Let’s get outta here.”
As they walk, Veera pops a Man-O-War and steps directly onto its tentacles, “Willie! The motherfucker stung me! My foot’s on fuckin fire!”
Will tosses his stick, throws Veera over his shoulder and runs all the way back to the Fontainbleau with Veera screaming and crying the entire way.
He sits Veera on a bench in the Man-O-War Station and douses her foot with vinegar and gasoline.
A Lacoste clad family walking from the pool area to the beach pauses. The mother leans down to Veera to ask, “Are you okay, honey?”
Veera looks at her like she’s out of her mind, “No, lady, a motherfucking Man-O-War stung me. Can’t you see I’m crying?”
The woman is stunned, and becomes momentarily immobile. Her husband gently takes her hand and leads her away.
Will pours more vinegar, “Feeling better?”
Veera nods, “Thanks for helping me, Willie, I love you very much. You’re a very good big brother.”
“Thanks, Veera, I love you very much, too.”
Beatrice and Leo come running and Veera snaps back into screaming and crying even louder than before.
Leo picks Veera up and kisses her, “I heard you crying all the way from the cabana.” Veera hugs her father tight with one arm and holds up her foot with the other, “Ouchie.”
He kisses her foot, despite the vinegar and gasoline, “Did you step on another jellyfish?”
She sits up straight, “Dada. They’re not jellyfish, they’re a marine hydrozoan and they floated to Miami Beach all the way from Portugal. Can you believe it?”
Leo lowers his shades, “I can’t. I can’t believe it.”
Beatrice awkwardly rubs Veera’s back.
As Veera reaches her arms out for her mother, Beatrice hands her a blueberry muffin, but it drops before Veera can take it, and explodes into smithereens on the ground.
Veera looks down at the carnage of her Mama’s blueberry muffin as a storm of frantic seagulls engage in a vicious battle over bits of blueberry scattered on the ground.
Beatrice wraps her Pashmina around her Chanel bathing suit, “I have a meeting.”
She takes Will’s hand before he could respond and walks up the path from the beach to the pool. Leo follows, carrying Veera.
Will glances up to Beatrice, “Mama, where’s your meeting?”
“Here in the hotel.”
“Who with?”
“A man from the Union.”
“Can I come?”
“Don’t you want to go swimming?”
“I’d rather go to a meeting.”
Beatrice stops walking, “Sure, but, this time, please speak only if you have something to say. And if there are candies, leave them.”
“Deal. I don’t like candy anymore, anyhow. Gonna stick with Bazooka, cause it ain’t candy, it’s bubblegum.”
Beatrice corrects him, “It’s not candy.”
“Exactly. It’s bubblegum.”
When they arrive at the pool area, Beatrice hands Veera’s orange Pashmina to Leo, “Will’s coming with me.”
Leo nudges him, “Come on, Will, take a swim with us.”
Will shakes his head, “I already swam, rode a bunch of waves, pulled a dead guy out of the ocean. I had a full morning. We got a meeting.”
Beatrice winks to Leo, “Have fun on your Dada Day.”
Without a word, they turn and walk away, followed by an imposing man in a dark suit named Scratch, who sticks with Beatrice wherever she goes.
Leo watches Will walking away, and Veera sees the hurt in his eyes.
She tries to comfort him, “He loves you, Dada. It’s just, he doesn’t trust you.”
Leo grins as he watches his son walk away, “Smart boy.”
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Beatrice is throned on a raw silk baby blue armchair in a suite upstairs, caught in the midst of a long and wordless moment shared with a high strung man in a crew cut.
The man is teetering on the edge of his chair, sweating like mad in a green woolen suit, “Mr. Sanger. Ain’t he coming?”
Will is seated behind Beatrice, on a couch, chewing, snapping and blowing a pocketful of Bazooka bubble gum that he picked up from their suite, on the way.
“Is Mr. Sanger gonna be coming?”
Beatrice ignores him.
He wipes the back of his neck with a white handkerchief, “I know he don’t like me. I’m not sure you like me neither.”
She straightens her Pashmina, “How I feel about a person on a personal level never enters my mind in business relations. Unless the person in question is so reckless as to lead my business unnecessarily into troubled waters.”
The man shakes his head, “I ain’t doing that.”
Will blows a bubble. Beatrice stares.
“Is he coming, Mr. Sanger?” The man glances to Scratch, who is in a winged armchair, reading the Miami Herald.
Beatrice gazes out to sea through a wall of blue tinted floor to ceiling windows, “I’m here. Talk.”
“Sorry to bother you on your vacation. I can’t pitch this deal.”
“You have little choice in the matter.”
He clears his throat, “All due respect, Mrs. McCarty, ma’am.”
“Call me Beatrice.”
He wipes a bead of sweat from his chin, “Thank you. Sorry. I got a lot on my mind.”
Beatrice stares, “Oh, yeah?”
The man blows his nose in his handkerchief, “I got a bad feeling.”
Will pops a bubble.
The man blows his nose, “They don’t like me, this district, none of these politicians, none of the constituents, they say I talk too much and I’m pushy, which is bullshit. I ain’t freakin pushy, pardon the language. I’m hearing this through the grapevine. They won’t give me a chance with this deal, they won’t listen to me, no matter what. Am I clear?”
Beatrice makes eye contact, “You have a message to deliver that will assist workers and all you’ve got to be is honest.”
“Okay.” He blinks, “I understand.”
She holds steady, “The flow on the road has to work for everyone involved, especially for the drivers and those who work the road. Nothing is easy. Pull yourself together.”
“Yeah.”
“This deal is sound, all you need to do is deliver it.”
The man shakes his head, “They want to hear it straight from you.”
“Your entire job is to represent me.”
Beatrice packs a lacquered pipe with hash, “Our hands are on this wheel, never forget it. If you can’t represent us properly through the deal, resign here and now.”
“Fulfill your responsibilities.” She lights her pipe and inhales deep, “Do your job.”
His face flushes. She exhales.
“If I have to fly to Chicago to present this deal, this will not bode well for you. Let me tell you.”
“Yes, Mrs. McCarty. I understand.”
He picks up a glass of water and takes a sip, “I see how this deal benefits Drivers. I see how it works. I just can’t talk it.”
“What’s the matter with you, what the hell happened to you?”
“Truth is.”
He takes another sip and it spills down his tie, “My wife left me three months ago and I’m scared to talk in front of crowds. I’m even scared to go outside, you have no idea what it took me to get here.”
Beatrice glances out the window, “Thanks for your honesty.”
Will pops another bubble.
“You lost your nerve.”
Beatrice gazes out to sea, “It’s not the end of the world. We all lose our nerve at some point or another. You’d better find yours right about now and keep hold of it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you read the book?”
“Not since I was a driver. Been a while.”
“Read it again. It’ll help you to remember who you are.” She takes a sip of water, “After all, you’re working for me.”
He falls silent, his eyes to the floor.
“Look at me.” Beatrice holds his eye, “Serve your purpose.”
The man’s face flushes and nearly explodes.
Will chooses this moment to raise his hand, popping a bubble to draw attention to himself.
Beatrice turns, “Will, do you have something to say?”
Will shrugs, “Couple questions.”
The man’s eyes widen in disbelief as Will sits up and speaks with authority, “How many politicians do you have to flip to get this deal done for the drivers and road workers?”
The man’s head snaps straight back, as if slammed in the face with a six foot sturgeon, “Is this for real?”
Beatrice nods, “It’s a good question.”
“Six.” The guy shrugs, “Six politicians need to flip.”
Will snaps his gum, “Six ain’t bad.”
He unwraps and chews a piece of Bazooka, “The constituents, they’re road working people, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. They’re smart.”
Will blows a quick bubble, “By the time you land in Chicago, be ready to explain the deal to the drivers in plain language. Deliver it clear in simple terms and you’ll get the support of the constituents.”
“Once you have the people behind you, them six will hear the voice of the haulers and flip quick.”
The man turns to Beatrice, but she ignores him. Will snaps his gum, “Focus on the workers and what they need.”
He blows a bubble and offers the man a piece of Bazooka. The man nods as he quickly reads the cartoon, folds it and puts it in his pocket.
Will winks, “Don’t you think Gary Cooper was scared in High Noon? But, he pulled through. Right?”
“High Noon’s my favorite picture.”
“Act like it.” Will pops a bubble, “Stay focused. Pull it through.”
He unwraps and chews his next to last piece, “All due respect, you got to be able to vision down the road. And you gotta have patience to get where you’re going.”
The man blows a bubble.
Will meets his eye, “Folks need to trust you before they’ll listen to you, but you gotta trust yourself before anybody’s gonna trust you.”
The man nods.
Will leans in, “Land in Chicago with your balls intact and speak the truth of the deal. You can do that. Be simple.”
The man considers this and nods, “Yes.”
“Good.” Will stands, “Problem solved.”
The man nods and stands, “Beatrice, I had to fly down, I needed your confidence. I hope you don’t mind.”
Beatrice stands, “Find your own confidence.”
“Yes.” He nods, “Thank you. Okay. Yes.”
Scratch opens the door for Beatrice, and Will turns to the man, “How many years did you drive?”
“Forty-one years.”
“Long time.”
“I miss it. I’m thinking of driving again.”
“Just now, we need you where you are.”
The man nods.
Will leans in, “Be simple and discover the world.”
The man tilts his head, “Huh?”
Will makes himself clear, “I said, be simple. And discover the world.”
“Yeah.” A calm inner strength comes over the man, “I will.”
Will extends his hand, “Down the Road, sir.”
He shakes Will’s hand, “Down the Road, Mr. McCarty.”
Will catches up to Beatrice and they walk hand in hand down the hallway.
Scratch pushes the button and stands between both elevators in front of Beatrice and Will, who wraps his hunk of Bazooka and puts it in the ashtray, “Mama, when are we going home?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No, not home to New York. I mean home to New Mexico.”
She puts her hand to Will’s cheek, “I love you very much.”
“I love you very much, but I love you more in New Mexico.”
“I love me more in New Mexico, too.”
One of the elevators opens, but it’s too filled to enter.
Will confides, “I love the city, everything about it, but I need the road.”
“The road needs you.”
She takes Will’s hand, “How about a snack?”
“I got a poker game in the solarium with some old guys, pals of Lepke.”
Scratch contains a laugh. Beatrice looks to him, “Are you encouraging this?”
Will laughs, “Nobody has to encourage me.”
He unwraps and chews his last piece of Bazooka, “I organized the game myself.”
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