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The Friday night gig presents an
agony of absence. A fierce storm has declared war on the oceanfront, pelting
the windows. Deprived of his clove cigarette, David sits inside over a plate of
fries and an orange soda. Abbey’s having a girls’ night out with Señora Vitanza
and Fyona Medvedev, a science instructor. It’s better this way; seeing the trio
minus her uncle would be a big dirty bag of downer.
The only possible upside is the
chance to rediscover the musical force that is Isaiah. He’s playing “Caravan”
in free time, copping out of the regular meter to take artful digressions, like
side paths at the oasis. One of these trails keeps going until it turns into
Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique Symphony. David leaves his cheap plastic food to take
up the bass.
Isaiah surveys the room, seven
scattered refugees from the Ocean Shores weatherwheel of chance. He opens his
fake book to “Stormy Weather.” David’s right with him, a diminished duet on a
session of voiceless mourning.
“You’re kidding, right?”
They’re wading across the parking
lot, over an inch-deep sheet of water maintained by the velocity of the
downpour.
“We’re gonna sit in your truck and
drink? That is so pathetique.”
“Oh hush,” says Isaiah. “And behold!”
It’s a camper, settled over the truck
bed like a shell on a snail. He opens the back door, flips on the lights and
waves David inside. The interior is done up like a British pub: red velvet
curtains, red vinyl upholstery, black walls, a fold-up table of fake walnut.
Along the right-hand side stands a five-foot slice of an actual bar: varnished
cherry wood, a brass steprail. Isaiah slips behind it, whips out a pair of
tumblers and fills them with ice. He reaches underneath and conjures bourbon,
vermouth and a jar of cherries.
“Manhattans?”
“By all means! Where’d you get the
bar?”
“You remember Fishman’s? Up in
Moclips?”
“Vaguely.”
“They went out of business, sold
everything. They had an L-shaped bar; this was the tail.”
David rattles the ice in his glass
and takes a sip.
“I may just stay out here all night.”
“Yeah,” says Isaiah. “We, my friend,
have been swimming in the deep end of the talent pool.”
“And the lifeguard just left.”
“Yep.”
Isaiah puzzles his long frame behind
the bench.
“I’m assuming we should just wait
till next summer to find a new singer.”
“Unless Nina Simone walks in.”
“Two problems: she’s dead, and when
she’s not dead, she plays piano. So no word on Billy?”
“The man is committed. When he
vamooses, he vamooses.”
Isaiah opens a cigar box next to the
window, revealing an ashtray, a lighter and a pack of clove cigarettes.
“You are the man.”
“Yes I am. Now give me the lowdown on
these kids of yours.”
David lights and puffs. The feel of
smoking indoors – even in a camper – is tremendously illicit.
“Alas, poor Derek is off at Hoquiam
High, paying for his newfound fame by shooting photos in a monsoon.”
Isaiah grins. “Imagine the babeage
you could pull with that job.”
“Well, anybody else, yes.”
“Yeah, but at least it’ll give him an
opening. Girls love having their
picture taken. Better give him the condom talk.”
“Hey, give me a little credit. Told him
when he was twelve.”
“How ‘bout Pablo?”
“Three.”
“And how is The Natural?”
“Born manager. He is really in his element. He also has some
top-secret project he’s going to show me. Soon as the deluge passes.”
“And the wife?”
“Man! You are thorough.” He steals a
moment by taking a drag. “Okay. I am drafting you as my confessor. Will you
afford me doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Isaiah raises his right hand. “I do
solemnly swear, et cetera.”
“The wife is wholly content. But, with someone else. A chubby chaser.
On the upside, I am now free to boink Abbey Sparling at will.”
Isaiah lets out a roar of laughter.
“I really hate to say this, because it sounds so Machiavellian, but you have found a perfect situation.”
“Yes. Veddy European. Sophisticated.
Unspoken agreements.”
David gets a little lost in visions,
pieces of Abbey floating past in the too-closeness of embrace.
“It is so good. I never dreamed. We already had that comfort level,
because we’re friends. But we’ve also had this constant flirtation – so that’s
the water in the reservoir and let’s call my mistaken devotion to fidelity the
concrete dam. Suddenly Chubby Chaser comes along, cranks open the floodgates.
Ho-lee shit. The energy of all that release is just overpowering.”
David brings his gaze back into the
camper and finds Isaiah with his eyes to the ceiling, looking a little stoned.
“Ah yes,” says the big man. “I know
exactly that feeling.”
“You, um, do?”
He gives David a shit-eating grin.
“Parthenia.”
“You dog! You’re screwing ths
shrink?”
“We prefer to eschew such vulgar
terminology. We’re veddy European. Another Manhattan?”
“Encore! My God, we have virtually
wallpapered your camper with filthy gossip.”
“Yes.” Isaiah tosses three cubes into
each tumbler. “And now it is truly a home.”
Two weeks
later, the orbits of Pablo’s schedule, David’s schedule and the fickle autumn
weather finally achieve convergence. They stop by Steven’s Doughnuts and sit at
a back booth to savor their fritters and maple bars. David gets the odd feeling
that his son is courting him, like a college coach with a promising prospect.
If he’s not careful, he might end up flipping pizzas.
“So get me up-to-date on the Billy
thing. Did he leave a note?”
“Yep. The
expected stuff: had a great summer, hate to leave, et cetera.”
“Ah. So how’d the AP interview go?”
Where do you see yourself in five years?
“Well, it
reminded me of something. We’re all a little overexposed to the sleazy tabloid
reporters of the world, but really most of the mainstream press is peopled by
folks who want to get it right. The AP guy, Kevin something – very low-key,
very serious. Asked me for confirmation on Billy’s identity, I referred him to
Abbey. Asked me about Billy’s mental state, what kind of guy he was, any idea
where he went. And ya know? The story pretty much got it right.”
“Hmm.” Pablo
sips from his orange juice. “Any idea on distribution?”
What would you say is your biggest weakness?
“Most of the
big dailies carried it. Maybe twenty used your brother’s photo, which excited
him no end.”
Pablo rolls
his cartoon eyes. “Don’t I know it.”
“But you
know, all in all it was less of a circus than I expected. Couple of follow-up
calls – Seattle, Memphis, Washington Post. Sports Illustrated asked for an
interview with Billy if he ever reappears. The way Billy talked about it, you
expected the National Guard to roll in. It just wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“You think
he’ll ever come back?”
David suppresses a sigh. He’s hoping
this isn’t the topic of the day.
“Doubt it.
Not based on Billy’s track record. It’s almost like he’s got post-traumatic
stress disorder. Someone finds out his name and bam! He’s gone.”
Pablo raises
a finger. “It’s like that fairy tale. That creepy little guy.”
“Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Yeah!”
“All right,”
says David. “Enough of this. What’s the big mystery?”
“Can’t tell
you a thing. First you must see.”
“What’re
you, Yoda?”
A short
drive later, they pull up at the abandoned lot next to McKenzie’s Bar. The
place is so non-descript that it has never really scratched the surface of
David’s radar. From the street it’s nothing but a high stretch of fencing,
covered in ivy, topped with razor wire. Pablo heads for the gate and undoes the
padlock. The lot is enormous, and populated by goats, chewing upon a series of
grass-covered mounds. Front and center stands a large white tent, a little
beaten up by the recent storms. Pablo walks that way while delivering a
prologue.
“Laney’s big
into real estate, and he kept an eye on this place for a long time. As soon as
it fell into county possession, he bought it at auction. He really didn’t know
what he was going to do with it – maybe open a bigger restaurant if the demand
was right – so for years it just sat here. He never assumed there was anything
back here; it was totally overgrown with brambles. But one day he noticed one
of these mounds. Well here, check this out.”
Pablo goes
to a mound to the right of the tent and shoos away a goat.
“Got these
guys from a goat-rental company. We’re using them to get rid of the
undergrowth.”
He crouches
at the base of the mound and pulls up a fistful of grass. The soil beneath is
hard-baked, almost ceramic.
“Kinda looks
like stucco, right? So Laney took a sledge hammer, gave it a good whack and
punched a hole in it. Then he reached in and pulled out a handful of sand.
Like, beach sand. Naturally, he had
to find out if there was something under the sand – and for that, we proceed to
the big white tent.”
He unzips
the flap and takes him inside, then hits the button on a battery-powered
lantern. Most of the interior is taken up by a blue tarp, staked down over
something with decidedly non-organic edges.
“What he
discovered,” says Pablo, “is that someone had gone to great lengths to preserve
what is under that tarp. A whole lot
of sand, under a cap of adobe. The beauty of adobe – a mix of mud and clay – is
that stuff will grow in it, which makes for great
camouflage. And now for our presentation.”
David is
impressed at Pablo’s showmanship – the way he has built up suspense over what
lies under the tarp, carefully avoiding any hints about its identity. There’s
definitely a good streak of blarney in the family tree.
He unclips
the corners of the tarp and pulls it back to reveal a remarkable assemblage in
gray cement. The top ridge is lined with towers and battlements, leading
downhill through a zig-zag of terraces and low walls. Pablo smiles, watching
his dad’s face as he puzzles it out.
“Imagine you
are looking at a black-and-white photograph.”
“My God,”
says David. “It’s Macchu Picchu.”
“Give the
man a cigar!”
“But… what’s
it doing here?”
“Hold on,”
says Pablo. He steps to a spot behind the center tower and pulls something from
his pocket. A white ball rolls through the tower gate, strikes the first low
wall and runs to the right. At the end it drops to another wall, and runs to
the left. Finally, it reaches an opening and tumbles to the dirt at David’s
feet. He picks it up. The ball says Titleist.
“Holy shit!”
“How many
mounds would you guess are contained in this lot?”
“I’m
guessing eighteen.”
“Donny, show
him what he’s won! And if the rest are anything like this one, you are looking
at Ocean Shores’ newest tourist attraction. My
assignment, in my meager spare time, is to uncover them all and see what we can
do for greens.”
“Wow! So
what’s the other side look like?”
Pablo slides
the tarp all the way off, revealing a ramp leading to three slots. The center
slot funnels the ball into the tower; the right and left slots lead to
sink-like depressions with holes at the bottom.
“Check
inside there: galvanized pipes. These lead to exit holes at the bottom of
Macchu Picchu, providing much-less-generous angles to the green. And check out
the lettering.”
The walls on
either side of the tower feature raised block letters: MACCHU PICCHU.
“God, Pablo.
It’s like you’ve discovered the Ark of the Covenant. The Treasure of the Sierra
Madre. Do you have any idea who did this?”
“Aha! That’s
where you come in. As Indiana Jones
is not available, Laney and I were wondering if you might look into this. I can
offer you nothing but free pizza, and your eldest son’s undying devotion.”
It’s a moot
question, of course. David was hooked at first sight; he has to know the story behind this thing. He rubs his chin as if
he’s thinking of saying no.
“And a
lifetime pass for miniature golf?”
“Of course.”
“You got a
deal.”
Photo by MJV
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