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Number Twelve: Edgar Allan Poe
At first, this hole seems unusually
plain. The eerie master poet peers at his pocketwatch, a raven on his shoulder.
The twist is revealed in Mr. Blaine’s blueprints. The design originally called
for Niagara Falls, but also for a pendulum balanced directly over the cup. When
still, the pendulum blocks the ball from its goal; when set into motion, it
allows a brief window of time during which the player may make his attack.
David hears a siren and watches as an
ambulance makes its way toward town. When he returns to his leg presses, he
finds Abbey hovering over him, smiling.
“How do you do that?”
“The natural slyness of the poet. Are
you in therapy?”
“By which you mean…?”
“School’s out, no jazz gig, nothing
to do. So you lift weights.”
He performs two more presses.
“In my defense, I often lift weights
when I have no worries whatsoever.”
“Ah.”
“But today it’s therapy. Give me a
kiss.”
She leans down very slowly and plants
her lips on his.
“Now that’s therapy.”
“Charmer.”
“Temptress. How’s the old man?”
Abbey looks sideways to signal a sore
subject.
“Not good at all. Miserable. He told
me the toughest part of his autumn disappearance was giving up the band. Now
he’s got the band, and nowhere to play. So ya wanna fool around?”
“Well!” says David. “I’m glad we
wrapped up that subject.”
“It does Uncle Billy no harm if I
screw his best friend. In fact…”
“Best friend? What about Frankie
Minor?”
“Creep city. The whole time he was
here, he was putting the moves on me. Thank God
he’s gone. Besides, who’s done more for Billy than you?”
“To which I would say, who’s done
more for me than Billy?”
She slips a leg over his body like a
slo-mo ballerina. He does a couple of rigorous presses, which leaves her
hanging on like a bronc buster. She collapses forward and gives him a kiss.
“Reciprocity,” she says. “The
hallmark of any sound relationship.”
“So yes, I’d love to fool around. But
I’ve got twenty final papers I absolutely have to finish. Could I come by
around midnight?”
“You can do that?”
“I am the most unmarried of married
men.”
Abbey smiles and stares at him in a
way that demands a response.
“What are you looking at?”
“Never in a million years could I
have predicted the insanity of the life that I am living.”
“Are you happy?”
“That’s
the insanity.”
“Midnight?”
“Absolutely.”
She covers him with a tonguey smooch.
“I will screw you until you whimper
like a little boy.”
“God, I hope so.”
She withdraws her leg like a slo-mo
gymnast and makes for the door, maximizing her waggle.
“Bye, little boy.”
Abbey heads down the hall to the
music of shifting weights. She looks toward the overhead lights and says,
“Please let me keep this one.”
Even on Friday night, an 11:30 shower
would seem suspicious, but David is leading an unwitnessed life. Derek is out
with Jenny (David finds himself rerunning all their sex talks, hoping he’s
covered all the bases). Pablo as always, is working. And Elena is in the living
room, crying.
David stands in the hallway, a few
steps from slipping out unnoticed. But he can’t. Too much history. He settles
on an ottoman and touches Elena’s knee. Her eyes are bloodshot, her face worn
with rubbing and wiping.
“Honey?”
He hasn’t used the word for months –
not for Elena. She calms for a second, but then she quivers into a fresh
outburst. He perches on the arm of the recliner and rubs the back of her neck.
This is her pain center; this usually helps. But he feels the weight of passing
time, glances at the clock over the mantel. A minute later, she manages to eke
out some words.
“Wife. Fat… like me. Lost weight,
but… fat again. Doesn’t… need me.”
Well, thinks
David. Who’s being superficial now?
Can you punch a man for breaking up with your wife?
“I’m sorry,” he says. Five endless
minutes later, she’s still crying. Every cell of his physical being is gravitating
toward Abbey. He reviews the situation, reminds himself of the things to which
his semi-wife is not entitled.
“Honey? I really have to go. Is
there… Is there something I can get for you?”
Elena suffers a brief attack of
hiccuping. When the words finally make their way through, they’re like sounds
written in sand.
“Ice cream.”
David wants to laugh out loud.
Elena’s real lover is a dairy-based
dessert.
“Rocky Road?”
She nods. He gets up to go. She grabs
his hand and gives it a kiss.
He leaves the house and stands
outside in a low-lying fog. He considers joining the rest of the town in
signing up with Parthenia. But now that his family’s second income is gone, he
can’t afford Parthenia. Perhaps if he
screws Abbey silly he’ll feel better. He feels a vibration in his pocket.
“Hi honey. Sorry. Little family
thing.”
The answer comes in a cloying
falsetto.
“Well you betta hully up, big boy, ‘cause me velly
horny!”
“Asshole.”
Isaiah returns to his usual baritone.
“I take it you were expecting someone else?”
“Jesus. What the hell do you want?”
“I want you to meet me at the
Quinault lounge as soon as you can get here.”
“You have got to be…”
“Abbey’s coming, too. And Billy. Huge
news, buddyboy! But I can’t tell you till you get here, so get here. Bye-eeh!”
And he’s gone. What was it that Abbey
said about the insane life? David hops into his truck and cranks the defogger.
The fog at the Quinault is as thick
as crystal pudding. David navigates the gentle S-curves across the canal and
pulls into the parking lot, where an army of streetlamps etches perfect cones
in the moist air. He steps through the entrance, cuts left to the lounge and
finds Abbey speed-walking in his direction. She smacks into him and attempts a
body-meld, erasing all his margins. When he comes up for air, he says “Yi!”
She gives him a pleased smile. “Nice
stiffie you’ve got there. You plan on walking around with that thing?”
“Serves ‘em right. Cutting into my
nookie. This had better be good.”
She takes his hand and leads him into
the lounge. David slips his other hand into his pocket and makes a necessary
adjustment. Billy is sitting next to the fireplace with some kind of tiny
drink.
“Old man!”
“Middle-aged man!”
“What the hell have you got there?”
“The opposite of starboard is…”
“Port!”
“Want some?”
He waves to a native woman sitting at
the long-closed espresso bar. She takes his order and is back with David’s port
within thirty seconds. He takes a sip – it’s pungent, and sweet, and good – and watches as the woman returns
to her post.
“Okay. So what’d you do, win a
jackpot?”
“I think she’s the liquor fairy. Ever
since I announced myself at the desk, I have been treated like a fucking
sheik.”
David takes the armchair opposite.
Abbey sits in his lap, which is doing nothing to ease his wardrobe malfunction.
“Really, you two. Get a room!”
David kisses Abbey on the neck and
laughs. “You’re the sheik. Why don’t you get us a room?”
Isaiah’s booming laughter echoes in
the hallway. He enters as the peak of an odd triangle, accompanied by the
six-four Thomas Blaine and a five-five native with a close-trimmed beard and a
perfect brown suit. The man makes a fast break and pumps Billy’s hand as if it
might deliver oil.
“Billy Saddle!”
“Small world!” says Billy. “That’s my
name, too!”
The short man delivers a lo-hi laugh
that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“Ha-haah! I am Charley Nations. And I take it this is
David Falter, bass player and history teacher. But this woman in your lap. I
was unaware that we were hosting a beauty pageant.”
Abbey giggles like a little girl.
“Oh Charley,” says Thomas. “You are a
smoothie.”
“I am a banana smoothie.”
Isaiah cuts in. “I believe Mr.
Nations would like to take us on a tour.”
“The basketball player is correct,”
says Charley. “Please, follow me. Do you all like champagne?”
“Of course!” says Billy.
Charley stops to whisper to the
liquor fairy, then continues down a long back hallway. Halfway along, it turns
into a construction walkway, a tunnel of bare plywood and two-by-fours. They
split a plastic sheet at the end and emerge into a cavernous, overlit room
filled with toolbelted natives and cedar sawdust.
The focal point is a broad stage at
the opposite corner. The wall behind the stage features three enormous
portraits: an Orca, a bald eagle and a bear. The cedar walls at either side are
spotted by gelatinous gray-green diamonds, growing in number as they near the
carnivores. David squints and realizes that the diamonds are salmon. Charley
spots his gaze and smiles.
“Those salmon are the creation of
Ernest Jolly, a Chinook ceramicist, and I will tell you two amazing things
about them. One: each of them is set into the wall, meaning some arduous and
precise cutting on the part of our woodworkers. Two: there are 248 salmon on
these walls, and every single one is based on a specific, individual fish.
Ernest spent three months traveling to different villages and sketching their
catches. It is a spectacular creation, a project perhaps only a madman would
undertake. We call this Salmon Hall. And that’s the stage. Why don’t you try it
out, Mr. Saddle?”
He says this in the tone of a
salesman inviting a customer to try on a jacket. Billy climbs a set of steps
and takes the stage, strolling to left and right exactly as if he’s performing
a song.
“Nice. Real nice.”
“Glad you like it,” says Charley.
“Now, please, everyone. I had them lay out a little snack for us.”
They adjourn to a handsome cedar
table along the back wall, out of the way of the workers. Each setting includes
a plate of food, a small dessert bowl and a champagne glass.
“This is what we call our Local
Flavors menu. Smoked salmon, steamed mussels, fresh huckleberries and sparkling
wine, all of them produced or harvested within a hundred miles of the casino.
Okay, well – the wine is from Yakima.”
David takes a bite of salmon. “Man!
So how far will you stretch the mystery, Mr. Nations? Are you going to give us
the lowdown?”
“Yes – but please, everyone, sit.
Thank you. Excellent. Now, as you may be aware, Isaiah has been lending his
talents to special events here at the casino. And getting rave reviews.”
“Thank you,” says Isaiah.
“Last week he told me some
fascinating stories about your lead singer. Apparently, his eagerness to
procure a sports souvenir has knocked his life somewhat awry.”
Billy lets loose with his special
high-pitched laugh.
“Ha! The way you put it, it doesn’t
sound so bad.”
“And it seems that Mr. Saddle’s
reappearance has caused a bit of a ruckus, as well. And that soon a story in
Sports Illustrated will multiply that ruckus exponentially. I trust you will
not be wearing a swimsuit.”
Abbey fights back a giggle.
“I am also informed that Mr. Saddle
is a phenomenal artist, and since this opinion comes from Isaiah, I am inclined
to believe it.”
He takes a moment to chew on a
huckleberry.
“Mmm! I never tire of these. Now, let
me tell you my side of this tale. I am told that this hall of ours is a
one-in-a-million phenomenon: a construction project that will actually be
completed three months ahead of schedule.”
“Wow!” says David.
“Yes. As bad as the economy has been,
it is always much worse in the nations, and so our people have been eager to
work. There is a catch, however. This ultra-punctuality does me no good. The
task of booking performers requires much advance notice, and so I was resigned
to wait until March to bring our creation to the public. Now, however, I have
discovered a trio of diamonds in my own back yard. I would like the Billy
Saddle Trio to play Salmon Hall, beginning on New Year’s Eve.”
Abbey, David and Billy sit in stunned
silence. Billy turns to look at the stage.
“Me,
up there?”
“But what about the ruckus?”
Charley smiles. “Allow the Indian to
use a cowboy analogy. That ruckus of yours is a wild bronco. But what contains
danger also carries power. And I have just the forces to lasso that ruckus.
Your most obvious problem is security. We’re a casino; security is part of the
business. On the upside, I have the chance to plant photos of Salmon Hall in
papers across the country, courtesy of the long-awaited baseball recluse. I
will have earned my entire year’s salary on the first day of January! That is well worth the ruckus.
“I am prepared to offer you a
year-long contract. Five thousand for the initial performance, three thousand
for each Friday night after that. I asked your lawyer friend to review the
contract before this meeting.”
Thomas’s official summary consists of
a wink and a thumbs-up.
“To give you a further idea of what
I’m offering you,” says Charley, “our other
New Year’s performer, playing in the main auditorium, is Dwight Yoakam.”
“Yoakam!” says Billy. “I love that
guy. David? What do you think?”
“I say get us a pen before Mr.
Nations changes his mind!”
Billy stands and shakes Charley’s
hand.
“Charley, you have rescued me from
despondency.”
Charley flashes a PR man’s smile.
“That was not my prime motivator, but I will take it as a happy by-product.”
Photo by MJV
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