Stealing Fire (21 page)

“Did you leave drawings in the dining tent?”

“Absolutely not. I had new ideas for the Guggenheim. Also, I worked on that atheist's house. Ayn Rand—how do you even pronounce ‘Ayn'? I figured a few ways to pare dollars off her design. Olgivanna's right. She'll entertain movie stars and other people with means. Besides, I like the glamour and the masks and the show that goes with the business. In a way, I feel like I'm in show business, too.”

He was right about that one. He was the P. T. Barnum of the world of architecture. Lots of talk, promises, juggling, and when you've just about had it because a clown honked your nose, there is a magic act to end all. Something splendid appears. Wright was the one who created doves out of thin air and sent them soaring.

“Where are your drawings now?”

“I folded up the paper tablecloth and stuck it in my pocket. It's safe.”

“I'm going to ask you for something big. Give me that piece of paper just for tonight. It's not safe here, but I'll put it where it is.”

“I want it on my person.”

“Mr. Wright, you can't guarantee the safety of your new drafts, not when you're asleep and your pants are draped on the back of a chair. I can.”

He didn't know the original plans were in Harry Goulding's gun safe, and I'd take care of these, too.

Reluctantly, he fished it out and handed it over.

“Ever use any of your old drafts for inspiration?”

“Nothing worse than sticking with old work. Mires you down. Always best to act as if you're starting off new and use the old drawings for a base to work from. When the deadline is looming, and a client is about to yank the whole project, then you sit down and put all your ideas and drafts into one. Fast. And you hope the entire glorious project comes together.”

“Yours do.”

“Not always. And of course there are design fads. I don't go with them. I don't care about them.”

I enjoyed this man. He came upon inspiration as easily as drawing breath. I was glad he had lived long, and hoped he'd have many more years.

“When I step outside,” I said to him, “I'll get Grandpa in. Then you lock the door.”

“Thank you. I know this has been a lot more than you bargained for. It certainly has been more than I expected. I promise you'll receive a bonus. I will see to it personally.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Grandpa had wandered away from the door frame. I walked into the night air and saw him propped against a tumbling-down barn wall looking at the sky. No flowering jasmine. No bougainvillea. No viola music wafting across the sky as buoyant as petals on a river. But there they were, above, my stars, the ones I knew by name. The ones that only seemed to dance when I was in this part of the world. My world.

Maybe Grandpa was looking at the same stars. I remembered my mother telling me not to let him get too attached to the trading post again. He wasn't attached to that. He knew his place on the planet and he loved it.

Then he fell over.

*   *   *

I'd always had a flair for acting, but this time? I'd gone over the top. It was something my father wouldn't have approved of or I could have had a career. Life was long … maybe I could still have a real career. Being on a movie set was exciting.

But talk about trouble. I'd sat in with the old Indian—he was related to the younger one, so I figured that's what he was, too—when he chatted with Wright. He pulled out a deck of cards. Definitely an Indian—I'd heard about their gambling problems. No self-control at all—that was the problem with Indian people.

I was invited to join the game. A great opportunity. If the old men got drunk, and I kept them drinking, I'd be able to get some information out of them.

As it turned out, Wright was useless. No way to pump him. He just sat there and drew and thought and sketched homes and a department store. He sketched some roof lines. Not one word out of him.

On the other hand, the old Indian guy, Mose his name was, was real chatty. He didn't have one word to say that interested me, but he sure could put away the booze. He reeked. I couldn't keep up with him, had to stay sharp. Just one clue and I'd be on my way to getting what I wanted. Helen and the drafts for the Guggenheim.

Just around dawn the old man's relative showed up. Turned out it was his grandson. I'll say this much for Indians—they sure have a lot of energy. No Jew in the world could match their capacity for gambling and drinking. I knew that from experience.

The grandson, Yazzie, helped me up, and I wandered off to my tent, staggering every now and then for effect. I looked back. The old man had fallen over. The grandson was going to have plenty of trouble getting that big guy, dead weight, back into his room. As for the drafts, I had learned something. Wright was never without them.

 

Thirty-four

“Honestly, what do you think you are?” I said. “Sixteen years old, lying behind the barn, drunk on moonshine?”

“I didn't grow up in a house with a barn, as you well know, but I did grow up drinking wine at the Santa Fe table from the time I was twelve.”

My grandfather sounded completely lucid. The world had just done a somersault.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I fell over because I thought there was a stump next to me. I was going to put my elbow on it, lean over, and look down that wash. Except there wasn't a stump. Just the dead, hollow trunk of a tree that would hold about twelve pounds. No big deal.”

“The fall did a good job of sobering you up.”

“Yazzie, sometimes you act like you were born yesterday. I was never drunk, not for one moment.”

“You put on a very convincing show.”

“That was the plan.”

“Who was the show for?”

“The security guard. I wanted to get him drunk and see if there was anything there.”

“And?”

“Not sure.”

“Why the security guard? He seems like one of Ford's regulars. Unless he gets that blasted again, in which case he'll be out of a job.”

“Something about that guy … I've had a life filled with Indian people of every kind. Jews of every kind. Californios, Norte Mexicanos, Mexicans, a few Italians, and Celts who came and worked their asses off for less money than builders paid Mexicans. But I can't figure out that guy.”

“You ever been around someone just in from Ireland?”

“That's a problem right there. I haven't.”

“They're immigrating here again,” I said, “because the war was hard. Didn't want to side with the Brits, for obvious reasons. Couldn't tolerate Hitler. For some, it seems like home might be America.”

“Right.”

“Do you know,” I said, “there are more Irish in America now than there are in Ireland?”

“You hear that from John Ford?”

“Yep.”

“Enough about all that,” Grandfather said, “and on to what's important. How is Iris?”

“Exhausted and sound asleep.”

“What did the sheriff say?”

“They wanted to arrest her for murder, but the facts got them confused—as in there was no body. They let her go.”

“Did they tell her not to leave the state in case they want to talk with her again? Because we're leaving, whether it's all right with them or not.”

“No, they were too stymied to remember that one.”

“Thank God.”

“The Flagstaff lawyer Ford got was better than anyone thought. Plus, the sheriff's wife had quite a spell over John Wayne being in her house. If Wayne said Iris hadn't killed anyone and the sheriff had still arrested her, I believe the man would have been sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.”

“What was Wayne like, you know, as a regular guy?”

“A lot like you, but younger. His political opinions are as different as could be. But, yes, a lot like you.”

“I guess that's a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Do we phone Frieda and tell her that Iris is all right?”

“I'll take care of it.”

“Good.”

He heaved a mighty sigh. Suddenly his face froze, and it drooped to one side. His words were slurred. It was slight, but I'd been through several phases of his stroke, and I heard it—the confusion, the trouble with words.

“Them moving here … Ford told me the same thing,” he said. “My opinion? The Irish will take over, and we'll be sorrier for it.”

“Grandfather? Calm down.”

“You calm down. These new people don't even know their roots. I asked Finnerty about the troubles. He had no idea what I was talking about.”

The slur was slowing down, but his agitation was on the rise. Bad sign.

“Maybe he calls them something else.”

“Tells me he's from Dublin,” Grandfather said.

“Yes?”

“And he's never heard of James Joyce.”

“I'd hate to have you on a jury. Probably plenty of country Irish folks haven't.”

“I don't like him and I don't trust him.”

“You're a hard case.” That was meant to cheer him up. It didn't.

I was trying to get him on his feet—no luck. I'd run and get the nurse when he settled down. I wasn't going to leave him alone. I thought about my grandfather telling me he felt terrible about not getting a nurse for my grandmother when she was in childbirth, except he couldn't stand the idea of leaving her when she needed him. I said a prayer, and I didn't care which god heard it. Or if The God heard it. It flew to the universe—a plea for help.

“Listen,” he said, harsh and studied, “an Irishman who doesn't know about the troubles, who tells me he's from Dublin, but he's been to Belfast and enjoyed himself quite a lot? He's either not Irish or he's an embarrassment to his family.”

He was worked up, and over absolutely nothing. I reached out to take his pulse.

“Don't do that.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that—”

“Every time I have a strong opinion, everyone thinks I'm having another stroke.”

“I'm trying to take care of you.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Grandpa, what were you drinking? Was it white lightning?”

“I told you I didn't take a drop. And what if I really
don't
like the Irish?”

“Don't let Ford hear you say that.”

“They couldn't decide which side of the fence to jump on during the war when bombs were flying right over their heads. Only looking for another drink.”

“Let's get you into bed.”

“I'm not a child.”

“Stop acting like one.”

Grandpa hung his head, and the tears rolled down his face. “You're right.”

“It's okay.” My grandfather was in serious trouble. I'd seen him when he'd had too much to drink. It was never anything like this. He was tanking.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “I played the race card. I never even knew I held one. The trouble is with me, not with that young man.”

“Grandfather?” My arms were around him, and he had fallen back into my chest.

“I love you, Yazzie.”

“And I love you.”

It was then I heard a snick and the snap of thick leather.

 

Thirty-five

Grandfather jumped up and pushed me to the side. He'd yanked off his belt and opened the Mexican knife hidden inside his buckle. The drunk was suddenly agile.

“You need help here?” It was Finnerty, brows furrowed, face angry.

“Grandpa, put the knife away and buckle your belt.”

Finnerty must have heard us arguing from his tent.

“My grandfather doesn't seem right in the head. He needs to lie down.”

Finnerty helped me push Mose up the hill. One side of his body was limp. “God almighty,” Finnerty said, “I'm sweating like a pig.” He pulled off his overcoat, slammed it over his shoulder, and helped me hoist Grandfather into the cabin. Wright was restless, turning over and over, covers and clothes and shoes everywhere.

“Run get the nurse, will you?” I said to Finnerty.

“I can't leave you here like this.”

“Please get the nurse.”

Just then Wright woke up and raised himself in his twin bed, bleary-eyed. My grandfather let out a mighty bellow. “Leave me alone!”

“Mose,” Wright said, “good God!”

“Calm down,” Finnerty said to Wright. “We don't need both of you having a fit.” He tried to tuck the covers in around Wright, as if he was settling a baby back to sleep.

“Get out of my way, young man!”

Wright pushed, but Finnerty was determined to have the men settled in. He tucked the covers in around Grandpa.

He took hold of Wright. “Lay down with you now.”

More shuffling with the covers, more straightening out this little piece of the world, which was definitely cockeyed.

“Finnerty,” I said, “leave Wright alone and get the crew nurse. Her tent is two to the west of the mess tent.”

He pulled his wool coat back on and started to take off.

“Wait,” I said to him. “What were you two drinking?”

“Irish whiskey. A gift from Ford to your grandfather.”

“Seal was tight?”

“I dunno. It was your grandfather cracked open the bottle.”

“Do you feel all right, Finnerty?”

“Fit as a fiddle, except for wrestling with these fellows,” he said. “Going to grab that nurse now.”

Before he headed out the door, he leaned over Mose, checking his eyes.

Mose made a deep sound that came from his gut. Sounded like he was going to be sick all over Finnerty. The Irishman took off before the inevitable.

My grandfather was calming down. Wright untangled himself from the covers. After Finnerty's work, they were as tight as a straitjacket.