Coyote Blue (7 page)

"Close the door, son. You want to bake us?"

Samson closed the door as the car started moving. "It's cool in here, and it smells good."

The driver, still smiling, looked down at Samson and tipped the straw skimmer he was wearing. He was the fattest man Samson had ever seen and he was wearing a powder-blue suit the same shade as the car; he filled the driver's seat like a bagful of sky. Up close Samson could see that the man's skin was pink from little veins that ran through it like road maps.

"Thank you kindly, son. Name's Commerce. Lloyd Commerce, purveyor of the world's finest cleaning apparatus, the Miracle."

He held out a fat hand to Samson. Samson shook two of the giant fingers with his right hand. He let his left drop near the handle of his hunting knife. "I don't know what that is," Samson said. "I'm Samson Hunts Alone."

"You don't know about the Miracle? Well, Samson Hunts Alone, let me tell you: in a few years the Miracle will be the standard by which all vacuum cleaners will die. In a few years, if you don't have a Miracle in your broom closet you might as well just hang a sign outside your house saying 'We live in filth.' The Miracle is just the most advanced machine for the elimination of household dirt, dust, and disease that the world has ever known!"

Samson was amazed at how excited Lloyd was – it seemed that the more Lloyd talked, the pinker he got. Even if it was rude, Samson thought he should interrupt before Lloyd hurt himself. "I know what a miracle is. One of my aunts is a Christian. I don't know what a purveyor is."

Lloyd took a deep breath and shot a smile at Samson. "I am a salesman, son, one of the last truly free individuals on this planet. I sell miracles, son. Not just vacuum cleaners. I sell real loaves-and-fishes miracles." He paused for a moment and waited. Samson was hugging the car door, his hand on his knife thinking that this was the craziest talk he had ever heard from anyone besides Pokey.

"I know what you're thinking," Lloyd continued. "You're thinking,
Lloyd, what kind of miracle do you perform?
Am I right?"

"Nope," Samson said. "I was thinking about a Coke."

"There's some in a cooler in the backseat," Lloyd tossed off, trying to get back to his point. "Grab me one too, would you,son?"

Samson scrambled over the seat and dug into a cooler where a dozen Cokes lay in the ice around a fifth of rum. He grabbed two and slithered back over the seat. Lloyd took the Cokes and opened them. He handed one to Samson, who drank half the bottle in one pull. "Miracles," Lloyd said.

Samson didn't care how crazy Lloyd was – life was fine! The car was cool and quiet and smelled like spices. He wasn't thirsty and he was going home. Even on the rough mountain road the car rode like a cloud. He closed one eye and rested, keeping the other eye on Lloyd. "Miracles?" Samson said.

"That's right! I can make dreams out of nothing, wants out of dreams, needs out of wants, and leave a dream in your hand. You know how I do it?"

Samson shook his head. This man was just like Pokey: if he wanted to tell you something he would tell you even if you dropped dead and rotted right before his eyes.

"Well, son, it all starts with a smile at the door. When you hit that door people ain't been sitting there waiting for you. They been sitting around thinking about how miserable they are. They got nothing to hang on to, nothing to go on for. When they answer that door they're as sour as green oranges, but I don't give it back to 'em. I give a smile of pure honey, and words just as sweet. I tell them what they want to hear. If they're ugly, I tell 'em they're looking fine. If they're a failure, I marvel at their success. Before they got the latch off the screen door I'm the best friend they ever had. And why? Because I see them as what they would like to be, not what they are. For once in their life they are living their dream, only because I make them think they are.

"But then they look around and get a little uncomfortable. If they got what they wanted, how come they ain't feeling it? How come they still feel empty? Well, son, between you and me, there ain't no contentment, no satisfaction, this side of the grave. You ain't never going to be as pretty or as rich as you want to be. No one ever has, no one ever will. Folks don't know that, though. Folks think that there's an answer to that scary feeling that keeps riding them no matter what they do."

"Coyote Blue," Samson said.

"Don't talk nonsense, boy, I'm trying to teach you something. Where was I? Oh, yeah, they think that there's an answer. So I give it to them. I watch their eyes while I'm telling them how damn good they're doing, and when they get right to the edge of panic 'cause they can't see it, I tell them about the Miracle.

"Suddenly a clean rug is all that stands between them and all they could ever be. I take out my machine, and I vacuum up their beds into a little black bag. Then I have them boil that bag on the stove until the whole house smells like a sun-ripe battlefield. You see, all that dead skin that falls off you in your sleep is in the mattress; when you boil it the smell is disgusting. There is filth in these folks' houses. How the hell you gonna be beautiful and successful with filth all around? You can't. Filth is the problem and the Miracle is the solution. Now they want it.

"So we talk some more and I make like I'm gonna leave, but they want the machine. I understand that, but they already got a vacuum cleaner. They don't need my machine. I guess a little filth never hurt no one. But they
do
need it, they say. They need it. And why do they need it? Because now it's all they got standing between them and their dream. So I write them up. I take their money and I leave them holding that dream in their hand while I drive away. Wants, to needs, to dreams – usually in forty-five minutes or less. Now that's a damn miracle, son."

"So you trick them," Samson said.

"They want to be tricked. I just provide a service. It ain't no different than going to the movies or seeing a magician. You don't want to see that the pirates are using rubber swords, do you? You don't want to see the secret pockets up the magician's sleeves, do you? You want to believe in something that you know ain't true, just for a while. People spend a lot of money and time to get tricked. And I get to drive a nice car, stay in good motels, eat in restaurants, and see the country in style."

Samson thought about that for a while. Driving around in a big, cool, good-smelling car would be almost as good as living on the Ponderosa. Maybe better. Nobody on the reservation drove a car like this, and they hardly ever ate in restaurants, except the burger stand in Crow Agency. Maybe tricking people was the way to go. It sure sounded better than baling hay or fixing truck engines.

"Do you think I could sell miracles?" Samson asked.

Lloyd laughed. "You got some growing to do first. Besides, it takes a man of character to handle freedom. Do you have character, Samson?"

"Is that like medicine?"

"It's better than medicine. You get yourself some character and come see me in a few years. Then we'll see."

That settled it. Samson was going to get himself some character and sell himself some miracles. He lay back on the seat and closed his eyes. Lloyd started talking again. The words were soft and rhythmic and soon Samson Hunts Alone, full of Coca-Cola and miracles, fell asleep.

~* * *~

"Samson, wake up."

Someone was shaking his shoulders. He opened his eyes and saw Pokey holding him at arm's length.

"What are you doing up here by the road?" Pokey asked.

"What?" Samson looked around. He was on the ridge where he had sat down before the big blue car had come along. "Where's Lloyd?"

"Who's Lloyd?" Pokey asked. "I've only been gone a couple of hours. Why did you come up here? Did you have your vision?"

"No, I went for a ride. I took a ride home with a man who sold Miracles."

"Samson," Pokey said. "I don't think you took a ride anywhere. I think you better tell me what the man said to you."

Samson told Pokey about Lloyd Commerce, about the car as long as a house, about selling miracles and tricking people and living the good life. When he was finished Pokey sat staring at the boy for a long time before he spoke. "Samson, you had your vision. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry, Pokey? Because I didn't find my spirit helper?"

"I wish you saw a squirrel or a flicker, Samson, but you saw a vacuum cleaner salesman," Pokey said forlornly.

"But he was just a fat white man."

"He only looked like a white man. I think you saw Old Man Coyote."

Chapter 10 – Over Easy,

Politically Correct Santa Barbara

Sam spent most of the night cleaning up the debris from Josh Spagnola's shooting exhibition. Exhausted from the overall strangeness of his day, he went to bed early, but lay awake until well after midnight, first worrying, then trying to understand what was happening to him, and finally fantasizing about the girl. Amid the misery he retained hope, although he could not logically figure out why. She was, after all, just a girl – the goofiest girl he had ever met. Still, the thought of seeing her again made him smile, and he was able to escape into dreamless sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, the world seemed a much kinder place, as if during the night the calamities of the previous day had become distant and harmless. Order had returned. At one time he might have met such a day by looking to the rising sun and thanking the Great Spirit for returning his harmony with the world, as Pokey had taught him. He would have looked for rain clouds, felt the promise of the day's winds, smelled the dew and the sage, listened for the call of an eagle, the best of good-luck signs, and in that short time he would have confirmed that he and the world were of one spirit, balanced.

Today he missed the rising sun by three hours. He met his day in the shower, washing his hair with shampoo that was guaranteed to have never been put in a bunny's eyes and from which ten percent of the profits went to save the whales. He lathered his face with shaving cream free of chlorofluorocarbons, thereby saving the ozone layer. He breakfasted on fertile eggs laid by sexually satisfied chickens that were allowed to range while listening to Brahms, and muffins made with pesticide-free grain, so no eagle-egg shells were weakened by his thoughtless consumption. He scrambled the eggs in margarine free of tropical oils, thus preserving the rain forest, and he added milk from a carton made of recycled paper and shipped from a small family farm. By the time he finished his second cup of coffee, which would presumably help to educate the children of a poor peasant farmer named Juan Valdez, Sam was on the verge of congratulating himself for single-handedly saving the planet just by getting up in the morning. He would have been surprised, however, if someone had told him that it had been two years since he had set foot on unpaved ground.

He was writing a note to himself to put a new subliminal message on his computer,
SAVE THE WORLD, BUY THIS POLICY
, when Josh Spagnola called.

"Sam, did you hear what happened at the association meeting last night?"

"No, Josh, I've been cleaning up my place."

"
The
place, Sam. I think this will be an easier transition if you start referring to it as
the
place."

"You mean they voted to buy me out? Without even asking me? I can't believe it."

"I was actually very surprised myself. People seem to dislike you in the extreme, Sam. I think the dog was just their excuse for a general fuck-over."

"You told them it wasn't my dog, didn't you?"

"I told them, but it didn't matter. They hate you, Sam. The doctors and lawyers hate you because you make enough money to live here. The married guys hate you because you're single. The married women hate you because you remind their husbands that they aren't single. The old people hate you because you're young, and the rest just hate you because you aren't Japanese. Oh, yeah, one bald guy hates you because you have hair. For a guy that maintains a low profile, you've built quite a little snowball of resentment."

Sam had never given his neighbors a second thought, never even spoken to most of them, so now the realization that they hated him enough to take away his home was a shock. "I've never done anything to hurt anybody in this complex."

"I wouldn't take it personally, Sam. Nothing brings people together like hate for profit. You didn't have a chance against the clay tennis courts."

"What does that mean? We don't have clay tennis courts."

"No, but when they buy your townhouse for what you paid for it, then sell it to someone more suitable at the market rate, the association will have enough profit to build clay tennis courts. We'll be the only complex in Santa Barbara with clay courts. Should raise the value of the property at least ten percent. Sorry, Sam."

"Isn't there anything I can do? Can't I bring legal action or something?"

"This isn't an official call, Sam. I am calling as your friend and not on behalf of the association, so let me give you my best advice on taking legal action: it's suicide. Half the guys that voted you out are lawyers. In six months you'd be broke and they'd be drinking your blood over backgammon. The time for legal advice was eight years ago when you signed that agreement."

"Great. Where were you then?"

"I was stealing your Rolex."

"You stole my Rolex? That was you? My gold Rolex? You dick!"

"I didn't know you then, Sam. It was a professional thing. Besides, the statute of limitations has run out. It's time to forgive and forget."

"Fuck you, Josh. You'll get a bill for the damage you caused."

"Sam, do you know how concerned I am about your bill? I don't give a decaying damn, I don't -"

Sam hung up on the security guard. The phone immediately rang and Sam stared at it for a minute. Should he let Josh get the satisfaction of the last word? He looked at the shattered remains of his television, picked up the phone, and shouted, "Look, you wormy little fuck, you're lucky I don't come down there and pop your head like a pimple!"

"Sam, this is Julia, down at the office. I have Aaron on the line for you."

"Sorry, Julia, I was expecting someone else. Hang on a second." He sat down on the couch and held the receiver to his chest while he tried to regain his composure. Too much change, too fast. He couldn't let Aaron catch him with his guard down. His good friend Aaron, his partner, his mentor. And Josh Spagnola was supposed to be his friend, too. What was the deal with Josh? He'd turned on Sam overnight. Why?

Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag, then blew the smoke out in a slow stream before speaking into the phone. "Julia, you caught me in the shower. Tell Aaron I'll be in the office in an hour. We'll talk then." He hung up before she could respond. He dialed the number of the Cliffs' security office. Josh Spagnola answered.

"Josh, this is Sam Hunter."

"Very rude, Sam. Hanging up when I am telling you how little I care is very rude."

"That's why I'm calling, Josh. I've heard your little speeches before. I want to know what you've got on me."

"Then you haven't seen the paper this morning?"

"I told you before, I've been patching holes all fucking morning. What goes?"

"Seems that Jim Cable, the diving mogul, was attacked by an Indian outside of his office and had a heart attack. They said he had just finished an appointment with an insurance agent."

"So, what's your point, Josh?"

"The point is, Sam, that after I ran out of your place yesterday, I went through the apartment next door and ran out on the deck. I thought I could come in from behind the dog and get a shot at it. But when I got there I saw an Indian vaulting over the rail of your deck. The Indian was wearing black, just like the one they described in the paper. Interesting coincidence, huh?"

Sam didn't know what to say. Spagnola had half the complex under his thumb for one reason or another, but Sam didn't know how the burglar used his information other than as a license to be rude. Sam didn't want to bring up blackmail when Spagnola might just be in this to watch him squirm. Sam had watched a thousand clients squirm under his own manipulation, but he wasn't sure how to go about it himself. He decided to take a direct approach. "Okay, Josh," he said. "I'm squirming. Now what?"

"Sammy, I love you, kid. You and I are like peas in a pod. You, me, and that Aaron guy at your office."

"You know Aaron?"

"Just spoke to him this morning when I called your office. Your secretary said that you were no longer with the firm and Mr. Aaron was taking all your calls from now on. Aaron and I had a long talk."

"Did you tell him about the Indian?"

"No, he told me. Strange thing, Sam, he seems to want you out of the business pretty badly, but not just for the profit. I think he's afraid of the attention you're going to get if it turns out that you're associated with the Indian who attacked Cable. Who do you think has more to lose: you or Aaron?"

"Neither of us is losing anything, Josh. This whole thing is a mistake. I don't care what you saw, I don't know anything about any Indian, and I resent the veiled threat."

"No threat, Sam. Just information. It's the cleanest commodity, you know? No fingerprints, no fibers, no serial numbers. It's kind of ethereal – religious in a way. People will pay for something that they can't smell, or taste, or touch. It's fucking glorious, isn't it? I should have been a spy."

Sam listened to Spagnola sigh, then to the breathing over the line. Here it was again, the standoff. How many times had he backed down over the years? How many times had fear of discovery caused him to lie low and play the role of the victim? Too damn many. He always seemed to be running from the past and avoiding the future, but the future came anyway.

Very softly, barely speaking over a whisper, Sam said, "Josh, before you become too enraptured, remember the information you don't have."

"What's that, old buddy?"

"You have no idea who I am or what I'm capable of."

There was a silence on the line, as if Spagnola was considering what Sam had said. "Good-bye, Josh," Sam whispered.

He hung up the phone, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door to the Mercedes. As he disarmed the alarm and climbed in the car he realized that he also had no idea who he was or what he was capable of, and for the first time in his life it didn't frighten him. In fact, it felt good.

Coyote Gets His Powers

One day, a long time ago, before there were any men or televisions, and only animal people walked the Earth, Great Spirit, the first worker, decided that he would give everyone a new name. He told the animal people to come to his lodge at sunrise and he would give each one a new name with all the powers that went with it. "To be fair," Great Spirit said, "names will be given on a first-come, first-served basis."
The Earth
was a pretty fair place in those days as long as you showed up on time.

Coyote had a problem with this method, however. He liked to sleep until lunchtime and lie around thinking up tricks until late afternoon, so getting up at sunrise was a problem, but he really wanted to get a good name. "Eagle would be good," he thought. "I would be swift and strong. Or if I take the name of Bear I will never be defeated by my enemies. Yep, I got to get me a good name even if I have to stay up all night."

When the sun went down Coyote looked all over for a good espresso bar, but even in those days they were full of pretentious pseudointellectual animal people who sat around in open-toed moccasins and whined about how unfair the world was, which it wasn't. "I don't have the stomach for that," said Coyote. "I think I'll just score some magic wake-up powder and stay wired that way."

Coyote went to see Raven. It was well known among the animal people that Raven had a connection with a green bird from South America and was always good for some wake-up powder.

"I'm sorry Coyote, my friend, but I cannot extend you any credit. I'll need three prairie dogs, up front, if you want the product. And remember, I like my prairie dogs squashed real fiat. " Raven was a greasy little prick who thought he was cool because he wore sunglasses all the time, even at night. Who was he to act so high and mighty? Coyote was insulted.

"Look, man, I'll have a new name tomorrow. I'm going to go for Eagle. Just advance me the gram now and I'll give you six prairie dogs in the morning. "

Raven shook his head. Coyote slunk away.

"I can stay awake without magic," Coyote said. "I just have to concentrate."

Coyote tried to stay awake, but by the time the moon was high in the sky he started to doze off. "This isn't working," he said. "I can't keep my eyes open." Talking to himself often gave Coyote ideas, which was a good thing, because hardly anyone else would talk to him. He broke a couple of thorns from a cactus and used them to prop his eyes open. "I'm a genius," he said. Then he fell asleep anyway.