Leon Uris (3 page)

Dan sat by the window all night. “Fucking liar,” he said under his voice.

Siobhan felt for him in bed, then propped herself up on an elbow. The betrayal had left Dan robbed of his sacred moment. Nothing had ever clutched him so, not even the word of Quinn’s death. “Fucking liar.”

“Why can’t you feel for the pain in his life that forced him to live a lie?” she challenged.

“I do! Poor Quinn! The sonofabitch! We all lie, but nothing like this. Me? Brooklyn cop. Sure, I exaggerated about cuffing gangsters. We all lie. Impressing each other is a craft. But this was a big fucking lie!”

“Justin had a lot to lie about.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder. Oh, Jaysus, that felt fine enough. He turned around and found her breasts for his head to rest on and breathed uneasily to hold back sobs.

“He lied from day one about his grand house and prize beef. About his football scholarship. Maybe he wasn’t even American. He had kind of dark skin. The Corps was taking in Mexicans and Indians. We had three Navajos. But we never had no blacks in the Corps!”

“Dan, that’s an ugly word, I don’t like it.”

“Well, you never had to walk the beat in the colored neighborhood.”

“Shut up. You sound like a bigot.”

Dan wept.

“I feel for your sorrow,” she said. Siobhan slipped on her bathrobe and went out onto the veranda. For the first time she saw the moonlight up a string of mountaintops. Troublesome Mesa lay at the bottom of a glen in a steep, winding valley. Snow blankets and a silver sliver of a stream. What a land, indeed. She’d never known of a place like this.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Dan said, coming from the bedroom. “I’m really sorry. That Martinez fellow has been a good, sensitive man. I guess they import a lot of these people from Mexico. It’s nice to see a good one, I mean, not just another Mexican who would multiply and go on relief.”

“Consuelo told me that Pedro served six years in the Navy. He is from an old Colorado family, and he was wounded at Pearl Harbor, or maybe you didn’t notice that he’s blind in one eye.”

“I seem to have everything upside down,” he said softly.

“That is because your world has been set upside down. We’ll have to set it right, then.”

“Can I touch you, Siobhan? The blow goes away.”

She knew now how to fit into his big, strong arms. “Quinn knew that you would come here,” she said.

“You really think that?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“What does it mean, then?”

“Hard to say what might have gone ’round in his head. But I know he wanted you to come here.”

LATE 1945—ONWARD

The banker’s chair from the turn of the century was worn through in several spots, just as the decrepit First National Bank of Troublesome Mesa had survived the land rushes, the silver crash, and everpresent drought.

Mr. Dancy, a Mormon, knew every tree in the valley and beyond. He was strikingly direct. “I was able to close on the Malkovich boys just in time. Frankly, I couldn’t have sold the M/M if I threw in the Brooklyn Bridge. Anyhow, Pedro there comes home from the war, one eye and all, and marries the most beautiful girl on the western slopes. I knew his yahoo days were over, right, Pedro?”

“I don’t even miss it,” Pedro answered.

“Pedro talked me into letting him run the place until after the war, when I could find a buyer. We’re going to stake Pedro to a couple hundred acres somewhere.”

“I’ll let you two gentlemen have at it,” Pedro added. “I’ll be down at the diner, Sergeant Dan.”

There was talk between Dan and Dancy about the size of the ranch—well over two thousand acres with bits and pieces all over the mountain, and the water
rights were clean. The house, worth at least eleven thousand dollars, would be part of the deal. They shillied and shallied, Dan’s service and decorations making their own impact. Dancy had hoped to save the ranch for some Mormon boy returning from the war, but this had a hopping good flavor to it.

“What’re the numbers?” Dan gulped.

Dancy studied the ledger. “It’s a good ranch and expandable, except for where those crazy Slavs started fencing each other off and cheating with the water.”

“How much?”

“Can’t tell precisely. There’s almost thirty thousand still on the books. I’d have to research the county records, particularly the government land abutting the south. Forty-some thousand would swing it, I’d say.”

Dan’s heart became a cannonball.

“You were a cop in New York?”

“In the three days I’ve ridden with Pedro, I find I can ride a horse without too much discomfort.”

“Wounded?”

“Yes, sir. Saipan.”

“How much can you put in?”

“I have over nine thousand cash and probably can raise another four or five from my family.”

“But you don’t know doodly egg roll about cattle.”

Dan lowered his eyes and shrugged.

“I have an idea,” Dancy said. “Do you like Pedro Martinez?”

“I’d have him in my platoon anyday.”

“He used to be a hell-raising kid, too generous with money he didn’t have, and Mexicans have no inherited family money. Fact is, Sergeant, we have already turned him down for a large loan. They are not too dependable, if you know what I mean.”

“He’s honest, isn’t he?”

“Honest as Jesus. He was in the hospital for almost a year, mostly blindfolded with sandbags holding his head still. If you don’t find God that way, He isn’t there for you. Right now I pay him ten percent of the net and housing. If you were to, say, give him twenty percent, you’d have one of the best cattlemen in Colorado.”

“Let me talk it over with the wife.”

“Confidentially, Sergeant, you and I can make a deal, but only if you have someone to train you.” Dancy leaned over close. “I’m a man of God,” he said, “and God tells me the two of you together are well worth the risk.”

It took time for Daniel Timothy O’Connell to transform from Brooklyn cop to rugged Coloradan. All of about a week. His attitude was a force, a force that wakened him every morning, led him to his knees to thank God for bringing them to this place.

Dan loved boots and cowboy hats and leather chaps. He loved to rope and brand and train his new border collie. He loved life during a challenging blizzard.

Dan loved the rodeos and the B.S. that went with cattle trading. He loved the respect. He was a tough man in a tough valley.

Saturday night in the old mining town, Troublesome Mesa came to life at the Bottomless Mine Saloon. For all the hurrahs, it was peaceful enough to bring the women folk. Dan taught the band a repertoire of Irish ballads to augment the sadass country and western songs.

“It’s Irish time!” and Christ, Dan O’Connell moved you to tears with his “Danny Boy.” If he only had Justin Quinn singing with him, he always thought.

As trust developed between Dan and Pedro, they made a hardworking, clever, aggressive team. Dan had been a platoon sergeant, and men learned to listen to him. He did not have to be told to listen to Pedro.

For several months the families lived together. Cautious at first, there was space enough to grow easy with each other. Siobhan in particular was ecstatic about the entirely new ways of cooking, and she adored Consuelo.

Come springtime, the top priority was to build onto the caretaker’s cabin a mile toward Troublesome Creek. To add to the urgency, Consuelo was due to have a second baby.

They finished the house in a rush. In the next month or two, every man in the valley pounded nails, making a charming lodgepole log cabin. The Mexican part of the valley pitched in, as did some Mormons and Catholics and Protestants as the finish drew near. A fiesta exploded when they raised the roof! In this time and place they all seemed less threatening to each other. Dan caught the sight of some of the Mormon men nipping booze out of view of their wives. From then on Dan kept a “Mormon” bottle in his cupboard.

The Martinez family no sooner moved into their place than Consuelo went into labor and gave birth to wee Pablo. The joy of a new child was tempered by Dan and Siobhan’s situation.

Once settled, every month for three years Dan waited for her to tell him the good news that she had missed her period. It never happened.

As they grew prosperous, the O’Connells became total Coloradans. Both of them flew the ranch’s twinengine Cessna, inched out their ranch boundaries,
sent money home, were magnificently generous to the church, the school, and even the Mormons. Dan was elected state assemblyman. All that was missing was a baby for their waiting nest.

Joy gave way to an ever-present sense of sorrow. Their bed grew colder and colder. When he sang “Danny Boy” these days it was maudlin, and the Bottomless’s owner had to caution Dan about getting mean. The day after an apologetic sheriff dumped Dan off, after putting him in the cooler for the night, Siobhan reached the breaking point.

Their bed held a half-full suitcase, the French one of the set he had bought her for Christmas.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“I’m going into Denver. I’ll be at the Brown Palace.”

“What for?”

“To get a complete fertility examination.”

“It’s about time,” he said. “I pray to God they are able to find out what is wrong with you and cure it.”

“I want you to come with me,” she said.

“Me? You mean, me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’ll have none of that voodoo black-magic quackery.”

“Very well. I intend to continue on to New York. I’ve been missing everyone sorely. I haven’t seen Father Sean in over three years.”

“Is this a threat?”

“No, I want to see them. But I think it’s time you face up to the fact that something serious is the matter. Are you scared to go to Denver with me? Is that why you’ve never suggested it before?”

Dan started for the door.

“One of these nights you are going off one of the hairpin turns, the way you’re guzzling.”

Dan opened the door.

“Sleep in the guest room,” she commanded.

He slammed the door but remained in the room.

“Are you going to a Catholic hospital?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then maybe, well, pack a bag for me, too.”

The eminent Dr. Leary at St. Anne’s Hospital put Siobhan into a regimen to chart her ovulation. It could be months before they had an accurate reading on her.

Meanwhile, Dr. Leary got access to Dan’s Marine Corps medical records. He had had the usual Marine ailments, cat fever in boot camp, jaundice and malaria after Guadalcanal, dengue fever at Tarawa, and a blown hip at Saipan. Dan was shocked when Dr. Leary asked him for a specimen of his semen.

“It couldn’t possibly be! I mean, I, the cause?”

“This is routine, Mr. O’Connell.”

Dan grunted in displeasure but did as he was told.

A time later, he was called by Dr. Leary and asked to come to Denver alone.

“I’ve some difficult news,” Dr. Leary said. “It’s taken this long because I had to be certain.”

“She can’t bear children,” Dan moaned.

“Your wife is healthy as a heifer.”

“Then…”

“I want to check something here in your medical record. Camp Matthews, January of 1942,” the doctor said.

“Camp Matthews was the rifle range, a long drive from the base. We stayed there several weeks on weapons training.”

“Did you get sent to a quarantine tent?”

“A bunch of us got sick, and there was no regular doctor at Matthews. Yeah, I sure remember now. I
had to finish boot camp with a new platoon.”

“All that jibes with what we feel was an outbreak of mumps.”

“My face was swollen, funny-like, and I had a lot of pain around my, you know, private parts. Yeah, it was hard to walk.”

“Did anyone diagnose it as mumps?”

“We’d had all this cat fever and dysentery; we may have joked about mumps, but you know, it’s a kid’s disease. I thought I had already had it as a baby.”

“The record here says, ‘Possibly mumps.’”

“Isn’t that a kid’s disease?”

“It usually is, with no after effects. With an adult there can be. Your semen is sterile.”

When was it ever more terrible than the day he learned he’d never sire children? No jungle, no lagoon at Tarawa with the Japs shooting at you and you in chest-high water holding your rifle over your head, not Red Beach on Saipan watching your battalion blown to shreds, not even Justin Quinn dying…

It would be a double slam against Siobhan, for Consuelo had had another perfect baby boy. Carlos was the beauty of the Martinez family.

God! What of poor, dear Siobhan! How crude I’ve been not realizing that she has suffered even greater than I.

He talked it over with a priest in Denver before returning to Troublesome Mesa.

“Forget about God for the moment,” the priest said. “What did they do during your worst moments in the Corps?”

“I always told my lads, when you’re scared shitless, you’re in such pain that death would be a pleasure,
or no matter the catastrophe, the only thing you can do is ‘Be a Marine.’”

“Then be a Marine for that woman of yours.”

Dan found Siobhan at the Martinez house. She was in the rocking chair, yakking with Consuelo, who was putting up a dinner for the O’Connells as well as her own family.

He looked in, but they did not see him. “Be a Marine,” he told himself.

Siobhan sat in the chair Consuelo used for nursing. She had handed little Carlos to Siobhan to hold while she filled the oven. Siobhan put the child’s head on her breast with a longing not to be realized. Then she saw Dan.

Dan’s hand was never so firm, so filled with meaning, as it grasped her shoulder. “It will be all right, darling,” he said.

WASHINGTON, D.C., 2008

Yes, it’s your president, Thornton Tomtree. A year ago I was considered unbeatable for a second term, but as George Bush and James Earl Carter learned, there is a fickle bent to our voters.

At this moment we stand a week before the 2008 election. A bizarre series of events has damaged my candidacy. Lord, is there a man more dismissed than a one-term president?

Anyone can pinpoint the time and place when the tide turned against me. It was the Six Shooter Canyon Massacre.

Immediately following the disaster, my rating bottomed out, then climbed back up as I traveled the country ceaselessly and was able to placate some of the national trauma. I was successful in divorcing myself from direct responsibility for the massacre, in the eyes of most of the people.

During those hard days, my vice president, former Texas senator Matt Hope, held in line that massive group of voters of the Christian conservatives. Taking on Hope as V.P. meant I did not have to personally deal with those pompous preacher men guarding the kingdom. Vice President Hope quickly convinced the Christian constituency they had no place else to go. Certainly, Governor Quinn Patrick
O’Connell, a Catholic liberal, represented an unthinkable alternative.

It is election day minus seven. Perhaps I’m grasping, but I sense that the sudden dry-up of news out of O’Connell’s headquarters means something. Although we are separated by two thousand miles, I sense a tension and quandary.

I had given O’Connell a hell of a run. Whatever hope I had was squashed at our “great debate” at the New York City Public Library. During an intermission at the end of the first hour, I was informed of treachery that would send me packing out of office.

Well, Thornton Tomtree, how did you get here? How did I get enmeshed in a tragedy that was not of my making? Why have I had to live to the great betrayal?

Even back in the 1950s, I never wanted to be much more than a junkyard dog, like my daddy, Henry Tomtree, who knew every scrap of metal, every bale of newspaper, and every dead battery and doorknob in his yard, and who could carry on business without calculator or ledger because he kept everything in his head. Henry Tomtree was the greatest junkyard dog the Northeast states ever had.

How old are your first memories? Vaguely, around kindergarten or first grade. I loved the yard so, I didn’t have many friends on the outside. Suddenly, I was in big classrooms with them, boys and girls. One day I was standing before our long hall mirror in our hallway. I remember finding it hard to look at myself. I was different from the other kids. Even looking in the mirror I wanted to defend myself from outside inspections of me.

In my early grades I had a terrible time in school. Studies were fine and simple. It was lunch period, the cafeteria, and the playground where I was not spared perpetual taunting.

And as they taunted, I ran to my safe place in a corner of the junkyard. It was here that I began to build my empire. I studied my daddy’s ways. I fiddled endlessly with physics problems. I became able to play both sides of a chess game in my mind.

If you can’t crack a problem through logic, you make an end run. I developed an auxiliary to standard mathematics, my own methods. I slipped in and out of quantum math.

All this I had in me, but I could barely hold up my hand in class or engage in conversation or, God forbid, approach a girl. I was interesting, but nobody knew the things I was interested in.

I was storing so much data and so many formulae that I had to have a place to hold it all. So I created a fantasy place. It was called Bulldog City, although it was really a nation, in an isolated place with mountains encircling it and mountaintop guard posts and missile emplacements. I invented a super laser to knock out incoming missiles and spy planes. I could even hit a satellite when it spied on Bulldog City. Boy, nothing could get in and out, and I commanded the armed forces and quarterbacked the football team and sang concerts and all the stuff I couldn’t do.

My daddy’s partner was a Negro named Moses Jefferson. Moses was a spiritual gentleman who did odd jobs until he proved his true worth. Moses entered a secret bid to demolish the old Williams Hotel. His bid was lower than Henry Tomtree’s.

Moses didn’t have the money for a crew and equipment, but subcontracted everything and put them on a profit-sharing plan. He ended up with an enormous cache of sinks, pipes, toilets, bricks, fine old turn-of-the-century urinals, chandeliers, railings,
and everything a petit grand hotel could yield.

Henry Tomtree had been skinned, but he got the message. Moses Jefferson possessed the keen mind of a junk dealer. As messy as the yard might appear, a good dealer had it organized in his head, down to a button. Hell, better to have Moses in as a partner than as a competitor.

Sorry, that’s my phone. “Yes?”

“We’ve hit up everybody, Mr. President, but we can’t find out what the hell’s going on with O’Connell.”

Tomtree mumbled “Shit” under his breath. “It’s two
A.M.
here, what’s that mean in, what the hell you call it, Mountain Time?”

“I think I’d want to keep some people here to cover the monitors and phones and the rest of us pack it in,” Darnell said. “The instant O’Connell calls for a news conference, we assemble top staff, watch the conference together, and immediately whack out a counterattack.”

“No inkling of what the Democrats are up to?”

“None.”

“Right,” the President said, disappointed. “Darnell, bunk in tonight here at the White House. I, uh, need you to be close by.”