Snake Dreams (5 page)

Ever since the tag-along game had begun, the shaman had pretended to be unaware of the spirit’s presence. From long experience with displaced souls, she suspected that Chiquita would be one of those persistent ones that cling like cockleburs on your stocking.
Trouble, trouble—that’s what dead folks are—nothing but aggravation!
Daisy ground the few molars she had left.
I hope Chiquita don’t follow us home. I’d as soon have a family of rabid pack rats set up camp under my house.

It is gratifying to report that during the approaching night, Daisy Perika would be plagued neither by pesky haunts nor by hydrophobic rodents. But who knows what trouble the morrow will bring? Or the day after that.

Mr. Moon Dreams

According to those erudites who hold Ph.Ds in sleepology, some 92 percent of our dreams occur within the span of only a few seconds—this despite the fact that from the dreamer’s point of view, the night-vision drags on for ever so long. As the Indian cowboy rode his particular nightmare through the dark labyrinth of his subconscious, he lurched and grunted and scowled and groaned—and aged about fifty years. But, happily, only within the confines of his hallucination.

While fascinating, the details of his dream shall be omitted. The gist of the experience was that Mr. Moon was viewing his
future self,
who was passing his twilight years on the Columbine. With every Moon of Dead Leaves Falling, the skin on his face hung more loosely, the eye sockets became more hollow, the wrinkles deeper, the jet-black hair faded to gray, then finally to snowy white. All the while, the energetic gait slowed, and all too soon, Scott Parris gave him a walking cane for Christmas. Oh, unhappy holiday! Then came those twilight days when Moon scuffed around the headquarters leaning on a shiny titanium walker with greenish tennis balls on the bottoms of the aluminum shafts.

It gets worse.

With each winter, Charlie Moon was
losing his appetite.
An inflamed gall bladder had made it necessary to remove fatty foods and zingy spices from his menu. What did this
leave? Don’t ask. Oh, very well—but it is depressing. Instead of three square meals a day and snacks in between, he was spooning mashed-up yellowish goop past his lips. It looked suspiciously like boiled summer squash with not a hint of salt. Tasted like it, too.

And having no teeth to speak of, he
gummed
the stuff.

It gets even worser.

There was no spouse in the house. Charlie Moon was
alone.

No wonder the young man awakened in a cold sweat, sat straight up in bed, the first thought in his head:
I’ve got to have me a wife. And the sooner the better.

But not just any wife would do.

Moon was a top hand, and even your run-of-the-mill cowboy knows that hitching up with the right companion for life is every bit as important as selecting a suitable quarter horse or pickup truck. Whether it be hoofed mount or wheeled vehicle or long-lashed mate, a man needs one that will stay with him over the long haul.

Whom
to wed was not the issue for our hopeful bridegroom—he’d had his eye on the top-grade lady for quite some time now. For so long, as a matter of fact, that Lila Mae McTeague had begun to wonder whether the only man in her life was all that interested in matrimony.

But not before two cups of black coffee. A sensible man does not make a firm, life-changing decision immediately after getting up from a bad night’s sleep, especially one that has ended with an unsettling dream. What he needs is a double dose of caffeine to get the brain circuits properly electrified, the cerebellum engine hitting on all eight cylinders. But the mind cannot run without glucose fuel, which energy he acquired by stirring heaping tablespoons of honey into his coffee. Not long after downing the last sweet sip of the hot, syrupy brew, he knew what he had to do—and did it. Which required picking
up the kitchen phone, placing a call to a snug little bungalow in Thousand Oaks, California.
I’m gonna make this short and to the point.

When a man like this gets his steam up, a lady is likely to get bowled over, swept right off her feet, or whatever metaphor that will get the job done. Look out, Lila Mae McTeague!

Sweet Thing answered on the fifth ring with a long, languorous yawn, to which she appended a “Hello, Charlie.”

He helloed her right back. But it was time to hammer those shiny little brass tacks. Moon banged his fist on the kitchen table. “Lila Mae . . .”

The man who had stared Death in the face a dozen times . . .
choked.
Literally. Like a diner with a fish bone in his throat.

“Charlie—is something wrong? Are you okay?”

“Um . . . yeah.”

This made her head ache. “Something’s wrong—or you’re okay?” Like so many of her colleagues, the FBI employee was one of those analytical types.

The source of her headache nodded. “Right.”

The lady rolled her pretty eyes. Pretty
violet
eyes. No wonder the man was smitten. “It is rather early to be calling.”

Early?
That put some wind back in his sails. “It’s an hour later here on the Columbine.”

“I am aware of the differential between Pacific and Mountain time.”

“Look, Lila Mae, we’ve got to talk . . . uh . . . what I mean to say is—the thing is . . .” His face seemed to be on fire. “You know what I mean.”

And the lady did. She leaned back on her pillow, blinked the big violets. “You woke me up at dawn to discuss our future?”

“Well . . . yeah.” He jutted the chin. “Yes, I did.”

“That is very sweet of you.”

Look. See Charlie Moon grin.
“It is?”

“Certainly. But the subject is too important to discuss on the telephone.”

“No problem.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ll
make a dash over to the Springs, catch a flight, be in Los Angeles by noon.”

“That would be delightful, except that I will not be here to meet you. In about three hours I’m off to Washington for a meeting this evening in the Hoover Building with the Homeland Security Liaison Team. I won’t return until next week at the earliest, and—”

“I’ll meet you in D.C.” He recalled a nifty scene from a vintage Clint Eastwood flick about a couple of Secret Service agents who were of opposite genders. “How about the Lincoln Memorial?”

A long, wistful sigh.
He is so cute.
“How about I stop off in Colorado on my way back to L.A.?”

“Name the day, Lila Mae.”

“My return schedule is problematic, but I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll be at the airport to pick you up.” Moon’s heart was banging against his ribs. “And I’ll have something for you.”

Well, she could guess what
that
would be. What the lady didn’t know was,
would she accept it
? Lila Mae adored Charlie Moon. She was also very attached to her FBI career. For the past two years, she had been trying to figure out how she could have both. So far, it seemed to boil down to one of those either-or situations. Tough call. Time to say, “Goodbye, Charlie.” To this, she added a kissing sound!

Did this make an impression on Mr. Moon?

Here he comes, out of the kitchen, deep voice booming “I Walk the Line” with so much heart and soul that the most diehard fans of the Man in Black would sit up and expect to see Mr. Cash appear around some dark corner. But can our man sing and dance at the same time?
You know he can.
Hot-footing it along that well known Line, Moon is doing the best takeoff of your classic buck-and-wing that could be expected of a big, lanky fellow wearing heavy cowboy boots who has never had any formal training in classic ballet. Look at him go! He bops all the way across the dining room—and the performance does not end there. Charlie Moon’s hard heels and sharp toes echo across the hollowness of the parlor, where juniper flames snap
and crackle in the stone fireplace. Has our hoofer shot his wad? Not a chance. Up the stairs he boogies, to the second floor, down the long hallway and through his bedroom door—No. Hold on. Something seems to be amiss.

The dancer has not entered that sanctum where he suffered through the “I’m so old I creak” dream. Nor has he gone into his office. Or into any of the other rooms on the upper level of the ranch headquarters. This is most peculiar. So much so as to boggle the mind. It’s like this—only about fifty percent of Charlie Moon is still in the hallway, his upper half is gradually vanishing and
his boots are not touching the floor.

Neither Mr. Harry Houdini nor Professor Isaac Newton need be alarmed. Though Charlie Moon’s mood is so extravagantly exuberant as to be deemed light-hearted, he has not gone so far as to defy the law of gravity.

The happy man has opened a spring-loaded overhead door, climbed a pull-down pine ladder hand-over-hand into the vast headquarters attic.

Now in that dusty space, he approaches an antique Mohler safe that has resided there since the 1920s, when a previous Columbine owner used the vault to store his hoard of gold coins, a substantial share of stock in the Fairview Golden Boulder Mining Company, and a single bottle of Napoleon brandy. The Ute cycles the dial clockwise and counterclockwise, opens a heavy door that is exquisitely balanced on oiled hinges. Sadly for the AA member, of the original treasures only the alcoholic beverage remains. But some time back, the potential groom placed another valuable item in the safe. He removes a paper bag from Pippin’s Fine Jewelry. Inside is a bill marked
PAID
and a small box with black velvet skin. He opens the latter to gaze therein.

It glitters, it sparkles, this diamond ring nestled in its pink satin nest.

Oh, she’s gonna like this!

Driving Miss Daisy to Town

Transportation was a continual problem for the elderly woman who lived in the wilderness of the arid canyon country, which was why Daisy Perika had summoned cousin Gorman Sweetwater to take her and “the girl” to the supermarket.

Gorman’s spiffy pickup was at the dealership for the thirty-thousand-mile checkup, so he was hauling Daisy and Sarah Frank to town in the backup motor vehicle. His trusty old Pontiac sedan rolled serenely along, rubber tires humming warmly on the sun-baked asphalt. Presently, it passed the Durango City Limits sign. Despite all the fascinating sights and sounds that might have distracted Sarah’s attention—the rush of midday traffic, a flock of blackbirds peppering a cloudless blue sky, 1940s big-band music on the radio—the teenage lass was unable to keep her mind off of You Know Who. Charlie Moon was (in Sarah’s opinion) good-looking, kindhearted, patient as a saint, very smart, brave as any man alive, reliable, and—But the list is too long, and no man is perfect.

Consider the “reliable” attribute. Why was the object of her girlish affections not present to act as chauffeur? It is a fair question. Charlie normally visits his aunt about once a week and drives the elderly lady and Sarah wherever they hanker to go, but, given one thing and another that has kept him busy (valuable purebred cattle dying from mysterious ailments, drunken ranch hands thrown in jail, vital equipment breaking
down left and right)—Sarah’s heartthrob had not shown up for several weeks. But he had called last night to assure Daisy that he would arrive on the following morning to take them to the Columbine for a visit. That news alone would have been sufficient to make tomorrow a
very special day
.

Sarah sighed.
Charlie is handsomer every time I see him.
Another sigh.
And he’s so sweet.
A stomach churn as she considered a complication:
He already has a sweetheart.
The girl frowned at the sandblasted windshield.
But Lila Mae’s in California and I’m here.
She also comforted herself with this thought:
That FBI lady is practically an old woman—probably at least thirty-five.
And wasn’t it a well-known fact that men preferred women who were younger than themselves? Of course it was.

In her mostly unhappy life, the occasional lapse into wishful thinking, even outright self-deception, had often provided just enough hope to prevent her from falling into deep despair. But such remedies should be used sparingly. In large doses, they can prove deadly.

Blissfully unaware that he was the object of this adolescent adoration, Charlie Moon was also thinking about “that FBI lady.” And admiring the contents of the black velvet box.

It might have been purely coincidence, but as Mr. Moon gazed at the golden circle, Sarah was seized with a sudden flash of alarm:
If Charlie was to give that woman a ring, I’d just die!

Gorman Sweetwater slowed, pulled the venerable automobile into the supermarket parking lot, smiled at the image of his grumpy cousin in the rearview mirror. In a voice just loud enough for Daisy to hear, he said to the girl in the passenger
seat, “While I go get me a haircut, keep a sharp eye on that fussy old woman. Last time she was in this grocery store, she threatened a little boy with her walking stick.”

The accused piped up from the backseat, “I may have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but I ain’t dead yet and I sure ain’t deaf.” Daisy Perika got a firm grip on her oak staff. “And I should’ve done more than threaten—I oughta whacked him cross-eyed!”
That freckle-faced white boy put my hot roasted chicken in the same plastic bag with a half gallon of butter pecan ice cream.
The memory made her blood boil.
Dumb
matukach
kid must have a brain the size of a pinto bean.
The scowl darkened.
Which means by now he’s probably the store manager.

After escorting the ladies into the supermarket, Gorman Sweetwater departed in search of a beer. Or maybe two. If there was some time left over, he might visit the barber.