The Influence (21 page)

He put the nugget in his pocket, feeling it press coldly against his thigh through the material. His brain was buzzing. What would he do if he was suddenly rich? Buy a house in Acapulco? Move to Switzerland?
Nah
, he thought. He’d stay right here. This was his home, these were his people. He might quit working or might not. He’d probably build himself a nicer house, but chances were that he’d just continue on with a slightly more comfortable version of the life he already had. 

It occurred to him that nuggets were usually found through panning or sluicing, where rock had been worn down by water. Mines or pits usually exposed veins of gold that had to be smelted to separate the metal from the surrounding minerals. It was strange to find a nugget in a situation such as this. 

Dropping to his knees, he started digging through the pile of rubble where he’d found the first nugget and, moments later, he uncovered another. Again, he dusted it off and held it up. Smaller than the first, the shape and size of a peanut shell, it gleamed brightly in the morning sunlight. Looking at the gold—
his
gold!—McDaniels smiled broadly. So much for the experts. They were wrong, he was right, and now he was going to be wealthier than he’d ever dared hope. 

Thank God for his good fortune. 

Although maybe he should be thanking the angel.  

McDaniels put the second nugget in his pocket. He paused for a moment, thinking about the bullet-ridden body he’d helped carry into Cameron Holt’s smokehouse. It might sound crazy, but in the past few weeks he’d noticed something that no one else seemed to have picked up on: the angel was good luck. It didn’t matter that they’d shot it down, its mere presence here had brought unexpected windfalls to people in the community. Shane Garner had struck a big bucks deal with some winery, Xochi and Maria had won the lottery, he was finding gold on his property…  

This was luck of biblical proportions.  

Providence, as his mother used to say, was smiling on them. 

Jackass McDaniels was not a religious man. Though he’d been raised to have a healthy fear of God, life had made him more practical and realistic. He hadn’t seen too many examples of miracles performed by an invisible, all-knowing, all-powerful deity. In fact, most people he knew who prayed regularly
never
got what they wanted from the man in the sky. They were still poor and unhappy, and afflicted loved ones were never cured of the diseases they contracted. 

But this was something different. This wasn’t a made-up story but a concrete reality. The angel’s physical body, whatever it was made out of, seemed to possess a measurable power. And, because it was an angel, that power was good. 

McDaniels stood. But
was
it good? He’d heard things lately about other occurrences not quite so happy. And the Ingrams had lost their son, who’d been torn apart by wild animals. Were those a result of the angel as well? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so. Those were just the ordinary problems of everyday life. The angel hadn’t gotten rid of them, but she hadn’t caused them.  

Couldn’t the same thing be said about the winning lottery ticket and his gold? After all, he’d always thought there was gold here; he’d been working his mine for years.  

It didn’t pay to examine the situation too carefully. Hell, he wasn’t even sure the angel was a
she
. He thought about picking up that body and unconsciously wiped his hands on his Levi’s, as though he could still feel the weird sliminess that had gotten on his section of blanket on the way to Cameron Holt’s smokehouse. 

No, it wouldn’t do to think too hard about the angel. Best to just accept the gift for what it was and move forward. 

He walked over to the opposite side of the pit, grabbed the shovel that was leaning against the wall, and used it to turn over a big scoop of earth. Several shiny gold nuggets stood out against the tan blandness. 

Smiling, McDaniels bent down to pick them up.  

**** 

There wasn’t a lot to do on the bus ride from school when he didn’t have any homework, especially for the last twenty minutes, when it was just the ranch kids: him, his brother Ray, that retard Mitt Stevens, and the three cholo girls. So Bill Haack usually just slept. 

But today he was too hyped-up to sleep, just as he’d been too hyped-up to pay attention in his classes. 

Tumbleweed Connection had gotten a gig. An honest-to-shit paying gig. 

He hadn’t told the other members of the band—hadn’t even told his brother—because he was trying to think of a way to explain to his parents that he was dropping out of school and following his dream without his old man beating the crap out of him. For the fiftieth time today, he unfolded and reread the email he’d printed out last night, the paper so worn from use that it looked like it was a year old instead of a day. 

It was a legitimate offer from Desperados, a club in Nogales. Monday through Thursday for three months, fifty bucks a night. Plus whatever tips they got. They could even sell merchandise! They didn’t
have
merchandise, but that was definitely something he needed to look into. He knew the money wasn’t much, but this was a real place. Dierks Bentley had played here on his way up. So had Trace Adkins. It was a launching pad, and that’s what he needed to stress when he talked to his dad. 

Of course, that was going to be one tough conversation, which was why he’d already put it off twice. His dad had been acting like an even bigger asshole than usual since New Year’s Eve. He’d brought his holster to the party and, like everyone else, had shot off his guns at the stroke of midnight to celebrate the arrival of the new year. Bill suspected that his old man thought
he’d
been the one to actually kill the angel, which was why he’d been so ornery lately. Bill could use that in an argument against him, if necessary, and he was fully prepared to do so, even though it would probably piss off the old bastard even more. 

The bus dropped off the cholo girls in front of the dirt drive that led to Mr. Holt’s ranch, then headed out to that crappy little farmhouse where Mitt Stevens lived, before taking him and Ray home. The two of them walked up the long driveway, past the corral to the house. 

“What’s up with you?” Ray asked. “Why’re you so quiet? And why did you keep looking at that piece of paper all the way home?” 

Bill stopped walking. He took the email out of his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to his brother. “We got an offer. Desperados in Nogales. They want to make us the house band!” 

“Oh my God!” Ray grabbed the email, growing more excited as he read on. 

“They need an answer by tomorrow, and I’m just trying to figure out how to tell Dad. Because this is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. We don’t take it, they’ll find someone else.” 

“We’re taking it!” 

“We’re gonna have to quit school.” 

“Who gives a shit?” 

“Dad will.” 

“Yeah, but he’ll understand—” 

“He won’t understand anything. He has no clue how these things work. This is either take-it-or-leave-it, and if we don’t step up, we’re spending the rest of our lives in Magdalena. This is the big time, dude. You know how many famous people started out at Desperados?” Bill took his email back and started walking again. 

“We’ll just
tell
him. We won’t
ask
him. You’re seventeen; I’m sixteen. He can’t tell us what to do.” 

Bill hoped his brother kept up that attitude. Because it wasn’t going to be that easy. 

They walked up to the house and inside. As he’d expected, the old man was sitting on the couch, half-drunk and watching a judge show. He’d been avoiding the cattle since they’d started dying, since they’d turned. Bill was pretty sure his dad was afraid of the animals, which was why he spent most of his time hiding in the house. That gave Bill a psychological advantage, and having the upper hand made him feel brave. He dropped his backpack on the floor and motioned for Ray to follow him. 

“Dad?” he said. 

The old man did not even look up from the TV. “What?” 

He’d decided the best way to bring it up was just to blurt it out. “Tumbleweed Connection was offered a gig. At a club in Nogales. We’re going to take it.” 

Unconcern had changed into confusion, but at least his dad looked away from the television. “What?”  

“Me and Ray are going to have to quit school. It’s a Monday through Thursday job, and it starts next week.” 

“Not for you it don’t.” Their dad stood, and the look in his eye was mean. 

“But Dad—” Ray started to say. 

“Shut up, Ray. You two aren’t going, and that’s final.” 

Bill stood his ground. “Yes we are,” he said. “This is a real opportunity. It could be our big chance. A lot of famous musicians started out at Desperados—” 

“You’re not famous, and you’re not musicians, and you’re not going.” 

“Yes we are,” Bill repeated, his face getting hot. 

“Dad—” Ray began.  

“I told you to shut up, Ray! This is between me and your brother.”
“He’s right,” Bill said. “It is between us, and I’m telling him that I’m making the decision that we are going to quit school and take that gig.” 

“Not as long as you live in this house!” 

“That’s the point. We’re not going to anymore.” 

His father glared at him. “Don’t get smart with me, young man. You’re not eighteen, and you need my permission, and I ain’t giving it. So just shut up and do as I say or you’re going to live to regret it.” 

“Fuck you!” Bill shouted. “We’re going!” 

It felt good to yell at his dad, and he wondered why he hadn’t done it before. What had that miserable old shit ever accomplished in his life? Who was he to tell Bill, or even Ray, what to do? 

Fists clenched, his dad advanced on him. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I won’t have that sort of language in this house!” 

“Yeah? Well, if you’re so good and pure, why did you shoot an angel? Huh? You think God hates me swearing more than he hates you killing his angels?” 

His dad hit him. Not a slap, not a tap, but a roundhouse to the jaw that sent him reeling back and brought tears to his eyes. Recovering quickly, Bill kicked the old fuck in the nuts, and was gratified to see his dad double over, clutching his crotch and letting out a weak, ineffectual moan.  

Ray was standing there, wide-eyed and shocked. “Go grab your stuff and pack,” Bill told him. “We’re getting out of here. Today.  

“And we’re taking the Jeep,” he informed his dad, still doubled over and holding his damaged genitals. “You can have the truck.”  

Bill waited until Ray was down the hall and out of sight, and then kicked his dad in the head as hard as he could, knocking him down. “Fucking hillbilly,”  

He walked down to his own room to pack his clothes, guitar and amplifier, feeling good.  

TWENTY ONE 

Wednesday night’s final confession wasn’t over until ten, and Father Ramos locked the church doors immediately after the last parishioner, Elena Martinez, stepped outside, making sure no one else could come in. He was bone tired, and he was tempted to just lay down in the pew next to him, close his eyes and go to sleep. Ever since the angel fell, not only had occasional churchgoers become regular, but
all
of his flock had started coming to confession, many of them daily. It took a lot out of a man to deal with so much sin, to forgive so many transgressions when he himself was not pure. 

He glanced back at the confessional, feeling uneasy. Hearing so many confessions had led him to notice a bizarre pattern that had emerged since the angel had fallen, a reversal of fortune among his parishioners that had to be connected to the event but that made no logical sense: people whose finances were in shambles had suddenly started doing well, while those who were well-off had suffered a run of financial misfortunes. A gorgeous young woman had been disfigured in an accident, while a frumpy matron had suddenly discovered beauty secrets that rendered her extraordinarily attractive. It was as though the polarities of luck had been flipped, and those who had been the beneficiaries of good fortune up until now had been cursed with bad luck, while the sad sacks who’d never had anything go right in their lives were suddenly having a run of spectacularly good luck. 

At least that’s the way it had started. 

But now things were becoming more complex, the patterns more subtle. Certain individuals seemed to be getting caught in competing cross-currents of changing luck. Charley McGill, for example, had always been poor but happily married—yet now his wife had suddenly died, leaving him a substantial life insurance settlement. Jack Judd was a failure as a husband but a very successful rancher—now he had reconciled with his wife but his cattle were dying. It was a strange and complicated amalgam of alternating good luck and bad that seemed to be playing out all over town.  

Father Ramos himself was caught in the middle. His fortunes had changed not at all. 

No, that was not true. His church was consistently full these days. The overflowing congregation he had always wished for had been delivered to him by the fallen angel. 

He kept thinking of the angel as “fallen” because it made him feel better, but that was not strictly true. The angel had not fallen. It had been shot down. The men of Magdalena had killed it in cold blood, and he was still awaiting the full consequences of that accidental murder.  

The
full
consequences.  

Because some consequences seemed to be occurring already. From what he had heard, and from what he had seen— 

the eggs 

—there were pockets of unexplainable events that could have no source other than the angel. He would include the veterinarian’s disappearance and the Ingram boy’s mysterious death among them. As well as the poltergeist that Ana and Miguelito Chavez claimed was haunting their trailer, and the influx of snakes that had taken over the Garcezes’ property.  

But as far as he could tell, there was nothing consistent about these incidents. Proximity to the body, involvement in the angel’s killing, none of these factors seemed to in any way determine to whom things would happen. The occurrences appeared to be completely random, and if there was a pattern to them, it was one that was known only to God.