The Resort (35 page)

Once, over Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, and pumpkin pie—Mr. Ballard was asked by Mrs. Ballard why he did it, meaning all those volunteer hours, and his father had answered not so much to her but to Buzz by saying, “Doctors cure most of their patients, but not all of them. Lawyers get some of their clients off, but some go to jail. We never lose to a fire. We get it sooner or later.”

Buzz, at eighteen, had been trained as a Marine pilot just in time to catch the tail end of the Korean War. And when he was given his certificate of honorable service and went into the reserves, the idea of fighting fires by hanging on to a truck and then holding a hose seemed slow for the speed he was accustomed to, letting the nose of his jet down just a bit to bring its airspeed to five hundred and sometimes five fifty.

And so Buzz found his place in the air arm of the U.S. Forest Service, where the slowness of a bomber was made up for by the excitement of unleashing a massive torrent of chemical from the air. Later, as Buzz worked his way into choppers, he found renewed excitement in being, as was often the case, the first man to survey a virgin fire of great dimensions. He liked the chill of recognizing its extent and seriousness, and being the first voice to report back in, the go signal for what he saw as a war against flames that if unchecked could consume part of the world.

Taking the Bell Ranger down to three hundred feet, he got Ed Ballantine back on the radio.

“Here are the coordinates, Ed.”

Then Buzz said, “Fire is in an incomplete ring around nine or ten large buildings in a compound, all part of some resort. My estimate’s one fifty to one-seven-five people visible outside rooms and buildings. Don’t see anyone heading down the road by foot or car. What’s that?”

Buzz listened for a moment, then switched back so he could talk. “No buildings burning yet. Pattern of the blaze indicates origin in multiple locations. Wouldn’t rule out arson.”

Ed, who fought fires from a desk, was cynical. “The insurance companies sure make it easy for motel owners who can’t cut the mustard.”

“Ed, this is no motel. It’s a big place. I’d hate to see more of Ventana go up so soon after that last one. Recommend putting bombers with ammonium nitrate on standby. This’ll take one thousand men for starters. You’ll need dozers airlifted. If we can keep the road clear, ground tankers could get up. If the fire jumps the road, we’ll never get the tankers through. You’ll have to use air tankers period. Ed, I think you’d better get the Indians in off the reservations the way this is going. There could be poison oak down there burning. The area north of the buildings looks very rough for pack mules. Hey, wait a minute.”

Buzz brought the helicopter down lower and made a pass over Cliffhaven. Almost everyone was now staring up at the solitary Bell Ranger.

Buzz pulled upward and away to where he could get a better view of what had caught his eye.

“Hey, Ed, that fire could jump the road about two hundred yards downhill. It narrows between big rocks. Very thick brush on both sides. Better get the Coast Guard rescue choppers at Monterey plus Fort Ord’s Hercules if you want to get these people out in time. Ed, you better drop some organized heads into the compound real quick from the look of things. I’ll stick long as I can, over.”

A few minutes later he got back on.

“Lot of people crowding the low end of the swimming pool now. It must be hot as hell down there. Isn’t room in the pool for everybody. Also we’re getting uphill combustion, I’d say upwards of twenty acres flaming or gone. This is a fast one.”

Ballard checked his fuel gauge, then made a sweep of the periphery.

“Hey, Ed,” he called. “Choppers
on
the
way?
Good
thing. Listen, something crazy. The parking lot here’s got just a few cars and a pickup truck. Doesn’t make sense with all those people. But just east of this place there’s a gorge I just buzzed. It’s filled with auto junk, most of it complete cars. Think there’s some kind of racket going on here? What? No, more’n a hundred. If they’ve got gas in the tanks… You’d better get a command post set up fast. And, Buddy, better get here soon, my fuel gauge’s telling me to head home. Over.”

*

Henry looked up at the trusties and decided he’d better stand. Shamir had thought of the same thing at the same time. Pity Jake wasn’t here, that would make three against three.

Blaustein, still slumped against the wall, spoke to the trusties first. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

The leader of the three looked at Blaustein with contempt. Then he spoke, his hand encompassing the blaze. “You started all this.”

It wasn’t a question. Henry acknowledged the deed with silence.

The leader of the trusties seemed nervous about what he wanted to say.

Finally, it came out. “We three think you did right. We were wrong to play ball with Clifford.”

“And now you’re afraid of being punished.”

The man nodded. This is as it always is, Henry thought, the sides change, the worm turns.

“What should we do?” the man asked.

“Fools,” Henry said. “For a start, take your armbands off.”

All their heads turned at once. Blaustein, who’d sidled
along
the
wall, now suddenly
stood and ran as fast as he could.

*

“What’s the matter, Clete?”

Dan Pitz’s voice had come up right behind him. Clete signaled for the hose he was holding to be turned off. When the water pressure eased, he put the hose on the ground but kept his foot on it to keep it from rolling about, spewing the remains of the water.

“It’s like trying to piss at a bonfire,” Clete said. “We’re making no headway at all.”

“It’s too bad Mr. Clifford won’t let us call in the pros.”

“And let them see what we’ve got here?” Clete wondered about this new guy’s guts.

Certain now that no one was within hearing distance, Dan said, “I’m sure that chopper called in the feds.”

“Then we’ve got to do something about all those people in the swimming pool.” Clete was looking in that direction.

“Jesus, some of them are heading toward the road.”

“I have an idea,” Dan Pitz said, “if you’ll listen.”

“I’ll listen okay.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” the new manager said. “When this is over…”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t identify you, if you won’t identify me.”

Clete looked Dan in the eye. So this was the tough guy picked by Clifford.

Dan put his hand out to clinch the agreement.

Clete extended his right hand to shake Dan’s, and also his left to grab Dan’s underarm just above the elbow, and with that perfect grip, threw Dan Pitz to the ground on his back. He could see the surprise in Pitz’s face and took advantage of it to put his knee in Pitz’s
chest
as he pinned his arms.

“You stupid son of a bitch, you’re worried about
me
identifying you, you chicken-livered idiot? What about all those Jews? Maybe they won’t remember the face of the new guy, I don’t even know if they’ve seen you, but they’ll sure as hell remember me. Now listen!” Clete let Pitz’s left arm go and put his right fist in Pitz’s face. “I’m going to get the weapons from the closet behind the reception desk. We’ll distribute them to the staff members we can find real quick and set up a barricade at the road. Any Jews try to get down it, we shoot. Understand?”

Dan nodded. He would have nodded whatever this nut said, as long as he could get away. In a second Clete was gone, running toward the reception building.

Luckily, he knew where Ann kept the key. He opened the second drawer on the right and lifted the tray from the cash box. It wasn’t there! He rummaged through the various keys quickly—ah, there it was! He opened the cupboard. There were twelve guns of various makes, mostly .38s. He scooped up several boxes of ammunition from the bottom of the cabinet, stashed them and all the guns but one in the
canvas log carrier by the fireplace. It wasn’t a good way to carry anything, but he didn’t see any better way. He was off, shoving his own weapon behind the belt of his jeans.

He couldn’t see Dan Pitz anywhere. He looked anxiously around for Robinson or Trask. Not to be seen. What he did see were about eight or ten of the Jews within a hundred yards of the road. They were dripping from the pool, most of them. And glancing around, as if expecting to be caught if their plans
were known. Where the hell was Charlotte? He could sure use her.

Quickly, Clete found five staff members, then saw four more and called them over, handed out the weapons, explained what the Jews were doing, and what his plans were. He jammed the extra gun into his waistband, handed out the ammunition, and had everybody load up, while he did the same. He threw the log carrier to the side and then, on the run, the others following him, went to head off the residents at the top of the road. He remembered the sawhorses and the two-by-six painted with “No Exit” behind the sentry house—he could use them, but they wouldn’t really hold a crowd back. He’d make a barrier of bodies, that would keep them away!

In no time Clete had the armed staff members lined up in front of the barrier, several of them frightened by the changed circumstances.

“Don’t you worry none,” Clete said. “When I’m through, there won’t be any witnesses.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the staff member next to him.

“Everybody!” Clete yelled, feeling a rush of excitement as the idea in his head bloomed. He had the feeling he was a natural leader, long repressed, now out from under jerks like Dan Pitz and raring to go. “Count your rounds,” he shouted.

The residents approaching the barrier stopped their forward movement.

“Okay,” Clete said, so the staff members could hear him. “Let’s make every shot count. We’ll put the bodies in the dump truck, and the ones we don’t shoot, we’ll put them in the big van and run it and the truck into the gully. Remember, no witnesses!”

There were more than a dozen residents now not more than ten yards away. Way behind them, after the stragglers, a whole mob from the pool was headed toward the barrier. Let them come, thought Clete. It’s easier if they head for us than if we have to chase after them.

“Remember,” Clete said, raising his pistol to eye level, “don’t waste shots. Aim for the one directly in front of you. Everybody ready?”

The others took aim, some of them unsteadily.

“Fire,” Clete said. His shot hit the man he was aiming at in the center of his chest. He could see the reaction on the man’s face, a great gasp as he fell backward. Clete got a lot of satisfaction from being that close, but something bothered him. The volley he had heard didn’t sound like a dozen shots. He glanced right. Obviously some of the guys had not fired. Slim, the tall guy from Pasadena, had lowered his pistol to his side.

Clete went up to him. “What’s the matter, Slim, chicken?”

Slim didn’t say anything.

Clete was a lot shorter than Slim and felt that way as he stood close. Slim didn’t see Clete raising the pistol to his midriff, he just felt the sudden blow into his belly as the shot resounded. He fell, writhing, and Clete stepped on his right wrist and got the gun away from him, then left him lying there, screaming.

“Anybody else chicken?” Clete asked, shouting so he could be heard against the roar of the fire.

Nobody said anything.

He then ordered them to take aim. The residents, meanwhile, were backing off, and Clete ordered the line of staff members forward. He wanted his targets within easy range.

It was at that moment that he saw the figure running toward the periphery of the compound perhaps a hundred and fifty yards away, but he recognized her. That Minter woman, the one he hated most, was trying to make her escape through the brush that was not yet burning. She was a fool. That area would be ablaze in minutes.

“Hold everything,” he yelled, signaling the others to lower their weapons, and took off after her. He’d make an example of that cunt. He’d execute her in a really fine way in front of everybody.

She saw him coming and knew who he was. She also saw the upraised pistol in his hand. Phyllis Minter could have made the woods, but she deliberately stopped, turned, and waited for him.

“Well, if it isn’t little prickle with a big gun,” she said. “Looks like your fun park is burning down.”

“Just the woods, jewbaby. We’re keeping the rest intact for all your relatives. Now march!” Clete waved the pistol in the direction he wanted her to go.

Phyllis had no intention of obeying orders from this weasel. She held her middle finger up.

Clete hated obstruction from anybody, but especially from women and Jews. He slammed at Phyllis’s upraised finger with the butt of his gun.

“You missed,” she said, pulling her hand smartly away. Then, with her knees bent, she reached into her boot for the knife she had secreted there.

Clete had his plan in mind. He’d make her undress in front of everybody right by the barrier, and then he’d shoot her point blank into the furry triangle, tearing her cunt to pieces. He’d just have to get her knife away first.