Stealing Fire Read online

  “I think that’s funny!” And I did.

  “If you know about Indian people, absolutely. Funnier if you are Indian. And it’s good pay,” Harry said. “Hosteen Yanito took his grandson down to Flagstaff so they could see him in the last movie. Didn’t recognize himself worth beans with all that war paint on, but the boy finally recognized his grandfather’s horse. Watched it twice through so they could see it after they’d figured out which Indian character Yanito was.”

  Harry snubbed out his cigarette, and we found Wright and Grandpa, looking bleary. Mike had sent some stew over. We just had to let it simmer on the stove, and we were set.

  Eno ate, mounted his bay, and rode off. I hoped his wife wouldn’t send him back.

  Twenty-three

  We woke up early and were gifted with a sublime dawn rimming the east. As always, Wright held his tube of drawings in his lap, cradling them like a baby. I had a plan. I was pretty sure it would work, except for one thing—it seemed too easy. I also pulled together Iris’s paintings and supplies, and a few nice rugs as gifts.

  I fixed all four of us breakfast, and we headed over to Goulding’s for the shoot. I’d be happy to see Mr. John, Mrs. Ford, and the crew. We could put Mr. Wright in the middle of security and have access to a phone.

  I got Harry off to the side. “I really have to call Iris,” I said, “and I’m responsible for protecting Wright. So would you do me a huge favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make some calls nearby. The trading post at Kayenta. Cameron. Teec Nos Pos. Ask if a man fitting Jake Fine’s description inquired about Wright, or an old man with long white hair or whatever. I want to know how Fine found us.”

  “Done.”

  Wright was on his feet, plans in hand, ready to go down to where they were shooting. Harry led the way.

  “Tell me more about the movie Ford is shooting,” Wright said.

  “Well, like I said, there’s no Linda Darnell,” said Harry.

  “Rats,” Wright said.

  “There’s Shirley Temple. She’s only sixteen and not what you’d call a real looker. A good sport, though. I like her.”

  “What’s the film about? In a sentence.”

  “The old guard fending off the aggressive plans of an inexperienced young officer who’s out for power,” said Harry.

  “Ahhh … Mythic theme.”

  “I guess.”

  When we got to the set, it was busier than a beehive. Ford clapped me on both shoulders, welcomed me loudly for everyone’s sake, and went back to concentrating on his next shot. Henry Fonda acted like he’d never met me before. Danny Borzage, the accordion player who inspired Ford before every shot with his music wafting through the ancient bluffs, gave me a hug. One by one, I shook hands with a dozen old friends.

  Wright wandered off, and I kept my eye on him. He was transfixed. The monuments visible from the set are amazing. They are steep and they are high, colored an extraordinary mosaic of surreal red-orange mixed with neon rust. Wright gazed and gazed at the two enormous rock formations that look like a pair of mittens, left and right. He could have been a child and an ancient medicine man, both.

  I gently nudged him away from the sheer wall, waited until Mr. John called, “Cut and print,” and introduced him to John Ford. Each was bowled over by the mere presence of the other. Two artists in love with light, and eyes, and windows, and stories older than their Celtic ancestors.

  Ford caught a glimpse of something only he could see. He excused himself and ran to the camera, chewing on his handkerchief, waving his hands, motioning for security to join us. They agreed to take over the care of Wright so I could have peace to think and time to call my wife. I felt as if the babysitters had arrived. Grandpa would follow Wright around with security, so the grand old man wouldn’t feel like he was in a foreign country without a friend.

  Harry Goulding was pulled in twelve directions at once, but he gave my grandfather the key to the cabin Linda Darnell had used the year before. Mike had fixed up a room for me in their house—I had a good view of the cabin, and it was close. Harry led me to the phone in the kitchen and ran down the stairs.

  I got the operator and placed a call to Iris. No answer. I rang again, and this time Frieda picked up the phone.

  “Yazzie, thank God. Iris left a phone number for you, and she wants you to call.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She drove off, left yesterday afternoon, went to some motel. At first, she wouldn’t tell me where she was going, saying the less I knew the better,” Frieda said. “She’s been watching too many Humphrey Bogart movies.”

  “Wait, Harry said she called yesterday to say she loved me and that everything was fine.”

  “The world according to Iris,” said my mother-in-law. “That must have been in the morning.”

  “Iris left as in walked out the door, took a cab, got a lift, or…?

  “Left as in took the railroad’s Cadillac roadster.”

  “What!”

  “I know, I know. I told her that she could get pulled over for driving a stolen car. Would she listen to me? No. You know how she is.”

  I know how everyone in my family is. They are impossible.

  “Frieda. Where is she?”

  “She was heading to Flagstaff and said she’d meet up with you in Monument Valley. Yazzie?”

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Call me after you get hold of her, all right? You’re to ask for Iris Goldman. I told her to use a fake name, maybe Ava Gardner, but again, would she listen? No.”

  “I’ll call you, sure bet,” I said. “Ava Gardner?”

  “What can I say?” She hung up.

  I rang the number that I’d written on the pad of paper sitting on Harry’s desk.

  A woman answered. “Red Stone Motor Court. May I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to one of your guests. Iris Goldman.”

  “One moment please.”

  Iris picked up on the first ring.

  “Yazzie?”

  “Yes, yes. Where are you?”

  “Flagstaff, at a motor court.”

  “But why are you there? Iris, what’s going on?”

  “I had a visitor at the house yesterday morning after I talked to Harry.”

  “And?”

  “And I decided to follow him.”

  If I’d been in a doctor’s office, my blood pressure would have broken the machine. I sputtered.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I changed my mind after I talked with him. I waited a little while before I hit the road.”

  Terrific. “Who was it, and what was he doing at our house?”

  “He was looking for a pretty woman with green eyes, he said, and a young man whose description fit Pretty Boy Payton to a tee. I told him there was nobody there like that.”

  “Go on.”

  “He gave me his card. Hold on.” Rustle, rustle. “Okay, he works for Taliesin West.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Rick Fine.”

  “Jake Fine?”

  “No, Rick.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “I didn’t ask for his family tree, but he didn’t look like an ogre. Said he must have had his wires crossed, and gotten the address wrong. That these were friends of his, and he’d stopped by to see if they needed a ride back to Taliesin West. I said it was a long drive. No problem—he was stopping in Flagstaff to pick up supplies for the students.

  “We talked about Flagstaff, the crappy weather here, whatever. I said we’d never found a decent place to stay in Flag, and he said that he usually stayed at the Red Stone. That it was kind of a dive, but you didn’t leave the place with head lice. Everything nice and polite.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know, but Yazzie, you wouldn’t want someone to assume you were like your father’s family just because you were related to him, would you?”

  She had a point there.

  “He’s got to be related
to the Fine family,” I said.

  “Probably Helen’s brother, maybe a cousin. And I found out the pretty woman is Helen.”

  “Or a husband,” I said. “Iris, would you check out of the motor court? Now. Those people are gangsters—don’t speak to any of them.”

  “Yazzie, if I didn’t chat a little, he would have gotten suspicious. Besides, he was kind of cute.”

  “Get out!”

  “Sometimes you have no sense of humor at all.”

  “I get that from living in a house full of lunatics.”

  “Listen,” she said, “before you run out of nickels, I have something else to tell you.”

  “No nickels. I’m at Harry and Mike’s in Monument Valley.”

  “Okay, before you run up their bill, I have something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Helen is … I don’t get her.”

  Now I was getting interested, and I didn’t want to be. Interest takes time.

  “She’s gorgeous, and you should see what she wears to the pool. Doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

  “She there alone?”

  “A woman like that is never alone. She’s here with Pretty Boy Payton, and something fishy is going on,” she said. “I’m next door—these walls must be made out of cardboard—and they’re either doing it or he’s trying to talk her into stealing the Guggenheim plans.”

  “What do you do, put your ear to the wall?”

  “Are you kidding? Absolutely, with my ear to a glass pressed against the … whatever these walls are made of.”

  “Iris.”

  “Okay, okay. One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Payton wants to steal the plans, sell them to another firm. Helen is saying no, but she doesn’t sound sure. She sounds like she’s in love with Payton and will end up doing whatever he says.”

  “Has her brother or cousin or … whoever … gotten there yet?” I said. “You’ve got to scoot before he arrives, because he will arrive.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Hey! What’s that racket?”

  “Right. There is one hell of a lot of screaming going on next door.”

  “All of a sudden, and I can hear it from here!”

  “I’m gone. See you at Harry and Mike’s.”

  “Get out—”

  We both shouted “Now!” at the same moment.

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  Route 66 would take me right out of Grants—thank God—and into Flagstaff. Not that Flagstaff was any great shakes, but there were a few attractive buildings, one decent restaurant, and vast pine forests. Mostly, Helen would be there. I missed her. It disgusted me, but I did. Casual sex, no commitments—that’s what I was used to. Helen touched my heart. I hadn’t known I had one until I met her, but I did. The beat was quiet, but it was there. I was through fighting it.

  When I pulled into the Red Stone Motor Court, I spotted her car, but I wasn’t going to make the mistake of walking into the wrong room.

  The desk clerk, a crabby woman who probably hadn’t been laid in at least a decade, called me “Mr. Fine,” said my wife was expecting me and she was in room 17. Helen had thought of everything. No worrying about showing the clerk a wedding ring. Nothing. She’d simply checked us in as Mr. and Mrs. Fine. Again, she was brilliant and had covered the details. Her smarts were good news and bad news.

  I knocked on the door, and she pulled me inside. We made love for a long time. We went swimming in the small, kidney-shaped pool. We made love again. The next part … I was going to have to be careful here. I wanted to bring up stealing the plans for the Guggenheim and selling them to the highest bidder. I didn’t want to depend on her father’s money. If we had money, our own money, we could go into business for ourselves. Move to a new city. Be together. I couldn’t believe my own thoughts. I felt like a fool.

  We argued about those stupid blueprints. She didn’t want to lose her job with Wright. She worshiped the egotistical ground he walked upon. Mrs. Wright? That woman hovered over Helen like a maiden aunt before the debutante ball.

  I saw Helen’s point about experience with Wright, but I didn’t like it.

  One thing I was good at doing, and that was waiting. I could wait. I could change her mind. We could elope to Nevada. I was certain she’d be on my side if she had a ring on her finger.

  Then I heard a car pull up right in front of our room. Her stupid brother, Rick—it was hard to believe they had the same parents. He had everything, did he need Helen, too?

  Helen let him in. We had just finished making love. She took a shower. Rick and I started arguing. He was narrow-minded and could only see one way. I didn’t care how he felt about his father. Ridiculous. Ask someone who never had one—they aren’t necessary. Pleasing them, even less necessary.

  This man was mentally ill. I realized that in the middle of our quarrel. All he was going to do was out-yell me. The man had no feelings for humanity. None at all. He looked at me, and for one intimate moment I saw myself reflected in those eyes. That was a mistake. It distracted me and then it happened.

  He body-slammed me into the dresser. My butt, back, and head slid across the top into the mirror. It shattered.

  Fast, sharp, quick—that’s how I felt his knife. Then I felt everything inside myself turn into light and stream out the wound. All gone … This wasn’t so bad after all.

  * * *

  When I looked at Payton, I thought, One stumbling block out of the way. Helen didn’t need the man. I certainly didn’t need him. The jerk would always have been between us. I couldn’t lose my sister. She’d see, in time, that this was all for the best. She’d know.

  But when Helen came out of the shower and saw Payton, I realized that maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’d lost her. Did she feel anything but disgust for this Payton character? Hard to imagine, but that’s how it seemed.

  I jumped in my car and got out of there. I had work to do.

  Then I thought, The lovesick little idiot will call the cops. I went back to room 17 and told Helen the police would think she had killed Payton. I volunteered to take care of the whole mess—after all, I’d done it for her. She put her arms around me, but she wasn’t there, not really. Then there was knocking on the door. I looked around. I scooted into the closet, a terrible cliché.

  And then that little bitch came in the room and she held Helen, rocking her. The little woman from Santa Fe. What was she doing here?

  Maybe I would cool my heels for a few hours and call the cops. Blame that nosy little bitch.

  Twenty-four

  Harry said, “Why don’t you wait for her!?”

  “I know trouble when I smell it. And I know she’s coming north on 89. No other way to get here.”

  I was filling the gas and checking the gauges. And then I had an idea. I didn’t know if it was a good idea, but I jumped on it.

  “Actually, you know what?” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to get help finding Iris.”

  “What!” Harry said. He was exasperated.

  “I’m going to call the railroad and ask them to go ahead and report the Caddy as stolen.”

  “Have you lost your mind? You do not want your wife in jail.”

  “I’ll tell them to clue in the cops, give them the details, and escort her here.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Harry said, “and if she gets tailed, they’ll pick the guy up.”

  “But I’m still going to look for her.”

  Harry scratched his head. “Well, I’m not going to try and stop you. If my wife was out there, I’d look for her. Go to it. I’ll stick close to Wright, and keep one security guy with me.”

  “And don’t tell my grandfather what’s going on. He’ll walk from here to Flag if he thinks Iris needs him.”

  “Got it.”

  “And another thing?”

  “What?!”

  “A biggie. I switched Wright’s blueprints fr
om one tube to another. He’ll think he’s carrying the most current ones, but they’re actually old ones, no good.” I pulled a tube from behind the seat of my truck. “These are the real ones. Could you put them in the gun safe for me?” I plopped them into his hands.

  “What designs?”

  “It’s for that new museum, the Guggenheim,” I said. “They’re worth a hefty chunk of change.”

  “And they’re here?”

  “Right in your hands.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I get it. It’s taken care of.”

  “Okay, I’m heading to Flag. I’ll do my best to stay in touch.”

  We shook hands. I left Harry Goulding with the onerous task of keeping an eye on the most famous architect in America and blueprints worth more than a bundle.

  Twenty-five

  I had plenty of gas, two extra cans of oil, and five gallons of water. It was enough to get to Flagstaff without stopping. The Cadillac roadster would be hard to miss even in a big city. Out here? Impossible.

  My boss said he’d call the cops and tell them to keep a lookout for the car. He’d tell them it wasn’t stolen, but if someone was tailing the car, he wanted that driver taken into custody. The woman driving the roadster was to be taken into protective custody and escorted to Goulding’s. He’d describe Iris to them.

  Only the head of a railroad had enough clout to pull off something like that without a load of questions from local cops.

  I was sweating bullets. If factory gears were grinding in my brain, they would have been spitting iron filings.

  From what Iris said, it seemed perfectly reasonable for Payton to drop Mrs. Wright off at Taliesin West and meet up with Helen for a rendezvous. Mrs. Wright did have good reasons to be at Taliesin, and as quickly as possible. Except for my grandfather, I live in a house full of artists, and I grew up around artists. When you get to see the world through their eyes, everything looks different.

  But run a business? Not likely. Fellows and other young people with families arriving. There were interviews and résumés to plow through. There was work in progress. Frank’s clients to appease. I was sure he must be behind deadline, and not only because of this detour in his life. No, it would be because he had too many coals in the fire. He spent more money than he made, meaning he always had to take on new projects and hope for a good advance.