E. Godz (10 page)

Out of sight, out of mind, he thought.

Sam strode into the very center of the ring and cupped his hands to his mouth.
Throwing his head back, he let loose a series of yips and yowls that any self-respecting
coyote might envy. Immediately the door flaps of the brown tents stirred and a chorus of
random animal noises streamed out in response. Grunts and bellows, hisses and squawks,
meows and chitterings and even a few pathetic squeaks broke the silence of the desert.
Then, from inside one of the tents, someone began to beat rhythmically on a drum.

"Gerald! Stop that, you idiot!" a very strident female voice overwhelmed the
menagerie and cut the drumming off cold. "You don't do that until later, when Master
Turkey Feather calls us into the circle and tells us it's okay. Jesus, are you actively trying
to embarrass me?"

"Sorry, Pookie," came the chastened murmur.

Sam gave Dov a look of intense amusement, then whisked his face clean of all trace
of levity. Looking grave and stoic, he sat down crosslegged in the middle of the circle
and began to sing. The melody was almost nonexistent, nasal and repetitive, but the
words were in pure English, a summons for all Seekers to emerge into the Light of Truth
and walk the Path of Dreams that would take the Truly Worthy to the very Heart and
Soul of the Great Eagle's Egg of Life. (It wasn't often you could hear spoken words being
capitalized but Sam made it so.)

One by one, the tent flaps lifted and the inhabitants crawled out into the sunlight,
blinking like moles. There were ten of them, all told. Most walked upright, but one
platinum blond woman chose to hop along on all fours like a bunny rabbit while one of
the men kept his arms stretched out while he swooped in a looping pattern around the
outside of the circle, like a little boy pretending to be a jet plane. All regarded Dov with
suspicion and jealousy.

"Who is this?" one woman wanted to know. She looked like a Barbie doll that had
been left out in a sandstorm. "I've been camping out here for two whole days, and I still
haven't been contacted by my spirit guide, which I think is all Mimsy's fault, by the way,
because she went and hogged the spirit of White Buffalo when it showed up, even though
it was obviously supposed to be mine, and if this guy can just come waltzing in here and
join up on the Vision Quest at the last frickin' minute like he was boarding the A train, for
God's sake, then my aura is gonna be entirely thrown out of whack and I want a refund!"

"The great spirit guide White Buffalo says to tell you that Courtney speaks with
forked tongue," another woman tranquilly told Sam. She was built on the same model as
the first whiner—a toned, tanned, and tucked physique enhanced by strategic lumps and
bumps of silicon, saline, and collagen. "The great spirit guide White Buffalo also says
that if Courtney can't remember that my name is no longer Mimsy but Flower-in-the-
Crannied-Wall, then it's no damn wonder she can't get a spirit guide of her own."

"Oh yeah? Well if you ask me, the only spirit guide that should've shown up to claim
you is a double-dyed bitch," Courtney sniped. "You've got no right to White Buffalo and
no right to that name! If anyone should be Flower-in-the-Crannied-Wall, it's me!"

"How would you like my boot so far up your Crannied Wall that you sneeze
shoelaces for a week?" Mimsy countered. Her self-satisfied serenity had blown away like
a tumbleweed and she was ready to rumble. This was serious. The woman doing the
bunny hop paused, the swooping man stood stock still, the other Seekers froze on point
like a pack of bird dogs, eager to watch a good old-fashioned catfight. Only Sam looked
worried.

I'll bet, Dov thought. Now I see how he's been pulling in the serious money all these
years. This is much bigger than the fetish bead market: made-to-order Vision Quests for
the financially affluent and spiritually destitute. Sure, take them out into the desert, burn
some herbs, chant your grocery list at them, have them thump on some drums, and make
them go on a fast until they get their Vision. How long do you think these overgrown
spoiled brats would go without food before they start seeing things? Or imagining that
they do.

Only trouble is, this fight isn't imaginary, and if one of these two Minnehaha
wannabes gets hurt, she'll hire Big Chief Sues-With-a-Vengeance and hold the company
responsible.

Dov had always had a keen nose for Brownie Point Earning opportunities. The only
reason he'd managed to finish college was his ability to ingratiate himself with his
professors while all the other suckers were burning brain cells by actually studying. He
figured that if he could defuse the impending Mimsy-Courtney blowup, he'd be in good
with Sam, which meant Sam's considerable financial clout would be backing him when it
came time for the corporate showdown with Peez.

Sam could also provide Dov with another, perhaps stronger sort of influence: Having
one of Edwina's old lover's on his side could only help Dov's chances for persuading her
to give him the company. It was a win-win situation, and both of the winners were Dov,
just the way he liked it.

Eyes on the prize, Dov took action.

Amazing how fast he was able to slip out of his clothes and stand there naked under
the startled eyes of Sam's little group of Seekers. The hardest part of his impromptu
striptease was kicking free of his lace-up running shoes and yanking off the socks
beneath, but he managed to do so and to make it look like part of a ceremonial dance
step. Now, as bare as a lizard, he proceeded to leap and stomp and cavort all around the
earth circle, raising his voice in the nearest thing he could remember to a genuine Indian
chant. (Could he help it if it was the lyrics to an Israeli rain dance, left over from
Edwina's days of full immersion in folk culture studies?)

As he completed his orbit, Dov was pleased to note that Mimsy and Courtney had
dropped their feud in favor of gaping at him like a pair of beached halibut. Objective
number one achieved, he thought gleefully. Commence accomplishment attempt on
objective number two.

Flinging himself at Courtney's feet, despite the grit that scraped his bare knees raw,
Dov bowed his head, raised his arms, and declared, "Hail, Woman-Who-Is-Worthy. I am
he who is sent from the Great Spirit to bring you word that you have been chosen. From
this day forth, your spirit guide shall be Great Goo-ga-li-moo-ga-li, the White Otter, and
your tribal name shall be Lives-Long-and-Prospers."

"Yeah?" Courtney brightened. "Nifty!"

"No fair!" Mimsy wailed. "She didn't get a Vision! How come she gets a spirit guide
and a name and everything like this? Like it's— it's— like it's some kinda pizza delivery
or something? And how come she gets an otter for her spirit guide? Otters are way cuter
than buffalo! I want the otter!"

"Behold!" Dov shouted, leaping to his feet. Naked as he was, there was plenty of
beholding for the assembled Seekers to do. "Behold that your mighty shaman, Master
Sam Turkey Feather, has used his powers to summon me from the realm of the Great
Spirit through long hours of self-sacrifice, fasting, and chanting. He has placed me within
this body so that your eyes may see me and so that I may walk among you and give you
the spiritual gifts which all of you have earned. Verily, even those of you who have
already been vouchsafed a Vision of your spirit guides shall have these same Visions
confirmed and sanctified. So decrees the Great Spirit, for never in countless generations
has he ever known a group as worthy of this special blessing as all of you!"

A chorus of approving murmurs ran through the group. Why wouldn't they approve?
The Great Spirit had just confirmed their own inflated opinions of themselves. Dov took
that opportunity to duck into one of the dome tents and leave it to Sam to handle the loose
ends. Alone in the dark he smiled, more than satisfied with how well he'd handled the
situation. He'd saved Sam's bacon and now Sam would have to give him his approval and
backing. It was that simple.

The tent flap lifted.

* * *

"You," Dov said as the Jeep jounced down the road heading back for the Blue Coyote
Diner. He sounded as prickly as a giant saguaro cactus. "You, Sam Turkey Plucker, are
one sneaky son of a bitch."

"Compliment accepted," Sam replied, grinning ear to ear. "Don't blame me. Did I
make you take off all your clothing and declare yourself the Great Spirit's messenger
boy?"

"No, but you're the one who told that nest of yuppie toad-lickers that the reason I'd
appeared to them in the form of a naked man instead of an animal was because there was
only one way for me to confer the Great Spirit's official tribal names on them."

"I didn't hear you complaining when you were conferring Courtney and Pookie and
Heather and—"

"Yeah, but how about when you sent Gerald in to see me? Not only was I half dead
from conferring Nicole—let me tell you, it's no wonder her spirit guide's a bunny
rabbit!—but I do not swing that way."

"Neither does Gerald. Trust me, he was just as relieved as you when the Great Spirit
beeped you to report back to headquarters ASAP, though I think Prescott was a little
disappointed."

"Prescott? He the one doing the air show?"

Sam nodded. "I'll go back and give him his tribal name myself, with no conferring,
thanks. Now if I could only remember what kind of bird he saw in his Vision, hawk or
eagle."

"It couldn't have been a turkey buzzard?"

"Not if I want him to tell all his friends to come see me for all their gen-yoo-wine
authentic Native American spiritual needs. How would it sound? 'Hey, man, it's the
greatest thing: I just paid some old injun three thousand bucks to tell me that my spirit
guide is a turkey buzzard! You should try it. Maybe he'll tell you that your spirit guide is
a muskrat.' I don't think so. That kind of money changes hands, you give the customer
eagles, hawks, bears, buffalo, wolves, like that, or you go back to the reservation."

"Glaminals," Dov mumbled.

"Say what?"

"Glaminals," he repeated. "The glamorous animals. The ones the customers can
casually mention at cocktail parties and get all their friends staring at them enviously
instead of rolling on the floor laughing. You know what I mean."

"You bet I do."

"So ..." Dov tapped his chin. "Three thousand dollars a pop. Impressive."

Sam dismissed Dov's admiration. "That's a low-end package. No frills. My high-end
Vision Quests go for up to five and a half K, all major credit cards accepted. Discounts
for senior citizens, not that any of the buyers I attract would ever willingly admit to being
over thirty-five, let alone fifty."

Dov whistled long and low. Now he really was impressed with Sam's setup. "Is that
why you tossed me to the wolves? Afraid I was going to muscle in on your market
share?"

"Kid, I couldn't let you steal all my thunder. What if you had been able to 'confer' all
of them? They'd tell their friends and then everyone who came to me for a Vision Quest
Weekend Package would be expecting the same treatment. I had to do something so
they'd understand it was a one-time-only experience. I mean, have some mercy: I'm not
as young as I used to be."

"Who is?"

Dov intended his flip response as a joke. Sam didn't take it that way.

"No one is," he said. "Least of all your mother. She and I— Well, it was a long time
ago, but still, I'll never forget it, or her." He lapsed into a silence that did not permit
interruption. The sun-washed miles rolled past outside the Jeep. In a while he spoke
again: "You see me as just a hustler, don't you?"

"I see you as a businessman," Dov said calmly. He was picking up some odd vibes
from this man and he wasn't sure what to make of them. It was true: He did think of Sam
as little more than a snake-oil salesman, peddling Enlightenment to the terminally trendy,
yet every instinct in him screamed that he was wrong, that this man held some of the true
power within him.

Mom would never have wasted her time with him if not, he thought. Even when she
was still in her teens, she knew where to look for the real magic.

"A businessman," Dov repeated, "who actually happens to be a shaman, too. A real
one."

Sam nodded. He seemed pleased, though he didn't crack a smile. "Kid, I'd like to
come with you, see your mama, put everything I've got into trying to heal her."

Dov fidgeted uneasily. "I— I appreciate the offer, Sam, but when I leave you, I'm
heading for Los Angeles."

"Your mama's dying and you're heading in the opposite direction?" Sam's brow
looked like a thunderhead. "And there I was, wishing that you were my son."

"It's business!" Dov said. He was surprised at his own tone of voice, pleading so
abjectly for Sam's understanding and approval.

"What kind of business makes you put your family second? From there it's just one
small step to forgetting you've got any family at all."

The words stung like scorpions. For an instant, Dov forgot that he was here to curry
Sam's favor and gain his backing for the takeover. "Oh, like your family must be so proud
of how your selling their culture by the pound to a bunch of yuppies?" he snapped.

"They're not," Sam replied, his voice cold. "Most of them no longer count me as kin.
Some don't even count me as alive, but I'm both. Even if they pretend I'm not there, I still
do what I can to stand by them. That twenty dollars I put down back there in the Blue

Coyote? Our waitress is my great-niece. She doesn't speak my name, I don't try to make
her, but I go there every day for breakfast and I always leave her plenty. I know she needs
it."

Sam pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He looked
Dov right in the eyes and said: "When I was growing up, we couldn't afford a lot of
things. Regular dental care was one of them. You see what my teeth look like? I could
change that if I wanted, now, buy me a smile that would blind an army, but I don't. I
leave it the way it is so I'll never forget where I came from, or how it made me who I
am."