The Nirvana Blues (49 page)

In the northeast corner of the back field, where Geronimo had overgrazed, the area had been usurped by wild lilies. Stooping, Eloy scrutinized an old meadowlark's nest. “They build here, and half the time their young are drowned when I irrigate. But they always try again. I like their music, though I always wondered why God gave such a beautiful song to such a common bird.”

As they wandered, Eloy used his shovel to assassinate a thistle plant, knock down a careless weed, and clear an offensive clod from the as yet dry ditch. He scratched a kitchen match on his zipper and flicked it into dead ditch grasses; they caught fire immediately. While the grass burned, Eloy talked about the acequias. Wolfie's eyes grew heavy-lidded as he dreamily focused into the smoke.

“It's all over, I'm afraid—irrigation farming. I'm the only person who cares that water still runs in this ditch. There isn't even a commission anymore. And for eighteen years I have been the mayordomo. Though only a lateral off the main ditch, it's almost a mile long. Every year, all by myself, I clean it. This year, this week, in fact, maybe you can help me. Three years ago I went to court against the state engineer, who tried to declare it non compos mentis. I won my case.”

He grinned good-naturedly. “On three other occasions, in the past five years, I've gone to court to stop a newcomer from building a house or a garage or a tennis court on top of my acequia. All the newcomers along this ditch hate me, they can't wait until I die.”

A little later, as he pried open a brittle milkweed pod and thumbed out the silken seeds, Eloy said, “When the ditches die, the land dies. And when the land dies, what interests me in people also dies. Do you know how much they are paying now—the Town of Chamisaville, for example—for water rights to a little plot like this?”

“I'd guess a lot.”

“Up to twenty thousand dollars.”

Eloy spoke not bitterly, but with an extreme sadness Joe found quite touching.

He continued introducing Joe to the property. Every year, up in that birdhouse, starlings nested. The pretty red bug nibbling on his hat was an elm beetle. Skunks often wrecked his corn; the best way to combat them was to leave a radio playing among the stalks at night. Often, during irrigations, a trout, or a couple of chubs, wound up splashing in the field. Muskrats honeycombed the ditch bank: Eloy shot at least a dozen every summer. Three years ago a weasel he could never trap had killed almost twenty of his chickens—then it had moved on. Those trees, which hadn't leafed out yet, were honey locusts—they always matured a month after everything else. The front-field grass was largely native, with a little timothy thrown in. You couldn't excavate in the field because it was solid rocks, part of an old stream bed. The water level was only a few feet below its surface.

Eloy's shadow darkened an anthill. “To get rid of these hormigas, I pour gasoline on them.” Later, his hand settled proudly atop a rickety fence post. “Normally, I only use cedar posts. But this is an old pine log I brought out of the mountains eleven years ago. If you can't afford creosote, just save the old stuff when you change your car oil, and soak the underground part of the post in it—the wood will hold up for years.”

Several times he stooped, picking up baling-wire strands, which he wound into hoops and draped over the nearest fence post. “Wherever you are,” he intoned religiously, “always save a piece of wire. With it, you can repair the world, even your soul.”

Eloy knew every inch of the land by heart, every weed, every animalito. “My wife planted this little snowball bush in 1962: in July it will be covered with white balls of flowers.” A rosebush had been around since 1958. And: “We got the sweet-pea seeds from Francisco Naranjo in 1949.”

He opened the rickety door to a chicken pen, and gathered a handful of eggs. In a shady area carpeted by dandelions, Eloy rested momentarily on a disintegrating blue bench. Wolfie snagged a large blue dragonfly and settled on his haunches, chewing reflectively, savoring the taste.

“I built this bench for my daughter, Teresa, in 1928,” Eloy said. “I made her little dolls out of cornhusks, and she would sit on this bench, under a different crab-apple tree that finally died, making up games for her dolls to play.”

Bemusedly, he fingered a rusty nail almost covered by the bark of a silvertip poplar. “My youngest boy, Larkin, built a treehouse here during the war.”

Halting at a certain spot in the back field, he said, “Right here is where I found one of my sheep dead in the summer of 1956. She slipped out of the corral, and before I noticed her escape, she had eaten too much alfalfa. In minutes she bloated up and died.”

Fascinated, Joe watched the old man stake out the land, sharing its history with the potential new owner. Right about here, in 1947, a favorite horse had stepped in a gopher hole and broken its leg. Right over there a daughter, Adelita, and her new husband had discovered a killdeer nest a week after their 1951 wedding day. Some charcoal shards in the grass pertained to a shed that had burned in 1943—struck by lightning, by God! Some now-wild yellow iris had been cultivated near the sweet-pea vines by another daughter, Marta, in 1936. All the hollyhocks surrounding the little house had arrived on the wind and proliferated of their own accord.

By the end of the tour, Eloy had Joe close to tears. By what right could he—an easterner, a college-bred, self-indulgent, morally reprehensible idiot—come in and take over, calling this miniature farm his own, in one fell swoop annihilating the historical vibes with his alien presence? Joe was surprised that flowers didn't wither when touched by his shadow as he lumbered along clumsily behind Eloy, bald-facedly exhibiting his ignorance of nature every time he opened his mouth. For a mere sixty Gs, it seems, he could purchase (and become caretaker of) a man's soul. And how (after a tour like this, and the historical intimacies shared) should he be so lucky as to raise the cash, could he order the old boy to scram? Eloy Irribarren belonged to this cherished piece of terrain: Joe would always be a brazen interloper. Better he should retreat, tail between his legs, letting them as had legitimate claim to the place—through years of toil, love, and everyday living—run out their string.

Bewildered by conflicting emotions, Joe slumped against Eloy's adobe hovel and basked with melancholy peacefulness in the soothing sunshine. Eloy drew up a bucket of icy well-water, poured some into a platter for Wolfie, and drank from the tin cup himself. The old wolf licked his chops after drinking and, with a careless, lightning jab, plucked a little black beetle out of the air. He tasted it for a second, found it undesirable, and, pursing his lips, spat the bug out like a watermelon seed.

Yes—Joe ached to own the land. He also did not want the onus of ownership. He was wavering about risking his neck to unload the coke to obtain the bread to swing the real-estate deal. On the one hand, he fervently hoped Heidi would flush the dope down the toilet, sparing him the agony of actually purchasing this sacred land. On the other hand, if she actually did that, he would strangle her!

Suddenly, his heart thundered, his brain pulsed, his guts throbbed. Caught in a cerebral dust devil, thoughts intrabuffeted giddily. He had such powerful lusts; he also wished to do the decent thing. He was terrified of Ray Verboten … he would kill to possess trees and flowers … the risks weren't worth it … he needed Heidi and the kids … he wouldn't mind another shot at Nancy Ryan, either … he would help Eloy rob the bank … he was going crazy.

In the warm sunshine, Joe's teeth chattered.

Eloy splashed half a cup of clear water into the dust at his feet. A hummingbird buzzed between them. The day had become ultra-lazy. Chickens scratched in the driveway, clucking soporifically. Turkeys lay on their sides, ruffling feathers in the dust.

How could they kill this way of life?

Eloy said, “I'm hungry. It's time to eat.…”

*   *   *

B
UT AS THEY
relaxed beside that well, passing the tin cup of icy water between them, a late-model celestial-blue pickup towing an orange-and-white U-Haul pulled into the driveway and stopped. Behind it a jungle-green 1967 VW microbus screeched to a halt. Crouched on its roof, face obliterated behind the snout of his eight-millimeter Bolex, Rama Unfug assiduously immortalized the scene. Doors in both the pickup and the bus opened: Shanti Unfug and Iréné Papadraxis emerged from the VW, Nikita Smatterling and Ray Verboten descended from the azure cab. Using a pair of pliers, Nikita promptly began to snip at the barbed-wire fence, making a gate.

Eloy murmured, “Ay, qué sinvergüenzas!”

Joe said, “What the hell are they doing?”

“Bringing the brass monkey. You know I rented the pasture for their unveiling.”

“But they'll destroy everything. They'll trample the grass and defecate in the ditch.…”

“I needed the money.”

Without thinking, Joe said, “That badly? What for?”

“Food. Lard, flour, coffee…”

“Oh shoot … I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize.”

As the pickup entered the field, Geronimo whinnied nervously, and Iréné Papadraxis walked up the potholed driveway toward them, a slick sexy vision in her Acapulco shades, black body-shirt, midnight-purple stretch pants, and those knee-high spike-heeled leather boots. Her outlandishly sexy gait made Joe's groin prickle. But his heart thundered, because—embarrassed for his aged companion—he also hated her. Viewed through Eloy's campesino prism, what a Martian! In the background, Nikita and Ray, Shanti and Rama shouted orders to each other, taking over the field, determining crucial placements for the U-Haul. Dressed in daffodil yellow, Om Unfug danced through the short grass, chasing imaginary butterflies of love.

Serene and peaceful clouds reflected obscenely in Iréné's one-way shades. Nearing them, she smiled. “Hello, Joe—so we meet again.” Imprinted in black, every hair and minuscule nub around her nipples jumped at Joe like carnival shouts. Though angry, he also had a rising hard-on.

“Hello yourself,” chirped Mr. Casual. “How have you been?”

“And this, I take it, is Mr. Iddibabben?” When she pushed those obnoxious glasses into her hair, green eyes leaped out with beautiful icy hauteur. Her smile—admittedly a turn-on—seemed pained. She extended her hand.

“Irribarren,” Joe corrected.

Amusedly, Eloy accepted the handshake. “That's my name. Don't wear it out.”

“I hear you're one of the most fascinating men in the Chamisa Valley, Mr. Irribarren. I'm writing a book about the Hanuman and its unveiling on Thursday. I'd love for you to tell me a little background about your place here.…”

Joe squirmed, averting their eyes, and retreated to the Green Gorilla as Eloy, accepting her request at face value, launched into a gentle, enthusiastic dissertation on his beloved terrain. Embarrassed at the way she provoked him sexually, Joe had to cop at least three surreptitious peeks at her lascivious body before he could start the truck and flee. But halfway down the driveway he pumped himself to a stop.

Nikita Smatterling and Shanti Unfug waved; Ray Verboten gave Joe a neutral, hired-killer stare.

“You guys shouldn't have cut the fence like that, without asking his permission,” Joe called out.

Ray Verboten quit conferring with Nikita and started toward the driveway. He came on slowly, like a slick old-fashioned gunslinger. A funny sensation squeezed the day. Like a camera lens focusing down, Joe lost contact with images on his periphery. Until abruptly Ray Verboten seemed to be coming at him through a tunnel, or in a spotlight—no other earth, people, or noises were involved. Magpie calls receded, Om's laughter evaporated, Geronimo's nervous whinnies died away. All Joe could hear was the menacing
swish-swish
of Ray's boots in the grass. It took him forever to arrive. He circled the truck to the driverside window, placed a foot on the running-board, and poked his impassive, cruel features up to the open window.

“Joe,” he said, in a mockingly bored voice. “I'd like to personally invite you to the unveiling of this Hanuman on Thursday…”

“Gee, thanks,” Joe muttered, angrily fighting off his queasiness, begging his heart to be tough.

“…
if
you're still alive.”

Joe said, “Fuck you,” popped the clutch, and clattered off in a dignified, gallumphing huff.

JERK WHO SPAT ON HITMAN FOUND DEAD WITH
CROWBAR STABBED THROUGH CRANIUM
!

*   *   *

A
FEW MINUTES LATER
, Joe found himself grinding to a theatrical halt in the parking lot of the First State People's Jug. He quelled the engine and kept still for a moment, knuckling his aching eyes. A direct route to Tribby's office had been his official flight plan; yet at a crucial juncture he had unwittingly executed a left instead of a right, ending up at the portals of Chamisa County's premier financial institution.

Tom Yard—all six feet five inches, Stetson hat, and Sam Browne belt toting a .357 mag of him—leaned against the main portal, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He waved. Returning the salutation, Joe experienced a guilty lurch somewhere east of his pancreas. If they really wound up robbing this sucker, Tom would be their major obstacle. Two years ago an Oklahoma drifter named Darvil Cummings, disguised in a blond wig, a shirtwaist dress, and spike heels, and his diminutive sidekick, Judy Moravek, a waitress he'd picked up only the night before at the Chamisaville Inn, had tried to do a heist in Tom Yard's domain. Blowing his cool when the teller fainted, Darvil yanked a toy German Luger from his purse and ordered everybody in the room to freeze. Only Tom Yard refused to go gelid: instead, he grabbed his own pizzolover and decked the Okie with a single shot right between the eyes, depositing half his brain against the wall clock thirty feet away, over the personal-loans department. When Judy Moravek tried to flee, Tom fired four more times: each slug spun her around on her feet so that she resembled a frenzied ballerina during that brief, horrific instant before she shattered the glass partition to auto loans, riddled beyond repair.