Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) (8 page)

“You’re just a damned thief from the wrong side of the tracks, like all of them other surplus boys,” said Skippy.

Dingo said snobbily, “We prefer the term
Lost Boys
. And not all of us are thieves. Some of us have made good. Pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps. I don’t even do drugs. They don’t agree with me.”

“And I’m giving him a job, a real job.” I even slapped Dingo on the shoulder. The poor weak guy nearly pitched forward onto my laptop keyboard.

“You
are
?”

“You
are?
” echoed Skippy. “At the mine, hauling rocks?”

“No.” I was starting to become irritated with the crusty old bartender. He was a deep gold mine of information when he was in a good mood, but he sure made nasty attacks against anyone who didn’t fully follow Chiles’ protocol and twaddle. If I was going to work for Chiles making good on these gun contracts, I knew I had to get used to people like that. “Prospecting for our club.”

It was heartening, the way Dingo’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “
Really?
You think I can do that?”

“Sure, why not? Of course, eventually we’ll have to return to Bullhead City.”

“Bullhead City? I’ve never been there!” Dingo said it as though I’d mentioned Vegas or San Francisco, a place of glamor.

Skippy was skeptical. “Your Prez going to want to take him on as Prospect? Can’t really picture this weak, feeble kid riding a hog.”

Dingo said, “Don’t call it a hog unless you want to get rolled.”

“I’ve already put a call in to him. If we’re going to be spending all this time up here, we need Prospects. Everyone needs Prospects. We can’t be expected to polish our chrome by ourselves. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” said Dingo. It was a pleasure just seeing his joy. It made me feel good about myself in a way I hadn’t felt in a long ass time.

“Okay. Papa Ewey has to approve it and it has to go on the table for the club’s vote, but I don’t see why not. You’ve already proven yourself useful.”

“Oh yes? How?”

I proceeded with caution. Knowing Skippy’s hardline stance on all things Cornucopia, I couldn’t expect him to be rational about anything that went on out there. Dingo had a much more level headed view. “You know a lot. You’re wise beyond your years. Like, where’s Reed Smoot?” I asked. “I keep hearing his name, but have never seen the guy.”

“Reed Smoot’s not in Texas,” said Skippy, not wanting Dingo to know more than him. “He’s dead.”

Now my jaw hung low. I didn’t even get a chance to ask Skippy what he meant because the shadowy figure of a Cornucopian woman moved on the other side of the filthy front window. Of course at the sight of a woman’s shape, all conversation was dropped.

“
A woman
,” marveled Dingo.

“Ah, that’s just Mahalia Warrior. She’s an octoroon,” said Skippy, as if that oldfangled word described all there was to know about her. “She comes into town sometimes. She’s president of the Relief Society, so she has business here.”

Dingo elbowed me. I’d confided in him that I had a bone on for the saucy, shapely woman. Why not? It was a harmless obsession, something to pass the time while I sat in the mining office making spreadsheets of tonnage, gross and net. Breakiron didn’t even know about my puppy love—just Dingo. It puffed him with pride to be privy to such trashy gossip. “Your lady, old friend. Your lady.”

“Yeah.” I snorted. “And she’s not even coming over here.”

She was wearing the rebellious red dress, but there was something different about her. It was almost as if she’d primped up in some secret way to impress someone. She started heading for the fake bikers who endlessly played pool, but she stopped short and took a small round table for herself. I was hugely offended she didn’t even glance my way. How could she
not
see the back of my cut with colorful rockers advertising we were
THE ASSASSINS OF YOUTH MC
? Did we not share a few glances while she served us in Chiles’ office? Was I imagining things that she might have secretly had the hots for me, too? I was a bad boy, for fuck’s sake! Was she really that brainwashed by Chiles that she couldn’t even sit at the same bar with me?

“I’ll go get her drink order,” said Skippy.

“She’s very beautiful,” said Dingo. “Even more than I remember. Her hair used to be a frizzy ball but now it’s all smooth. She must have discovered the wonders of olive oil.”

I looked at him. Sometimes it seemed his maturity had been retarded at a certain age, or been unduly influenced by advertisements for women’s products. He was a tough nut to crack. He wasn’t gay, so I ruled that out. He just randomly seemed to like things that traditionally were thought of as female interests. “Oh yeah? And which skin products does she use?”

“I like to think she opts for a paraben-free—”

“I’ll be right back. Read about your stars on the computer.”

Dingo nodded happily and I butted into Mahalia’s conversation with Skippy. It seemed they hadn’t seen each other in awhile, because she was telling him how well her daughter was. But something seemed off. There was a tense tremor to her voice, and his nostrils were flaring. Something was wrong.

Skippy said, “A 7 Up coming up. So they’ll want to marry Vonda off soon, no? She’s getting to be that age.”

Skippy had inadvertently hit the nail on the head. The tears that had been held back in her eyes suddenly sprung forth, and she wiped an eye with the back of her hand. “I suppose,” she said in a tight, strangled voice. “Not that I’m all for it.”

Skippy shifted uncomfortably. Maybe the emotional impact of the conversation would get rid of him.

“Get her drink,” I said, and he seemed relieved to be off the hook. Taking the empty chair, I had the nerve to put my hand over Mahalia’s, reassuringly. “What’s wrong?” I asked softly.

I could tell she could not withhold her feelings even if she’d tried. A sob escaped from the bottom of her lungs when she tried to talk. Her hand couldn’t hold back her tears, so I lamely gave her a paper napkin. “My daughter. Allred wants to marry her off to Orson Ream. She’s far too young to be married. I was married at sixteen, but I loved my husband.”

“I know you did,” I said, withdrawing my hand. Suddenly it seemed inappropriate. And she was wiping her nose.

She turned fiery. “Vonda doesn’t love Orson, much less know much about him at all! I see this happen time and time again—Lord knows Allred has sealed to a few new, younger wives since me, and we’re talking girls who barely know him! I know it’s all the Lord’s will, but sometimes that just seems like such goddamned scrud!”

I could tell she was violently upset to use a word like “scrud.” “I can’t see the point in it, myself. He has to get rid of people, drive all the Lost Boys into the desert and abandon them, get rid of perfectly good men like Reed Smoot just to make way for more women? I don’t imagine he lets you help build the buildings. Seems construction workers would be at a premium.”

“I know, right? Instead of offing them all—” Choking on her words, Mahalia glanced around to make sure no one had overheard. She looked submissively down at the table. “I don’t know you very well. I shouldn’t be saying things like this to you.”

“You’ll know me much better if I have any say in it. And just because I’m working for Chiles doesn’t mean I agree with his ways, his methods. I think his methods are pretty fucking unsound, to be honest. But I’m doing my Prez a solid by accommodating Chiles. That includes business, not abuse toward women.”

She sniffed. She looked lovelier than ever with her eyes all misted over, although of course I loathed what Chiles was doing to her. It was sick. It was twisted. It was pimpery of the worst sort. “Do you? Think it’s abuse, I mean?”

Skippy brought her drink. He also brought my warm glass of Bud and Mahalia sort of sneered at it, so I didn’t touch it.

“Well of
course
it is. It’s emotional abuse, and physical abuse by proxy. You can’t just order someone to marry someone. It’s not natural.”

“But it’s the Lord’s will, not Allred’s. That’s how he makes it make sense. It’s our calling, such as teaching youth, or running the Relief Society is. We have to take a leap in the dark, to take action with very little hard evidence to urge us on. That’s what faith is, belief in things you can’t see.”

“But do you ever come to terms with it? Accept the guy in your bed, even when you find him repellant?”

She cocked her head, and really seemed to be thinking. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, I still haven’t fully accepted Allred. I hate it when it’s my—my turn. But I think most, if not all, of his other wives have accepted him. If nothing else, they’re proud to be sealed to The Prophet. How we act when we’re summoned to faith reveals a lot about who we are, our character. I know Vonda is of the highest order of character, yet when I told her what had to happen, she almost ran away from home.”

“I’ll bet.”

“She screamed and cried and told me I was the worst mother ever. The worst mother, can you imagine, Gideon?”

Warmth flooded my chest that she remembered my name. I put my hand over hers again. “I’m not a parent. Never even been married, or come close. But I’m familiar with teens. I know they can rip your fucking heart out and stomp on it and make you feel two inches tall. Hormones is what it is. Everything is life or death with them. Not that this isn’t. But take what she says to you with a grain of salt.”

She nodded through her tears. “Yes. But I want to give her the
choice
, and he’s taking that away from her. Only then will her true nature be revealed, when she’s given a
choice
. She says she wants to be a fashion designer, not someone’s third wife. By taking this away from her, we’re removing her chance to act on her own, without doubt shadowing everything. Then her fear of failure, of wrongdoing will be bigger than her love of free will.”

I shook my head. “Is there any way in hell you can say no?”

She looked at me as if I were a dish of broccoli she hadn’t ordered. “Excuse me?”

“Let me rephrase that. Is there any way you can take Vonda away from there, to live on your own? Do you have family? Someone said you’re from Salt Lake.”

“Provo,” she choked out, filled with tears again. She snatched her hand from mine to hold the paper napkin to her nose. “I have two sisters up there, but they can’t afford to take us in. I’m broken, Gideon. I was born dead. I can’t believe I’m even unloading my troubles on a stranger like you.”

“I’m no stranger,” I insisted.

“I’m so sad every day. I have to force myself just to get out of bed and brush my teeth. I remind myself of Vonda, that I need to do it for her. But I find no joy in a flower, or a gem, or even any of the scripture I hear and read. Why would a god give us intelligence and then expect us to ignore it? That’s like building us eyes to see and telling us not to look at the buttes in Zion National Park. Every way I look at this Orson Ream thing, it makes me nauseous. The things we choose to love, the people we choose to respond to, Gideon, that’s the highest mirror image of who we are. Allred’s taking this away from Vonda. Away from me!”

She was preaching to the choir. When I’d prospected first for Papa Ewey, I’d bristled at a lot of his commands. I still found it hard to work underneath anyone or take orders—one reason why I’d been so tweaked about being sent out here with Breakiron. Maybe it was Mahalia’s influence, but suddenly I felt that there had been a divine purpose behind all of that. I could never have Chelsea, but being hot for her had maybe been a long, arduous path that had led me straight to Mahalia Warrior. I couldn’t help her in any immediate sense, but I had an idea.

“Look. Being stressed isn’t good for you. It just gets in your way, makes you unable to function. There are pills for that, you know.”

She sniffed. “I’ve heard of them, but of course we’re not allowed any of that. I was never stressed until Field died. And I’ll tell you. That was no damned construction accident. But that’s all I’ll say about that.”

“I can get you some pills. Antianxiety medication. The gal who’s with our Prez, well, she takes them. She can get her hands on some. It does truly sound like you’re dangerously stressed, and I hate to see you this way.”

She forced a smile. “You’re very kind. Did you know that?”

“No.” It was true. “Kind” was not a word anyone had ever said about me. Rude, belligerent, selfish, thoughtless—sure. All of the above. But never kind.

“Well, you are. Kind. I would give you my business cell number, but Allred…”

“He checks the bill.”

“Yes. I have certain numbers I’m allowed to call.”

“Must be hard to do business that way.”

“It is. The list gets longer by the day, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be on it. Unless I could come up with some other reason I need to call a gold mine.”

“I’ll get another burner. Tell him it’s a new supplier or whatever it is you do. Another charity you want to donate to.”

“All right.” The fear was evident in her eyes as she pulled a pen and little notebook from her purse and wrote down her number. Dingo wandered over and said,

“Miss Warrior? Nice to see you again.” To me, he said, “Miss Warrior is one of the women kind enough to bring me food at the school.”

“Jonah Garff, of course. Please sit.” She didn’t seem embarrassed to be seen handing me her phone number. “And what are you doing on the laptop over there? Universes, galaxies?”

“Oh, it’s very exciting. Satellites. You know, like what runs your cell phone. It is amazing! Mr. Fortunati has been kind enough to let me use his laptop. I may have left the compound, but I’ve kept up on my reading.”

“I’ll buy him his own laptop once I get down to St. George,” I said.

“Well, that’s very generous of Mr. Fortunati. You know, Jonah. I’ve always wondered. Astrophysics explains how stars came to be. Then Darwin tells how the human eye came to be. But no one explains why a starry sky renders us mute with awe, or why our minds burn to comprehend what is not required by our body.”

Dingo nodded eagerly. “Yes, like why are we so amazed by nature? Our body doesn’t need our appreciation of a distant galaxy to function.”