The Famous and the Dead

11



Mike set out across the rocky slope, heading up. In spite of his small size he moved quickly and Bradley found himself losing ground and having to work to make it up, only to lose it again. The faint path finally vanished altogether and they picked their way through rocks that got bigger as they climbed in elevation. Soon the rocks were as tall as Mike himself and he stopped fifty yards up and looked down on Bradley, face flushed and smile wide. “You’ve got to get back to the gym, Brad!”

“I am back in the gym.”

“We’re getting there!” He turned and scrambled through an opening in the boulders and by the time Bradley got there Mike was a hundred yards ahead, and higher still, inching up a huge rock like a green, yellow, and red starfish. In the thin desert air Bradley could hear the screeching of the golf shoe cleats against the stone and the echo of Mike’s voice. “This is the only way over! But this is the worst of it, I promise!”

Bradley finally topped the same rock, then picked his way down the backside of the hillock. His duty boots were not bad for the terrain, and his uniform trousers were designed for physical activity. The afternoon air was cooling already and he felt the tingle of his drying sweat.

He looked out at the mine at the base of the next hill. The entrance yawned, framed by rusted steel girders. He saw no roads or paths or game trails, no evidence that the mine had had a worker or even a visitor in a century or more. When he got there Mike was sitting on a big boulder near the opening. The soft cooler sat beside him.

“Look behind you at the view,” said Mike.

Bradley turned and looked out across the desert, Adelanto faintly twinkling in the distance, the ribbon of 395 stretching from its dusty beginnings in the south all the way north to where it vanished. He could see the shiny steel plates of the solar plant swallowing sunlight through the dry, clear air, and the faint dome of the correctional facility.

“Bradley, I brought you here to give you a small piece of hard evidence of what I am, and what you can soon to be a part of, should you want to. You are among the most suspicious and least-trusting men I’ve ever met. Some understand me instinctively, through their hearts, such as Joaquin. But you are a man of the senses. You have to see and touch and smell. Because of men like you, there is actually a fourth step you must take if I am to help you and we are to become partners.”

“I figured there would be a catch.”

“Not really a catch. But, yes, as I explained, you must believe in me and make the Declaration of Parity. You must ask me to be your partner. But the fourth rule of partnership is that you must be fully aware of what I am. You must know who you are dealing with. As they say in American jurisprudence, you must be able to assist in your own defense.”

“That’s covered under belief. You already said your first rule was belief.”

“Some men can never believe until they know. That’s why we have rule number four. I have heard your doubts very clearly and loudly, Bradley. Way out here there’s nothing to compete with them. They’re coming to me static-free, as by fiber optics. They are as clear to me as carrier pigeons winging across the Veracruz sky. Shall I quote you?”

“Quote me.”

“...crazy as a shithouse rat . . . a devil dressed for golf? why not? what better disguise . . . he looks ridiculous but maybe that’s how he manages to get around so easily . . . let him believe I believe . . . he’s clearly and spectacularly insane . . . tell him what he needs to hear . . . an invigorating symphony of bullshit . . . Scientology dweebs . . . Do any of those pithy phrases ring a bell, Brad?”

“That’s just a parlor trick. Like Uri Geller bending spoons.”

Mike shrugged and slid off the rock and went to the mouth of the mineshaft and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees as if he were about to jump in.

Bradley looked at the little man, then down into the cave opening, a dark and ominous thing to a lifelong claustrophobe such as he was, and his mother and her ancestors had been. He saw, within just a few feet of the mouth, nothing but blackness. A wisp of dust raised by Mike’s golf shoes hovered in the sunlight above the hole. The dust was bright and hopeful, but unmeaningful to Bradley, compared to the eternal blackness of the mine. He thought of being locked in the trunk of his own car a few months ago, of the terror that had risen up inside him there in the dark confines.

Mike’s voice was sudden and loud. “Beatrice! Bea! It’s Mike. Yoo-hoo.”

Hands still on his knees, Mike turned and looked at Bradley with a mischievous grin, then turned back again to the hole. “Bea, I know you’re down there!”

Bradley looked at the back of Mike’s red PGA cap, and his compact torso snug in the yellow knit shirt, and his little round rump packed into the green cotton-poly golf pants. He pictured himself skipping forward and knocking Mike in with a flying axe kick. At this thought Finnegan turned again, with a hard look of assessment on his face. “Be careful what you think,” he said. This time his smile was not one of mischief but one of knowing.

“You’re not impressing me,” said Bradley. “Let’s get back. I’m tired of your horseshit and I don’t want to be your partner.”

“Beatrice? I’ve brought some things for you. Incoming!” Mike retrieved his soft cooler and took it to the yawning mouth of the cave. He unzipped a compartment and pulled out a bunch of chocolate bars, a common and popular brand, and held them over the darkness and let go. Bradley watched them vanish, heard them ticking against the rock on their descent.

“Beatrice Ann, I want you to meet Bradley Jones, one of El Famoso’s descendants. He’s a fabulous young man and we’re about to embark on what I think will be a very long and very profitable partnership. Yes, you heard me correctly. So, I just wanted you to say hello to him. I wanted you to tell him exactly what the stakes are when we talk about belief and partnership and angels and devils. He still thinks it’s all something I make up for my own amusement. Speak up, you vapid little virgin. Say hello to Bradley Jones, you angel you!”

Then a voice came from the depth and darkness, and when it first vibrated into Bradley’s ears, his legs lost their strength and he went to one knee on the hard, sharp ground. It was as if he’d been struck by an invisible hand. The voice was faint but clear, louder than conversation but not a shout. There was agony in it and pleading and anger. Its surface was hoarse with disuse and silence. “Bradley Jones, do not let Mike deceive you. El Famoso was a vicious murderer, a horse thief, and no part of a gentleman. Like him, you will suffer beyond your ability to imagine suffering. Look what the world did to Joaquin, partner of the great Mike Finnegan! And to Rosa and Chappo! Save yourself and your loved ones. Nothing on earth is worth his price. God and His angels wait to embrace you. We love you more than you know.”

Mike turned and looked at Bradley again. “That’s exactly what I thought she’d say. She really does need some new material.”

Mike jammed a hand into the pack and brought out in succession a fistful of meat sticks, two bags of pork rinds, three red apples, then dropped them all back in. He pulled up a six-pack of cheap canned beer, which he dangled by its plastic binder for Bradley to see. “Odd, but these are the things she has come to enjoy. In ninety-four years it’s come down to this unhealthy, processed crapola. Except the apples. I’ve thrown her homemade bread and real butter and honey and delicious smoked fish and fresh fruits and vegetables from around the world but no, she likes pork rinds and meat sticks and budget beer. Not that she needs these things. She needs no food or water to live, just as I wouldn’t need them if I were down there. But these are treats and they taste good and you know what? She is my sworn and eternal enemy, but I do like and respect her. Look at all an angel must live without—the same as we devils. And century after century she remains feisty and tireless, though utterly without humor. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Beatrice Ann? Fore!” Mike pushed the sixer back in and zipped the cooler shut and swung it out over the mineshaft and let it go. Four seconds later Bradley heard the light whack of it glancing off rock, then another, fainter with depth.

“We had a kind of Geneva Convention years ago,” said Mike. “To get these situations under control. For a while there was much too much of this, very distracting for both sides. Now there’s a hundred-year max on agent-by-agent detention, absolutely no torture beyond the boredom, heat and cold, and the obvious challenges of hygiene. So I’ll have to get her out in six short years. In the meantime I’ve heaved dozens of blankets down there, good ones, real Pendletons with Native American symbols woven in. And bushels of meat sticks and gallons of beer, and antibacterial hand wipes by the case. Costco. I just can’t quite bring myself to hate her.”

Her voice wavered up from her private hell again. “Bradley? If you don’t ask him to partner, he cannot destroy you. By the laws of God and the world He created, Mike Finnegan cannot destroy you. He can’t even damage you in any significant way. He can only cajole you into damaging yourself and those around you. Whenever a devil comes to you he wants much more than just you. He is after your family, your descendants, your entire narrative upon the earth. Resist him. Refuse him. Any place of worship can help you. Any priest or pastor or rabbi or imam. Any spiritually cognizant person. Stay away from him. Read your Bible. Keep it near you. Strike him with it, or even wave it at him and it will make Mike nauseous.”

Mike shook his head and smiled at Bradley, then called down. “Bea, you really are such a prude! But enjoy the treats and I’ll be back someday soon. Are you still sleeping almost every night now?”

“Yes. Sometimes for over an hour. There’s just literally nothing to do down here but pray. So after you get used to it, sleep begins to seem interesting. Dreams are revealing. You learn so much about yourself. Especially what you cannot do. Your weaknesses. You learn what you are not. I feel more like a human every day.”

“Still dreaming that you can fly, little angel?”

“Every night I dream that I can fly.”

“Can you still recite the complete Psalms?” He looked at Bradley and smiled wickedly.

“One through one hundred fifty. That’s nothing, Mike. You know the hours I put in on them.”

“Yes, I do. Well, until next time, Beatrice Ann, my ancient and eternally dried-up virgin angel, you take care and try to behave yourself down there. If God had made you with the wings that human beings give you in art and literature, you could flutter out of there like a big bat.”

“I’m not so big anymore, Mike. Pretty much just skin and bones. There are so many things I wish I could do. Thanks for the gifts. Somewhere in the center of your hideous soul there is a flicker of goodness and light.”

“Don’t be saying things like that about me, Bea. They have a new word for that kind of thing now: dissing. Well, new to you, anyway. It means disrespecting.”

“My nature won’t allow me to respect you, Mike. But the apples and meat sticks really do go well together. And I’m happy that, in some strange way, you like pleasing me.”

“Until we meet again.”

“Pray to God, Bradley! Pray to Him!”

A moment of quiet fell upon them. Bradley watched three vultures wheeling in the sky high above and felt a net of crazy fear settling over him, as if dropped by the big black birds. Then the entombed Beatrice Ann let out a wail that made the hair on his neck rise, and his heart flutter. It was not a scream or a moan but a high-pitched keen, corporeal yet disembodied, both flesh and spirit. It cut the clear, dry air for many long seconds. Bradley heard the animal in it, the fear and mourning, the abandon and fury. Very gradually it faded, as if she had fallen deeper into the abyss but never stopped crying out.

The fresh silence was long and brittle. Mike sighed and stepped away from the mine shaft and looked at Bradley. “Stand up straight. Don’t ever again take a knee for anyone, especially not her ilk. Not even for me. You have between here and my truck to organize your thoughts and beliefs, and then tell me what you want to do.”

Bradley rose and stepped forward to the shaft and looked down into it. Then he turned to Mike and the small man did not appear ridiculous at all in spite of his bright clothing; he looked condensed and capable and he had an expression that Bradley had never seen on him, something dark and cruel and controlled. Bradley started down the mountain. His legs were uncertain and his feet were cold. The sun was bright and low in the west and with every step Bradley told himself he had not seen what he had seen, nor heard what he had heard. But for the first time in his life he could not believe himself, could not override his senses with his will. All truth seemed new now and all warranties expired. He veered off behind a bush to pee and check his cell phone. As the equal of God I renounce him, he thought. What a thing to believe and to say.

“Speak to me,” called Mike from behind. “Speak to me, my fine, wayward son of Murrieta.”

“As the equal of God, I renounce him,” he muttered without looking back, his words buried in the sharp tumble and clatter of the rocks as he sidestepped down the mountain. But he felt a sudden power of heart, coupled with a confidence that he hadn’t felt since the bloody shootout in Yucatán four months ago. It was like the sun breaking through dark clouds. His body and muscles and blood felt strong and young again. His eyes saw very clearly. He took a deep breath and felt his lungs expanding with the cool clean desert air. “I am the judge of right and wrong and of beauty.”

“Louder, Bradley! And with conviction. I can hardly hear you!”

Bradley shouted out the words and Mike caught up with him and they headed down the mountain.