CHAPTER 10
Over Easy, Politically Correct
Santa Barbara
Sam spent most of the night cleaning up the debris from Josh Spagnola's shooting exhibition. Exhausted from the overall strangeness of his day, he went to bed early, but lay awake until well after midnight, first worrying, then trying to understand what was happening to him, and finally fantasizing about the girl. Amid the misery he retained hope, although he could not logically figure out why. She was, after all, just a girl - the goofiest girl he had ever met. Still, the thought of seeing her again made him smile, and he was able to escape into dreamless sleep.
When he awoke the next morning, the world seemed a much kinder place, as if during the night the calamities of the previous day had become distant and harmless. Order had returned. At one time he might have met such a day by looking to the rising sun and thanking the Great Spirit for returning his harmony with the world, as Pokey had taught him. He would have looked for rain clouds, felt the promise of the day's winds, smelled the dew and the sage, listened for the call of an eagle, the best of good-luck signs, and in that short time he would have confirmed that he and the world were of one spirit, balanced.
Today he missed the rising sun by three hours. He met his day in the shower, washing his hair with shampoo that was guaranteed to have never been put in a bunny's eyes and from which ten percent of the profits went to save the whales. He lathered his face with shaving cream free of chlorofluorocarbons, thereby saving the ozone layer. He breakfasted on fertile eggs laid by sexually satisfied chickens that were allowed to range while listening to Brahms, and muffins made with pesticide-free grain, so no eagle-egg shells were weakened by his thoughtless consumption. He scrambled the eggs in margarine free of tropical oils, thus preserving the rain forest, and he added milk from a carton made of recycled paper and shipped from a small family farm. By the time he finished his second cup of coffee, which would presumably help to educate the children of a poor peasant farmer named Juan Valdez, Sam was on the verge of congratulating himself for single-handedly saving the planet just by getting up in the morning. He would have been surprised, however, if someone had told him that it had been two years since he had set foot on unpaved ground.
He was writing a note to himself to put a new subliminal message on his computer, SAVE THE WORLD, BUY THIS POLICY, when Josh Spagnola called.
"Sam, did you hear what happened at the association meeting last night?"
"No, Josh, I've been cleaning up my place."
"The place, Sam. I think this will be an easier transition if you start referring to it as the place."
"You mean they voted to buy me out? Without even asking me? I can't believe it."
"I was actually very surprised myself. People seem to dislike you in the extreme, Sam. I think the dog was just their excuse for a general fuck-over."
"You told them it wasn't my dog, didn't you?"
"I told them, but it didn't matter. They hate you, Sam. The doctors and lawyers hate you because you make enough money to live here. The married guys hate you because you're single. The married women hate you because you remind their husbands that they aren't single. The old people hate you because you're young, and the rest just hate you because you aren't Japanese. Oh, yeah, one bald guy hates you because you have hair. For a guy that maintains a low profile, you've built quite a little snowball of resentment."
Sam had never given his neighbors a second thought, never even spoken to most of them, so now the realization that they hated him enough to take away his home was a shock. "I've never done anything to hurt anybody in this complex."
"I wouldn't take it personally, Sam. Nothing brings people together like hate for profit. You didn't have a chance against the clay tennis courts."
"What does that mean? We don't have clay tennis courts."
"No, but when they buy your townhouse for what you paid for it, then sell it to someone more suitable at the market rate, the association will have enough profit to build clay tennis courts. We'll be the only complex in Santa Barbara with clay courts. Should raise the value of the property at least ten percent. Sorry, Sam."
"Isn't there anything I can do? Can't I bring legal action or something?"
"This isn't an official call, Sam. I am calling as your friend and not on behalf of the association, so let me give you my best advice on taking legal action: it's suicide. Half the guys that voted you out are lawyers. In six months you'd be broke and they'd be drinking your blood over backgammon. The time for legal advice was eight years ago when you signed that agreement."
"Great. Where were you then?"
"I was stealing your Rolex."
"You stole my Rolex? That was you? My gold Rolex? You dick!"
"I didn't know you then, Sam. It was a professional thing. Besides, the statute of limitations has run out. It's time to forgive and forget."
"Fuck you, Josh. You'll get a bill for the damage you caused."
"Sam, do you know how concerned I am about your bill? I don't give a decaying damn, I don't-"
Sam hung up on the security guard. The phone immediately rang and Sam stared at it for a minute. Should he let Josh get the satisfaction of the last word? He looked at the shattered remains of his television, picked up the phone, and shouted, "Look, you wormy little fuck, you're lucky I don't come down there and pop your head like a pimple!"
"Sam, this is Julia, down at the office. I have Aaron on the line for you."
"Sorry, Julia, I was expecting someone else. Hang on a second." He sat down on the couch and held the receiver to his chest while he tried to regain his composure. Too much change, too fast. He couldn't let Aaron catch him with his guard down. His good friend Aaron, his partner, his mentor. And Josh Spagnola was supposed to be his friend, too. What was the deal with Josh? He'd turned on Sam overnight. Why?
Sam lit a cigarette and took a long drag, then blew the smoke out in a slow stream before speaking into the phone. "Julia, you caught me in the shower. Tell Aaron I'll be in the office in an hour. We'll talk then." He hung up before she could respond. He dialed the number of the Cliffs' security office. Josh Spagnola answered.
"Josh, this is Sam Hunter."
"Very rude, Sam. Hanging up when I am telling you how little I care is very rude."
"That's why I'm calling, Josh. I've heard your little speeches before. I want to know what you've got on me."
"Then you haven't seen the paper this morning?"
"I told you before, I've been patching holes all fucking morning. What goes?"
"Seems that Jim Cable, the diving mogul, was attacked by an Indian outside of his office and had a heart attack. They said he had just finished an appointment with an insurance agent."
"So, what's your point, Josh?"
"The point is, Sam, that after I ran out of your place yesterday, I went through the apartment next door and ran out on the deck. I thought I could come in from behind the dog and get a shot at it. But when I got there I saw an Indian vaulting over the rail of your deck. The Indian was wearing black, just like the one they described in the paper. Interesting coincidence, huh?"
Sam didn't know what to say. Spagnola had half the complex under his thumb for one reason or another, but Sam didn't know how the burglar used his information other than as a license to be rude. Sam didn't want to bring up blackmail when Spagnola might just be in this to watch him squirm. Sam had watched a thousand clients squirm under his own manipulation, but he wasn't sure how to go about it himself. He decided to take a direct approach. "Okay, Josh," he said. "I'm squirming. Now what?"
"Sammy, I love you, kid. You and I are like peas in a pod. You, me, and that Aaron guy at your office."
"You know Aaron?"
"Just spoke to him this morning when I called your office. Your secretary said that you were no longer with the firm and Mr. Aaron was taking all your calls from now on. Aaron and I had a long talk."
"Did you tell him about the Indian?"
"No, he told me. Strange thing, Sam, he seems to want you out of the business pretty badly, but not just for the profit. I think he's afraid of the attention you're going to get if it turns out that you're associated with the Indian who attacked Cable. Who do you think has more to lose: you or Aaron?"
"Neither of us is losing anything, Josh. This whole thing is a mistake. I don't care what you saw, I don't know anything about any Indian, and I resent the veiled threat."
"No threat, Sam. Just information. It's the cleanest commodity, you know? No fingerprints, no fibers, no serial numbers. It's kind of ethereal - religious in a way. People will pay for something that they can't smell, or taste, or touch. It's fucking glorious, isn't it? I should have been a spy."
Sam listened to Spagnola sigh, then to the breathing over the line. Here it was again, the standoff. How many times had he backed down over the years? How many times had fear of discovery caused him to lie low and play the role of the victim? Too damn many. He always seemed to be running from the past and avoiding the future, but the future came anyway.
Very softly, barely speaking over a whisper, Sam said, "Josh, before you become too enraptured, remember the information you don't have."
"What's that, old buddy?"
"You have no idea who I am or what I'm capable of."
There was a silence on the line, as if Spagnola was considering what Sam had said. "Good-bye, Josh," Sam whispered.
He hung up the phone, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door to the Mercedes. As he disarmed the alarm and climbed in the car he realized that he also had no idea who he was or what he was capable of, and for the first time in his life it didn't frighten him. In fact, it felt good.
Coyote Gets His Powers
One day, a long time ago, before there were any men or televisions, and only animal people walked the Earth, Great Spirit, the first worker, decided that he would give everyone a new name. He told the animal people to come to his lodge at sunrise and he would give each one a new name with all the powers that went with it. "To be fair," Great Spirit said, "names will be given on a first-come, first-served basis." The Earth was a pretty fair place in those days as long as you showed up on time.
Coyote had a problem with this method, however. He liked to sleep until lunchtime and lie around thinking up tricks until late afternoon, so getting up at sunrise was a problem, but he really wanted to get a good name. "Eagle would be good," he thought. "I would be swift and strong. Or if I take the name of Bear I will never be defeated by my enemies. Yep, I got to get me a good name even if I have to stay up all night."
When the sun went down Coyote looked all over for a good espresso bar, but even in those days they were full of pretentious pseudointellectual animal people who sat around in open-toed moccasins and whined about how unfair the world was, which it wasn't. "I don't have the stomach for that," said Coyote. "I think I'll just score some magic wake-up powder and stay wired that way."
Coyote went to see Raven. It was well known among the animal people that Raven had a connection with a green bird from South America and was always good for some wake-up powder.
"I'm sorry Coyote, my friend, but I cannot extend you any credit. I'll need three prairie dogs, up front, if you want the product. And remember, I like my prairie dogs squashed real flat." Raven was a greasy little prick who thought he was cool because he wore sunglasses all the time, even at night. Who was he to act so high and mighty? Coyote was insulted.
"Look, man, I'll have a new name tomorrow. I'm going to go for Eagle. Just advance me the gram now and I'll give you six prairie dogs in the morning."
Raven shook his head. Coyote slunk away.
"I can stay awake without magic," Coyote said. "I just have to concentrate."
Coyote tried to stay awake, but by the time the moon was high in the sky he started to doze off. "This isn't working," he said. "I can't keep my eyes open." Talking to himself often gave Coyote ideas, which was a good thing, because hardly anyone else would talk to him. He broke a couple of thorns from a cactus and used them to prop his eyes open. "I'm a genius," he said. Then he fell asleep anyway.
When Coyote finally awoke the sun was directly overhead. He rushed to Great Spirit's lodge and burst through the door flap. "Eagle! I want Eagle," he said.
His eyes were dry and cracked from being propped open and his fur was matted with blood where the thorns had pierced his eyelids.
"Eagle was the first to go," Great Spirit said. "What happened to you? You look like hammered shit."
"Bad night," Coyote said. "What's left? Bear? Bear would be good."
"There's only one name left," Great Spirit said. "Nobody wanted it."
"What is it?"
"Coyote."
"You're shitting me."
"Great Spirit is not a shitter."
Coyote ran outside where the other animal people were laughing and talking about their new names and powers. He tried to get them to trade names, but even Dung Beetle told him to get lost. Great Spirit watched Coyote from his lodge and felt sorry for him.
"Come here, kid," Great Spirit said. "Look, you're stuck with a lousy name, but maybe I can make up for it. You have to keep the name, but from now on you are Chief of the Without Fires. And from now on you can take on any shape that you choose and wear it as long as you wish."
Coyote thought about it for a minute. It was a pretty good gift; maybe he should work this pity angle more often. "So that means that everyone has to do what I say?"
"Sometimes," Great Spirit said.
"Sometimes?" Coyote asked. Great Spirit nodded and Coyote figured he'd better leave before Great Spirit changed his mind. "Thanks, G.S., I'm outta here. Got to see someone about some sunglasses." Coyote loped off.
CHAPTER 11
The God, the Bad, and the Ugly
Santa Barbara
During the short drive to his office Sam decided that if Gabriella gave him the least little bit of shit he would fire her on the spot. If his life was going to fall apart before his eyes there was no reason to suffer the slings and arrows of ungrateful employees. There were also twenty younger agents who worked under him, and as long as he held partnership in the agency he held the power to hire and fire. Let one of them mouth off, he thought. Let one of them look sideways at me and they're going to be a distant memory, taillights on the horizon, gone, out, shit-canned, pink-slipped, instantly unemployed.
He walked into his office with his temper locked, loaded, and ready to fire, but was immediately disarmed when he saw Gabriella tilted back in her chair, skirt thrown up around her waist, her legs spread wide and high heels alternately pumping in the air and digging into the back of the naked Indian, who was on his knees in front of her, wheeling her chair back and forth, thrusting into her with greedy abandon and yipping with each stroke as counterpoint to the monkey noises that escaped Gabriella in rhythmic bursts.
"Hey!" Sam shouted.
Gabriella looked over the Indian's shoulder at Sam and held one finger in the air as if marking a point, then pointed to the message pad on the desk. "One call," she gasped. The Indian pulled her to him in a particularly violent thrust and Gabriella grabbed his shoulder with both hands, popping her press-on nails off and across the room like tiddlywinks.
Sam shook off his shock, ran forward, and caught the Indian around the neck in a choke hold. The Indian pumped wildly in the air as Sam dragged him off Gabriella and across the outer office. He fell over backward into his office with the Indian still squirming in his grasp and it occurred to him that unless things turned quickly to his advantage he was in serious danger of being humped. He rolled the Indian over on the carpet and pinned him, facedown, while he looked around for a weapon. The only thing in reach was the big multi-line phone on his desk. Sam released the choke hold and lunged for the phone, catching it by the cord. He swung around with it just in time to hit the Indian in the face as he was rising to his hands and knees. The phone exploded into a spray of electronic shrapnel and the Indian fell forward onto his face, unconscious but twitching against the carpet in petit-mal afterhumps.
Sam looked at the broom of colored wires at the end of the cord where the phone used to be, then dropped it and staggered to his feet. Gabriella was standing by the door, smoothing her skirt down. Her lipstick was smeared across her face and her hair was spiked into a fright wig of hair spray and sweat. She started to speak, then noticed that one of her breasts was still peeking out of her dress. "Excuse me." She turned and tucked herself in, then turned back to Sam. "I'll hold your calls," she said officiously, then she pulled the door closed, leaving Sam alone in the office with the unconscious, naked Indian.
"You're fired," Sam whispered to the closed door. He looked down at the Indian and saw a bloodstain spreading around his head on the carpet. He didn't seem to be breathing. Sam fell to his knees and felt the Indian's neck for a pulse. Nothing.
"Fuck, not again!" Sam paced around the desk four times before he fell back in his leather executive chair and clamped his hands on his temples as if trying to squeeze out a solution. Instead he thought of police and prison and felt hope running through his fingers like liquid light, leaving him dark with despair.
A growling noise from the floor. Sam looked over the desk to see the body of the Indian moving. He started to breathe a sigh of relief when he realized that the body wasn't moving at all, it was changing. His eyes went wide with terror as the arms and legs shortened and grew fur, the face grew into a whiskered muzzle, and the spinal column lengthened and grew into a bushy tail. Before Sam could catch his breath again he was looking at the body of a huge black coyote.
The coyote got to its feet and shook its head as if clearing its ears of water, then it leapt on the desk and growled at Sam, who rolled his chair back until it hit the wall behind his desk.
Sam pushed himself up by the chair arms until he was almost standing against the wall, desperately trying to put even a millimeter more between himself and the snarling muzzle of the coyote. The coyote crawled forward on the desk until its face was only inches from Sam's. Sam could feel the coyote's moist breath on his face. It smelled of something familiar, something burnt. He wanted to turn his head away and close his eyes until the horror went away, but his gaze remained locked on the coyote's golden eyes. He wanted to scream but there was no breath for it and he found his jaw was moving but no sound was coming out.
The coyote backed away and sat on the desk, then raised its lowered ears and tilted its head to the side as if perplexed. Sam felt himself take a breath and the strange urge to say "Good doggie" came over him, but he remained rigid and quiet. The coyote began to shake and Sam thought it would attack, but instead it threw back its head as if to howl. The skin on the coyote's neck began to undulate and surge and took on the shape of a human face. The fur receded from the face, then away from the front legs, which became arms, then down the back legs, which lengthened into crouching human legs. As the fur peeled it lost its black color, turning the burnt tan of a normal coyote. It was as if a human was literally crawling out of a cocoon of coyote skin, the black color becoming black buckskins trimmed with red feathers. A minute passed in what seemed a year as the transformation took place. When it was finished the Indian was crouched on Sam's desk wearing a coyote-skin headdress that had once been his own skin.
"Fuck," Sam said, falling back into the chair, his eyes trained now on the golden eyes of the Indian.
"Woof," the Indian said with a grin.
Sam shook his head, trying to get the image to go away. His mind was still rattling around in chaos trying to put this into some sort of meaningful context, but all he could do was wish that he would pass out and that his kneecaps would stop jumping with adrenaline.
"Woof," the Indian repeated. He jumped from the desk, adjusted the headdress that moments ago had been his skin, then sat in the chair opposite Sam. "Got a smoke?" he said.
Sam felt his mind lock on to the request. Yes, he understood that. Yes, he could do that. A smoke. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and lighter and fumbled them out, lost his grip, and sent them skittering across the desk. He was scrambling for them when the Indian reached out and patted his hand. Sam screamed, the high-pitched wail of a little girl, and jumped back into his chair, which rolled back until his head snapped against the wall.
The Indian turned his head to the side quizzically, the same way the coyote had, then took the cigarettes from the desk and lit two with the lighter. He held one out to Sam, who remained pushed back in the chair. The Indian nodded for Sam to take the cigarette, then waited while Sam inched forward, snatched it out of his hand, and quickly retreated to his position by the back wall.
The Indian took a deep drag on the cigarette, then turned his head and blew the smoke out in rings that crept across the desk like ghosts.
Sam had curled into the fetal position in his chair and looked up only to cast a sideways glance at the Indian when he took a drag from his own cigarette. It occurred to him that he should feel silly, but he didn't. He was still too frightened to feel silly. When his cigarette was half gone he started to calm down. His fear was draining away, being replaced with indignant anger. The Indian sat calmly, smoking and looking around the office.
Sam put his feet on the floor, scooted the chair back under the desk, and set what he hoped was a hard gaze on the Indian. "Who are you?" he asked.
The Indian smiled and his eyes lit up like an excited child's. "I am the stink in your shoe, the buzz in your ear, the wind through the trees. I am the-"
"Who are you?" Sam interrupted. "What is your name?"
The Indian continued to grin while smoke trickled between his teeth. He said, "The Cheyenne call me Wihio, the Sioux, Iktome. The Blackfeet call me Napi Old Man. The Cree call me Saultaux, the Micmac, Glooscap. I am the Great Hare on the East Coast and Raven on the West. You know me, Samson Hunts Alone, I am your spirit helper."
Sam gulped. "Coyote?"
"Yep."
"You're a myth."
"A legend," the Indian said.
"You are just a bunch of stories to teach children."
"True stories."
"No, just stories. Old Man Coyote is just a fairy tale."
"Should I change shapes again? You liked that."
"No! No, don't do that." Sam had guessed the Indian's identity the day before when he'd opened the medicine bundle, but he had hoped it would all go away and he would find himself the victim of a childhood superstition. Religion was supposed to be a matter of faith. Gods were not supposed to jump on your desk and snarl at you. They weren't supposed to sit in your office smoking cigarettes. Gods didn't do anything. They were supposed to ignore you and let you suffer and die having never known whether your religion was a waste of time. Faith.
Sure, the gods were a badly behaving lot in stories - jealous, impatient, selfish, vengeful, smiting whole races of people, raping virgins, sending plagues and pestilence - and even as gods went, Coyote was a particularly bad example, but they were supposed to stay in the damn stories, not show up and hump your homely secretary until she made monkey noises.
"What are you doing here?" Sam asked.
"I'm here to help you."
"Help? You ruined my business and got me kicked out of my home."
"You wanted to scare the diver so I scared him. You wanted the girl so I gave her to you."
"Well what about all the cats at my condo complex? What about my secretary? How did that help me?"
"If I was not meant to have ugly women and cats they would not be so easy to catch."
It was the kind of backward, perverse logic that had irritated Sam as a child. Pokey Medicine Wing had been a master at it. It seemed to Sam at times as if the entire Crow Nation was trying to define a silicon-chip world with a Stone Age worldview. Sam thought he had escaped it.
"Why me? Why not someone who believes?"
"This is more fun."
Sam resisted the urge to leap over the desk and choke the Indian. It was still "the Indian" in his head. He hadn't yet accepted that he was talking to Coyote, Chief of the Without Fires. Even with the overwhelming evidence of the supernatural, he searched for a natural explanation for what was happening. A lifetime of disbelief is not easily shed. He tried to find some parallel experience that would put things in order, something he'd read or seen on PBS. Nothing was forthcoming, so he speculated.
How would Aaron react if faced with this situation? Aaron didn't acknowledge his Irish heritage any more than Sam admitted his own Crow roots. What if a leprechaun suddenly appeared on Aaron's desk? He'd affect a brogue and try to talk the little fucker into putting his pot o' gold into tax-deferred annuities. No, Aaron was not the person to think of in a spiritual emergency.
Coyote smiled as if he had read Sam's thoughts. "What do you want, Samson Hunts Alone?"
Sam didn't even hesitate to think. "I want my old life back to the way it was before you fucked it up."
"Why?"
Now Sam was forced to think. Why indeed? Every time Sam hired a new agent he glorified his and Aaron's lifestyles. He would take a bright, hungry young man for a ride in the Mercedes, buy him lunch at the Biltmore or another of Santa Barbara's finer restaurants, flash cash and gold cards and expensive suits - plant the seed of greed, as Aaron called it - then give the kid a means to pursue his germinating dream of material bliss while Sam collected ten percent on everything he sold. It was part of the show, one of the many roles he played, and the car, the clothes, the condo, and the clout were merely props. Without the props the show could not go on.
"Why do you want your life back?" Coyote asked, as if Sam had forgotten the question.
"It's safe," Sam blurted out.
"So safe," Coyote said, "that you can lose it in a day? To be safe is to be afraid. Is that what you want: to be afraid?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Then why do you lie? You want the girl."
"Yes."
"I will help you get her."
"I don't need your help. I need you gone."
"I am very good with women."
"Like you're good with cats and couches?"
"Great heroes have great horniness. You should feel what it is like to pleasure a falcon. You lock talons with her in the sky and do it while you both are falling like meteors. You would like it; they never complain if you come too fast."
"Get out of here."
"I will go, but I will be with you." Coyote rose and walked to the door. As he opened it he said, "Don't be afraid." He stepped out of his office and closed the door. Suddenly, Sam leapt to his feet and headed after him. "Stay off my secretary!" he shouted. He ripped open the door and looked into the outer office where Gabriella, her composure regained, was typing up a claim form. Coyote was gone.
Gabriella looked up and raised a disapproving eyebrow. "Is there a problem, Mr. Hunter?"
"No," Sam said. "No problem."
"You sounded frightened."
"I'm not frightened, goddammit!" Sam slammed the door and went to the desk for a cigarette. His cigarettes and lighter were gone. He stood there for a moment, feeling a flush of anger rise in him until he thought he would scream, then he fell back into his chair and smiled as he remembered something Pokey Medicine Wing had once told him: "Anger is the spirits telling you that you are alive."