When I saw the smoking school bus, I thought of Mona.
The Mommas were gone? Yes, girlie. Ashes carted by an ocean breeze; more junk for some seagull to eat, to crap on. And with the girls, too, all those Surf Cowboys we had slaughtered. Dead boys. A bonfire that some cop, or even a lackey for the Vosillars, rifled through now, looking for clues as to who was tits up. Looking for where that blasted key was—if indeed (I thought, smirking) it had ever been at the shack on the beach.
And everybody was out for blood. Whoever found Dillon’s gold first would leave in her wake an unmistakably ropy trail of gore.
Well, then, I thought. Might as well trod on. Where exactly that was, I had no clue save that an ally waited for me in El Oyo, some friendly stranger who’d taken Lula’s word as good. Word that balanced on a 50/50 proposition that any of the Mommas might ever show. No time like the present, I mused, to see if the blue key opened so much as a bottle of Old Milwaukee.
From the flaming hood of the bus, Mona’s head leapt, then in the next breath—it had flown. The mind had tricked itself again.
I crept the hog to the bus.
Wary of crossfire, I prowled the length of the clearing. I kicked the kickstand down and loped to the front of the vehicle. The slow, ominous furl of sitars waned.
An anomaly, this clearing. The redwoods crowded in on all sides. It was as though someone had installed a baseball field here, and the rain and other natural elements had started a reclamation process.
To my left, a hastily, poorly extinguished campfire smoldered. Among the ashes were sardines and cans of Schmidt. This far from the bus, no signs of bloodletting were visible. Strangely, even miraculously, the bus looked as though it had imploded, a nucleus of destruction that spared the surrounding forest.
Unseen birds chirped in the brush, wings occasionally glancing at each other in a radiant sky. The gross, if familiar, stench of death, however, clung to the trees. It was a smoky brew, fouler for the strips of fog that cut the air. As the sun razored the bus windows, I smelled ammonia. Rank flesh.
If the scene had not felt staged, I would have vaulted back on the hog and scurried away. What stilled me was the way the perpetrator had assembled the bodies. The way his piling of flesh seemed artfully arranged. The way it juxtaposed the colors the dead had used to paint the bus. It was one of those tacky murals, a dusky beach with dolphins and rainbows that cascaded into a field of stars, some silver, others fire-red and gold.
Somehow, the weird, random litter of corpses fit. Bodies hung from shattered windows, others cradled artillery on the hood. Still others hugged each other or lay in a fetal ball by themselves on the blood-caked ground, lines of red ants swarming the fatal wounds. Curiously, of the bodies I discerned as men, women, or children—their faces mostly intact—I saw that they were longhairs, decked in tattered robes, fringed jackets, and bell-bottoms. A few of the heads had burst with speckled flowers of brain matter.
Poor fuckers. This is where the hippie dream had come to die.
Again, I circled the camp, hunting for any clue as to what may have happened, and the timeline involved. As near as I could tell, someone had picked the whole band off cleanly.
Even on board, among the scattered refuse where seats used to be—with the assorted machine guns, clay pots, and patchwork quilts—I came up blank. On a makeshift altar, joss sticks burned next to upside-down crosses. I also saw pictographs of an old bush-browed man and his family. The needle of a phonograph skipped. When I lifted the needle, the ominous sitar music stopped.
There were 14 dead. All of them appeared to be of the same sect (whatever that was). This caravan, whatever you should call it—this had been their home.
Vosillar artwork, the head-voice said. It has to be.
I padded around again. This time I ventured back to the shady green to see if anyone alive or dead hid there; to find any clue extant. Before they could check the marauding force with any degree of success, something had seized the company.
I looked up, inhaling deeply. I badly craved a shower, some way to wash this whole scene off. Again, I felt that tingle for some coke; saw the ghost of a giant moon-faced boulder glint in the distance.
No, I thought. Whoever did this had snapped the bastards at ground level, one by one. Had enjoyed watching them suffer. The panic on the faces, the contorted bodies of the dead, said as much.
I walked back to the bus.
White-haired, a dead woman sat against a front wheel, cradling a young towhead. Swedes?
A few feet away, a man lay dead. Bullets had torn his face and arms into string cheese. Perhaps he had puffed his last breath when crawling to the womenfolk.
I got on my haunches. Flies buzzed in and around the woman’s trapped howl. Serrations had extended her wailing mouth.
My breath caught short: her mouth drooped further, revealing a freckled, hazel-colored egg that trembled and cracked. From the egg, black but lambent—glistening in its birthing glue, its protectant larvae—a snake slithered, fell on the head of the dead kid.
I would have skittered back, but the motion of the snake held me.
Only when the back door to the bus popped free—punctuated by a weird frenzied kicking—did I start. I bucked to my feet.
Big baby snakes forked from every dead mouth.
I unsheathed the Darzo and backed off. Fear meant nothing, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be here.
The foot stomping sounded again.
With the sword poised, I sidled back and across to the back of the bus. At the foot of the bumper, a snake coiled from a smashed egg.
From above the bumper, inside the back door, a black-bearded boy writhed in a dark pool of blood. He croaked, waved me over. He strained from the effort to breathe. It was as though he wanted to sit but opted against it. I doubt he could have moved much, anyhow. Laying on his stomach like that was probably the only thing that kept his guts from leaking.
The boy lifted his head by degrees. He grunted.
“Who did this?” I asked, sheathing the Darzo.
He was fading fast. I turned my head to ensure it was still just the two of us.
He hooked a bloodied finger at me and slid his eyes shut.
I rushed over, careful not to sully myself by getting too close to him. I realized then—I would have seen him had I inspected the bus more carefully the first time. No doubt, he was alive only because he’d evaded the intruder at the end of the massacre.
“Who—”
“Drink,” he said. “I need a drink.”
I bowed my head, shook it.
“Please,” he said. “Roger had a flask on him. Please.”
They’re all dead, sir. On my account.
I held his gaze.
He took his time swallowing. “I know where there’s gold, please. There’s a house in the Red Pool, it’s got gold. I’ll tell you how to get it.”
I held my breath.
“Dillon’s castle?” I asked. “I’m headed there. Passing through El Oyo.”
He nodded. “You need a key.”
I stood back and smiled. “Kid,” and at this point I whispered in his ear, “I know this story.”
It was then I unzipped my jumpsuit to show him the blue key couched between my breasts. I leaned to grasp my knees.
He looked startled, said: “Go to…”
He fainted.
I figured him a lost cause and began to creep off. He came to, then, clutching my arm.
“Water, please, even tequila…”
I released his grip and re-surveyed the scene. What if he knew something that helped me nab the gold faster? My gut said I had a fate the equal of him and his companions, anyway (if not worse). And all I knew about where to find this house was the name of the city. The boy could impart some nugget that Lula’s contact in El Oyo might confirm. It was worth a shot; I could rouse him to volunteer something useful. He knowing at all about the blue key, added to my chance encounter with this broken band of gypsies, seemed to suggest as much.
Round the bus I ran. I started kicking the baby snakes away; combing pockets for stray liquor, even canteens if possible. Finally, I kicked three corpses and plucked snakes to pry the bodies further apart. As I sifted through the gored, soiled jackets and pants, I found a gin flask in a letterman jacket. I hopped to the rear of the bus.
Dick Vicktrees had one hand on the boy’s head, as though petting it. One look and I knew the teen was dead.
I stepped back and hissed, lifting the sword faster than Dick could process the movement. The tip of the Darzo poked his throat.
“Toot, take it easy.” He raised his arms. “You can’t blame me for being curious, can you?” He licked his lips. More than ever, I wanted him without his shades on. Asshole unmasked.
“Besides,” he said. “We can help each other.”
I flicked the Darzo. His aviator shades fell to the ground but did not break.
“Talk fast,” I said, “or you’ll buy yourself two assholes. One will be right between the eyes.”
“I heard it all. Dillon’s castle. The blue key. I know. Was a damn prying fool to eavesdrop like that. But you had to know I wasn’t going to give up your tail just like that. I could really use that story, toot. Like I said, I’d give you some cover.”
“Bushwa. You’ll slow me down. In addition, all that stuff about gold? Pure myth.”
“Then why are you running like this? What’s the key about?”
I lowered the Darzo, backed a step.
“Ok,” he said. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Just hear me out, all right? This is an old legend. A lot of us heard it, very early in our lives. Spook house in the desert, no one knows exactly where. Yet it belonged to an oil magnate who vanished under quote-end-quote mysterious circumstances. And word is, he wanted to be buried in this house, along with his fortune. Hence, the idea of him having a Golconda of gold or whatever just hanging out in the fucking place. Anyway. We know from history that he secured a shit-ton-a gold back in the mining days. We know he had a thing for booby-trapping his possessions. Now, I was always skeptical about it myself. Till one day. One day some war buddies and I got sloppy drunk, and they laid it on me. They meant to find the house, the gold, whatever they could. Left on a fishing expedition, and then all that talk of urban legends? Old local superstitions? Well, one of my buds. His wife got a postcard from El Oyo. On it he said they found something that convinced them the house did in fact exist. They knew how to get there, toot. Memphis.”
“Let’s say I believe you, Mr. Vicktrees. What have you to gain except robbing me of the key? There’s nothing in it for moi.”
“You could argue that,” he said. “I don’t think you have a choice but to trust me, though. See, you flashing your wares changed it.”
He shifted his feet and looked at the ground.
“If I can get a story from you about the Mommas, fine, great. But if I can find out what happened to my friends, even get some gold, I’ll do it. And I’ll keep my mouth shut about that, long as I can.
“Toot, Jesus. We’re both on the run here. The Devilfuckers are after us both. I swear, you can trust me.”
“And how.”
“Stop. May I show you something?”
From his billfold he passed a worn postcard folded in half.
Sure enough, it was a faded El Oyo postcard from 1968, with a picture of the peak. Left of the recipient’s name and mailing address was a childlike scrawl:
DEAR THE HOUSE EXISTS. MAP IS NEARBY. IT’S HAPPENING.
LOVE AND KISSES, HORACE.
I returned the postcard.
“We don’t have to sniff each other’s bungholes, toot. Help me help us.”
“Again, I have no way to corroborate the postcard. No way to distrust it, or you. Either way you slice it, it’s not a compelling reason to do business.” I inspected my gloved hands. “What’s more, I need to truck on out.”
He lowered his hands into his khakis and smiled.
“To El Oyo.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.
“Why else?” he asked. “You got the key. You’re only about a couple days away. Plan to rendezvous with someone there, don’t you? Don’t worry, toot. I won’t blow your cover. I’ll just add to it.” He stressed the word “add” by stretching the a-tone in a low octave.
“And I heard you tell the poor guy, anyway. I was over there, right by that tire. You and your instincts didn’t sense me at all. Alarming, don’t you think? Even more reason for me to run with you. Extra eyes, ears, that sort of thing.”
“Cat ears,” I said.
“And a big horse cock.” He stood straight and lifted a hand as though he meant to calm me; to preempt any discouraging words I might spit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I have a randy sense of humor. In time, you’ll come to appreciate it.”
“I really don’t want to be on intimate terms,” I said.
He laughed.
“But I didn’t share the best part. While you were rummaging for booze, the kid,”—he gripped the boy’s shoulder fraternally— “he told an amazing story.”
“Mr. Vicktrees.”
“Call me Dick, ok?”
“Mr. Vicktrees, I’m on a time crunch. I shouldn’t have stopped here. I don’t regret doing it, but I’d appreciate you’d just dropping this farce.”
“Fair enough. But toot, the dude shared with me the name of the city where the map to Memphis resides. And that the way there is through El Oyo.”
I shrugged. “So?” I asked. Quickly, I knotted my hair.
“So,” he said, “all I need in El Oyo is one vital piece of information. If it pans out, you’ll want me to get us at least as far as the place with the map. I can’t make you join up with me, but like I said. Two of us’ll make it a lot easier to plow through.”
“What if I still say no?”
“Then get this. I’ve one other ace. He told me what the blue key does. That there’s more than just gold at stake. Much more. If you don’t let me ride with you, you may never see a hair of that stash.”
I sat on the hog and sized him up.
“You plan to keep that a secret, I see.”
“Yes,” he said. “After all, if the only way to buy your trust is to have a suspicious edge on you, so I can protect my own interests, then I’ll sign up any day of the week.”
“How do you know the man wasn’t full of shit?” I had him now.
“I don’t. But look here.” He passed me another, much older wallet.
I opened it. Beyond his license, the kid had had only a YMCA membership card and five singles. I studied the license once more and gave the wallet back.
Dick’s wolf grin showed. He laughed like a hyena.
“Christopher Dillon,” I said.
“His namesake.” He bent to kiss him on the cheek. “The last of the family line, may he rest in hippie brine. Sleep with the devil as peacefully as you can, brother. If it’s too hot down there, once you run into your old man, don’t bother to write. We may catch up with you soon, anyway.”
Dick stood and pointed. “My bike’s in the woods there. One sec.”
Stunned, I just sat there on the hog.
“Hey toot,” Dick sang. “I heard you shot your woman down.”
Draw a map to get lost.
-Yoko Ono (1964 spring)
Jack Cormack 