Double Eagle Double Cross, page 3
“After he gave up his beer,” Jim responded. “You know, after he started doing that Mormon thing.”
Bob snorted again. “Yeah! When we started calling him Brother Chuck.”
Now it was Charley’s turn to be confused and even more suspicious. “What do you mean ‘after he started doing that Mormon thing’? My mom was Mormon, but Dad was always very anti. Do you mean she told him he couldn’t give you beer anymore?”
Bob actually looked as though Charley had somehow hurt his feelings. “Oh no, man. I mean, she was great when we saw her—which really wasn’t much ’cause we didn’t come to the house much—but when we did, she was really nice. Usually gave us cookies or something.” His brows knit together in concentration, and he pursed his mouth to the side in concentration. “No, your dad would come down to the beach—just him alone—and we’d build a fire and sit and watch the waves and have a beer or two and talk.”
“Mostly your dad would talk,” Jim clarified as he glanced toward the darkened beach as though recalling the memories.
“Or cream soda,” Bob added wistfully, “after the beer stopped.”
Charley struggled to even imagine this version of his dad. In fact, if this did have any truth to it, he was feeling a little resentful that maybe these two fellows had somehow known a version of his dad that he never had—and never would. “What, uh, did he talk about?”
Jim shrugged. “Oh, he used to talk a lot about when he was a kid and all the bad things he done.”
“Did,” Bob corrected him, reminding Charley of his mother.
“Did, and about your mom and how she was so good and he was such a disappointment to her and a lot about you and how much he missed you and admired you.”
“Me?”
“Sure! ’Course, that was when you were in China.”
“Japan,” Charley corrected.
“Huh? Oh yeah, whatever, doing your missionary thing.”
“And that’s when he started talking about the Mormon thing,” Bob chipped in. “And then about how he felt he owed it to both of you to give your church stuff an honest look and then about how he was reading stuff.”
“And then about what he was reading and about people and stuff.”
“What people?” Charley wasn’t sure if he was still skeptical or simply curious. “What stuff?”
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“I don’t know,” Bob replied. “Didn’t really pay much attention.”
Jim screwed his mouth to the side and bit his lip in thought. “I remember it seemed like goofy names like Knee-high and the Lemonades.”
“Eytes?”
“Huh? Oh yeah, Lemon-eytes and Almer.”
“Yeah, and Amazon and Macaroni or something.”
“Moroni?” Charley threw out as a possible consideration.
“Yeah, him too, and Elmer what’s-his-name.”
“Elmer? You mean Emer?” Charley asked, his mind paging through possible scriptural names in an attempt to make sense of what Jim was telling him.
Jim and Bob looked at each other in indecision; then Jim shook his head. “No, I think it was Elmer. Elmer and Elmer, like maybe they were brothers or something.”
“Older,” Bob suggested as though testing the sound.
“Older than Emer?” Charley asked.
“No. The name meant they was older or something.”
“Were,” Jim corrected.
“Huh?”
“They were older, not they was.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Elder?” Charley proposed, struggling to believe what he was hearing yet not sure these two could make anything like that up.
“Yeah. That’s it!” Jim snapped his fingers, glaring at Bob. “They were older, er, elder. Two of ’em. Elder Smith and Elder Wantsomepepsi or something like that. I never could quite get that one—’cept they were real people, not just somebody he was readin’ about.”
“And then there was that Sanderson lady. He talked about her a little bit.”
“’Cept she was somebody’s sister or something. She wasn’t doing the same stuff as Smith and Wantsomepepsi.”
Charley pressed, “What were they doing, this Elder Smith and whatever his name was?”
“Your dad said they were doing that same missionary thing you were doing in Korea.”
“Japan,” Charley corrected again.
“You sure it wasn’t China?” Bob asked.
Charley shook his head. “Japan.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
Bob shrugged in defeat. “Whatever, but they were doing it here. Did you know ’em?”
Charley shook his head. “No.”
“Anyway, your dad started talking like he was going to do something about it.”
“About what?”
“The Mormon thing, dude!” Jim pointed his fingers at his temples and glared at Charley. “Try to stay focused here. He was just waiting for you to get home, but then—” He paused, and the two exchanged awkward glances.
“They, uh,” Charley tried to fill in the heavy silence but finally settled for, “the car crash.”
“Yeah, man. Hey, we’re real sorry.”
Bob nodded. “Your dad was a great guy.”
Chapter 3
The clang of metal on metal rang across the warm morning air.
“Ringer!” exclaimed Jack LaCosta triumphantly, even though it had not been his throw that had scored the points.
“Again,” Bill Washington grumbled, gazing with melancholy acceptance at the horseshoe sitting neatly atop its companion encircling the stake near Jack’s feet. He glanced at his wife, Jasmine, who sat next to Jack’s wife, Edie, in the shade of a nearby cottonwood tree. She smiled in return, a glint of humor and maybe even a little bit of sympathy in her eyes. Bill was an African-American ex–Los Angeles policeman who had retired to St. George, and although he reveled in the golfing, he was still adrift when it came to the local, more traditional forms of recreation. He shrugged as though accepting a defeat over which he had no power then turned to his friend and teammate, O’Reilly “Obie” Begay. “You grew up with Peter. Why can’t you do that?”
Peter Hatch, who had thrown the ringers, was a retired history professor and a descendent of pioneer stock. He and Begay had grown up as brothers ever since Begay had come to the Hatch home through the Indian placement program when both were children.
A Navajo and retired archeologist of some renown, Begay shrugged in response to Bill’s protest. “My ancestors didn’t use horseshoes.”
Bill’s attention was ripped back to the game by a shout from the other end of the horseshoe pit. He was barely able to duck out of the way as a horseshoe careened past, bouncing and rolling well past the metal stake.
“What was that?” Bill glared angrily at Jack.
Jack assumed an innocent expression. “I was just tryin’ to get it close to ya so ya wouldn’t have to go far to pick it up.”
Peter snorted a short laugh while Bill walked back several feet to recover the errant horseshoe.
“You know me,” Jack called at Bill’s back. “Service with a smile!”
“Jack,” Bill said, “if horseshoes were a business, you would probably be world champion.” He paused, studying the horseshoe in his hand then looked up at Jack. “Obviously, if you’ll pardon the pun, this is no business of yours.”
“Hey,” Jack replied, “my ancestors didn’t use horseshoes either. In fact, they didn’t even use horses.”
“You talking about your Jewish ancestors or your New Jersey ones?” Begay asked. His stony expression didn’t hint at whether the question was serious or teasing.
“Yes,” Jack replied, his expression matching Begay’s.
Peter said, “Jack, I don’t want to offend, but you know it does seem a bit stereotypical that you are Jewish and good at business.” Peter shrugged. “Just saying.”
Jack had come to St. George several decades previously from New Jersey by way of Las Vegas. Starting with relatively nothing, he now owned several successful car dealerships and had a variety of profitable real estate investments in the burgeoning local economy.
Jack nodded, pausing just long enough to indicate that he was giving serious thought to his reply. “If you really want to know, any talents I may have at business are probably more due to my upbringing than to my ethnicity.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“You don’t want to know,” Jack replied, turning his attention back to throwing the next shoe. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” With a grunt, he heaved the heavy object toward the far metal stake while both Bill and Peter backed away.
As the metal shoe sailed in the general direction of the street beyond the park, Jasmine’s voice intruded into the conversation. “So while you old poops are threatening each other with metal objects, can we talk about what we’re going to do about Mac and Charley?”
All four men turned to look at her in surprise.
“Why do we need to do something about Mac and Charley?” O’Reilly finally replied as he took his turn throwing a horseshoe. It slapped into the dirt, sliding to within several inches of the stake.
Mac was O’Reilly’s granddaughter. With a mix of Navajo, Polynesian, and Anglo descent; a proclivity for canyoneering; and a passion for anthropology, she often unwittingly presented an exotic and forbidding challenge to would-be suitors. Charley Sawyer was the grandson of Peter Hatch. Mac and Charley had met under stressful circumstances, resulting, among other things, in what appeared to be a star-crossed relationship with no certain outcome.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jasmine retorted, irritation apparent in her voice. “Maybe because Mac is moping around like she just lost her puppy, and Charley is gone.”
“Charley’s not gone,” Obie said. “Charley’s in Oregon, getting things straightened out so he can come back here. She knows that. You know that.”
Jasmine and Edie exchanged looks, and both rolled their eyes in exasperation. “Exactly,” Jasmine said slowly as though explaining a simple problem. “Charley’s in Oregon, which means he’s not here.”
“So?”
Jasmine took a deep breath to calm herself. “If he cares about Mac, he needs to be here now. Not in Oregon.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Bill recited.
“Absence makes the heart grow confused,” Jasmine rejoined.
Obie straightened and looked at Peter for some explanation that seemed to be evading him. Peter shook his head and shrugged, indicating that he had no clue what Jasmine was talking about.
“Look,” Jasmine sighed and began to try to explain. “Charley and Mac were thrust together at a—”
“Introduced,” Bill clarified, obviously as confused as the other men. “I remember. I introduced them.”
Jasmine cocked her head and crossed her eyes at Bill before continuing. “Thrust together at a time when Mac had just learned that her grandfather”—Jasmine motioned toward Begay—“had just been blown up in a camping accident.”
Obie spread his arms. “But I wasn’t.”
“But she didn’t know that at the time.”
“So? What’s that got to do with Charley?” Peter asked.
“Everything.” Jasmine turned to face Peter. “From her point of view, this strange guy was thrust”—she glared at Bill, daring him to contradict her—“into her life at a very emotional and inconvenient time. It then only got worse when we all got caught up in that whole bit with following the clues in that journal of yours.” She looked accusingly at Obie, who put up his hands as though to ward off an imminent attack.
Begay had come into possession of an ancient journal, the interpretation of which had resulted in a conflict with a Mexican cartel. The resolution of the whole mess still remained undecided, which was the reason for Charley’s abrupt departure and planned return.
“And from Charley’s point of view,” Edie picked up the conversation, “he was an uninvited guest to a party where he really didn’t know anybody and never really felt like he belonged. For Mac and Charley, it was like being thrown into the ultimate bad blind date.”
“But they ended up liking each other in the end,” Jack argued, obviously searching tenuously for a resolution but realizing he wasn’t going to find it even as he spoke.
“Sure.” Jasmine nodded. “They thought they did, but they didn’t really have a chance to figure things out with all us old people watching their every move, and then when it was all over and they might have had the chance to at least go on a normal date—”
“Charley was gone,” Edie finished. “Which leaves both of them with lots of uncertainty and no real answers.”
Peter shook his head. “Okay, I get it. But what are you suggesting?”
Jasmine looked at Peter. She paused, considering what she was about to say. Both Peter and O’Reilly were widowers, and she knew she was entering a very sensitive area, but she needed them to understand. “You and Molly needed time to get to know each other, and if I remember right, by your own admission, it was mostly Molly who took the responsibility for that courtship. Am I right?”
Peter’s lips seemed to tighten a little, but he slowly nodded in agreement. She turned to O’Reilly. “And you may correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you and Lelani would never have even gotten started if it hadn’t been for her natural Polynesian friendliness.”
Obie shrugged. “You’re pretty much right on target with that. So what’s your point?”
“My point is that your two grandchildren are very much like the two of you rather than their grandmothers. They’re nice people but social incompetents.”
“I resemble that remark,” Obie grumbled.
“Neither Charley nor Mac has the skills or the confidence to pursue a relationship even if they want it and know it would be really good for them. They both want it to just happen somehow, despite themselves.”
Peter shifted from one foot to another, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. “So what about you and Bill?” he finally asked in an obvious attempt to move the focus away from himself.
“I chased her until she caught me,” Bill replied sardonically.
Peter grinned, but when he realized Bill wasn’t going to add any details, he turned to Edie. “How about you and Jack? Did you guys have a long, romantic courtship?” He cast a teasing eye toward Jack.
“Oh,” Edie gushed. “The first time I met Jack, he knocked me right off my feet.”
Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Ole Jack here was the real romantic back then, huh?”
“Oh no!” Edie rushed to reply. “I mean, yes, he was, but that’s not what I meant. You see, he hit me.”
Peter turned to Jack. “You hit her, like caveman style or something?”
“Naw,” Jack replied, obviously offended that anyone would think such a thing. “I’d never punch a woman. See, what happened was I hit her with my car.”
Obie mumbled, “Well, that explains that, I suppose.”
Jack hurried to explain, “I was going slow down St. George Boulevard late in the afternoon, and you know how the sun can get straight in your eyes. All of a sudden I see something, I don’t know what, so I hit the brakes, and then I hear this awful thump.”
“I’d been shopping and wasn’t watching where I was going,” Edie explained.
Jack plowed on. “I jump out and run around the front, and there, lying on the pavement with a broken arm and her head bleeding, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. “
“So what’d you do, Jack?” Bill asked.
“Well, first I checked for injury.”
“He made sure I hadn’t dented his car,” Edie said, yet her eyes belied any trace of remorse.
It was Jack’s turn to look offended. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
Edie saved Jack by picking up the story. “Jack was such a gentleman. He stayed right there with me until the ambulance arrived, then he followed it to the hospital. I still remember him yelling at the doctors and nurses, insisting I get the best medical help available. He stayed with me until I was all taken care of, and then he brought me flowers every day until I got out of the hospital ten days later.”
“Wait a minute.” Peter held up his hand. “I remember St. George back in those days. This was still a small Mormon town back then. There would have been no florists open on Sunday, so there’s no way Jack could have brought you flowers every day for ten days.”
Edie giggled, an astonishingly girlish sound for an older woman. “I remember that Sunday. I made him take the flowers back to the cemetery on the way home.”
Peter looked at O’Reilly and raised an eyebrow. “If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.”
“The point is,” Jasmine said, “we all have our relationship stories, and in every one of them, somebody took the initiative to make it happen. In Charley and Mac’s case, both are too awkward to do it right even if they do get the opportunity—which needs to be now, before the opportunity is lost. So what are we going to do about it?”
The four men stood silently looking at each other, waiting for someone else to say something. Finally Peter turned to Obie, who was still holding one horseshoe. “It’s still your turn, Obie.”
As Obie lined up for his second throw, all four men winced when they heard Jasmine huff in exasperation.
Chapter 4
Charley turned south onto Highway 101, then in another quarter mile, just before the large Fred Meyer Superstore, he leaned left and darted across traffic onto Munsel Lake Road. The driver of a small green Volkswagen Beetle tooted the horn at his brazen encroachment, but Charley only grinned as he gunned the motorcycle down the narrow two-lane road between walls of waving green Rhododendron bushes. The brash maneuver, the whistle of the fresh sea breeze, and the flap of his tie whipping over his left shoulder were all welcome distractions from the mess he had found in the beach house the night before.
