Stealing Fire (6 page)

“Well, it's time for us to get outside and do my bit to pay off my extravagance.” Wright patted the man on the shoulder. Payton stood still, looking at him, waiting. He had been dismissed, knew it, and wasn't happy about it.

Albuquerque at last. Iris and Mrs. Wright got off the train through the doors of connecting cars. A porter helped them with their luggage. As far as anyone could tell, it was just me and Mr. Wright walking toward the platform of the last car, ready to perform. And Payton was behind us, looking dubious. Payton said, “You're sure about taking off before we get to Flagstaff?”

Wright said, “Don't worry. And remember, I'm counting on you as I always do.”

That was the magic button. Payton disappeared.

I held Mr. Wright's arm until we got onto the platform of the last car. He gently pushed me away when we were in view of the crowd. I understood. No matter how old a person is, they want to stand on their own. We're fully alive until one day when we aren't, and we all want to be treated with dignity up to the end.

The crowd gave Wright plenty of cheers.

I had arranged to have a car ready to drive the four of us into Santa Fe. Unusual request, but for Mr. Wright, the railroad was willing. They'd heard about the fire at Taliesin West. The newspapers had already picked it up off the wires, without mention of a death. Taliesin West, it was reported, had been deserted for the summer, other than a caretaker, his wife, and a few Fellows who arrived in advance.

When we stepped off the train in New Mexico, it was almost evening. The Sandia Mountains rose above us. There were already so many stars in the sky. Home … So much finer than gazing at cement pillars and gray buildings in every direction, stacked so high that they formed gray pools of light that met up with buildings on the other side of the street. For me, evening in a city is a sad time. So much light and bright color and indigo blue that people miss. Look up, and you're lucky to see the moon.

Instantly, reporters surrounded us on the platform asking about dates for the Guggenheim, about Fallingwater, asking Wright where and when his next lecture would be. Asking him if he was going to hole up in the desert and look at ruins for inspiration. Was he interested in Indian people, since they seemed to worship nature? Any clues about the fire? I hustled him along. Wright wasn't pleased with my nudges, but he cooperated.

In the crowd of reporters I thought I saw Payton's face. Similar shoe-polish black hair. Whoever it was, there was something haunting about the man. When he turned into profile, I thought I saw a sly smile. Too dusky to see well. I pushed my edge of crippling worry away, keeping my eye on Wright. When I turned back, Payton's apparition was nowhere in sight. Dusk clouds your soul and your vision.

It was time to move out of the crowd.

A car with the railroad's emblem had pulled into the front of the parking lot, and Iris waved us over. It was a Cadillac roadster, plenty of room, with a driver waiting in the front seat. I loaded our bags in the trunk, including all the books and knickknacks Iris had bought in Chicago. We had a lot more stuff than I remembered. The Wrights had sent many of their belongings with Payton to Taliesin West.

I got everyone settled inside the cushy car, and opened the door on the driver's side.

I said to the driver, “You can get out now.”

“What are you talking about? This is my rig.”

“You're a driver hired for the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe. But I'm taking the car.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Probably,” I said, “and you never want to mess with crazy people.”

He sat there, his jaw hanging down to his chest.

“I'll square it with your boss,” I said, “but I don't want anyone to know where we're headed.”

“Santa Fe. The boss told me to take you to Santa Fe.”

“Wrong.” No way I wanted him to know our destination, and I was willing to risk my boss getting angry about that.

“You a local?” I said to him.

“Used to be.”

He didn't look Mexican or Ladino, he was sandy-haired, but he spoke with a slight accent. One I couldn't make out. Santa Fe is the real melting pot of America, and one of the oldest. He could be lying about himself, maybe not.

“Look, I'm responsible for these people,” I said, “and I want to take a few back roads.”

He looked skeptical.

“It's annoying to say
turn right here now
and
left up there at the sheep pen,
” I said, “especially in the dark and through the Apache reservation.”

That stopped him.

“Here are the car keys. If I lose my job, you'll pay for it.”

“I understand.”

“The tank is full. Don't get lost.”

“I know the rez.”

“I bet you do,” he said, and walked away.

“Well,” said Mr. Wright, “that seemed quite a bother over nothing.”

I turned around in the driver's seat and eyeballed him. “From now on, you've got to believe that anything could be something.”

“I have a lifetime filled with betrayals and unhappy surprises that I can dig up to fuel my paranoia, Goldman.”

“I'm not trying to be dramatic. I want you to take your situation seriously,” I said. “You owe a gangster money. There was a fire at Taliesin West, accidental or not.”

“Could be a coincidence. The information we have is so sketchy,” Mrs. Wright said.

“If I believed in coincidence, I couldn't do my job.”

“Do you think this whole mess is about money? Unimaginable.” That was the Frank Lloyd Wright of the three names, and all that comes with it.

“I can't see clearly if I don't have quiet to think. Watch yourself, watch who's around you, and don't argue with me.”

I started the engine, told them to cover up with the blanket in the back, and we headed for our family's old home in Santa Fe. We stopped in at a Bernalillo diner on Route 66. Everyone had a cup of coffee, and I used the phone booth.

I checked in with local headquarters. Made sure my boss knew I was on duty with Mr. Wright, and that this one was private. He knew about the job from headquarters, but not the particulars. I filled him in with as much information as he needed and less than he wanted. He got the main issue: If there was a sudden emergency on the train, I wouldn't be there to pitch in. It was up to the detective assigned to the run.

His boss had called ahead and cleared things for me, and the facts I'd requested about Wright had been sent by messenger to my home. After a few days, when things cooled down and we had a solid story on the fire, I'd escort Wright to Taliesin West. In the meantime, not a word about Wright's whereabouts.

“Mr. Dennis, one more thing,” I said. “Did you send a car for us?”

“Yes, as we discussed earlier.”

This was going to be touchy. I had probably ousted their employee, and I was going to have to do some fancy footwork.

“We sent you a roadster and a man who's been one of our drivers for fifteen years,” he said. “But—”

I interrupted him. “Listen, I—”

He interrupted me. “We'll send another car to the station. No intention of leaving you stranded.”

“Wait. I have the car. Your car.”

“What? Goldman, this doesn't make sense.”

“I pulled your driver out of the car at the depot. Just in case.”

“Goldman, five miles outside ABQ, on his way to pick you up, someone yanked our driver at a gas station when he stopped to fill her up. That person took off in the Caddy.”

“Have you found your man?”

“He's sitting in my office right now. He's headed to the police to make a report, but I wanted to hear from you first. Find out if you were okay.”

“I'm confused.”

“That makes two of us,” Mr. Dennis said.

“Listen, can you hold up on that?”

“Hold up reporting a car theft and an assault?”

“How is your driver doing?” I said.

“Mad as hell, some scrapes from hitting the pavement, but okay.”

“Yes, hold up on it, please.”

“Why?”

“I want whoever pulled your driver—I'm assuming it was the guy who tried to pick us up at the railroad station—to think he's free and in the clear.”

“Too complicated. I want the man tossed in jail, and I want our car back.”

“That man wants my client, Mr. Wright. If I'm lucky, he'll follow us around, and I'll turn the tables and nab him. One less worry.”

Reluctance. “Okay, we'll hold up on the police, but not for long.”

Some fussing on the other end, two voices batting words across the office like ping-pong balls. I put the phone back on the receiver.

When I scooted into the booth, Iris and Mr. Wright were talking. As soon as they saw me, they stopped midstream and the table went quiet. I filled them in on the latest and didn't leave out any details. Mr. Wright drew himself to his full height, and his eyes twinkled. I couldn't tell if he was angry or pleased. Honestly, I didn't care.

“Mr. Goldman,” he said, “are you planning to use me for bait?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Brilliant. I'm all for it.”

Olgivanna said, “Frank is a master of disguises, and he doesn't even have to change his clothes or cover his face.”

I caught Iris looking down at her shoes. It's the thing she does when she's trying not to laugh.

*   *   *

I figured that women were good for a few things. For sex, of course. To manipulate their men. I was sure there must be something else, but either I couldn't remember or I didn't know. Most of them wore their feelings on their sleeves. Even the smart ones were silly.

I only had a few memories of my mother, dressed to please people like herself—wealthy and shallow. I remembered her perfume. Gardenias. Still could not tolerate that smell. Remembered her waving good-bye so many times, blowing me kisses. Remembered her funeral. My father's funeral, too, but their deaths? It was her fault, everyone knew that. He'd do anything she wanted, including being reckless. I never had the details. I didn't care. The end-design was the same. I was alone, and that wasn't all bad.

I stood with the reporters at the train station and watched Mr. Wright humiliate himself by acting like a dancing monkey. The Indian man looked my way. I disappeared.

 

Nine

The sun had finished coloring the sky in ways that no one can believe until they fall under the wonder of day turning into night in the high desert.

When we pulled up in front of our Santa Fe house, relief filled every corner of my body. This is our longtime family home. Not where I was raised, but where Grandpa grew up, and Iris's mother, and my great-grandparents. When Grandpa struck out on his own, he went to Old Mexico. Some trouble there, I never knew what, but the place hadn't worked out for him. Itching for adventure, he decided to become a trader—not an unusual profession for a young Jewish man aching for a new life, hungry to make his mark in the world. He'd fallen in love with the wildness of Oljato. In love with the Navajo. In love with my grandmother.

When my grandmother died, he was alone in that whirlwind-wild piece of the earth. And that is where I was born. So I have two homes, an ideal situation as far as I see it. One with spirits, thousands of years old, who sing and howl with the winds. A place where coyotes and bighorn sheep birth babies each early spring. A place I am always happy to go. Also the place I am happy to leave when it's time to get back to Santa Fe and a big, cozy bed.

I pulled the roadster into the carriage house to park. I didn't want anyone to find that car, or Mr. Wright, while we were asleep. Also, it was a very fine machine that didn't belong to me. Best to keep it safe and out of sight.

I carried our luggage in through the back door. Mom pulled our company into the living room, and everyone buzzed around the hive. My great-aunt Frieda was completely bowled over—like Iris, she recognized Wright right off the bat. Grandpa made a joke about having to find Frieda some smelling salts. You would think Gary Cooper had walked through our back door. In our household, it seemed, Frank Lloyd Wright was bigger than a matinee idol.

My aunt and my mother fussed around the Wrights and waved a breezy hello to me. I couldn't blame them. Everyone had followed the career of this nutty architect for years, and me they see all the time. Plus, for my mother and Frieda, classy visitors with stories were their idea of heaven.

Iris pulled presents galore out for our family. Frieda asked Mr. Wright to go with her to the college the next day to hear a guest cellist. He said music was the ultimate pair of wings to lift your spirits, let you soar, and yes, he would love to go. I was uncomfortable about Wright being in a crowd. Also, I was pretty sure it meant I'd have to go to the concert, too, and I wasn't excited about that. On the other hand, Frieda wanted to show off her new friend. Olgivanna begged off when she heard there were Indians selling blankets and jewelry in the plaza, just a few blocks away. Not the big once-a-year market, but plenty of Indians sitting on blankets with merchandise. My mom said she'd be happy to take her and strike bargains.

The ladies went upstairs, talking nonstop, and choosing a suite of rooms to get ready for Olgivanna and Frank Wright. Afterward they tumbled down the stairs, laughing and chatting like old friends, and went into the kitchen to cook and talk some more. Women have such an ease making friends.

My grandfather sat in the company room, looking at Mr. Wright sitting on a settee. Grandfather's body filled a leather and oak chair, carved in Mexico over one hundred years before. His hands were spread flat, one on each knee. They were worn and used and spotted, hands that had lived. He had not spoken one word since we'd arrived, and I was getting nervous. It seemed to me he was giving Wright a double whammy—the fish-eye and the silent treatment.