Creation Myth

Peter Torbay

ELANDRE
 2

ELANDRE PRODUCTIONS LLC

USA • 2000

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Creation Myth
 Dedication -

The ancients asked these questions:

Of the mystery of good and evil, the

succession of life and death, the ways of things
long forgotten.

For they saw Life as a mere dust mote, in

transit between the vast cosmos and the bitter
earth below.

So, to those caught between the devil and the

deep blue sea, who look death in the face, smile,
and leap.
 1

Creation Myth
 2
Prologue -

The Traveller sat up suddenly in the

darkness. Something was wrong, some sound
out of place. Wait. No, it was the absence of
sound, the absence of some certain sound,
something. Sure, there was that soapy-splash of
the rivulet waterfall tracing down beside his
bivouac, gentle patter of an earlier rain still
dripping from the branches above onto his taut
tent fly, and the distant muffled roar of the
alpine river breaking the felt blackness of night.
I t w a s s o m e t h i n g e l s e . Maybe it’s the wind , he
thought, the wind blowing high up on the
mountain, endlessly rustling the alder break,
yo u could just hear it ghosting through the
s n o w f i e l d s i f y o u r e a l l y l i s t e n e d . That was it, the
wind has stopped...
He rolled out of his bag, pushing the
bugscreen aside, and propped up on one knee.
The rain clouds had passed on, clearing the air,
and cold stars burned down like blue flames,
whole rotating galaxies of stars. Nostrils flared,
he breathed in the crisp spring air, his senses
electric, thrilling to the mountain’s inky dark,
e t h e r e a l s i l e n c e . This is it, this is freedom!
Now he had a secure lookout for a camp, a
sweet waterfall for his drink, an old
homesteader’s farm below to pilfer from. Maybe
some sunny spring afternoon he’d catch a
s t e e l h e a d d o w n o n t h e r i v e r , r e a l l y f e a s t . They’ll
never find me here, never.

Creation Myth
 3
The pale yellow glow in the sky behind the
jagged mountain peaks told him it was nearly
dawn. Still have time to sleep, he yawned, turning
to lift the fly, ducking under. Then he heard it, a
twig snapping. His head shot up and out, eyes
wide open, just in time to be blinded by the
hunter’s torch.
“‘Son,” the glare reproached, “what’re you
doing here on my land?” Holding a pump action
rifle looped in the crook of his arm, a gray-
bearded heavy-set man moved closer, standing
next to the tent now, and for a moment played
his flashlight inside.
“Sir,” the traveller mumbled, standing frozen,
“I’m looking out for myself, is all. Just camping
out up here awhile...” Words failed him. He
stood, shivering.
The homesteader’s flashlight paused it’s
sweep for a moment, “That’s a big duffel for a
backpacker ‘be carrying,” then tipping his light
toward the traveller’s food stash, “and looks
like ‘twas you helping yourself to my root
cellar, now wasn’t it?”
Cold sweat dripped from his armpits, rolling
ice water down his ribs, soaking his cotton
longjohns. “Sir,” he stammered, “I was just
passing through, sir, didn’t mean any harm,”
then he bit his tongue.
The homesteader lowered his Winchester,
half-nodding, “‘Son, in ‘32 so many folks came
through here, there wasn’t anything left to eat
for any of us,” adding with a soft chuckle,
“Maybe that’s why they call this here Lookout
Creation Myth
 4
Mountain, see, ‘Look out for Flatlanders!’ Ha-
ha-ha-ha!”
Still chuckling, the old man swung ‘round the
way he’d come, playing the flashlight away from
the traveller’s face, “You’re welcome to what
you found, if you’ll help me with a chore or two
down the place.”
He felt the throbbing pressure in his head
explode with relief, then the old man swung
back again, “but after...after you’d better move
on, you hear?” He silently assented with a quick
nod, not even looking up. “Good,” the man
ended, “we’re agreed. Break your camp, I’ll find
you a place in the barn.”
He rolled his gear up as quickly as he could
m a n a g e , s t i l l s h a k i n g f r o m t h e c l o s e c a l l . What if
he’d seen the stash! Teeth grinding, he checked the
clasp on the duffel bag, his tortured mind
t r i p p i n g , Strange, that much cash should feel so
light!
A just-dawning sun pierced the peach ‘n pearl
clouds clinging low on the mountain face, the
roosters down below crowing the fog up off the
river bottom. The traveller shouldered up his
rucksack and duffel, and clambered down the
path toward the homestead below. Emerging
from the alder break, and skirting clumps of
blackberry bramble that dogged his path, he saw
for the first time in broad daylight the far edge
of the farm he’d been stealthily poaching from.
The old man met him again, his wiry bluetick
hound replacing the .22, a pair of work gloves in
his gnarled hands. “I’ll put you down in the hay
Creation Myth
 5
barn,” he repeated tonelessly, “you’ll be warm
and dry, and...,” he paused and glared, “the
Missus won’t have to know where I found you,
understand?!”
The traveller riveted the old man’s gaze as he
nodded, then nervously began to toe the loam
with his boot, head down, his hair coruscated
with dew and drizzle, feeling that shiver
building in his gut again.
The old man led him into the clapboard
gable- end structure, and as he had promised,
the air inside was temperate. Old horse-drawn
implements stacked in one corner, a pile of
cedar bolts crowding the door, and the rear of
the barn piled with an end-of-winter jumble of
dry pea straw and alfalfa hay.
“Up there...,” the homesteader pointed,
“there’s a window. Roof don’t leak much. You
don’t smoke?!” He shook his head. “Good!” the
old man sized him up. “Here, you’ll want
these,” handing him the gloves, “get settled. I’ll
bring you some hot coffee and a roll.”
He stood in the pale straw sunlight shafting
down through the dusty loft window, then
moving the duffel to his left arm, climbed up
the ladder. Above, he found some old trunks
full of ‘50’s-style clothes, dishes in a small
hand-made cupboard, some rusted barrel hoops,
ropes, tack, and, after re-arranging, enough
space to roll out his gear. The barn door swung
open and the old man called him down.
“Here’s your joe,” he said, handing him a
steaming cup of black coffee and a fresh Danish,
Creation Myth
 6
“the Missus made these.” Then the homesteader
fell silent, tinkering at his work bench while the
traveller gulped down the hot liquid and
savored the warm honey-butter sweetness of the
cinnamon roll.
He’d worked him hard all that morning, the
old farmer did, bucking hay bales, splitting up
kindling, cleaning out the stalls, laying down
new straw. Even replaced a termite-infested roof
post in the barn. At midday, the old man’s wife,
a handsome woman with curly chestnut hair
traced in gray, brought a pitcher of cold goat
milk, slices of farmer’s cheese, crusty bread
sliced thick, and for each man, a large warm
slice of cinnamon-apple pie. The man stood at
his bench, the traveller grabbed a straw bale,
and they ate in silence.
“You can leave your things here, strike out
for work hereabouts,” the man said, “take the
afternoon, see what you can find over ‘t
Rockton, across the river, they might be bolt-
cutting the clearcut about now.”
He stood up and brushed the dust from his
jeans. “Much appreciate it,” holding out his
hand.
The old man looked away until he’d let his
hand drop, then repeated, “Soon as you’ve
finished with the chores...,” he paused, “you’d
best be moving on.”
The traveller threw on a jacket in case he was
out past sundown, and to carry a few things in,
pencil, paper and a penknife, his wallet in the
inside pocket. Then he strolled on down the
Creation Myth
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drive to the road, and stuck out his thumb at the
end of the fencerow.
A middle-aged woman picked him up,
farmer’s wife, and she cut right to it. “You
staying up at the Paul’s place?” throwing him a
sideglance as they ran the road on downriver in
her Plymouth.
“Well, sort of, he’s got some chores for me
until I can find work,” he bantered, looking over
at her. But she didn’t speak again until they
reached Rockton.
“I’ll let you off at Myrna’s, that’s where I turn
off,” she suggested, pulling into the little corner
store overlooking the river bridge. “You might
could ask if there’s any work ‘be had around
here, and they’re still looking for tree planter’s
down in Woolsey.”
He rolled out the door and then leaned back
in the open window with a smile, “Thanks.”
She waved at her hair, then added, “I’d watch
yourself, the County Sheriff was up here today,”
her eyes piercing, then fluttering, wanting to
know and not wanting to. Then the woman
drove off. His knees wobbled a bit, standing
there in plain view, the locals coming and going
from in the store, looking him over. Waves of
paranoia bit his neck, crosshairs settling on the
b a s e o f h i s s k u l l . Sheriff’s back up here again!? The
afternoon sun was too bright, like a searchlight.
The traveller ended up in the Rockton Tavern,
hiding out more than anything, sharing a pool
game and a few beers with a local Native Indian.

Creation Myth
 8
“My cousin rents out his land to them
hippies,” the man had laughed, “maybe you can
find a place over to Illabot, get you one of them
skinny women and make babies.” He laughed
again, a dark Indian smile.
It was a good idea. Find the hippies’ place,
hang out, build his own shelter, and lay low off
the beaten path until May. He kept talking
about women with the Native, and soon they
were both laughing loud at each other’s stories,
you know, the ones you can’t help laughing
about?
The Indian bought him beers as they played,
maybe to flirt with the gals at the bar and punch
up his own songs on the juke. Said he’d been a
trucker, now he just worked on diesel engines.
The traveller boasted of his stint in Viet Nam,
work as a machinist, a season spent commercial
fishing.
“Hey, man, you ever been in the service?” he
asked, but the Native just jigged around the
pool table like a gandydancer, studying the
shots. He figured him a local roustabout, short-
hauler, a parts-change mechanic, probably
bummed around here his whole life.
Later, pool table forgotten and talk about run
out, the Indian looked at the traveller, speaking
with a half-drunk voice from a dead-sober face,
“You pretty well got things figured out, don’t
you, man?”
And the traveller allowed as he did.
Then sitting there at the bar, the Native
reached down and began to wrinkle up his pants
Creation Myth
 9
legs, rolling them to his knees to expose gray,
ashen wooden pegs. “Got these at Koto-ri,” he
intoned, “holding off the Reds in the pullback to
Hungnam. You know? Korea?”
In so doing, he pretty much ended their talk-
story.
“C’mon,” the Native offered, “Give you a ride
up that way. Walk over Marblehill bridge,
there’s a boarding house ‘can stay at. Get you
over to Illabot.”
Yeah, give me something to do until it’s dark.
So he climbed into the older man’s pickup
and they motored off on upriver, the narrow
headlights dusting the fading gray day with
gold. Then barely half-mile before the Paul
place, he had a change of heart, suddenly
skittish of his new-found friend.
W hat if someone recognizes me upriver!?
He told the Native he wanted off, walking up
a sideroad until he was sure the man had driven
on. By the time he reached the Paul’s again, the
light of their kerosene lamps and the pale moon
rising over the mountains were all he had to
guide by. The bluetick found him in the dark,
snuffling at his hand, then trotted back toward
the house, satisfied. The traveller followed,
using his ears and feet to stay on the path.
The old man came to the screen door and
stood inside, expectantly. The traveller’d been
rehearsing a cover story, “Think I found work
down in Wool’ey,” he boasted, imitating the
local Tarheel slang, then lied, “Get me a job on

Creation Myth
 10
green chain,” figuring that with the sawmill
line, he’d throw off the old man’s distrust.
Instead the homesteader laughed, “On green
chain!? Ha-hee! Best you be bundling up
shingles, boy, might get you a shawyer job,
there, someone cuts off his thumb,” and still
laughing, turned away from the door. “Green
chain..., good night, boy. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”
The traveller stumbled his way to the barn,
ears burning from the lie apprehended, his path
just a lighter shade of pale blue alongside the
dark moonlit garden. In the stillness, the river
hissed and roared, and staring down like a
specter, the rugged glacier-capped peaks stood
silent sentinel high above him.
Should I hang out here? The Sheriff’s back again,
maybe they know I’m still around!?
Once in the barn, he lit the kerosene lamp and
climbed slowly up into the dark loft. He folded
his shirt for a pillow and slipped quickly into
his down bag, exhausted, his mind scrabbling an
agitation of unending streams of thoughts,
words and images, of this day, and of others
long past, there under the steady glow of that
kerosene lamp.
Much later he dozed, tossing and turning in
the cold drafts, dreams of friends and lovers
haunting his sleep. Then, in the stillness of
predawn, an owl hooted deep in the woods,
sitting him bolt upright.
“Huh?...,” he started up, sensation returning
to his cramped limbs, and memory. He sat there
in the dark loft, sweat-soaked, shivering. Alone.
Creation Myth
 11
But not yet awake. There’s a place in half-
sleep, that drowsy stage of eye-lidded semi-
consciousness, when our dream-state overlays
our normal reality, as though life’s common
bounds have been pushed back in space and
time, and ecce, our spirit soars weightless
through brilliant skies, high over the mundane
terrain of the life granted unto us.
For just a little while the traveller meditated
that way, his eyes smiling at the edge of sleep,
free of care, his body swaying left and right like
some slender reed, until a scurrying creature
scrabbled past his hand and he awoke fully,
dream fading.
The hours before dawn can sure be an evil
time, when our illusions obscure reality, and
fears replace bravery. Now, a hopeful man can
wipe his callused hand across his face, brush
back his hair, and slap his knees down hard to
propel himself up into his day.
Whatever comes.
But driven from sleep with nothing to hope
for, the traveller felt moved only by dark
stifling panic as he dressed. Packing up his
gear, he slid from the loft and stood, impaled by
cold fear, his only thought, the only plan his
m i n d c o u l d f o r g e , I’ll hide the stash under the hay
until I can come back for it!
Working in silence, with fear’s strength
girding his arms, he carved a path between the
stacked bales until he’d reached the back wall.
Wedging the duffel deep between the rows, he

Creation Myth
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p a u s e d . There! All the evidence is hidden here! Even
if they stop me, they can’t hold me.
Even so, deep nameless fear took hold of him
again. Go on! Get the hell out of here!!
He eased out into the night. Frigid cold still
gripped the air. The bluetick stayed curled up
on the porch, head raised in the moonlight. The
traveller made off down the drive, shuffling in
the dark, then he began to trot, frost gripping
his cuffs, his sleeves, his collar, as he reached
the potholed pavement.
Can make Marblehill by dawn, spend a time with
those hippies at Illabot, grab the stash, then catch a
ride to Everett. Hop a freight over the Cascades, an’
I’m gone!
In a few minutes he’d reached where the river
runs in up close to the roadway, the immense
glacial rush of it filling his ears. Suddenly,
around the bend up ahead, a pair of headlights
shot through the river bottom mist. Can’t let them
see me!
The traveller stumbled over the steel
guardrail, feeling out for the shoulder, just
heavy-sloped rip-rap protecting the bank.
Clambering down, the headlights nearing, his
rucksack snagged a tree branch tangled in the
rocks, and he mis-stepped, slamming down
hard. Numb and shaken, he wobbled back
upright then, as the headlights blazed in the
darkness, blinding him. He stepped backward,
dazed, but felt only void. His hand reached for
the branch, and missed. With a last groan, the

Creation Myth
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traveller pitched back into the deep eddies and
fierce current of the bone-cold black water.
The passing car hummed on out of sight as
velvet night closed back in on windless silence,
only the swirling river, rushing toward the sea,
some first glimmers of yellow dawn softly
rippling its surface.

Creation Myth
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One - The Pencil Box

It’s funny now, looking through my old stuff,

the stories I used to read outloud to my
grandfolks, the sketches I had started, never
finishing, scribbled with a stylized “Nick Paul”
I thought might make me famous some day. Oh
well. So it’s not too often that I reach down to
the older keepsake cards from the past, some
family portraits in silvertint and pale sepia,
hand-penned letters, diaries, and that found
journal.
Yeah, there it was, down at the bottom of the
pencil box my grandfather made for me, one day
long ago, out in the hay barn…. Me, watching
him split shakes from clear cedar heartwood
bolts, culled from stumps left behind by them
loggers working high upslope. Him, seeing
nothing but the endless rhythm and timeless
beat of his work....
He smiled at me, his hands curled and barked
like alder roots, gripping a splitting blade
forged from a car’s leaf-spring in one, a burl
maul in the other.
Whoosh, thunk, ping, whoosh thunk, ping…,
Grampa worked effortlessly, splitting thin flat
slabs of cedar to roof the barn, a loose pile of
the red shakes building in the straw at his feet. I
had picked one up, smelling the acrid pungency
of the freed-up cedar oil, admiring the clear
golden-red of flawlessly straight grain, like a

Creation Myth
 15
fine toothed chocolate comb dragged through
coral sand.
“J.D.,” I said (he liked “J.D.”, his given name
was Jesse DeRostiss and most people found a
joke in that), “can you make me a carrying case,
something to hold all my school papers in?” Me
standing there dumb and gawky, a lanky
towhead kid in green corduroy, just a fog’s
whisper compared to his ruddy rolling thunder.
“‘Son, whatever you’d like, I’ll show you how
to make it,” he’d smiled, already shifting the
burden back, teaching me even then about self-
reliance.
He stopped, drew out his rolling papers and
shag, and rolled himself a cigarette, the paper
catching for a moment in a drop of scarlet blood
welling from the cedar splinter that’d found a
chink in his callus. I watched his match flare,
paper curl and ash to a red glow. He drew in the
smoke, pale blue tendrils rising.
“OK then, I need a box to fit my pencils and
brushes and the pad of art paper Ma got me
from the five-and-dime, you know, about this
big...,” and I’d stretched out my arms so wide
that J.D. almost leaned backward off his stump
bolt laughing.
But he helped me, then and there, stopping
his work and choosing the tools carefully,
letting me pick the shakes for my box. Then he
planed them smooth, even, matching the edges,
mitering the ends, cutting finger-joints by hand
with an old Finn back-saw, and kerfing a spline
groove so the gaps wouldn’t show.
Creation Myth
 16
He leaned back, then lit another smoke, and
instructed me how to melt the horsehide glue in
the little beatup aluminum pot Granma’d
thrown out, the caramel way it dripped off the
brush, its warm aroma mingling with the smell
of straw and cedar shavings.
“Go on, don’t be shy, work that glue down
deep in the joints, we’ll wipe it off later,” he’d
said, and I’d made a pretty good mess of the
job, but the sides went together close-fit. Then
he took his ancient kerosene blowtorch and
heated the joints, wiping the excess with a rag,
sealing the edges tight as a drum.
“This ‘ere’s rift cedar,” J.D. explained as he
rubbed, “was more’n a thousand years old when
the first settlers started breaking the swamp
down in the Delta. So big, they had to clamber
over the spreading roots of each huge tree. Men
would chop springboards eight feet above the
ground just to saw one clear through.”
“Why look’ee here,” he pulled out a carrot-
slice he’d trimmed off the bolt, squaring it up
for splitting. “These tree rings are maybe twenty
to the inch, maybe more, and the stump this bolt
‘s cut from was near to thirty-five foot around,”
he laughed, letting it sink in. “You’ve got a very
old pencil box there Nicky m’boy. Why, it’s
Christ’ly old! You take care of it, hear?”
After the glue had re-set, part of a broken
leather harness became hinges and strap, held
on with shiny brads J.D. used to repair the
furniture up in the house. Then he took down
turpentine and linseed oil he kept on the high

Creation Myth
 17
shelf, and we rubbed the box hard, inside and
out, until the cedar had turned honey-brown
and glossy warm all over. He smiled as he
handed it to me without another word, and
yeah, it still looks the same today, maybe darker
with age at the bottom, although, like I say, I
rarely dig down to this old journal.
Anyways, there it is, the edges of its leather
cover turned powdery from mildew and
earwigs, the papers faded brown on the edges
and cracking, the pen faded to a gray wash, but
still legible. The journal J.D. had given me when
I went off to college nearly a decade ago,
perhaps knowing it was the last time I’d see him
before he’d died of the palsy’s, still working on
down by the creek when he stood up, I guess,
and whirled around sudden. Granma’d found
him scarcely breathing, and they drove near
halfway down-valley before J.D. came to, made
her drive him back home to get reading his
glasses and rolling papers.
By the time I heard, he was stable, in
treatment. Then, he was just gone. You can see
his gravestone out on the edge of the orchard,
right there, plain in the winter when the grass is
beat down....
I held the journal in my hands, and cracked it
open to smell the pulp, like a sigh of old
newspapers found in the attic. Then I rubbed at
the leather until the powdery mold burnished
off enough to read the letters J.D. scrawled
across the face.
‘Lookout’s Journal ’. Nothing else, just that.

Creation Myth
 18
So this could be the journal of some free-
wheeling beatnik from the days of Kerouac and
Bruce, spending his summer on fire-lookout, all
bongo’s and Dada. Or even one of those weird-
beard hippies, from endtime, when Tarheel
loggers had stopped beating them up in the
bars, and had let them work at the odd jobs, fire
spotting and choker setting, tree planting and
shingle packing, bolt cutting and, sure to,
gangha running.
The first few pages are more like a diary than
a lookout’s log, devoid of notes a fire spotter’d
make, lazy pen sketches of pinecones and
spruce boughs and chipmunks that you’d have
expected. As though the writer just
daydreamed. I’d only glanced at the pages
further on, feeling like a foreign film go-er, or a
spring peeper listening to bullfrogs over on the
next pond.
Maybe that was good, holding onto this
journal all these years, ‘til I’d become more
mature, and non-judgmental. The way life will
either break you or make you. Maybe my cedar
pencil box was meant to hold only this one
journal, to convey this account of a life long
past, long before cell-phones and Wal-Mart.
Here, I’ll read it for you. You be the judge.

Creation Myth
 19
Two - Truth Hits Everyone

“To the guy who follows me,” the lookout’s

journal begins, “you’ll find the marmots and the
mice have chewed up most everything, and the
roof frame will probably be in bad shape from
the snow. Try and make the best of it. You’re on
your own now. You’ll discover important truths,
and then forget them! Hope you enjoy your stay,
the view from here is fantastic, (when it is). Well
then, good luck and hale to you.”
It’s signed Jay Gouden, and left as the journal
for the next fire season, yet devoid of any radio
logs and the lightning triangulations that you’d
expect to find. The hard-scrabbled handwriting
that follows after is different. That sure figures,
but the story it tells isn’t one of snow-clad
mountains and forest fires at all.
“Journal Null Point Zero” starts off the first
page in big block letters drawn with the side of
a pencil, and then stenciled all around like a
fine Western saddle. The cramped lettering
begin to uncrab after that, as though his
memories became an unstoppable torrent, high
on that remote mountaintop. The passages
become fluid, cursive, harder to decipher.
I’ll just use ‘Look’ for his name, so that my
own words don’t get in the way, same as those
Look writes about called him. Here’s his story,
from the beginning, as best as I can interpret
from his journal.

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 20
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Creation Myth
 21
Down in Springfield, after Viet Nam, when
he’d gotten back Stateside riding the big C141
into Hickam, then on into the Bay Area and once
again bound over as a civilian, Look was
thrashing around, homeless.
Sure, he’d run on down to Puerto Vallarta
with a surfing buddy, living on the beaches,
riding perfect glassy breaks off Punta Mita,
drunk and disorderly in the cantinas. That’d
been all right, just decompression.
Later, they drifted to Reno, playing blackjack,
craps table, roulette, winning enough cash for
him to spend the winter over in Loveland,
Colorado.
There, glissading over the long snowfields,
and down the ivory breasts of snow bunnies
he’d met and bedded, Look made up for the lost
years. He stayed a ski-bum, meandering
Loveland back to Big Bear on the SouthWest
circuit, working as a roustabout for cash.
Then back down to Vallarta, and all over
again. Seasons went by. Years.
Now it was springtime and easy livin’, the
Illinois maples and pin oaks all pale green
leaves, the crab apple and redbud exploding
with blooms. Down in Springfield, because he
didn’t have the scratch to keep on for West
Virginia, to keep on for home.
Look was broke.
It was a nice time of year to just walk around
and not think about much. Not think about his
Pap, who’d taken him out on his eighteenth
birthday, down to the enlistment hall over in the
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old Sommerstowne armory, and told him,
“You’re grow’d now boy, it’s time you be out on
your own. Now hear, you can be a bum, and a
damn drifter, or you can stay here and die a coal
miner, broke like me. Or ... you can be a man.
These fellah’s here,” he had waved at the
recruiters, “will make sure you become a man.
Now go on, git!”
Look had signed up Navy, put in for the
Seals, then went on home, hugging his mother
and his crying younger sister, holding tight,
breathing in their sweet scent of womanhood.
He nodded to his stern-faced old father, all coal
dust and pipe tobacco, then walked off toward
the bus stop.
He’d never seen them alive again. Head-on
crash. Thanksgiving truckload full of turkeys,
dark road, rain. He remembered his C.O.’s sad
face, his sorrowful voice. Then he stopped
remembering.
Going back there in his mind meant
blackness, animal fear, madness. They’d made
him a muscled brute, navigating zero-viz with
only a compass and depth gauge, dragging
rubber rafts up on the beach, slinging heavy
ordinance. Learning to kill, and to fear.
Always those dreams came back, metallic
taste in his mouth, silent explosions in his ears,
one gone near-deaf from the brownwater patrol
boat’s machine gun firing off right past his face,
leaving a thin white scar along his cheek bone.
There were other scars too....

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A red-haired girl in a tie-dyed tank-top and
tight green velvet pants walked by, smiling, “Hi
!”
His vision cleared, nightmare fading, but she
was past him already, he only had time to hip-
hop, spinning backward, an overly boyish
“Howdie!” that made her giggle in her hand.
Look kept on walking, up one street, down the
next, sleeping at night on a park bench, police
conspiring to let him be, seeing his duffel bag.
Searching, moving, in travel mode.
One day he saw this guy sitting on the porch
of an old house, dreadlocks long and tied back,
goatee, a silver ring in his eyebrow. Yeah, an
eyebrow ring!
The guy smiled at him, nodding, “Hey, man.”
So Look stopped on the sidewalk and asked if
there was a room he could rent. Next thing you
know, he was sitting in their living room,
feeling at home. The guy’s name was Lou, and
he invited Look to table, his old-lady Dianne
passing him a serving plate for the shared bowl
of steaming broccoli, potatoes and green beans,
all smothered with shredded cheese.
Down home folks.
Dianne was quiet, and plain in every way, a
foil for Lou. She said plain things, thought plain
thoughts, acted like an ordinary small-town
woman. But Lou must have fallen on his head as
a kid, he was the complete opposite. Couldn’t
stop talking, couldn’t stop moving, when he
wasn’t pounding on his congas.

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Sometimes food’d be falling out his mouth
he’d have so many ideas going at once, leaning
forward at the dinner table, gesturing with his
fork. Well, they all had big ideas in those days
after Viet Nam, kind’a like an old pressure
cooker blowing off its load of steam.
Lou wasn’t like other guys Look had known
from school days, not like a Navy buddy with a
quick joke and a smoke. He was more like an
older brother to him, always watching out,
listening to late-night schemes, however wild,
like they were as real as the sun coming up
tomorrow.
Lou laid down a soft bassline to Look’s blue
notes, when he wasn’t slapping away on a salsa
solo. Their whole house was scattered with
conga’s of all sizes, djemba’s, an old rosewood
marimba. He was always in a calypso mood,
drumming sometimes be soothing, sometimes
maniacal, always compelling.
But Dianne kept after him, again and again,
“Drumming doesn’t pay the rent, Lou!”
So he drifted slow but sure to motorcycles
and drug dealing, about the only other things a
musician knows.
“Did I mention he was a biker?” L o o k ’ s j o u r n a l
goes on. Well, sort of a biker, he had this old
Norton he’d found in a garage, left behind by
some G.I. gone off to war. Sure beautiful, deep
purple and chrome, Lou had rebuilt it himself,
hard-tailed and fat-bob’d it, painted a Dead rose
and scalloped flames on the tank.

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Not a ‘biker’ per se, he was too stringy, and
so smart enough not to throw a hog out on the
highway, or slam a beer glass into someone’s
face in a bar. No, Lou was just your local dealer,
MC’r, small change, a guy who could get by on
the fringe of the action.
And as the sometimes hurt look in Dianne’s
eyes spoke, he had a damn good time doing it,
too.
Look, on the other hand, was a loner, a
drifter, high school leaving him with more
knowledge than he had needed, Navy Seals
leaving him with more memories than he
wanted, and his women usually just leaving
him, period.
So he had settled in with Lou and Dianne,
each a balance for the other, and then spring had
turned to summer, indoors to outdoors. Look
found a good job in a local machine shop, at
Hansvedder’s, over on the east side, rebuilding
farm equipment parts, learning tool-making and
tolerances to add to his skills with stockcar and
diesel engines from back ‘coal country.
Maybe work Daytona someday, who knows?
And he’d found a girl of his own, a waitress
from over at Saltie’s Tavern, that Frenchie
Desautel’s place in Little Osage, you know, on
down from the Spoon, up near Havana? Where
the Peoria bikers and Macomb frat-rats hang out
for a rockabilly house band and wild loose
crowd, until Desautel closes at 2AM, and then
his after-hours cardroom opens to a better

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clientele of professionals and politicians from
the State capitol.
Oh, Michelle is her name.
It was a couple weeks before, Lou came up to
him one Friday night after work, “Hey, Look,
let’s go out to Saltie’s, there’s a guy I want you
to meet, check him out for me, says he wants to
deal. You’re hip to shit, tell me if he’s messin’
with me.”
They climbed in Look’s ‘54 Ford shortbox, big
351 Windsor bored-out and stroked, a half-
racing cam popping the glass-pack’d exhaust,
and they cruised on out in the chill air and fog
down along the Sangamon, heading towards
Havana. He let the engine over-rev ‘til it
burbled, tires humming on the rain-damp road.
The “Saltie’s Roadhouse” sign glimmered out
through the trees, a winking red “BAR” neon
over the front door, and they pulled off onto the
gravel. The night air had that bottomland rosin
and earth smell, that always perked Look’s
senses. An owl hooted as they walked to the
door, and he paused to listen.
“Jack! Hey, how’s it goin’!?” Lou shot up a
leather-jacketed arm just inside the light. They
strode into the smoky knotty-pine room, still
mostly empty and quiet this early. Jacques
Desautel looked up, mouthing a “Hey,” as he
readied the till. A wavy-haired smoky-blond
sheila, sweet face and big eyes, sauntered over
with a friendly smile for Lou. They made small
talk while she cast side-eyes at Look.

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“‘Coupla’ beers,” Lou said, turning to him,
“Hey, you want something to eat?” He shook his
head, acting boored. “This is Look,” Lou
remembered to say.
“A-a-a,” he lifted a finger up off the table.
Then Lou went to use the head, and Look was
sitting alone when the girl brought their beers
back. Nobody else was around, ‘couple old flies
happy at the bar, so she paused. Look asked her
to sit down. She threw an eye in Jacques’s
direction. He tossed back a “what?” eyebrow
then a “whatever” shrug, and she set her tray
down and pulled a chair over close.
“How’s the band?” he opened, and at that she
smiled like honey toast. He could smell her
musk, and the subtle trace of her perfume.
“You a friend of Lou’s?” she got straight to it.
“Yeah, live in their house,” feeling his sack
rise. He covered, “Worked here long?” opening
his way out.
“I’ve been here long enough to know Lou’s
got an old lady, so he didn’t come out for the
food, and that you’re not from around here.”
She’d left it open then, unconcerned, gazing
around unfocused, not like she was bored, but
like there was time to relax.
“Oh, my name’s Michelle,” she added after
awhile, “or Shelley...Shell to my friends, ‘Hey,
you!’ if you’re not,” she laughed softly, smiling
at him.
Look thought, most women he’d known were
quick to size things up, and then quick to pass if

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there wasn’t any play. This girl wasn’t counting
t i m e , s h e w a s j u s t , w e l l , o p e n . Southern Illinois?
He warmed to her relaxed drawl, her smile,
licking his lips as he leaned forward towards
her.
“So, you two get acquainted?” Lou came up
on them then. Look lost his windup. Shelley’s
lips firmed as she rose, but she smiled once
again at him, holding the gaze with her lucent
blue-green eyes. Then she walked off, “see you”
flipped over her shoulder.
“Think she likes you,” Lou laughed, draping
his leather jacket on the chair, slouching in his
seat, eyes on the door. “That’s good, Shelley’s
all right,” speaking volumes. “She ask what
we’re doing here?”
“She didn’t say. Guess she knows you
though?”
“Yeah, I know her. She’s a sweetheart.”
Look sipped on his beer, his mouth gone dry,
“She’s a peach, all right, a real....”
“Hey, here he comes!” Lou interrupted, and a
blast of smoky cool air blew across the floor as
the stranger burst in, large guy, dark curly hair,
lip ‘tee, leather jacket, plaid shirt, black chino’s,
cowboy boots.
Glancing neither left or right, but clearly
scoping the bar, the dude strode to their table
and sat down.
“Turner, you want a beer?” Lou offered, then
seeing the guy’s eyes narrow, added in
shorthand, “This is Look. He’s in our club,

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works as a machinist.” They shook hands, then
Turner relaxed enough to elbow up onto the
table.
“Sure,” he clipped, tossing a pack of Luckie’s
and a ‘Semper Fi’ USMC engraved Zippo in
front of him, car keys with a braided-yarn chain,
peace-symbol slug, blue-bead roach clip.
Strange combination, war and anti-war, a net
zero-sum. “So what’s happening?”
Lou twirled a finger toward Jacques. Look
took the opportunity to steal a glance at
Michelle, keeping his view over and around the
stranger. It wasn’t hard to feign indifference to
Turner with someone like her easy on his eyes.
Lou was getting down to details....
“Got two keys, seventy-five reds, two
hundred white cross, and some sunshine L, but I
need a down, and a week to line it up,” Lou
whispered. Turner drew on his smoke a
moment, looking bored, then started to speak
when Michelle interrupted him.
“So, what’s your name, honey?” the stranger
leered, but you could see he wasn’t really
interested. Look bristled that the stranger would
jerk her around instead of joking her. Big City
Lone Ranger.
“Dong Yang Poon Tang,” Shelley straight-
faced back, “isn’t that what you call all your
Nam bar girls?” She pushed aside the tell-tale
Zippo with their beers. Then to Lou, “It’s on
your tab, want anything else?”

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Turner reached over and grabbed her wrist,
“Hey, come’ere, that’s no way to talk to a war
hero!”
In a flash Look was in his face, seriously
pissed off. He spit out something in Vietnamese
and then Turner froze, backing down, glaring
daggers at him.
Lou covered, “Three shots of JD straight-up,
uh, all right?” Smoothing things over. Turner
took another pull off his smoke, gazing down
somewhere south of Shelley’s neckline, then
shrugged, “Yeah, OK, sure.”
Already tripping on distant in-coming.
She went back to the bar. Look watched as she
spoke with Jacques, pointing with her chin. Lou
was talking price and delivery to Turner. They’d
found a deal, and the stranger held out his
hand. Lou shook on it, then he got tripped up in
this “soul bro’ ” routine Turner kept going on
with, a bullshit JG move.
Shelley came back, dropped off their shots,
then as she walked behind Look, leaned close,
whispering, “Thanks, maybe I’ll see you after
Saltie’s closes?”
H e p a n t o m i m e d , h a n d s t u r n i n g o u t , no
problem.
They drank the shots in silence, Lou waiting
for some sign from Look the deal was a setup,
and Turner now visibly uncomfortable with
Lou’s new striker. Look’s mind was on
something besides small-change.

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Then Turner stood up, and they following
him outside. It had gotten fully dark now, and
the peepers were chirping wildly in the
bullrushes, a big full moon reflecting smoky-
orange on the misty river bottom.
“Here’s your down,” Turner smirked as they
got to his car, folding a wedge of fifties into
Lou’s hand.
Shit! A fuckin’ Trans-Am jockey, L o o k c u r s e d .
“See you in a week, man. Think I’ll head
down to N’Orleans awhile, get me some action,
this place is nowhere,” Turner scoffed, then
laughing, added, “Think you girls can handle
this?”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Lou shot back, “you’ll get
your shit, man. Just make sure you got my
bread, dig?”
Turner got in the Trans-Am, rolled the
window down a crack and tossed his Luckie at
Lou’s feet with a closed-fist salute. Then he
threw the car in gear and spun out of the
parking lot, spitting gravel.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lou muttered. Look
saw that he was hopping mad.

They climbed into his truck and drove off,

running all the way back into town in a blur, not
speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.
Lou made some calls when they first got back,
sitting cross-legged in the old-fashioned living
room, all antique furniture and worn Persian
carpets they’d scrounged at garage and yard

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sales, pawn shops and estate auctions. He
looked like a black-leather pasha in an blues’y
version of Ten Thousand Nights, talking there
on the phone. Then he stood up.
Dianne smiled, “Going out again?” but the
hurt was in her eyes, hard waiting, playing the
‘little woman’.
“Yeah, to Nobody’s,” Lou decided, “I’ll be
right back,” and kissed her lightly on the lips.
You could see the fondness they had for each
other, but hey, life was tough, had to hard-
scrabble or die. “I’ll be back later,” he repeated
to Look, “see you.”
They listened to his Norton fire up, the drone
of its engine fading into the distance. Dianne
fixed some food and they ate quietly in the
kitchen alcove, Look making jokes, not wanting
to worry her.
And still half-thinking about Shelley’s offer.
‘Nobody’ was another in Lou’s motorcycle
club, their Kansas City meth connection, broad
Slovak face, pale hair and thick torso, he
imitated the Chicago South Side oil-crinkled
black leather jacket look well. Narrow-legged
dark jeans, nice leather shoes, Nobody had the
brusque, powerful demeanor of a hard big-city
hoodlum. His voice, though, was downstate,
smooth drawl. That unnerved everyone he dealt
with, just the way N’Orleans can get under your
skin if you let it.
There was ‘Sammy’, their money man, and
‘Will’, their hulking enforcer. Sammy short,
dark, like someone’s little brother, quiet. Maybe
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that’s what attracted Lou to him, maybe it was
that Sammy’s father ran a restaurant in town, so
he had access to ready cash, never questioned,
for financing deals.
Will was, well, a Paul Bunyan farm boy just
back from the war, and his six-foot six frame
was solid muscle, Asian tattoos shoulder to
wrist, hands like hams, not fat, strong. Will kept
a woolly-beard, with these jet-black eyes
crinkled at the edges, as though Nam burned
three years of deep sorrow and rage onto an
otherwise impassive mug. The kind of guy
you’d naturally want as a buddy, his quietness
an asset.
Meth, money, muscle and Lou made their
club tight. Named ‘Zapatas MC’, after Frank
(Zappa), they rode fast chopped Norton’s and
Triumph’s. Each wore a tattoed rose-and-
thunderbolt between their thumb and index
finger, the same self-styled symbol painted on
their tanks and stenciled on their leather jackets.
“What’d Lou say about that dude you went to
meet?” Dianne wondered. Look savored the hot
brown rice and spicy peanut tofu she’d fixed for
dinner.
“I don’t know, he’s going after a bunch of
stuff, the guy gave him a wad of cash for down,
I was just along for the ride,” Look offered back,
lying a little, “Dude’s like, he’s cool, says he’s a
big mover.”
Dianne sighed, “Well, I got a checkout cashier
job at Krager Foods today, we’ll have pocket
cash....”
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Look glanced surprised into her worried eyes,
then pulled out his billfold, tucking two fifties
into her hand, “Hey, it’s all right, you’ll be
flush after this.”
“I know,” Dianne started to slump, “I just ...
worry.” She gave him a weak smile that touched
him so much he leaned forward, kissing her
softly on the lips without even thinking.
“You don’t have to worry, you’ve got both of
us,” he smiled, answering her unspoken fear,
then they finished eating and washed the dishes
to Dave Mason and after, listened to Cream
turned down low, sharing a joint and then the
time together in silence.

Creation Myth
 35
Three - After the Dance

“Hey, I’ve got to check something out,” Look

whispered at last. It was well after midnight,
Dianne had dozed on his shoulder as the Moody
Blues spun down. They parted. He propped up
a pillow on the couch and helped her get
comfortable. “I’ll be back in awhile,” he added,
but she was already out again.
The air was cool, stars dimmed by a full moon
riding high in the sky, following in the
windshield as he drove on back out into the
country, window rolled down, woods dark and
silent now, only the occasional headlights
flashing by. This was the time he loved, these
hours just before dawn, as the earth regenerated
herself again, mixing up a new palette,
spackling a new canvas, sunrise bringing fire to
the colors of a new day. He took deep breaths of
the heavy damp air, shaking off the lethargy of
the joint they’d smoked, pumping himself up
for Saltie’s.
As his truck pulled into the parking lot,
nearly empty of pickup’s and old bomber’s now,
he saw off to one side a group of expensive
heavy-metals parked together, Chryslers and
Caddies. Look could see the glow of cigarettes
in the dark, as they milled around, staring over
at Saltie’s entrance.
“A-a-a, think you’re gonna get busted!” he
shouted to Jacques, as he threw open the front
door. Then, drawing a blank, “say, where’s
Michelle?”
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 36
Jacques puzzled a second, “Oh, you mean my
clientele!?” pausing to chuckle, then, “Shelley’s
in back doing the night’s take.”
Look made his way around through the
kitchen, still warm with food-smells, pots
soaking in the big sink, dishwashing machine
steaming as it cooled. He made a wrong turn
into the pantry and freezer, then glimpsed
Shelley’s golden-brown hair through a crack in
the door, and found his way to the office.
“Hi,” he smiled. She looked up for a second,
then went back to her 10-key entry.
“Be done in a minute, go grab a beer if you
want, Jack won’t mind. I’ve gotta get this into
the safe,” she looked up once more, smiling
warmly.
He ended up on a bar stool pulled over by the
jukebox, a cold tall-neck in one hand, flipping
through the playlist , when the new clientele
trundled in. Look glanced at his watch, then
raised his bottle to the first pair of suits in the
door, “A-a-a,....”
They paused. Then, behind him, Jacques’s
voice boomed out, “This is a friend of Shelley’s,
come on in.” Five well-dressed men entered in a
procession, each talking cards and spouting golf
jokes, ignoring Look as they disappeared one by
one behind the closing door to Jacques’s
upstairs apartment.
He went back to the office with his beer, first
checking the kitchen ‘fridge, grabbing some
baby-back ribs, the barbecued meat deliciously
cold in his mouth.
Creation Myth
 37
“Don’t mind me,” he laughed, and when she
didn’t reply, asked, “All right if I sit over here?”
She gave him an annoyed glance, “Whatever.”
Time passed. Look eyed the pin-up poster
girl on the wall, she eyed him back. The hand on
the wall clock eked out a living reaching for the
three. At last Michelle finished the accounting
and ordering, got the cash put in the safe, and
turned toward him.
Look inhaled sharply. The looseness of her
sheer blouse so full, her sweet short-skirted tan
legs, hair haloed gold and smoke in the desk
light. Even at three in the morning Shelley
looked simply lovely. Fresh.
He moved close to her, stroking her arm, and
blurted out, “You look great!”
The pin-up girl on the wall rolled up her eyes
and shook her head at him, laughing, or seemed
to be.
What a line....
“Listen, Look, I’m not done yet,” she put him
off, “wondered if you’d like to meet Jack,
maybe help me a little,” adding, “Save it for
later, OK?”
“Sure! Hey, Shelley, umm, what’s the deal?”
he raised an eyebrow, the room suddenly very
close in on the two of them. He could feel the
heat of her body through his t-shirt, and
laughed to cover it.
“Oh, Jack runs an after-hours cardgame,” she
explained, “well, not really a gameroom, you
can’t just saunter up there. It’s more like a

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gentleman’s club, a river-boat gambler kind’a
thing, get it? You have to know someone to get
invited.”
“So it’s good old boys come out for penny-
ante in the boonies?” he mis-guessed on
purpose to annoy her, “They’re pretty fancy for
beers and peanuts.”
“Yeah, right!” she pouted. “You know it’s not
small-time, you’re not stupid,” then dulling the
jab, “Lou wouldn’t have brought you in if you
were.”
They laughed and she took his hand, leading
him up the narrow stairs, trenchered treads
fashioned from plain wood planks, tilting off-
level with the drift of the old roadhouse itself.
In the narrowness of the stairwell, following so
closely behind her lovely ass, Look filled with a
lust he’d almost forgotten.
When they reached the top and Shelley
turned towards him, he felt that heat radiating
from her in the dark, telling him she’d felt the
same way. They paused then, for a moment,
Look bringing their clasped hands between
them, circling her waist with his arm. Shelley
pressed her stomach against his until he
stiffened, then kissed him lightly, whispering,
“Later....”

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Four - Slice of Life

Jacques stood in the bright light of a white

paneled kitchen, peeling cold cuts from their
packs, arraying bread, cheese, meat and pickles
on a sandwich board.
“ ‘Cheri, ” h e s p o k e t o M i c h e l l e , “ w o u l d y o u
get some drinks in to the guys, you know what
they like,” then he smiled at Look, “Welcome to
my after-hours party! I’m Jacques, help me with
these, would you?”
Look took over sandwich making, and Shelley
arrayed the liquor glasses and beer bottles on a
tray. Jacques eased on into the other room. You
could hear his voice booming above the murmur
of the players, calling each by nickname, ever
the showman.
“Jack’s father was a French-born musician,
Jean Mercier, played jazz clubs under the
stagename Jonny Mercier down N’Orleans,”
Shelley spoke softly over her shoulder to Look,
mixing the drinks and popping tops off beers.
“He never bothered to marry Jack’s mother,
Marie Desautel, or to claim his son. So Jack grew
up in the Quarter, then after his mother up and
left them, just a kid, he followed his father to
honky-tonks from Baton Rouge to Saint Louis.
He always wanted a roadhouse of his own,
somewhere settled-down, y’know?“ She smiled,
“I’ll be right back.”
Michelle shouldered the tray and pushed the
door open, smoothly brusque. Look could hear
the men’s voices pick up, joking loudly in her
Creation Myth
 40
p r e s e n c e , c l e a r l y e n t i c e d . H e s m i l e d , Yeah, Jack
has it made here....
Then he spread the sandwich plates on his
hand and pushed through the swinging door.
Jacques’s cardroom was nothing more, or less,
than an elegant turn-of-the-century dining room,
beautiful mahogany sideboard stacked with
liquor bottles, the sandwiches laid out with
condiments and hot sauces. A big round oak
table sat in the center of the room covered with
green felt, high curved-back chairs all plush
with needle-point rode a Karistan carpet richly
saturated in plush red, yellow and black.
Opposite the sideboard, a faded red-velvet
couch nestled against the alcove window, it’s
rolled arms covered with tasseled silk. Classic
dark oak endtables with ambered silk-shaded,
brass-footed lamps framed the couch, and in the
next room, another Persian, with large point-
and-tucked leather arm chairs and cigar boxes
on a low ebony coffee table, a tarnished old
Victrola phonograph the only ornamentation.
Above the polished wainscoting, Jacques had
added a blood-red and chocolate-crush wall
papering, like a classy whore house. Just sitting
against the wall, Look felt himself totally
immersed in Jacques’s illusion of a riverboat
gambler life, watching the gray-haired men play
under the shaded overhead light, listening to
Jonny Mercier play on the scratchy Victrola.
Shelley came over and sat on the couch,
leaning against his side. He wrapped an arm
over her toned shoulders, teasing her blouse
Creation Myth
 41
open with his fingers, and she left her hand on
his thigh, softly stroking.
The effect was electric.
The men played dealer-call, usually seven
card stud, or straight, five card draw, never
varying in their pace, only the snap of the cards,
the chink of the chips, murmured bids and calls,
chips raking in and their boisterous laughter as
each hand finally played out.
It was as though they’d succeeded in
suspending time, suspending history even,
caught in the gambler-glow illusion like moths
to a flame. Occasionally a man would rise,
stretch, fix himself a drink or eat a sandwich and
sit out a hand. Or some of the players would ask
Look to grab them a beer from the kitchen, then
retreat to the smoking room with their cigars.
Shelley dozed on Look’s shoulder, waking
every so often to clean ashtrays, pick up
empties, fix more sandwiches. Jacques’s eyes
positively sparkled, an uninterrupted banter of
words rolling across his lips, recounting this
bar, that honky-tonk, those musicians, all the
gamblers from a life of watching and listening to
the legends of all time play the blues and
peddle the pasteboards. You could feel the
regard the men held for their host, sharing the
moment as though they themselves had been
there.
Even when a late arrival showed up, Tony,
one of their group, along with his tag-along
“cousin from down Tulsa,” nobody broke the
rhythm of the play or of Jacques’s raconteurage.
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Pale gray light filtering through the windows
signaled that dawn was approaching. Look
figured the game would break up. Instead
Jacques went around loosening the outer
curtains, drawing them in and pulling the inner
shades down. The players took a pause, shaking
off the lethargy of sitting for so long. Some, a
walk outside in the cool summer morning.
Shelley started arranging the room as Jacques
announced, “Let’s all take a time out! I’m going
to fix us some breakfast downstairs, while the
kids clean up in here, then it’s Tony’s deal. It
was his turn to bring the cards anyway’s.”
The men headed down the narrow stairs into
the empty tavern below. Tony set four packs of
new card decks on the table, his cousin smiling
strangely, there at the top of the stairs, like
some stone dement’o. That same weird
thousand-mile stare Look had seen on Nam war
prisoners, vacant, lost between worlds.
A cold shiver ran up his spine.
“Help me get these, then we can sack out,”
Shelley directed, “Grab those glasses and plates,
will you?” Look drifted in a twilight of tired
and tenseness, and they both moved together
wordlessly, cleaning and vacuuming until the
room was spotless again.
Michelle walked over then, slipping her arm
around his waist, and breathed softly, “Come
on....”
Down the hallway, past the stairs, was a small
bathroom with an old iron tub, and next to it, a
cozy bedroom with a comfortable old double
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bed. Shelley turned down the edge of the sheets.
Look softly closed the door behind them, and
quietly undressed in the dim light through the
window curtains. He lay there between the soft
brushed cotton, gazing longingly at Michelle as
she reached behind her and dropped a sheer bra
forward off her arms, her round breasts
swinging free and upturned, nipples dark and
rigid.
Look felt himself getting taut, as she stepped
out of her dark silk panties and turned towards
him. The pale light from the window glanced
across her tight ass, golden smooth, then played
across the fluff between her wide-gapped legs.
She lifted the covers and eased in next to him.
“Hi,” she breathed, and he ran one hand along
her flank, feeling the sheen of musk and sweat
where the heat of their bodies joined. Wordless,
their lips met, softly, then harder, his thumbs
caressing her jujube nipples, her slender hand
encircling his bone. Look rippled his fingers
down along her thighs, probing higher, stroking
her wet.
Shelley sighed in his ear, and swung her leg
up over him, easing down on his rigid vertex.
They both moaned, unthinking, at the close fit.
Then she began moving softly up and down, in
and out, to some silent rhythm, her head
alternately tilted back, eyes tightly closed, then
looking down, auburn hair falling over eyes
wide open, lips moist, nostrils flaring.
Look held her slender waist and guided to
her rhythm, reaching up to cup her breasts,

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licking them with his tongue as she moaned and
moved faster. The room whirled, both so damn
tired, levitating off the bed, then Shelley leaned
close in and bit him on the earlobe, hard,
stemming the rising flow threatening to flood
over them. She lay down on his chest then,
softly stroking his matted hair. He felt her
gently contracting her inner muscles, smoothly
milking him, and he lifted the damp hair away
from her face with his free hand, kissing her face
again and again.
“Ummm!,” escaped him, then he kissed her
hard, feeling that hiccup, that break in the urge
that told him he could now last and last. “Shell,
I...,” but she bit his ear again, this time harder,
sharper.
“Shut up,” she glowed, and pulled him over
on top of her. They lay for a moment like that,
face to face, Look deep inside her. Then he
began to push with earnest intent, eyes wide
open, Michelle, then Look, alternately moving,
disengaging, turning a leg or a hip, sliding,
repenetrating, probing, searching any position,
lovers’ bonfire, timeless, wordless, both
thrusting together, passing in and out and in
again.
Look felt Michelle tensing, her heels pinning
his butt in. Then her wet clamped down hard,
pulsing, her breath in an “O-o-o-o !” almost
laughing, and he shot too, like an express train
whistling long in the dark of night, coming hard,
eyes rolled back, as they collapsed into
unconsciousness, still interlocked.

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The sun rolled slowly up off the river bottom.

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Five - Done Deal

The day was mostly gone, warm red-gold

flooding through the old float-glass
windowpanes, illuminating with fire the tiny
dust specks floating in the warm musky air of
their bedroom. Shelley was lying awake,
watching his face when Look revived, and he
brushed her cheek with his little finger,
caressing off the edge of her lips, kissing her
lightly. The cotton sheets were all sticky and
tangled around them.
“Man!” he laughed, and Shelley joined him,
both chuckling softly, still tingling. “I’ve
never...,” then he let the words run out, and
kissed her again.
They dozed for awhile, then she whispered in
his ear, “Let’s get up, it sounds too quiet.”
Shelley crawled out, then he followed her into
the bathroom. They drew a tub full of hot water,
Look caressing her breasts from behind, kissing
her neck and shoulders, his bone rising up
between her legs. Shelley leaned her head back
and kissed him, letting her fingernails crease his
sack. “I’m too sore, love,” then eased herself
gently into the tub, pulling him in with her. In
their soapy play, relenting, she let his bone
slide up inside her once more, feeling him
spend himself, arching her back as he came,
pulling him in deeper, moaning like the ocean
in his ear.
They dried off and dressed, then tossed the
sheets in the hall closet and remade the bed.
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Shelley was drying her hair with a towel, and
Look tried to make himself look inconspicuous
when they walked back into the cardroom. The
game was over, players gone. Jacques sat
dejected, his buddy Lee shuffling the cards over
and over, eyes staring mindlessly unfocused at
the back door.
“ H e y , w h e r e is e v e r y b o d y ? ! ” S h e l l e y a s k e d ,
and seeing Jacques’s face, added quickly, “What
happened!”
The tone in her voice said something was bad
wrong. The two men wouldn’t speak, and
Jacques waved them off.
While they were in the kitchen, wolfing down
left-over sandwiches washed down with orange
juice from the ‘fridge, Shelly explained. “Jack
runs a card room, you know, just an arcade
amusement, a piece of river bottom history.
Sure, he runs it because he loves it, the history,
but he runs it because he needs to.”
Look shook his head, “You mean he needs to
gamble, or needs the gambling man’s society, all
the wheeling and dealing?”
“No,” she laughed, “Jack?! Ha-ha-ha! No, he
n e e d s t h e money! Saltie’s is just a draw for the
locals, a way for him to raise the cash, but the
real money, hard money he can bank, is in that
card room of his.”
Then she added, “These men are all doctors
and lawyers from over at the Capitol, Senators,
sometimes. City Manager’s and Chief’s of Police
play here, Look. They’ve got big money, steady

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money, money to burn. And something else too,
protection.”
He began to understand what she was saying,
“You mean he runs this like a casino, he’s the
bank? Where’s his end? In poker the odds are
even.”
Shelley smiled and ran her fingers through his
hair, untangling the matted raven locks. “Jack
and a few of his old-time buddies learned to
play cards from the best. They lookie-lou’d like
we did, learning the tricks, how you hold two
chips in your hand to let your partner know you
have a duex, how you tap your cards three times
to let him know you have that third ace he needs
to draw to. Maybe a riffed shuffle, and then deal
that card right back off, like that.
Pushes the odds gently in your favor, gives a
psychological winner’s edge at the bluff and
call. The same reason Jack talks about the old
days. It’s all just illusion, mesmerization, lifting
a few dollars from guys who’d love to be a part
of his real life fantasy.”
Look stared at the floor, he hadn’t even
thought of that angle. Made him feel sad, feel
sad for Shelley, too, the thought that ‘making it’
was more than hard work and a good show. No,
y o u h a d t o p u s h t h e o d d s , y o u h a d t o make the
odds keep going in your favor, ringmaster and
pickpocket all rolled up in one.
“Yeah, I get it...,” and then he trailed off, as
they pushed back into the other room.
They sat on the couch, in the gathering dusk,
Jacques wordless in loss, Lee shuffling and
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flipping, shuffling and flipping the cards face
up on the table. Shelley asked again, and then
Jacques told the story, how Tony and his cousin
had hit on a streak of luck, played their cards so
well, they’d cleaned the other players out, had
even cleaned out the house.
Now Jacques was broke.
The room got quiet, except for the soft snap of
the cards. Then Lee sat up suddenly, holding
the deck fanned out at an odd angle to the light.
Jacques raised his head, energy wafting back in
the room.
“Ace!” Lee sputtered. An ace flew faceup on
the table. “Ten!” and a ten of clubs landed
astride the ace. “Queen,---five,---eight,” Lee
called out the cards as he dealt, flipping them
expertly faceup in a pile.
Shelley and Look stood up, moving closer,
and Jacques put his hands on Lee’s shoulders.
“How did you know that, Lee?” he
demanded. Lee’s big frame shook, half laughter
and half sobbing, as he called out the deck, one
card on the next, naming each before it fell, like
some clairvoyant carney act.
“How did you know that? ! ” J a c q u e s t h u n d e r e d .
Lee held a single card up. “It was Tony’s turn
to bring the cards, remember?” he started, “The
house was ahead until he got here, right?”
Jacques nodded.
“Right along the edge, see that? There, see
that little crescent?” They all crowded forward.

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Jacques took the card from Lee’s hand, holding
it to the light.
Look saw it too, pointing for Lee.
There on the uniform shiny surface of the new
playing card, just there, along one edge, just a
sliver, just a fingernail of curved light against
the flat ribbon sheen of the card’s edge. Tony’s
cards were shaved!
“He played us for marks,” Jacques shook his
head.
Lee objected, “No. Wasn’t Tony. He’s just a
ringer. It’s that cousin of his, it must have
been!” Then he spread out the cards for them,
“See, six places on the long edge, four on the
short edge.”
Shelley objected, “There are thirteen faces!?”
Lee explained, “They ignored the two, three,
four. These cards are marked for high call.”
Sure enough, there around the edge of each
card, thin slice on the long side from five
through the ten, and then across the top, jack,
queen, king and ace. Why, even across the table,
you could read every hand like a train schedule
by that faint crescent glimmer.
Look watched as Lee demonstrated for her,
his sadness at Jacques gone bust tempered with
sudden caution at those odd con’s words they’d
used. His sixth-sense told him it was time to get
out of there.

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Six - And She Was

“Come on,” Look put his arm around Shelley,

“I’ll give you a ride home, you can get some
clothes for work tonight.”
As they walked toward the door, he noticed
Jacques staring after her, and thought he saw a
wince of regret behind his, “See you later,
‘cheri. ” T h e n t h e y w e r e i n t h e s t a i r w e l l , a l o n e ,
once again their world of two more real than the
one they’d just left.
Michelle was living out in Macomb, renting
an apartment near the college with another girl
her age. Maybe a thirty-minute drive, it passed
like an hour as they talked, Michelle leaning on
his shoulder, while he told her about the little
Appalachian coal town he’d grown up in, high
school track, mechanic’s shop, Viet Nam,
parent’s car wreck, Stateside, drifting.
“So what’s about you?” he asked after a time,
“tell me about yourself.” She thought on it for
awhile, absently rubbing her hand across his flat
belly. The AM radio was turned down low,
something John Mayall drifting down from WLS
Chicago on the skip. Junebugs splattered on the
windshield.
“My parents named me Michelle Emmanuel
Carole Augier, ha-ha-ha-ha,” she laughed.
“They’re French citizens. My dad was a
petroleum chemical engineer over in Algeria,
then his company transferred him to that big oil
refinery up at Joliet.

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Anyway, he decided to bring our family here
and emigrate. Later on, he made the changeover
from petroleum to agrichem, enzyme reactions,
like that.... Helped Starley’s and A-D Interland
start up their corn byproducts plants around
Illinois. Made quite a career out of high-fructose
corn syrup!” she parodied A-D’s monotone
commercials with a giggle.
“My Dad and I never talked much, he was a
stern man,” Look countered, “I don’t really
know much about him. He worked, drank...and
yelled. Guess I should be glad he pushed me
out of the nest, or I’d still be back there
humping coal, slammin’ shooters, livin’ in a
cold water trailer.”
“But, come’on, Shelley, I told you about me,
come’on,” he protested, “I want to know about
you.”
“Look, there’s not much to tell, honey,” she
sighed. “You’re lucky you grew up back in the
hills. Everyone knows what they know and what
they don’t know. It was gruesome, the sixty’s,
here in the MidWest, like worlds colliding. My
Dad’s World-War-on-Autopilot generation, and
all their stupid middle-class kids just wanting
to make money and have some fun. Viet Nam
m e s s e d u p a l o t o f t h o s e f a m i l i e s , b u t i t really
m e s s e d u p o u r s . Y o u k n o w , ‘la guerre’ d’honor
Indochine ?”
Look nodded, understanding without
translation.
“I was the youngest,” Shelley went on, “and
my brother and sister were both in high school.
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They grew up back in Aubagne, our family lived
near Marseilles. I’m too young to remember.
Anyway, when they came over to the States,
Charles and Jeannette really tried to fit in. He
was the big letterman, with all his wrestling and
swimming medals. Jen the cute little
cheerleader, Junior Miss, the drama and arts
thing. So they were all too busy to pay attention
to me, the baby, and I got to just do my own
thing growing up. That’s about it.”
“Oh, and my Dad was the best,” she added. In
her mind’s eye she could remember taking his
place within their family, being the mediator
when he’d be off to Houston or Tobago or North
Africa. And the waiting, ummm, she could still
feel the waiting inside her, until he got back.
Then she‘d be his little Shell again, the bright
star in his universe. He’d burst in the front door,
sweeping her and her mother up in a big
bearhug, still smelling of fresh tar and the
outdoors.
She used to sit on his lap, and he’d fill her
head with stories of far-away places, tropical
climates, darker, ever more exotic cultures.
She’d always whisper in his ear, “Will you take
me with you next time, Papa?” Then came the
tickles and the laughter.
Michelle kept a 100-dinar piece she’d found
once in his pockets, stashed in a carved ebony
box he had brought back for her from Nigeria,
the last time that he’d come home. Her lucky
coin, her touchstone.

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“He was the greatest,” Shelley repeated, “I
still really miss him.” Then she snuffled into
Look’s ear and slid around in front of him with
a tongued kiss, blocking his view for so long
they were half off the pavement, beating down
the corn with his mirror.
“Whoa!” he laughed, slewing the pickup back
onto the road, “let’s find a place to pull over!”
She smiled mysteriously, fingers creeping up
on his leg, “Don’t have to pull over, push your
seat back.”
He threw a wild smile at her, “Are you sure?”
then scooted his bucket seat back as far as it
would go. She lowered her honeyed lips onto
his quivering bone.
Later they stopped at a stream crossing and
kissed awhile, necking, just holding on each
other. He wondered why he’d suddenly got
lucky, and Michelle remembered those last few
times with her father. Some days those
memories were better than others.
For the Augier’s there was no question
Charlie would be going off to Viet Nam. Still,
Michelle hated the change that came over him,
the mental shutdown. Maybe it was his pride,
maybe he clung to Jeannette because Michelle
was still a kid. Charles the varsity man
becoming Chuck the squarehead, spending a lot
of time in Jennie’s room at night, talking
together.
Out of the blue Jen brought home her
boyfriend, a hippie, and Charlie went crazy. She
couldn’t take his cruel teasing, and ran away
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from home. Then Charlie had shipped out.
Michelle still kept his picture on her dresser,
posed like rugby players with his infantry
squad in a jungle clearing north of the DMZ.
“Charlie died in Viet Nam,” Michelle exhaled
suddenly. Look could feel her pulling away
inside. “We got his medal and his papers, they
never got him out. Mom kind’a went over the
edge, Charles was her baby. Then my Dad called
from North Africa and said he’d be working
over in Iran, maybe gone a long time. I think he
felt responsible too.”
“Mom and I decided to move out to
California. Jennie was living with her boyfriend
on their farm in Guerneville then. Kind of felt
g o o d t o b e g e t t i n g a w a y . O h G o d ! T h e days o n
that damn Greyhound! When we made it to
Healdsburg, Jeannette came and got us. She’d
gotten more mature, heavier than I remembered
her, smilelines crinkling her eyes. I knew she’d
be OK about Charles and Papa and all that.”
“Anyway, that’s where I met Jack,” Shelley
ended, sitting up abruptly, “and we’ve gotta go!
He won’t be there to open tonight, and you
never want to disappoint your customers!”
“Yikes, you’re right!” Look spun around in
his seat, gunning the engine into gear, cruising
again. “Tell me about him while we drive, OK?
Bet that you two had a thing, didn’t you?”
Michelle stared out the window now as the
familiar sights of Macomb passed by, reliving in
her mind how she’d first cast eyes on Jacques
Desautel.
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First there was that boy at Jen’s hippie
commune, Daniel was his name, believed the
old nursery rhyme, that ‘life was but a dream’.
So he slept as long and as often as he could.
Boring to most, Michelle found him an
incredibly attentive lover, and once she had her
mother settled in Santa Rosa into a nice house of
her own, she moved into Daniel’s hogan, and
begun to explore her own need for pleasure.
So they became a couple, a fixture about the
commune, ‘Daniel and Michelle’. She began to
learn tantric yoga and the mysticism of the
Talmud, holistic healing and the limits of dream
therapy.
But mostly Daniel just explored lying around,
distracted. With Michelle working weekends as
a bar waitress and on weekday afternoons for a
bookkeeper just to keep them in bread, they
began to drift apart.
“It was at a Blues Festival over in Golden
Gate Park,” Michelle began again, “I was there
with my... umm, friend. We got separated, so I
was peering in the windows of an old closed-up
bar on Geary Street, when Jack tapped me on the
shoulder and asked if I was the realtor who’d be
showing him the place.”
Their truck rolled up to the curb in front of
her apartment and they went inside to get her
things. “Hey, no kidding?” Look continued,
amazed, “you just met by chance in San
Francisco?!”
“Sure! You dummy,” she smiled, popping
him on the arm, “Life is all about chance, you
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know that.” Shelley kept on talking as she
shucked off her jeans and shirt, slipping into her
bar outfit. Look brushed his eyes along her
supple legs, her nectarine breasts, revealed
enticingly by the scant lacy camisole.
“Jack was there buying old waterfront tavern
furniture. We found his oak bar there, you
know, with all the ceramic handle beer taps, big
beveled mirror, beautiful scroll work. He was
setting up Saltie’s, had already bought the land
up over the bluff, then headed down to
N’Orleans, and out to San Francisco looking for
ideas. The upstairs is N’Orleans, did you notice
that wallpaper? And downstairs is pure
Monterey.”
“He’s an amazing man, Jack. Took me out for
tajin at a little Moroccan restaurant, went for a
walk on the beach, then...,” skipping ahead, “we
became lovers.”
“Oh, jeez, look at the time!” she jumped up.
They ran back to the truck and took off running.
“No kidding?” Look quizzed, “You met by
chance and now you’re his lover? ! ” M i c h e l l e
searched his face, and then he chuckled, “Hey,
it’s cool.”
She laid her head on his shoulder again. Now
they both knew the ‘who is?’ about each other’s
past.
“When I found out that Jack sees other
women,” she finished, ”he said a relationship
boxes him in, well, now we keep it just friends.
Strictly business.”

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On the drive back Michelle napped, Look
humming to a Procul Harum tape. When they
got to Saltie’s, he reached across, gently
squeezing her thigh as they pulled into the
parking lot.
Hard as it was to say good-bye, Shelley said
she couldn’t work with him there. They kissed,
groping, laughing. “You’d better get going, I’ll
see you later,” she pushed away, turning back,
“See you.”
Look wheeled around in the parking lot and
shot out onto the road, already reaching for
second as he hit the pavement, the big V-8
winding up like the thoughts flowing in his
mind, burbling and bright.
“A-a-a, Lou! Dianne!” he shouted, bounding
up the porch and into their house, “Anybody
home?”
Only the one light in the living room was on,
and Lou’s scooter was gone from the garage.
Maybe they went to hear the Amboy Dukes over at the
Fairgrounds! H e g r a b b e d a c i d e r j u g f r o m t h e
‘fridge, and toasted the night before, and all
their nights ahead.
Then he was on out the door, off in his ‘54
Ford, looking to find that rock concert.

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Seven - Black Flies

“I’m up here!” I shouted down to Granma

from the attic window. I’d heard her calling me
in the back, up by the well. I guess she thought
I’d gone for a walk way up in the woods,
instead, I ended up sitting here in the attic,
reading this journal.
We have a little waterfall back up in there, in
the dense cover of alder and doug-fir,
interspersed with wild cherry volunteers
sprouted up from song-bird droppings. Climb
on back there, all hot and sweaty, then get over
behind the shadow of the mountain where the
air cools off even in muggy summer days.
It’s all soft green light and bird calls under
the leaf canopy, you can strip down and lay
naked in the little rock pool below the falls, just
tingling cold from the snow-melt coming down
high above.
Seems to me I used to do that a whole lot
more. Wonder where the time goes?
“Granma, be right down, I’m up in the attic!”
I shouted again, clambering down the ladder
into the living room by the wood stove, pencil
box under my arm. “I was just reading that
lookout’s journal.”
Granma came in through the back screen door,
smiling under a cloud of silver gray hair, all
tucked back, a smock-style apron around her
calico dress. “I made you a sour cherry pie,
Nick, I know that’s your favorite, now help me

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set the plates. Steamed up some new potatoes
and snap peas from the garden, and we have a
beef roast from Coulter.”
I laughed. Granma always called her livestock
by name, like Bubber, and Cookie, and Alice.
Grampa hated that, made it hard for him to kill
the two-year-old steer each fall for their meat,
that Granma would have crooned to and hand
fed the year before. But Granma was a tough old
country gal, I think she just liked to personalize
everything in her life. So we’d be eating a little
of ol’ Coulter tonight. Yumm!
While I set out the plates in the tiny kitchen
of their four-room farm house, Granma went
back out on the porch and brought cold goat
milk and butter from the swamp cooler. Grampa
tried to get her to use a ‘fridge, but she thought
the constant whir and gurgle a bother,
appreciating the freezer he’d bought and put
out in the milking shed a whole lot more.
“Granma, you know, I never really read this
journal before, it’s really an interesting story
about the guy who wrote it. Who do you think
he might have been?” I asked while we laid out
the silverware. “Let’s see, milk, butter, biscuits,
vege’s, roast, is that it?” and I smiled. “You’ve
forgotten our pie for dessert!”
Granma scolded, “I left it out on the porch to
cool for later!” Then we sat down, she said
grace, and we shared the quiet of the moment.
Way back here on the Upper Skagit the traffic
is all local, you could go hours without hearing
anything besides the soft hiss of air flowing
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down the mountain through the alder breaks,
and the gentle roar of the river itself, flowing
fast and green-gray down below.
Granma made small-talk with me while we
relished the food, asking about my job as
technical illustrator down in Kirkland, working
f o r K e s t r e l D e v e l o p m e n t o n a Tacit Trinidad
warbird program, ever since the second Star
W a r s b u i l d u p f o l l o w i n g o n Desert Storm.
A steady, creative job, long hours, but the
salary barely gets me by, at least until Kestrel
completes the TPDL development program.
Then my options would go orbital. Beyond that
though, it was ‘need to know’ stuff I couldn’t
talk with Granma about anyway.
Besides, she could relate to making scratch,
so I summed it all up, “Ahh, it doesn’t pay
enough.”
“Still haven’t found that girl?” she hinted,
and I shook my head no. Then I started to tell
her about the journal, but thought better,
v i s u a l i z i n g M i c h e l l e i n m y m i n d . Wonder if I’ll
ever find a woman like her...?
“Granma, are you OK up here?” I asked
instead, “I worry about you, maybe we should
lease this place out to someone, and you can
come and live with me in Everett. You’ve been
there, it’s clean, there’s lots of room.” But she’d
have none of it.
I’d bought the solid brick house from an old
Skagit logger, he’d built it for him and his wife
after he retired from the woods. Now she’d
passed on, and he’d taken up with another. The
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old house had neat grounds, side street, grand
trees, quiet. Sure, the 405 commute was a bitch,
but you can’t have everything!
“What about the livestock?” she’d always say,
“What about Starbuck? Who would take care of
him?”
Starbuck was her Morgan pony, all strapping
neck muscles and big heart, solid-built. Granma
just loved Starbuck. He’d pull that little tag-
along plow she used to till the pea and potato
patches, turning the cobbly alluvium in one
clean scour. With the chisel tooth harrow and
the seed drill, he’d fly around like it was a
damn buggy, shaking his mane and rearing his
head.
So I’d always start by explaining that we’d
sell the stock and see that Starbuck had a good
owner, but then she’d frown and wave her hand
at her hair, changing the subject.
That conversation died on the vine as it
always did. So I asked her about Grampa again,
what he’d said in his last days, why this journal
was so important to him, almost his last wish
that I have it.
“I don’t know, ‘son,” she shook her head.
“Mister seemed bound and determined that you
have it, and no one other. Maybe it reminded
J.D. of up here on the Skagit. He always wanted
you to know how this place came to be founded
here.”
We cleared the dishes and went out on the
front porch. The sun lay low over the garden, its
rich golden glow highlighting Starbuck’s mane
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as he flicked his ears and stomped his legs at
the summer’s black flies, gazing up at the sound
of the screen door closing.
“Well, the journal isn’t about the Skagit, least
not yet,” I countered, “it’s about the Midwest,
back after the war in Viet Nam. If you like, I’ll
read it to you?”
Granma nodded. I opened up the journal and
began to speak, first telling her what’d come to
pass before. How Look ended up down in
Illinois after Viet Nam, how he’d met Lou and
Dianne, and fallen for Michelle. How her boss
Jacques had lost everything to a man from Tulsa
in an odd, crooked card game.
As I read, we watched the sun sink until
Lookout Mountain’s shadow played across the
hay barn roof, then on across the fields, over
Starbuck, grazing head down. The dark
swallows looped in cartwheels across the
evening sky, chasing after black flies.
We’d save that cherry pie for later....

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Eight - Second Coming

The town of Little Osage is no more than a

hiccup of silos along the flat and featureless
Illinois River countryside, if it’s even still there
at all. Old-timers’ll tell you about the “great
Bill Ashley, famous trapper and fur trader, what
named this here landing ‘Osage’, on his way
West to cut off the French fur expansion.”
But what the hell do they know? It was
Algonquin Confederation back then anyways.
Did Ashley name the place after the Osage
Sioux, living in aboriginal freedom and
independence on the wide open plains, far
beyond this narrow valley? Why pick here?
Osage landing was scarcely used during the
great river forts settlement era, except as a place
to tie up and sleep. French riverboatmen
might’ve taken to calling it ‘Litiere Osage’, just an
overnight stop on the way up to Fort La Salle,
back when Chicago was little more than
s w a m p l a n d . D i d ‘ Litiere’ became ‘Little’?
Maybe it was that fellow Joe Glenden, who
laid out the road, stables and warehouse in ‘56,
just before the Civil War. Glenden was a farrier
and blacksmith, sold mules and fencing. Mules
to break the ground up, and osage tree posts to
keep the mules fenced in.
Mason County Courthouse has one record,
“Sold, to S. Davis. Twenty large fine young
jennette, twelve broke gentle likely young jakes.
J. Glenden, Seller.”

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Joe grew the trade into a thriving business as
the droves of settlers moved up into Wisconsin
Territory, over the Mississippi-Missouri Divide,
the gold-rush in the Dakotas. A mega-flux of
humanity passed by in those days, on out the
Oregon Trail. You can still find furrows of their
wagon trails along the old byways.
Things changed so fast! By cruel irony,
instead of an increasing demand, the War
marched off South and West, sparing Lincoln’s
home state, leaving Glenden with over a
hundred rick’s of unsold fenceposts, and a
stable full of unwanted old mules. Then, in the
hard-drought summer of ‘67, lightning set the
prairie grass around Little Osage ablaze, and
his life’s work went up in a conflagration seen
for thirty miles around.
Fate dealt Joe a second hand, with the
invention of hard-drawn steel wire during the
War. Working at a freight handler’s after the
loss of his own business, he was playing around
with a twisted hank of the stuff, poking sharp-
cut wire ends into things, a burlap sack, a peck
of apples, his horse..., and getting near kicked
in the head, he quickly patented his discovery
as the first “barbed wire”.
From that simple improvement, Glenden
made a second, grand fortune, as settlers took to
closing up land in plots for livestock. Then he
cashed in his chips, bought up choice acreage
over to DeKalb County and moved away, his
dream for Little Osage, why even the place
itself, erased by the shifting Illinois River.

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You can still find his tombstone, if you know
where to look. See? “Made a fortune on the
Osage wood, but was on the wire that Fortune
made good,” chiseled right there. Ol’ Joe
Glenden.
However Little Osage got her name, and then
time erased it, wasn’t a hundred years later
when Jacques Desautel thought to put up his
place there, looking out across the Chatauquah
Bend, sweetest spot you can imagine.
It wasn’t his first choice though.
When his father Jean died, leaving him with a
little cash and the deed to a N’Orleans
whorehouse down off Jane Alley, Jacques had
used his estate to buy a trim clapboard at
Golden Eagle landing, just on above Saint
Louis. He tried to make a go of it there, his first
glimmered concept for a riverboat gambling
parlor.
Jacques ended up learning his lessons
instead.
Golden Eagle was too close to nowhere, too
near to the City, organized crime and its muscle.
And in the end, too close by to the river itself.
The Mississippi took his entire tavern and
gaming house away one night in a spring flood,
and that was the end of that. Even the land
under the place just washed right away.
Jacques was flat, busted broke.
His wife Renee decided Jacques was a no-
good, and so, packing their three darling girls in
the DeSoto, she drove out of his life, just as his
own mother had done. First across to Saint
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Louis, then, with money she’d gleaned skinning
rich old men, Renee settled down in N’Orleans,
buying back the whorehouse he had sold, where
their blossoming daughters took up the red
light trade, and were soon comfortably in
demand.
Jacques moved north up to Springfield, where
the pickings were easier, slowly rebuilding his
fortune out of an old leased retail store, then
running a corner bar, selling term life insurance
and a cosmetics pyramid scheme on the side. A
prelude to the future.
He’d learned about people, running those
scams, what they expected, and what they
dreamed. The man who brought him into Kozvic
Cosmetics, at level five, showed Jacques how to
flash the rubes, burning a $100 bill to light his
cigar at the sales demonstrations, as eager
farmers had lined up like dairy cows to part
with their hard-earned seed money. A sight to
see.
Jacques found you can skin a man faster if
you give him a part in your play. Why, you can
always convince him later that if he just keeps
o n s p e n d i n g , “ same as I did,” that one day he’ll
be a rich as you’ve become. And imagine, he
might even come back some day and thank you
for it, all the while you’ve been banking a
sizeable cut off his downline!
So with great pu-pu’s and some cunning
MLM, Jacques amassed his next venture stake.
Collecting a storeroom of furniture, a pile of
jazz and blues 78’s, with a whole poke of wild

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stories gleaned from his childhood in the
Quarter, and his father’s anecdotes from the
honky-tonk’s, he built up that riverboat gambler
mystique, ‘til he even believed it himself!
Then one spring day, tired of the dreary
Illinois winter and flush for a change, Jacques
took a drive with his buddy Lee on up by
Dickson Mounds to hunt farmers’ fields for flint
spear-points and arrowheads that the Algonquin
Tribes had left by the gazillions, gleaming up
out of the rain-washed earth.
Standing there, looking down off the bluff at
the silver strand of the Illinois River, set all
about with dense stands of oak, hickory and
hackmatack dusted in spring’s greenery, Jacques
saw his dream as reality, in a vision as clear and
as bright as the spring air.
“ L e e , mon frère! ” h e s p u n a r o u n d , e y e s w i l d
with the inner seeing of it. “We’ll build a place
down there, before the river bridge, and call it
DeSautel’s Tavern. After hours we’ll run a card
room that’ll be a draw for fifty miles around...,
Macomb..., Peoria..., Springfield! What do you
say!?”
Lee thought for awhile, hunkered down,
gazing out at the fine day. Then he pushed back
up, smiling, his hand out to Jacques. They shook
on it right there, and next day deeded the land
over, sealing the deal.
Little Osage was on the map again.

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Nine - Angel of Mercy

“Things settled into a groove in the weeks after,”

Look’s journal abbreviates the time.
He didn’t see much of Lou and Dianne. Spent
his hours after closing time at Saltie’s, upstairs
with Michelle, rubbing bellies, dancing samba
to the soft roll of Lionel Hampton on the
Victrola, Freddie Hubbard, Thelonius Monk.
Jacques had the best jazz collection north of
N’Orleans and south of Chicago. Lots of first
releases on vinyl come down from his father’s
set. An entire white-painted inset bookshelf, just
brown paper-lined discs indexed by artist, all
packed tightly together.
Jacques said he was taking off to get away
from the whole scene while he ran down his
options. Would they run the bar for him? So
Saltie’s became their little lover’s nest, and they
took non-stop advantage of it.
“We had fun,” i s a l l L o o k s a y s .
Look and Shelley were able to kept the tavern
open, but burning the candle at both ends took
its toll. Some days at the machine shop, Look
ran the mill bit clear though a piece of metal in
the jig, he’d be so damn tired. His work was
really suffering, and finally he took some of his
sick leave to recover.
Then Lou suggested a trip to Allerton Park,
just for summer’s sake. The four piled into his
truck, and as they drove, passed around a bag of
magic mushrooms.

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Lou bragged he was getting another deal
going for that hardcase. The first one had gone
off without a hitch, like a trial-run, Lou
described it, a bigger deal this time, more than
ten grand! But Turner seemed to be playing for
time, like he needed a few weeks to get the
down together, or firm up unloading the score.
Look was flat punch-drunk and buzzed, not
really giving a damn, and they were all pretty
tired of Lou’s hustling. He interrupted him,
“What was his name? Turner? Turner, Turner,
bo-burner, banana, bana..., ha-ha-ha!” Even Lou
couldn’t help laughing.
Then the psylocibe really kicked in, and logic
left them. By the time they reached the park,
they were flying high, laughing hilariously.
They ran off through the formal gardens into
the trees, chasing the sunlight dappling the
sandy trails and tangled hardwoods along
Sangamon River. Then they fell, struck dumb,
by the bronze statue of a fallen centaur, resting
there in wisteria, deep in the forest.
The leaves in the pin oak trees rustled a
gentle burr to temper the soft melody of the tree
crickets. The four of them lay by the statue, lost,
silent in melancholy.
Lou found his feet, pulling them up, and they
escaped towards the meadows, turning circles
around the towering granite monolith as old Sol
shone down on the day. Collapsing in mirth and
laughter, they lazed, tripping, Lou and Dianne,
Look and Michelle, as the carousel of time went
round and round. It was a day to find your
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bearings and count your friends, to regain your
sense of place in the universe.
That night, after dinner, Lou met them at
Saltie’s.
“So what have you been up to? Mostly Shelley
I guess,” Lou grinned, reminding him, “She’s all
right. Good people, isn’t she?”
Look laughed, running his hand through his
thick hair, “Yeah, she’s sure a sweetheart.”
He motioned Lou outside. They stood there in
the twilight, under the old flashing blue “BAR”
sign, while Look described what went down,
that night week’s ago up at Jacques’s card room.
“Jeez, what’s he going to do?” Lou wondered,
“how much was it?” wanting to know all the
details.
“Shelley says she thinks close to forty, but she
didn’t say if that was the other players, just Jack
and Lee, or all on Saltie’s,” Look shrugged,
adding, “but, hey, don’t bring it up back in
there, OK?”
Lou shook his head, “Forty thousand, man.
That’s a lot of bread! Did they ever find Tony?”
Look described how he’d taken Jacques, with
Lee and two other buddies riding in back, on
out to Tony’s house in Athens that Sunday
night, Shelley closing up at Saltie’s, unknowing.
Lee quietly picked the lock, but no one was
there. They’d found some of Tony’s old clothes,
his pots and pans is all, and getting ready to
search the attic, they saw his handwritten note:

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“Jack, no hard feelings man, OK? He wasn’t my
cousin, he was my fuckin’ bookie. I owed him big,
that’s all what he wanted for his payoff, just to sit in
on your game. It was either that or my legs. Anyways,
he skipped town. ” H e ’ d a d d e d l a m e l y , “ Sometimes
the bear bites you?”
Jacques went tightlipped with rage at that last
dig, turning the note over and back. He found a
gas can in the garage, and they drove off in
silence, as exploding flames engulfed Tony’s
house that hot summer night.
I’m going to jail..., oh Lord, I’m going to jail!,
echoed in Look’s mind, but there were never
any questions, no arrests, nothing. Jacques told
the other clientele, and they’d all agreed. Tony
was a dead man.
Lou said he had to get back home, irritated,
and climbed on his Norton. She kicked into a
throbbing purr. “See you,” then he goosed it
more than usual.
Shit, spooked him with that story, sorry, Dianne….
Look stood there, facing east, until the bike’s
roar was lost in the stillness of the dark
midnight. Deneb and Altair, the navigator’s
stars, shone above the trees.
Back inside, Shelley was talking to some local
college boys from Macomb, flirting with them
f o r t i p s . T h e h o u s e b a n d w a s p l a y i n g a Lynyrd
Skynyrd tune, Sweet Home, Alabama, and everyone
was stoked, out on the floor dancing wild, arms
up, whoops and hollers. Look thought he’d
never seen any woman as fine as Michelle, even
in the bar light, she positively glowed.

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“Hey, babe,” he soothed, coming up close in
beside her, nuzzling at her ear. “Listen, I just
spooked Lou over this Chicago deal, I’m going
back to the pad, be back later.” She turned over
her shoulder and kissed him, like that first
night, the memory leaving him positively
pounding by the time he hit the door.
Back at their house, he found Lou and Dianne
in the kitchen eating dinner, but he could tell by
her red eyes that something bad had happened.
“A-a-a, what’s up? Mind if I grab a bite to
eat?”
Dianne waved him off. He’d never seen them
like this, Lou so serious all of a sudden. With a
plate in his one hand, a beer in the other, Look
straddled a chair backwards, and waited.
“Look,” Lou began, “Turner’s stalling, I don’t
think he has the bread.” Look tried to assure
him, but Lou went on, “and he wants me to
deliver up to Chicago. Says he’s too tied up as
middle-man to go down-state, but he says he’ll
introduce us to his people.”
Look ate in silence, pulling on his beer,
“Seem’s like you have a problem then, huh?”
Lou didn’t move, and the tension in the room
grew palpable. Finally he broke it down, “Look,
I’ve made the connections already, without a
cash down, there’s no delivery, without
delivery, there’s no deal! Have to go to Chicago
with this, if I back out, well....” Dianne sobbed,
holding up a hand to her nose, and ran upstairs.
Look studied the floor.

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Lou focused straight at Look now, “Hey,
sorry, this is a hell of a time for this, man. I’d
never ask you if I had another way, but I need
that down. Once my suppliers come through,
then it’s on Turner, 100%.”
Look’s mouth got dry. He put his plate down
on the table. Jeez! Here he was, an easy-going
blue-collar Viet Nam vet living with a cute local
bar girl, and everyone he could call a friend was
getting in deep kim-chee.
“What about Sammy’s old man?” he offered,
“he’s financed you before.”
“Yeah, but no down from Turner means no
deal, far as he’s concerned,” Lou countered, “the
old days of a Sicilian handshake thing are
history, you know, man?”
He thought for awhile after Lou went
u p s t a i r s , s t e r e o p l a y i n g G r a t e f u l D e a d ’ s Truckin’,
“Sometimes the light’s all shining on me, Other times
I can barely see.”
He realized that he really didn’t know anyone
in this town, not really, didn’t really know their
lives. His was so easy, a steady job, nice truck,
pretty girl. They’d all given him everything
freely when he’d first arrived, even Jacques,
twenty years older and a whole lifetime more
mature, had accepted him into his scene.
So it was done, the die was cast. Look pushed
from his chair, downed his beer, and walked
upstairs. Lou and Dianne were balling away
under the covers when he passed by their door,
but they’d grown like family, it was no big

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thing. Dianne was smiling, all dreamy, and Lou
propped up on one elbow, grinnin’.
Leaning inside the doorway, Look told them
his decision, “Got you covered, man.”
Things moved fast after that.
Lou needed the down, but he also needed
Look’s truck. There was no way to stash that
kind of load on his Norton. Even if the Zapatas
rode together, they’d be sitting ducks, down-
state bikers up in Chi-town. Look talked Lou
into going as his backup.
“Hey man, if I’m in on this, I want my cut,
not just a payback. I drive, and I’ll get my share
out of Turner myself, dig?” Besides, it was his
wheels.
Sammy would stay and handle the money.
Nobody wanted to go, but Lou told him to run
the local action, hold off his connections ‘til they
got back. Lou didn’t want him upstate, tipping
off someone’s contacts he was dealing back into
the City, starting a turf-war. Nobody wanted
Will for his enforcer, besides, Will’s size would
draw the Chicago heat like white on rice.
So that was it, that was the arrangement.
Look drew an advance, then gave his notice.
The shop guys all looked at him like he was a
fucking moron for quitting a good job just like
that, here in a podunk town, in the depths of the
post-war recession.
“He must be on drugs,” one whispered.
‘Y e a h , m u s t ’ a g o t r e a l f u c k e d u p i n N a m , ”

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another agreed. “They always get first dib’s at
good jobs anyways.”
But either this deal would go down OK, and
he’d want time to look for a little place in the
country with Shelley, up in Fulton County, say,
near the river and closer to a better job in
Peoria, or ... better to quit than have some ‘straight’
asking questions after you.
Lou and Look drove together over to the
Krager Food market that night, and filled first
one shopping cart then another with meat and
staples. Dianne pretended to ring them up as
they pushed through, the total only $12.83 for
both carts. Then they ran like hell to the truck
before the manager got wind.
“I’d sure like a discount like that one,” a
geezer behind them in line chuckled, so Dianne
had to give him a free ride too, set him all
cackling like an idiot.
Back at the house that night, while Dianne
grilled up Nebraska-fed steaks, fried onions and
jo-jo’s, Lou showed Look his custom .357 Mag
S&W pistol that he always kept hidden. Pach’d,
port’d and satin-nickle’d, he polished it
carefully, reloading the chamber with copper-
heads in place of wad-cutters.
“We’re moving a big load, you might want to
get you one of these,” Lou spoke matter-of-
factly.
But Look had seen enough fire-fights in the
War. If it went down that way, fur flying, then
even a man-killer like that .357 wouldn’t save

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them. Only quick thinking and clear-headedness
would.
When Look thought he’d caught Shelley in a
good mood, he told her about the deal. They’d
been curled up like spoons in bed, caressing
each other after a late night closing up. He’d
whispered in her ear as he slowly stroked her
thigh, “Umm, honey, going with Lou to Chicago
on Monday, on his deal with Turner.”
She took the news straight-faced, more
passive than indignant, “Look, you’re not gonna
get involved with them, are you? The Zapatas!?
Ha-ha-ha-ha.”
Then she stopped smiling and pulled her
elbows in, pushing his hand away. He pressed
his bone against her, but she kept her legs tight
together.
He tried to soothe her, “Baby, I got no choice,
I said I’d back Lou’s play, now I’ve got to cover
my end, and make sure we come out on top.”
Shelley was pissed, mimicking him, “A-a-a!
Come out on top of what?! Don’t bullshit me,
Look, you’re just goin’ through the motions!
This isn’t good-ol’-boy horse-trades, it’s d-r-u-g
d-e-a-l-i-n-g! You’re gonna be going up against
stone banger’s and Big City cops, as soon shoot
you as look at you! They’ll know your face and
then they’ll hunt you down!”
She started clouding up, but fought the tears
back, “Once you’re in, there is no ‘out’, honey.
There’s no ‘on top’! Don’t go, OK?”

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He brushed her hair, kissing her ear, her neck.
“Shell, come’on, I’m a big boy, I can handle
this.”
She wasn’t going for it.
“Look, just lend Lou the money if you have
to, but please, don’t get involved! They’re not
your kind! They’re dealers, there’s a side you
don’t know.”
“I promise I won’t take any chances, ” he tried
to calm her, “Listen, honey, it’s just this one
time, I’ll make enough on this we can get a place
of our own, you know? Besides, I’ve been in
some bad shit in Nam and came out OK. You
wanted our own place, right?”
She relented, not wanting a fight, and pushed
her ass back against him, until his bone slipped
inside her. Her breasts grew turgid, nipples
erect, fuzz standing up, her breath rough. She
started cat-clawing his legs, and he pushed into
her hard.
Then he rolled her onto her stomach, and up
on top, pulling her tight, pumping. Shelley
curled her hips in, panting, moaning, really
spin-cycle. Look came with a bang, breathlessly
grunting, “I love you, I love you.”
Afterward, she had withdrawn, letting him
know.
They started having little tiff’s downstairs,
fighting over stupid shit right in front of the bar
patrons.
“Honey-moon’s over,” one of the regulars
whispered to his mate, grinning.

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They were sleeping less, more irritable, doing
a lot more yelling, a lot less making up. No fun
at all.
Finally she just sat up in bed, crossed her
arms, and flat said it, “I’m going with you.” And
that was that. Besides, no one’d notice two
dudes cruising with a pretty girl, he figured. So
he told Lou about it.
“I don’t like it,” he protested, “if anyone
should go, Dianne should!” It was a bluff. Look
knew that Dianne would never agree to it, she
c o u l d b a r e l y h a n d l e not k n o w i n g a l l t h e d e t a i l s
as it was.
Look smiled, “Shelley will be fine.” But deep
down he wondered. She was, after all, just a
small-town bar girl, one little fling to California,
then her world gone safe within Jacques’s cozy
little tavern.
Lou saw the question in Look’s eyes, and
patted him on the back, “OK, you don’t tell
Dianne, and I’ll say yes to Shelley.”
Then to reassure him, he added, “Shelley’s a
lot tougher than you think, Look. I knew her
before her parent’s breakup. She ran in a gang of
outlaws after school, just a real hard little chic.
Joliet’s no place to grow up, believe me. She
learned a hell of a lot about street life before she
settled down. Same as you ‘n me, Shelley’s just
trying to find some solid ground, man.”
They detailed their final plan, sipping one
tallneck after another. Finally there wasn’t
anything left to say. “Hey man, if you want out
now, just say so, brother,” Lou stood up.
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Look shook his head and smiled, “No, it’s
done. Let’s do it, man....”

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Ten - Cherry Pie

Granma was napping when I paused. I folded

up the journal and just sat there in the cool
darkness, looking out over the garden, across
the pale blue moonlit tree tops, beyond to the
jagged silhouette of Snow King Mountain, it’s
glacier-crusted peak glowing like a black pearl.
Listening to the dully somnolent roar of the
river, my eyelids grew heavy.
We were a long way from those mean streets.
“N-Nick,” Granma stuttered, raising up, “are
you done reading? Would you like that dessert
now?”
I laughed, “You’re right, it’s late, Granma, too
late for reading. I’ll take a piece of that cherry
pie though!”
We both rose together and I instinctively took
her arm. She smiled, patting my hand, “Nice to
have you here,” appreciating another soul’s
presence during the long night since Grampa’s
passing.
We sat together out on the porch swing,
teasing the flakes off the pie crust, making the
delicious sweet-sour taste last. I remembered
back when I was little, when Mom and Dad were
alive, they’d brought me up for a day, while J.D.
worked up in some logging camp. Dad was
mending things around the place, and Mom and
Granma made a sour cherry pie.
I’d helped pit the cherries, all glossy and
ruby-red like lip-stick, and we’d carefully laced

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the top-crust on, then baked it in Granma’s cook
stove. It came out a work of art, sugar glazed
brown on a golden crust, candy-red sticky
cherries showing through the lattice.
Granma’d put the pie in the cooler on the
back porch, then we’d gone into the garden,
weeding pole beans, when we heard the clatter,
a n d t h a t p e c u l i a r b a b y - d o l l row-rl o f a b l a c k b e a r
sow. As fast as I could run, it wasn’t fast
enough. She’d got into the pie good, scarfed-up
a big gob of fresh butter, and spilled the goat
milk on the grass! Poor Kerry, Grampa’s hound,
chased her away. When he finally came loping
back, even he hung his head, mourning for that
cherry pie.
“Remember ol’ Kerry?,” I smiled, and
Granma’s eyes lit up recalling that special day.
We both laughed at the memory, and it made
the taste of her cherry pie all the sweeter this
time.
“Nicky,” Granma began, “I’m going in to rest
now, and you should get some sleep too, it’s
getting late.”
I kind’a frowned, guess Granma didn’t care
for me reading a journal too much, when there
was farmwork to be done next day. I stayed out
after she’d gone on inside, then lit the kerosene
lamp and brought out the journal again, idling
on the porchswing in the still dark, golden glow
on velvet black, reading on.

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Eleven - Cheyenne Autumn

“It was late Friday, ” L o o k ’ s j o u r n a l d e s c r i b e s ,

“just days before our Chicago run. Michelle had asked
before if we could drive up to Galesburg for her sister’s
wedding.”
With the cost of Sonoma County land
skyrocketing, Jennie and her old man Bo left
California far behind. Their commune decided
to sell out and made a big profit, enough for Jen
to help with down payments on her Mom’s place
in Santa Rosa, a little white clapboard New
England’y place, like you’d see up in
Mendicino. Michelle helped too, it made the two
sisters feel good, with their Mom settled in,
knowing there was a home for them, if they ever
needed one.
Then Jeannette and Bo moved back to
Illinois.
She went back to school at Knox College,
studying to be a nurse, while he worked as a
hospital orderly. They were living in a rented
farmhouse, a couple of set-aside garden acres,
orchard and corral, the rest gone over to
agribusiness. It was a real nice country place to
hang out, gray weathered outbuildings set
among century-old oak and ash trees. The kind
of place you’d maybe throw a bluegrass potluck
on weekends. So that’s exactly what they did.
“Look, you’re gonna love this, they’ve got the
nicest farm, the whole thing, wedding and
reception, potluck and hoe-down, right on their
place!” Shelley beamed, one part of her dream, a
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part she was too tough to admit in her own life,
blossoming for Jen.
“Sure, Shell, sounds like fun, maybe I can dig
up some dirt on you and your old hippie
boyfriend,” Look smiled, and they tussled on
the couch, tickling.
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll get to see some ol’
Look magic, you trying to pickup one of those
horny single girls, you know, the ones with the
push-up bras, and a g-string up their ass?!”
Michelle was laughing out loud now, and their
tickling turned to caressing, then got serious.
He picked her up, legs wrapped around him,
and carried her off to bed down the hall.
The next morning they roused way before
dawn, stretching and groaning in the dark.
Michelle whipped up a tomato salad and a
glazed lemon pound cake for Jen’s reception.
Look threw Dr. P’s and a 6-pack of Bud in their
cooler, poured in a bucket of crushed ice, and
slid the wrapped salad and cake dishes in on
top.
“Ready?” he smiled, then a couple minutes
later, “ready?” again. Shelley flew around the
place getting dressed. When she finally stood by
the door, with a ‘let’s go!’ smile, he couldn’t tear
his eyes off her.
Images of their first night flashed through his
mind. Michelle stood there rose-blushed and
dewy-creamed, sway-backed like a wild colleen,
her tawny blonde hair tousled and loosely tied-
back in a pony-tail, the red-gold tie-dyed
summer t-top accenting her firm breasts,
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revealing her narrow flat waist, with a wrap-
around East-Indian sarong silhouetting the
swelling curve of her hips, the shadowy gap
between her slender legs.
“You’d better throw on a shawl over that for
later,” Look gulped huskily, unable to move.
Then he turned back toward the kitchen, “I’ll go
call Lou and tell him we’re heading over to
Galesburg.”
As the sun topped the trees, steaming off the
heavy dew of late summer and sending the first
whisps of puffy cumulus up into the sky, Look
and Michelle purred down the Little Osage
grade in his ‘54 Ford, heading northwest. They
cruised the highway bridge over the Illinois
River, then out through the rising bottomland,
cuddling to hold onto last night’s mood.
The drive wound on back roads between
narrow fence-rows, horizons of emerald corn,
red barns and silver silos, yellow “DeKalb”
signs, old Burma-Shave plaques, their new day
rising to meadowlark songs and the smell of
new-mown hay.
When they got to Jen and Bo’s place, the wide
front yard was already full of cars, and
billowing nimbus were graying up against the
surrounding hills.
“Guess we might get a little rain this
afternoon,” Look motioned up with his hand, as
he found a place to park out behind the
abandoned machine shed.
Shelley was ebullient, “No, not on Jennie’s
wedding it won’t! Not today!”
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The house and barn were set back off of
Sandburg Road, behind a large front yard,
nestled in a hollow of rolling cropland. Low
wooded hills surrounded the back of the place
on two sides.
Remember this? L o o k t h o u g h t s u d d e n l y t o
himself, surprised at the momentary flash of
deja vue.
“Oh, Look, do you see all the people! All
those colors!?” Shelley gushed, then throwing
him a kiss over her shoulder, ran off toward the
back yard.
He could see the throng gathering around
p l a n k t a b l e s , t o p p e d , n o , heaped with brightly
laden bread baskets, salad bowls, meat platters,
fruit trays, cheese boards, pie plates and wine
b o t t l e s . Why I’ll be, L o o k m u s e d t o h i m s e l f , it’s
just an awesome fine day!
A host of humanity spread out on the big back
yard, tantalizing aromas mingling with the ripe
corn smell in the air. People in all shapes and
sizes, faces from all ages floated loosely about,
most dressed in the wild designs, textures and
colors of that post-war era. Soft drums and flute
music drifted on the ether, giving the place a
real carnival atmosphere. Again, that sixth-sense
feeling... A Gathering of the Tribes!
“Jennie!” Shelley found her sister standing in
the kitchen, and then they hugged, eyes
squeezed tight shut, blinking, bright. Look
walked up the steps, and she turned and put an
arm around his waist.
“This is my old man, Look.”
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Jen gave him a mysterious big sister smile,
and a hug, then turned to her own. “And this is
Bo, you remember him from back in
Guerneville?”
Bo stood close by Jennie, smiling like a monk,
slender hands, Lennon glasses. Shelley blushed
as they hugged, then Bo and Look shook hands.
“Let’s go outside and see who’s here,” Shelley
motioned, and they pushed their way out into
the wandering pantheon, gesturing everyone
together for their communal wedding
celebration.
“The pastor’s here,” someone Pony Express’d,
and Bo and Jen ran off to find him.
A squall came up just then, a wall of clouds
and rain over the hills, and they all ran for the
barn. Look and Michelle stood in back, mingling
with the host of inpouring people. They held
hands, laughing, until Jennie and Bo flew in,
their bedraggled preacher in tow, and the barn
door slammed closed behind them.
The three of them stood there, soaking wet,
but serious with intent, everyone in hushed
silence. The rotund red-bearded fellow, a
religious studies teacher at the college, began to
read from The Velveteen Rabbit, a b o u t h o w , Life
and time may leave you fuzzy and worn, but if your
heart is right, you’ll still have love at the end .
Something like that anyways.
Then a gust of wind burst overhead,
shuddering the barn timbers. Jennie punched
out her arm, clamping the rattling double-door
shut.
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“We wished you all here today,” Bo spoke up
then, pausing, and Jen finished, “To share our
happiness at being man and wife.” Everyone
hooted in applause.
The pastor spoke those magic words, and
with a “Whee!” Jennie let go the latch, and the
barn door flew open to blazing shafts of golden
sunlight, the dark rain clouds parting as
everyone flooded outside.
As Look and Michelle reached the door, the
sun was fully out, hot and strong. Jennie’s
girlfriends clustered around her, shedding tears
of joy, and Bo puffed his chest and shook hands
with all the men, like the sun’s return was his
design.
The serving cloths were wiped down, food
trays uncovered, and the whole crowd picnic’d
and danced under the maples to the twang of
the banjo and pluck of the flatpick guitar, all
that fine sunny day.
After they’d feasted, Look and Michelle left
to walk up on the hills and enjoy the last of
summer, just to be alone a little, you know, the
calm before the storm? They wandered up a old
dirt lane, breaking through the canopy of trees
above the farm, then sitting there, stretched out
in the sun, watched as charcoal’d gray
thunderheads moved off in the distance, a
marvelous bright rainbow glowing up off to the
east. All around them lay a meadow of purple-
blue flowers, as though the sky was reflected
indigo off the earth itself.

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Look slid an arm around her slender waist,
raising his eyebrow, “Well?” Shelley pushed
him away with a laugh, “In your dreams!” and
took off dancing across the meadow. They ran
and ran together nearly to the trees, leaping to
touch the sky, breathless in the sweet smells and
crystal air, and collapsed at last on their backs,
deep in the lavender bloom.
His sense of deja vue was overwhelming now,
past, present and future coexisting all at the
same moment, two beings of one mind, star-
c r o s s e d l o v e r s , how do they say, ‘soul-mates’?
As he leaned over for a kiss, she pushed him
back, gasping. The hot sun had lifted a flock of
those orange butterflies, you know, monarch’s?
from out of the surrounding forest, where they’d
rested through the rain squall. First one or ten,
and then more, and more, hundreds, then tens of
thousands o f t h e m f l u t t e r e d a n d d a n c e d l o w
across the field toward them.
“Look!” her hands tripped and fell in the air,
tied on puppet strings, “Look!”
They lay there spread-eagled, eyes wide
open, bubbling out screams of joy. Just above
their faces a living tapestry, thousands of bright
fluttering orange wings, weaving through
shimmering lavender petals, a clear robin-egg
blue sky rainbow’d on cotton candy clouds,
their entwined forms shining radiant under the
spun-golden first-of-autumn sun.
“Michelle, let’s get married, OK?”
She pulled him over on top of her with a shy
s m i l e , “ Bon, naturellement, ” a n d t h e n h i k i n g u p
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h e r s a r o n g , w h i s p e r e d i n h i s e a r , “ Enterrez l’os,
big man.”

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Twelve - Mean Streets

As you head up I-55 near Joliet, you see it

there, slowly rising up from the prairie, the
black obelisk of Sears Tower. “An image of
brutality and salubrity,” as LeCorbusier defines
it. AKA Dearth Verdure.
Then the forest starts to thin out, farmland
fading to smaller and smaller patches, sneaking
away on you, until the chips of greensward are
just a garnish on an old serving plate of
crumbling concrete and cracked asphalt,
jumbled up with the dark graystones, peeling
billboards, rows of factories, tangle of train
yards, all pointing toward Chicago. Once it had
roared as Hog Butcher to the World, The City of
Big Shoulders.
Look’s journal has a rap he had with his Nam
buddy, a guy who grew up in the Windy City:
“In New York City, Look, you could drop dead on
the street and lay right there until noon next day,
without anyone noticing. In Chicago, they’d ticket
your body for littering, then the cops’d beat you to
death a second time! Dude, the justice system polishes
the “t” in, “on the take,” if your old man don’t know
an alderman or a union boss he can slip payola to, you
might as well kiss a job good-bye!” Y e a h , w h i t e -
haired, heavy-jowled, lard-ass’d Chicago.
Now he was going to find out for himself,
have a little look-see. The ‘54 purred, its big-
block leaned out and advanced at the high end,
pure raw punch-power underfoot. Lou and
Shelley just stared straight ahead, the bucket
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seats, pushed forward to hide their load, left
them too cramped and numb. They’d lost the
chit-chat now that the city was closing in on
them, fading in the sunset’s long shadows. Look
rolled down his window and cool air blew into
the cab, swirling Shelley’s hair up, waking them
from their stupor.
“There it is, which way?” he asked, glancing
across at Lou, idly turning the map in his hands.
“We can take the Dan Ryan if we turn off here
on I-80 and then hook up I-57,” Lou offered,
“but it’s a nicer drive on the Stevenson, then
we’re not running up through the South Side on
a hot summer’s night.” He held up his thumb
and forefinger, popping them like a gangland
pistol just behind Shelley’s view.
“Stevenson it is, who’s got the quarters for the
toll?” he reminded, trying to lighten Lou’s
image up.
Shelley wearily held up the roll, “Got ‘em.”
You could tell she was trying, but with a real
disinterested attitude. This was so macho, it was
hard for her to find a place to fit in, just being
cool and making small talk.
At dusk, Look pulled off near Romeoville for
a pit stop. Lou hadn’t wanted to stop in Peoria,
or there in Joliet, both prison towns, he didn’t
want anyone he knew to spot him, to tag the
license plate, maybe drop the dime. So they
lounged around, a little ahead of schedule, used
the head, stretching, staring. The girl inside the
mini-mart smiled at Lou, she’d liked the
eyebrow ring, and offered to fry up a fresh batch
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of chicken gizzards if they’d wait. So Look
dropped the tailgate, and they chugged Dr.
Pepper’s and wolfed the hot gizzards down,
standing there under the cold mercury vapor
glare of the parking lot lights.
The kind of blue glare that makes people look
just like ghouls, though when you’re on the
town, relaxed or driving home from work, then
you don’t notice it, your mind does a three-card
monte. See if it don’t!
But if you’re tired, and tense, or from out of
town, then all those strange faces you spot
around you in that cold mercury glow look just
like walking dead.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, this place gives
me the creeps!” Look spoke, and they piled back
into the familiar comfort of his rig. He punched
u p s o u n d s , a h a r d - d r i v i n g Free For All f o r L o u ,
then some Van Morrison for Michelle, and they
all relaxed a little.
Their truck blasted on down the highway, the
darkness of an evening sky lost in the
interminable streetlight glare of the city, cars
speeding past them now, in heavy traffic up
near the Tri-State.
Far to the north, Turner Gribble was climbing
into his Trans-Am, his .38 Police Special clipped
in a holster under his arm, a spare .22 auto
tucked in his right sneaker. It’d be a classic
bust, two stinkweed hicks jacked up against
their bikes, Turner beating their heads down if a
passerby came in view, then riffling through

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their stash, counting out the years in prison,
guaranteed, as he read them their rights.
Then he’d turn his back at just the right
moment and let them escape, running back
home on the bus to their mommy’s, or whatever
hairy-legged hippie chic passed for a mommy.
He laughed outloud at his own cleverness. It
was a trick he’d learned as an MP in Viet Nam,
just shaking people down for their stash, then
letting them slip away. He’d refined it on
Chicago’s Finest as a beat cop, though by then
he was more prone to club his victims
unconscious before he stole their stash.
These country punks were all the same, just a
sour stink on shit, flocking to him like moths to
a flame, suckered by his first inept-looking buy
on their own turf, then lured in by the heavy
load he’d call up for.
“ C a n y o u girls h a n d l e i t ? ” W o r k e d e v e r y t i m e .
Some never made it, some never saw it
coming, and some shot it out. Either way the
result was the same. He’d have a stash to sell
through his connections, and maybe an
‘abandoned car’ to buy at auction. Or else a
good bust and clean shooting ruling on his
record. So he was moving on up in the ranks.
That is, until that savvy Pollak detective put
two-and-two together, busting him off the force
for not playing by the rules.
Not that it stopped Turner Gribble. Bad stays
bad.
Tonight he’d get to Jackson Park early, find a
spot where he wouldn’t be seen as those
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downstate punks rode by on their little putt-
putt’s, heading for the meet over at the
University of Chicago.
Hey, where else can three white guys hang out on
Chicago’s South Side without attracting attention?
Turner was off-duty as a security guard for
Basques Armored, where he worked during the
week, picking up cash bags around downtown
in an armored truck. About as far up as his bad-
cop record would let him go after that CPD
thing. Sure, he couldn’t shake his past, but right
now Turner didn’t give a fuck, he was jazzed to
score. He popped a tab of meth, and washed it
down with Blue Ribbon, then whipped his
Trans-Am into a tight U-turn, heading for the
Dan Ryan.
Twenty blocks from Turner’s tacky two-story
on Grenshaw Street, over by Pulaski and
Cermak, Eddy ‘Tuo’ Maribino slid into his black
New Yorker. His brother Jake was driving for
him tonight. They called Jake ‘Mo’ on the street,
for ‘Mostro’, his body built like a silverback
gorilla. Probably why Momma stopped having
kids. Tuo had the smarts, and Mo, well, he’d
j u s t s e t h i s l i p s t i g h t , a n d prestissimo, b u l l d o z e
right through an opponent. The local heavy’s.
It was a respectable neighborhood, and you
had to know someone, had to pay tribute to the
Debolepesco clan, show respect if you wanted
into the Inner West Side. Everything Cicero to
Jackson was Debolepesco’s, from Hawthorne
Race Track to University of Chicago.

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UofC was where Eddy and Jake were headed
tonight, to collect the day’s numbers, and the
bookie receipts, keeping an eye out for that dirt-
bag Trans-Am Jake had seen shaking down a
Chevy Super Sport last month, a coupl’a dazed
hayseeds with Indiana plates, over by Comiskey
Park. Why, that fuckin’ piece-of-shit had even
been tagged over at 31st and Cicero, dealing
drugs right down by the Track!
Hey, someone has to stop this guy , E d d y f r o w n e d ,
he’s trying to muscle in on our turf! Maybe something
that Mo could use when Mr. D calls on him to repay
that favor.
It’d be up to Eddy, as the enforcer, to put that
loser out of his misery. He figured the Trans-Am
for some Sky Pilot, and he was right. An ex-M-
P’s sort of like a fighter jock too, dropping bad
shit on people’s heads. Eddy just didn’t know
Turner was once a Chicago cop.
Look squeezed the bridge of his nose hard,
his eyes reddened ‘til they hurt to blink, hands
clammy moist. Long drives always left him
feeling like shit. His lower spine ached where
he’d been hit in a NVA fire-fight, his buddies
screaming in the night as bullets sputtered and
zinged through the bush all around him.
He’d just missed being crippled, had to crawl
back into the treeline, then elbow through the
nighttime jungle, until his buddy Jorge, the Tex-
Mex, found him next morning and dragged him
back to the landing.
Then they’d waited, Look screaming in silent
pain, waiting for the Huey, or a hail of AK-47

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bullets to find them first. He’d been lucky, that
was all, lucky to get out alive. Look glanced
across at Lou, and he grinned back. For a second
that flash of truth passed between them, like a
c o l d b l u e f l a m e . Luck of the draw.
“You missed the Dan Ryan!” Lou shouted,
then rechecked his map. “Don’t worry, turn off
up ahead, the 25th Street exit, it’ll take you to
Martin Luther King Drive, we can go south on
that to Jackson Park...about thirty blocks,” he re-
directed.
They swung onto the feeder, with a
California-stop at the red light. Their truck
almost sideswiped a big New Yorker gunning
on down MLK. Heavy metal. “Jeezus! That was
close!” Lou shouted, “Hope Turner’s still there
waiting for us.”
Turner didn’t have long to wait, but what he
saw surprised the hell out of him. Those punks
weren’t on their easy-rider’s! No! They were
cruising in a sweet shortbox, all header’d, set
up, detailed, and that fox’y pussy from the bar
was riding with them!
In an instant Turner’s plan was thrown awry,
his pencil-dick throttling his pea-brain into
s i l e n c e . Gonna get that bitch tonight, gonna make her
beg for more! H e s m i r k e d t o h i m s e l f , p e a l i n g
rubber, heads turning as he fought the fishtail
into traffic, weaving up close in behind Look’s
‘54.
“Hey, Lou,” Look nodded to the rearview,
“your little friend is riding right behind us.”

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Shelley stared straight ahead. Lou checked
the side mirror to see if any other car was riding
on behind Turner’s, laughing at Look’s sarcasm.
No one, OK. The meet’s going down.
Turner flashed his lights, and then Look
raised his hand up to the back window, flipping
him off.
“Let’s see how big a pussy that fuck really
is.”
Shelley glared at him in disbelief.
Testosterone took over, his senses were singing,
electric, acutely aware of every motion in their
sphere, the light and shadow between buildings,
the traffic weaving in and out.
Look’s gesture had the desired effect. Turner
s a w r e d . That punk’s gonna pay for this. I’m gonna
fuck his bitch right in front of him, then cap him off
for resisting! Or whatever passed for rage in that
weevil-brain.
The Trans-Am swerved across the double line,
forcing a Bel-Air into a fire hydrant, already
behind them. His window rolled down, he
signaled Look with a fisted curse to follow him,
then cut hard left across MLK, heading for
Washington Park. Disappointed, he saw Look
pull a powershift, slipping in behind him.
They prowled the brownstones around UofC,
searching for parking space, until they came up
on a tee intersection, an old cathedral, midblock
on their left, grimy convenience market across
on the corner. Two spaces in front of the church,
reserved parking.

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Turner whipped a U-turn, parking so fast it
caught Look off-guard. He rolled to a smooth
stop at the corner, and then, sensing danger,
rubbed Shelley’s shoulder lightly with his right
hand, giving Lou the crossed fingers hi-sign
behind her.
“Run in and get a couple of Dr. Pepper’s and
a pack of Marlboro’s for me, OK?”
Shelley pouted, then reading Look’s tight
face, ducked her head down and slid out as Lou
held the door open. It was time to get real.
Lou slid back in, and they pulled out onto the
main street in a wide-radius 360º, swinging in
behind the Trans-Am. There was little traffic this
time of night, late on a weekday. In the
headlight’s glare, Look saw Turner reach in his
glove compartment. His Luckie’s? Or a pistol?
Then he got out, giving the fisted Black Panther
salute, holding his elbow in front of his eyes.
Look killed the headlights, but in their fading
glow, he thought he saw the glint of steel as
Turner turned sideways in front of them. Lou
rolled down his window as Turner made the
curb and walked over to the truck, leaning in.
“Hey, you girls finally made it,” Turner
macho’d, “What’ve you got for me?”
“More like what’ve you got for me, muther-
fucker,” Lou spat back, raising the hair on
Look’s neck. “Where the fuck’s my money,
what’s this shit, ‘no down’?”
T u r n e r b a c k e d a w a y , Simmer down, let these
punks sweat…and where’d that pussy go! ? H e l e a n e d
back in, “It’s cool, it’s cool. I’ve got the bread.
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Why don’t we move over to my office and we’ll
do this deal?”
He backed away again, inviting, and raised
his arms overhead, innocently stretching. That
was all Eddy Maribino needed, passing by on
the main street just then, looking right at
Turner, then the Trans-Am, and the ‘54 from out
of town. Cha-ching, the pinball wheels did their
little jingle-jangle in his head.
“Mo!” he cursed, “Pull in by that market!”
Jake looked ahead, “Hey, Tuo, no space!”
“I don’t give a fuck, pull over! Double-park!”
The New Yorker glided to a stop behind the line
of parked cars, invisible under the streetlights’
glare.
Eddy grabbed his .45 from the tooled-leather
glove compartment and drew out a custom
semi-silencer, skillfully screwing down the
barrel, cocking the action. It wouldn’t be truly
silent, popping a distant backfire, but it threw
off people’s sense where the sound came from.
Confusion was an ally and that’s all he needed.
Eddy pulled his dark overcoat open and
reached through the slit in its side, taking up
the gun in his right hand. He left the coat
unbuttoned. It’d look like he was stopping for a
pack of smokes, his hand in his pocket. He’d
come back out, Jake would’ve backed up across
the street, directly below the mark. He’d look
both ways, confused, and nod toward Jake, then
walk across the street and put two slugs in the
head of that punk, the rest for the witnesses in
the truck. Shouldn’t take more than seven,
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maybe eight seconds before he was back in his
car, heading to Cicero.
“Mo, wait until I go into the store, then back
across the intersection, double-park where they
can see you, like you’re trying to find a parking
space, like you don’t want to block the
intersection. Got it?”
Jake nodded, he knew he had to do exactly
what he was told on a hit. Eddy got out of the
car, smoothing his overcoat on the bulge of the
.45, then nodded to Jake, and walked brusquely
across the sidewalk into the little corner store.
Inside, Shelley dawdled by the till, stalling
for time, pretending to search for money, trying
t o t h i n k o f s o m e t h i n g e l s e s h e w a n t e d . That
Turner dude gives me the creeps! she thought to
herself.
The West Indian store clerk was in no mood.
“Will that be all?” he intoned again, then
seeing the sharp suit hovering by the door, a
paying customer! h e t u r n e d , “ C a n I h e l p y o u , s i r ? ”
Eddy ignored him, ducking his face, adjusting
his coat so it’d swing smoothly open without
catching his arm as it raised up level. At the
clerk’s question to him, Shelley glanced over in
time to see the shifting coat folds reveal the
blue glint of cold steel.
God, it’s a bust! I’ve got to warn Look, it’s a setup!
She threw some bills on the counter and grabbed
up the bag of cokes and smokes, but she didn’t
count on the clerk’s psychotic sense of order.

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“Miss, don’t you want your change back?” he
stammered, surprised at her sudden change of
pace.
She glared coldly at him, screaming inside,
then back at the door. It was closing, empty.
The man with the gun was gone!
S h e l l e y b o l t e d f o r t h e d o o r , m o a n i n g “ Oh no,
oh no, oh no,” o u t l o u d . T h e c l e r k l i f t e d u p t h e
counter and followed, already caught up in her
panic.
Outside, Turner closed back in on Lou’s
window. Lou wanted to see the money, Turner
wanted to see the stash, it was a Mexican
standoff. He grabbed quick under his arm,
snapping his .38 out into Lou’s face.
“OK, ladies, this is a bust. You have the right
to remain silent, if you can’t afford....”
At that moment he caught the New Yorker
backing out of the corner of his eye. Glancing
left just enough to keep his eye on the punks, he
lowered his gun muzzle toward Lou’s belly.
They’ll keep, what’s this bullshit here?
A dark-coated business man was stepping off
the curb, raising his left hand as his driver
w a v e d b a c k . Eh, probably some professor out on the
town. Fuck ‘em!
Look felt Lou tapping his elbow, and glanced
down. The .357 was partially covered by Lou’s
leather jacket. Look slipped his hand over the
pistol grip.
Turner pushed back inside the truck window
again, shoving his .38 up against Lou’s eyebrow

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ring, hard, as he stared fiercely across into
Look’s eyes.
I’m gonna shove this up your ass, mutherfucker!
Eddy covered the distance at a trot, zigging
left toward the mark, sliding across the
p a v e m e n t l i k e a d a r k s p e c t e r . Walter Payton, he
thought, glowing at the grotesque hyperbole,
feeling the smooth ripple of his leg muscles. He
stopped on his magic spot, some forty feet from
the mark, an easy shot for him, hard for the
m a r k t o s w i n g u p t o a n d h o l d o n . Like Lou
Alcindor, h e s m i l e d , s w i n g i n g h i s b i g o v e r c o a t
open, raising the long gun barrel level with the
mark’s liver.
This time his jungle sense alerted Turner, or
maybe it was that bitch running screaming out
of the store. He flicked left again, saw out of the
corner of his eye the big .45 coming up, stranger
planted for the shot, and felt his own legs
instinctively twist, turning his body on-line.
But he’d been enjoying his little rap session
with Lou and Look too much, and had let
himself lean too far inside their truck. Turner’s
.38 caught in the window frame, and his elbow
barked on the door handle, raising him up on
his toes in pain.
Lou reached up and pushed the gun hard
forward, down, fumbling his left hand for the
.357.
Shelley streaked across the street, screaming,
“Look, it’s a bust!!” over and over.

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Turner was off balance, slipping backward,
and Eddy’s first bullet sent him flying on his
way with a muffled thump.
Then there was a sharp Pow-w!, t h e i m p a c t o f
it jerking Turner’s arm free of the truck door.
Eddy’s second shot found his chest again,
through the heart, splattering black blood on the
sidewalk behind him. Turner jerked off a futile
shot as he fell, then his head hit the sidewalk,
cracking like a bowling ball.
Lou howled, holding his groin, “My balls! My
balls!! The fucker’s shot me in the balls!”
Eddy had dropped to the ground. The mark’s
wild shot nearly clipped him, the hot whine of
the slug low over the New Yorker sending Jake
to the floor mats, then jumping up out of the
car.
“Tuo! Tuo!! Tutto destra? Andiamo! C o m e o n ,
let’s get out of here!” Jake yelled.
In the rear view mirror Look saw Eddy
getting back up, closing in now, the second man
at the corner curb coming on. It was getting
dicey. Then Shelley grabbed him by the neck,
choking him, screaming in his ear. He felt his
door unlatch, shit!, l o s i n g h i s b a l a n c e .
Look clutched the .357 as he fell to the
pavement, the opening truck door knocking
Shelley backward. He brought his right arm
around, hitting on his elbow, hard. Pain shot up
through his arm, and his fingers numbed, the
.357 wobbling in his grip.
Eddy homed in on Lou’s side of the truck.

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Pulling on his inner reserve, all his Navy
Seals training, Look took a deep-drawn breath,
then bit it off. Swinging his left hand out, he
double-fisted the gun barrel toward Eddy’s feet
under the truck.
Lou was leaning back in the cab, yelling,
blood everywhere. Eddy raised his gun, aiming
at the back of Lou’s head in the window. Jake
hovered, ready to help him out, or ready to run.
Look was in that other place now, where time
just stands still. He could feel his heartbeat
slowing, his breath gone silent. The feet under
the truck were planting for a kill shot, pianissimo.
His grip steadied, trigger squeezing. The .357
kicked back hard with a sharp bark. The
copperhead slug spun a hole right through
Eddy’s ankles, splitting the bones like cord
wood, kicking his legs hard out from under him,
as he spun face down onto the concrete.
In agony, Eddy ‘s shattered legs writhed like
an upturned beetle, as he searched for the
gunfire coming from under the truck. Again
Look bit off a breath, his hands rock-steady.
Eddy’s head tilted back, his eyes locking on
Look’s, the heavy .45 coming up level.
L o o k s q u e e z e d o f f h i s s h o t f i r s t . Ka-blaa-m!
The bullet bored whitehot in between Eddy’s
eye’s, ripping on down through his gullet,
burning on into his guts. He never felt the pain.
His forehead had exploded outward from the
concussion, a frothing mass of bloody jello. The
.45 slid from his nerveless hands and rattled
down into the gutter.
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The store clerk crouched behind the parked
cars across the way, watching it all in complete
shock.
Jake bellowed like a stuck bull as Look’s shot
b r o u g h t E d d y d o w n , “ Basta!! Avete ucciso il
m’fratello! Tuo! Tuo!!” Drawing his own .45, he
pounded up the block, swinging left between
the cars, onto the street.
Shelley was sitting back up, the wind knocked
out of her by the fall. She spotted Jake, “In front
of you, Look, in the street!!”
He arched backward, twisting, and that saved
him. Jake’s .45 slug ripped past with a hot bee
sting, neatly splitting Look’s earlobe, then
whined off the pavement between Shelley’s hip
and hand, spraying her flank with hot shrapnel.
Look’s sights centered on Jake’s chest. The .357
thundered, but the angle was already changing.
Jake dodged sideways, and the bullet caught
him through his shoulder, piercing just below
the collarbone, and slamming him back hard
onto the car hood behind.
Shelley grabbed for Look’s arm, helping him
to stand, wobbling in a daze of adrenaline. “Get
in the truck! I’ll drive!!” she pushed at him.
Lou was groaning, slumped over against the
window, his fists jammed into his bleeding
crotch.
Jake slid to the ground in disbelief, the shock
of the .357 shattering the strings to his feet. He
was hit!
Look threw the gun onto the floor and dove
in. Shelley slid in behind him.
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The store clerk uncurled and ran toward the
store, to the phone, 911.
Shelley whipped hard down on the wheel and
punched it, tearing off the left tail light of
Turner’s Trans-Am at the surging impact. She
drove straight west, flat out, until the light
changed up ahead. They idled there, Look
coming out of his haze, Lou gone unconscious
from the pain and loss of blood.
“Are you OK?” Look asked, rubbing her
thigh.
“Me? I’m fine, take care of Lou!” she tensed,
“which way should I go?” Far behind them the
flash of blue strobe lights told them CPD had
arrived on the scene.
“Turn north, right, here!” Look pointed.
Pulling his shirt off over his head, he rolled it
into a tight ball, shoving it into Lou’s crotch to
slow the flow of blood. “You remember that
hospital we saw at the 25th Street exit, what was
it? Mercy? Drive!!!”
The ‘54 thundered north, heading for
whatever salvation that Mercy Hospital might
provide.
Back at the scene, the store clerk was
pointing, waving, the center of attention, but he
was driving the cops nuts the way he composed
his observations.
“Oh, there was a young girl, and a dark man,
who came into the store. I don’t think they were
together, she grew very upset when she saw
him.”

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“Yeah, what else did you see?” the officer
growled. Across the street his partner had
kicked the .38 out of Turner’s dead hands, then
reached down for the silenced .45 near the other
stiff.
“Hey, Johnny boy, we got a hit here! The
shooter fucked up and got himself kil’t.”
“When I came out the door,” the clerk went
on, “the dark man had shot that man lying on
his back. He shot him three times I think. There
was a truck the man was leaning into, maybe he
shot them too?”
“What do you see, Ricky, talk to me!”
“Can’t figure it, John, the shooter’s caught one
right between the eyes, no exit path. His shoes
are bloody, must’a been a ricochet. He put two
.45’s into this other guy, just can’t see how they
done that to each other.”
“What about it, sir,” the first cop glared at the
clerk, “Something you wanna tell me? Do you
have a gun? Did you see anyone else? What
about the truck? Was someone in the truck?
What happened to the girl?”
“I was just going to tell you that,” the store
clerk paused, savoring the interval, the
expectant look on the cop’s face. “The girl ran
over to the truck, another man got out of the
dark car on the corner, a man fell out of the
truck and shot the dark man, then the two men
shot at each other in the street, then they got in
the truck and the girl drove off.”
“Hey, you better call in HQ quick, get the
detectives here, Johnny,” the other cop was
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shouting back, “our victim here’s carrying a
CPD shield. He’s that dumb-fuck Gribble, used
to run shake-down’s, remember?”
“Wh-h-a-a-t!!?? The officer was off-balance
now, almost grabbing the clerk by his shirt.
“Which two men, sir? Who shot who? Try to
remember! Did he identify himself as an officer?
What type of car was it!? Do you remember the
vehicle license?”
Then exasperated, he yelled to his partner,
“Get over here, this raghead ain’t making no
sense to me.”
The clerk’s face mellowed, widening a gold-
filled smile, ignoring the jab, “Oh, of course! I
went to the University! I wrote both license
numbers on a piece of paper after I called 911.
And it was the man in the truck who shot both of
the men in the car.”
“Hey, John, we got blood in the street over
here, another shooter,” Richard hollered,
pumped up.
“Tell me something I don’t know Ricky,” John
yawped back, then pointing the way to the store
clerk, “Let’s you and me talk inside, sir. I am
very i n t e r e s t e d i n w h a t y o u h a v e t o t e l l m e . ”
The West Indian almost skipped in delight.
His convenience store was going to be in all the
papers.
Jake pealed into the driveway of their Cicero
home, a big whitehouse kind of stone edifice,
trim lawns, manicured trees like pinched
poodles. Stumbling up the driveway, he
d i s a p p e a r e d i n s i d e . Whew! That was too close! The
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fucking cops were almost on me before I got out of
there. Poor Tuo really fucked up.... Gotta call Mr.
Debolepesco and let him know.
He felt a more like puking instead. The
bleeding in his shoulder had slowed, his
handkerchief, now a dark clotted red-brown. It
was a clean exit wound, and he’d managed to
stuff his sock into the bullet hole while he
drove. It just hurt like hell was all. Mr. D’d have
his doctor fix him up. He picked up the phone,
wincing as he sat on the edge of his leather
chair.
“Hey, Louey, it’s me, Mo, I need to speak
with Mr. D. No, let me talk to Mr. D! What?
About a shoot, that’s what about! Yeah! Yeah!
Tuo’s dead. Yeah, you heard me, the mark had a
fuckin’ partner, shot Tuo in the head. Yeah! I
was there, he hit me in the shoulder after I got
off a round. .... NO! No, no witnesses, the cops
can’t make me, the car was on a side street. I
beat the heat out of there. .... What? Hey, I’m hit!
Don’t hang up on me, I said I’m hit. The cops
have Tuo, it’ll be in all the fuckin’ papers! ....
That’s right! .... I’m OK, in the shoulder. Just
bring me in, I need to see your doctor. Right,
OK. Call me back, I’m at home.”
Shelley peeled into the emergency entrance at
Mercy Hospital. It was quiet out in the street, no
one going in or out. The truck engine lud-lud’d
in low idle as they hugged each other for the
first time.
“God! I was so scared when I saw that man
had a gun! I thought sure it was a bust! What

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happened!? Who shot Lou, where’s Turner??”
Shelley pleaded.
“Never mind that now, we have to get Lou
into a doctor,” Look cautioned, kissing her.
“I’ve gotta get outta here, that clerk saw my
face. Just killed a man, maybe another, I don’t
even know who they were!”
“Sorry, OK, let’s get him inside,” she hung
her head a moment, “what are we going to tell
them?”
“Just say you were riding on his motorcycle
and hit a pothole,” he thought quickly. “Say you
two hit a pothole and then crashed into a
lamppost. Lou went up over the fill cap, yeah,
and ripped his crotch out.”
“I can’t say that! They’ll never believe me!”
“Yeah they will, just act like you’ve been in a
wreck, that shouldn’t be too hard! I’ll say I
picked you up and drove you over here. Then
I’ll take off.”
“Look! Stay with me! Stay with me, please!”
“Sorry, babe, right now Lou needs help and I
need to get the hell out of town. You stay here
with Lou. I’ll call you from Saltie’s, OK?”
She searched his eyes for a brief second, then
swung into action, “OK, let’s get Lou inside.”
The admitting clerk at Mercy Hospital was
clearly surprised. Monday nights are slow
nights after the weekend, and seeing a guy blue-
white as a sheet, crotch all bloody, wasn’t on the
menu.

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“In here, bring him right in here,” she
directed, calling out to an orderly something
about a kit and ‘stat’. “Here, lay him down on
this gurney, over here.” She helped them settle
Lou on his back on the sheets.
The orderly and an attending intern ran into
the room and began to cut away at Lou’s Levi’s.
Shelley looked, and then looked away. It was a
mess.
“What happened to him!” the attending stared
first at Michelle, then at Look. “This looks like a
gunshot!”
Shelley swallowed hard, a desperate last plea
in her eyes to Look, then riveted a glare at the
intern.
“No, that’s not what happened. We were
riding his Norton and hit a pothole on the Dan
Ryan. We veered onto the median, and were
almost killed! Then we hit the divider pads, you
know, the deflectors?” she lied, “my boyfriend
slid over the handlebars, I think he caught
himself on the gas cap.”
“Are you all right, miss? And who’s he?” the
intern pointed over towards Look.
“He was driving right behind us, and was
kind enough to stop and help us up off the
pavement. He brought us here.” Then she
turned with feigned gratitude to Look, “Thank
y o u so much , sir, I don’t think we’d have made it
without you.”
“No problem,” he shrugged, but the mere
mention of survival had the medics back to the
business at hand. “I need some Ringer’s, let’s
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rig up a drip, one twenty Lido, need a type-
match, get two units of O-neg up here now,
stat!” the attending ordered, and the clerk and
orderly moved off as the floor nurse took over,
pulling the curtain around.
“Are you all right, miss?” the intern repeated,
noticing the blood oozing down Michelle’s shirt.
She steered Shelley onto another gurney,
motioning Look toward the waiting room. “You
can wait in there if you like, it appears that he’ll
be OK, he’s lost some blood.”
“Ma’am, I’d like to do a checkup on you,” the
intern requested, “and you’ll need to fill out
some paperwork for the both of you. Oh, and
sir?” she added wryly to Look with a smirk ,
“Your ear is bleeding.”
Later, outside, after the medics had picked
out the shrapnel and bandaged her side back
up, Michelle and Look nuzzled each other in the
cool night air ghosting down off the lake, and
reached inside each other’s shirts to feel the
warm caress of skin on skin.
He smoothed her cheek, wiping away a thin
silver thread of tears. “Don’t worry, everything
will be OK. Long as I get on the road. It takes
time for them to sort it all out. Maybe they’ll
think Turner shot that guy.
“Oh, Look! This is horrible,” Shelley slumped
against him. “When will I see you again!?”
“Don’t worry, babe, you just stay here and
take care of Lou,” Look soothed, “I’ll call from
Jack’s. We can work out how to get you two
back downstate.”
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Then they parted.
She walked away, gazing back. Look climbed
into his rig with a wave, gunned the engine into
a soft burble, shifting into reverse, and backed
down the driveway, out onto the street. The
echo of the truck’s engine faded off the crowded
buildings close around Mercy Hospital, as his
tail lights flickered red once, then were lost in
the distance.
M i c h e l l e w h i s p e r e d t o n o o n e a t a l l , “ Je vous
aime…, I l o v e y o u , L o o k . ” T h e n s h o v i n g h e r
hands into her pockets, she pushed back into the
warmth of Mercy.

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Thirteen - Crow’s Nest

Look made it onto the Dan Ryan, headed

south, chancing the bold move right past the
crime scene. He saw pale blue lights still
glinting at odd angles off the buildings as he
roared by in the dark. The ‘54 surged under his
touch, barrels hot, racing cam digging in, on its
mark. He leaned back, fumbling for a smoke,
then lit it with a sigh, heartbeat steadying, more
regular.
He took another long draw, and cracked a Dr.
Pepper, downing half of it in one great gulp.
That sobered him up quick. He began to plot, to
calculate. Look switched feet, and probed
around for the pistol, finding it jammed up
against the gear shift boot. Then lifting it off the
floor, he wrapped it up in his blood-soaked
denim shirt. Slowing a moment, centered in the
lanes, he tipped his seat forward and fished
around behind him for their stash bag.
The Dan Ryan was nearly empty this late at
night. He cruised high above a sea of tenements,
blue-collar workers, mostly black, mostly
ghetto. Look stuffed the shirt-wrapped pistol
into the big athletic bag, then pushed it back
down between the buckets, covering the bloody
seat with Lou’s leather jacket.
OK, so if I’m stopped, just be cool, tell them you’re
coming home from Wisconsin, late weekend in
Madison. Co-ed’s, you know. Ha-ha-ha.

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But then his racing mind chewed and raveled
at the edges of that weak alibi, and panic began
to set in. What if they’ve tagged me? That clerk!
Slowly the needle on the truck speedometer
crept upward, 70..., 80..., 90. There was no one
on the road now, and once he made the I-80
junction, he’d be out of Chicago, out of Cook
County, gone. Lost in the train of lumbering
long-haul rigs rumbling south.
Ahead the highway sign, ‘E 84 <---> W 57’.
Look slowed, swinging smoothly into the right
lane. Almost out ‘a Dodge! H e p u n c h e d d o w n o n
the gas pedal hard, carving a smooth arc onto I-
57 heading west for Joliet. The needle touched
110, the big V-8 engine far above a roar now, a
flat hard gear-on-gear grinding whine.
There was a belch, a lurch, a puff of smoke,
the oil gauge pegging the zero. The red-hot
exhaust pipe choked with blue smoke, and the
smell of hot oil filled the cab as it splattered on
the back window.
Oh, damn, hell, cock sucker, muther-fucking shit!
L o o k c u r s e d h i m s e l f , I blew a fucking engine seal!
There was nothing to do now but look for an
out. Pray for one. He got lucky. “Halsted Street -
Exit” up ahead. His truck was backfiring below
60 already, so Look shut the engine down,
rolling in neutral. It was eerie, gliding like a
magic carpet down the offramp, Aladdin in a
city of dark fears and crumbling hopes. He
made the intersection and, nobody around, blew
the red light, coasting to a stop nearly a quarter-
mile south on Halsted, almost to 100th.
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Trapped inside Chicago, deep in no-man’s
land.
Look laid his head down on the wheel, feeling
the dashboard with his hand, talking to it, like a
favorite hunting dog. “Sorry old man,”
remembering when he’d first found the truck
over in Decatur, bought it from a hog grower
out in the east-side farmland.
He’d stripped and rebuilt the ‘54, every night
in front of their house, from a tired old hayrick
into a rough-riding cherry turbo-charged beast.
A beast that always did his bidding, as it carried
him smoothly through the night, radio crooning,
a silent friend.
He took a Hopi blanket he’d stowed,
spreading it out over Lou’s seat, neatening up
the truck interior, putting things in order.
“I’ll miss you, ol’ buddy,” he spoke again,
then slinging Lou’s jacket over his shoulders,
grabbed the athletic bag and stepped out into
the muggy night.
He’d been walking about a half-hour, making
about two miles he guessed, maybe less, when
he noticed the three black guys paralleling him,
just behind his view. But as soon as he turned,
they changed their angle, checking for traffic,
skipping across the street toward him. He
t e n s e d , t h e n c h i l l e d . Whatever comes.
The first guy, the leader, was a tall dark, lean-
faced go-tee. The other two were heavies,
rounded heads, puffy wide arms, like they used
to work out and now just settled for running in
a gang.
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“Hey, man, where you goin’?” the tall one
taunted. “Yo’ ain’t from around heah. What yo’
got that bag?”
Look kept walking, his neck swelled, head
out. He could kill the guy with one swift
motion, but the other two would cut him down.
That is, unless he could get to the gun. Get them
high?
“Hey, you guys got any weed? Sure make
walking easier,” Look suggested.
The tall one brightened, “Come on, man, over
‘ere, let’s light this splif.” He producing a
double-tapered fat joint from his pocket.
Whew, I’m on first base ! L o o k t h o u g h t , now take
a defensive position. He picked the place, off the
street but not out of view, lighted, not dark.
Then wedging the stash bag firmly against a low
concrete wall, tight behind his legs, he
produced a pack of matches the store clerk had
given Shelley.
The tall black lit the splif, and sucked hard.
The whole front end of it glowed like a coal,
smell of cheap ragweed filling the air, “E’re,
man,” he choked out, handing the joint over to
Look.
Look held it, rolling it slowly in his fingers,
feeling for the rocks or hash that might kick him
in the head. Nothing. Just stinkweed, cheap
jumpin’-johnny. He drew on the joint, leaving
his mouth open, sucking the smoke back into his
nose, blowing it out without inhaling. Had to
keep a clear head.
The other two men took their turn.
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The effect wasn’t what Look had hoped for.
In Nam, the weed was just kick-ass, even the
b l a c k g u y s w o u l d g e t , w e l l , wasted’ s t h e w o r d .
Like, immobile. Only juicer’s would get real
wild, like they’d been sipping white lightning
or something, do stupid shit.
And most black guys aren’t juicer’s.
Look could see from these guys’ eyes that
they were about to do some stupid shit too, on
him. The tall dark man took another hit, rolling
the joint like a fine cigar, studying the smoke.
His eyes glazing, he smiled and handed the
joint to Look, imitating the Jamaican.
“E’er you go, mon, dis da ire, eh?”
Look reached for the joint, tensing against any
grab for his bag. Then as the splif passed hands,
just for a moment it fumbled, and fell.
Instinctively, he tried to catch it, bending low.
Just as fast, the tall black man hauled off and
sucker-punched Look in the head.
“E’er, mon,” he mocked for his two gang
buddies, “Wa’? You don’ like me smoke, mon?
You diss’in me mon?!” Then he knee’d Look on
the bridge of the nose, sitting him down hard.
The two big blacks moved in, grabbing Look’s
arms, pinning him up outstretched against the
wall. The tall leader pushed right into his face,
switchblade flicking silver-white in his fist. His
fake Jamaican was gone now, just hard South
Side.
“Should we split this mutherfucker now or
have some fun?” he joked, kneeling carefully as
he reached behind Look to grab at the bag, knife
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at the back of his knees. “Let’s cut his legs, ha-
ha-ha-ha!” he slowly slid the zipper open and
reached his hand in.
A shocked look came over his face, and he
stood up, the bloody bundle in his hand. “What
the fuck is this, mutherfucker,” he spit into
Look’s eye. With the blade point to flip the cloth
open, he exposed the .357, barrel sticking out
straight at Look’s neck.
“Oh fuck, man, he’s got a piece!” one of the
big deputies shouted, panicking, “He’s a Mafia
hitman!”
“Shut the fuck up, man!” the tall dark spit at
him. Then turning back to Look, in his face,
“Give me the fuckin’ money, man!”
Look’s vision had cleared now, he was
h o l d i n g h i m s e l f l i m p o n p u r p o s e . Just another
second .
“I said, mutherfucker, give me the fuckin’
money, or I’ll cut your dick off!”
Look whipped his head sharp forward, and at
the same time, bounced his knee up hard. White
hot light, bursting red pain. The tall black man
staggered back, blood streaming red down his
face, bent over, holding his crotch. Look fought
to get his hands free, but the ham-hands were a
lot stronger than he’d expected. Their grips
held. Look jerked and tore with his legs,
pinioned to the wall by the two thugs.
“Oh man, I’m going to fuck you up,
mutherfucker!” the tall dark began to windup,
wiping the blood from his face. “I’m gonna cut
your...”
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But he never finished the sentence. Look
kicked hard with his right boot, twisting his hip
to correct for the distance, stinging the knife out
of the black man’s hand. Rebounding off the
wall he whipped his boot heel down hard on the
foot of the thug at his right. The man groaned,
his grip easing. Look wrenched hard left, feeling
his right hand coming free, his head swinging
up under the punk on his left. Pivoting his
whole weight off his pinned left hand, he
w h i p p e d a r o u n d w i t h a h a r d r i g h t h o o k . Almost
free!
It didn’t work that way. The deputy on his left
knew some moves, just let Look’s arm fall, then
kicked his foot from under him as he twisted
out of the way. Unbalanced suddenly, Look’s
head sheared against the rough brick wall. He
flailed out with his right hand, but he was going
down.
The deputy cooly back-dropped an elbow on
his neck, sealing the deal. Look kissed concrete,
his front tooth splintering up to the back of his
throat, gagging him. They dragged him up again
by the armpits, and pummeled his solar plexus
with jackhammer fists.
The leader loomed above him, waving the
flickering knifeblade, his eyes bright red with
blood lust.
Oh, God! L o o k p r a y e d .
Down Halsted from the north, a CPD patrol
car squealed, its engine gunning, blue lights
flashing, the sirens chirping a whoop-whoop in
the night. The tall black dropped the gun into
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Look’s athletic bag, and grabbing the handles,
took off at a dead run. The two deputies
dropped Look, stomping him hard, then took off
running too, down back alleys, over fences,
gone. The gun, the stash, everything, gone.
Twelve grand. Pouf!
The officers in the car were both black,
middle-aged, lean. They approached, gingerly
observing, looking for weapons. The shotgun
lifted him to his feet, brushing dirt and sand
from the bleeding ooze of his face. “Boy?” he
began, “What yo’ doin’ out here by yo’self this
time of night? Mmmm, mmm, mmm.”
Look started to speak, wobbling to stand up.
“Don’t look at me, boy! I ax’d you a
question!” Strangely soothing. Better the harsh
bark of an ex-drill sergeant than the breath of a
b e a r . H e y , three b e a r s !
“S-sir, yes sir!” Look spoke out, standing as
straight as his broken body would let him.
“You service, boy?” the cop queried.
“Navy Seals, sir, Nam, out three years, sir.”
“Well, yo’ better get in the patrol car then,
and brush yo’self off. Got a vehicle ‘roun here,
somethin’? That yo’ truck up the road?”
As he limped to the patrol car, Look decided
to take the chance. This was far South Side, a
long ways from the trim graystones of white-
collar UofC.
“What precinct you guy’s from?” he gasped.
“Sixth District, 75th to 95th. We saw backfires
up on the freeway, figured maybe take a drive
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down this way. That pickup truck be your’s
then?”
He got in the back of the sedan, in the
warmth, his body melting into the afterglow of
that violent night. Sixth District. Maybe hadn’t
heard, hadn’t called in. “Yeah, that’s my rig,
blew an oil seal, late weekend, up in Madison
with my old lady. Heading back down to Uof I,
I’m going there on the GI Bill, you know?” Look
spun the story out, stringing them along.
The two black cops didn’t answer, and didn’t
care. They were stuck with a bleeding honkie in
the middle of the night. A honkie with no
wheels, and probably no money, judging from
the scene. If he filed charges, there’d be nothing
but paperwork to pay. Their patrol car glided to
a stop by his truck, spotlight on.
“Here, man, we’ll call in for a tow, you can
ride to the impound lot, call a cab from there,
that OK?” the cop driving offered him. The
shotgun cop eyed Look, smelling the pot smoke,
t h e b l o o d , s w e a t a n d f e a r . Stupid fuckin’ honkie!
“What’s it gonna be, boy?” he repeated.
Look stared across the street at his trusty ‘54.
Best to just lock himself inside and simply wait
for the tow. “Guess I’ll wait here until the tow
comes, thanks.”
Then he picked himself up, gingerly sliding
on out, stumbling across the street empty
handed. He fumbled for his keys, and let
himself back into the cab. It was strangely alien-
smelling inside, like when you clean fish, that
kind of coppery scent, only sweeter.
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The cops lingered awhile, talking on their
radio, laughing, until flashing lights of the tow
truck flew overhead on the freeway. It pulled
alongside his rig. Look glanced over, the cops
had gone. The driver was a bullet-headed black
man, older, gray, working man, a mechanic.
Look felt more at home. They hooked the truck
up, swung around, and headed for the impound.
“Guess you ran into some trouble, son,” the
man offered a kind word after a bit.
“You can say that!” Look joked, groaning in
pain as he tried not to laugh. Soon they were
talking cars, old trucks, flatheads and slant-
six’s, bored ten over’s and cam angles, Chevie’s
and Cleveland’s, both laughing like it was
summertime and easy livin’. The tow truck
flashed on through the night, heading for the
garage, the blown-out ‘54 tagging along behind.
Look signed his truck over, and called up a
cab. The tow truck driver hung around, offering
him a hot cup of shop grind. Look traded him a
smoke, and they sat in the silence of abandoned
cars. The cab pulled up. Look reached over and
shook the man’s hand, grateful for his kindness.
“Take it easy, man.”
The black man smiled, “You take care of
yourself, son,” opening the door out for him.
Inside the cab, Look leaned up on the seat
divider, “Mercy Hospital, and quick!” The
cabby glanced back at his bruised and bleeding
face, and they roared off.
He kept his eyes closed, feeling his nose for a
break. Had to breath through his mouth, his
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jawbone aching where he’d been
suckerpunched. Each breath sucked cool air
over his fractured front tooth, like someone
sticking a white hot needle into your nose.
Over and over again.
A Munsters line flashed in his head. “That’s
another nice mess you’ve gotten us into,
Hermann! What’re we gonna do without a car!?”
he lip-sync’d.
“Say? What’s that?” the cabby asked.
“Uh-h-h,” Look chuckled, “Nothing. Just wake
me up when we get there, OK?”
Next moment the cabby was shaking his arm,
the glare of Mercy’s emergency entrance light
bright in his face. He paid the driver and
stumbled inside. There was no one around but
the night clerk, and then she recognized him
after a second with a shocked stare.
“What happened to you!?” she shook her
finger, “D’you crash your bike too?” smiling at
their secret.
Look started to explain, but his head hurt too
much. Instead he slid down the wall and sat on
the floor.
The woman ambled around, clucking, “Get up
off the tile, you’ll get blood on it! I’ve got a
gurney for you to lie on and I’ll call the floor to
take a look, see if you need x-rays. The
attending can stitch you up.”
Look zomed in and out of clear-headedness as
they worked on his wounds. Finally the intern
laid down the last suture, “That’s about it.” The

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nurse put some bandages on his face to cover
the stitches.
“You’ll have a ragged scar on that earlobe,”
she chided him, “And your tooth is broken.”
“Is my girlfriend still here?” Look asked,
forgetting the tooth for a second, and his old
alibi.
“The couple you brought in earlier are
upstairs in recovery,” she reminded him of their
relationship.
“Can I call up there?” Look pleaded.
The nurse looked at him hard. Then her face
softened a little, as she remembered their
trauma.
“Why don’t you sleep in the waiting room, I’ll
turn down the lights. In the morning, you can
call up there, see if she wants to come down.
That young man isn’t going to be walking
anytime soon.”
Look slept the sleep of the dead, a dry
metallic taste in his mouth, his stomach empty
and aching. Like coming down on bad speed.
But he slept. God’s healing sleep.
It was like a dream within a dream, a portrait
lens of bright fog, Michelle’s lovely face
hovering there before him, her soft hands
caressing his cheeks. Words flowed sweetly
from her conch-shell pink lips, but he couldn’t
make out what she was saying. Then the fog
cleared, murmur of early morning emergency
room began filtering in, and she was staring

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down at him, alarmed, “Look, are you all
right!?”
“Oh, hi,” he curled up, then sank back
groaning, holding his sore belly and broken
ribs. His nose felt strange, as her hand found the
bandage, whiskery ripple of stitches. His face
had swelled up like he’d been spider-bit, and
his broken tooth hurt like hell. “Blew--engine,
truck, robbed--gang,” he panted out in knife-
edged pain, telegraphing, “All--gone...sorry.”
“Oh babe!” Michelle wrapped her arms
around him. They leaned together, unspeaking,
two lovers alone in the world, his head resting
on her arm as she softly stroked his hair. Not
really on this earth, soaring high up above the
clouds. They lay like that, together, as a
dawning sun rose blood red out of Lake
Michigan.
It was going to storm.

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Fourteen - Fool’s Holiday

“A-a-a,” Look started in the door, searching

for the sound of Dianne in the Springfield
house. She was in the back yard, lying on a
blanket in a ruffled bikini, under the warm
yellow of early autumn sun, reading a book. She
looked up as the screendoor opened, raised-
eyebrow smile for Lou’s expected arrival fading,
then brightening again at the sight of a friend.
“Look!” she rose up. Then glancing down at
her pale white skin, she blushed, wrapping her
arms under her breasts to hide her soft belly.
“Hi, Dianne!” he sprang down the wood
stairs, covering the ground, hugging her. After a
moment, he felt her arms sagging open, her
body grown relaxed, and she was hugging him
back hard.
“Lou called me last night, I can’t believe it,”
Dianne cried, stepping back, “I just can’t believe
it! Is he gonna be OK? And what happened to
your face!?”
“Well,” Look tried to chuckle, “you two won’t
be making it any time soon!” Then caught in the
double-entendre, he shy’d, head dropping, “I’m
sorry, I mean, he’s all right, but it’ll be awhile,
before, uh, you know, you two, I mean, he can
do the... umm....”
His fumbled effort worked. Dianne began to
laugh, and her natural cheerfulness carried them
both into a second embrace, and a kiss. “Thanks,
Look, I needed some humor right now.”

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They walked back into the house. Dianne
threw a shirt over her bikini and made some hot
tea, then sat by Look in the breakfast nook as
they talked, running her fingertips across his
bruised jawbone, the bristling stitches on his
split nose. He recalled every moment for her,
from hot gizzards to Greyhound bus ride back,
detailing the events, and embellishing them
with the perspective he’d gleaned from Shelley.
She helped him dab a little drop of clove oil
on his broken tooth, to cut the pain down.
“Thanks for taking care of Lou,” Dianne leaned
her head for a moment against his shoulder,
“I’m sorry about your truck.”
“ D i d h e t e l l y o u , u m m , a n y t h i n g a b o u t what
went down after the deal last night?”
“He said we’ve lost everything. Now we’re all
broke. What are the odds of that!?” she tried to
joke.
“Hey, maybe I can get unemployment,” he
joshed, wincing at the thought of begging his
job back from old man Hansvedder.
“I’ve still got my job at Krager, at least we’ll
have food, and rent money,” Dianne offered, but
you could see her uneasy smile. It was nearly
autumn and soon harvest would be over. Then
people burrow back into their dens, and the
layoffs start.
He took her hand, pirouetting her toward the
living room. “Let’s go outside and have some
have fun.” Then with an arm reassuringly
around her waist, Look grabbed two tall-necks
and a peyote button from the ‘fridge, and a fat
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joint from off the coffee table. They spent the
rest of the afternoon in the shade of the front
porch, hailing people that strolled by, chit-
chatting with neighbors, drinking, chewing,
smoking a slow buzz on, like cicadas schirring
in the summertime.
It was late in the day as they sat there, the two
of them, smiling dazed out at that magic-cloud
gone-neon world which only peyote can induce.
A young girl, like an elf with trails of color
refracting behind her, called up to them from
the sidewalk.
“Do you know where the yellow house is?”
the little girl shy’d, looking up through her
whispy bangs.
“Which yellow house, honey?” Dianne
smiled.
“The yellow house on the corner,” the girl
hurried on, “My mom said I could get back
home down this street if I turned at the yellow
house.”
“There’s a yellow house on the next block,
and there’s one on the block after that, too!”
Look spoke, confusing things more.
“I don’t know which one....” The little girl
was trembling, lost.
Dianne shushed Look, eyes dilated, then
smiled at the girl. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll
walk you home,” she offered, “won’t we Look.
There, is that OK?”
So the three of them walked off all together in
the warm-cinnamon afternoon, each of them lost,

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each for their own reason. Wandering down
street after street.
“There it is!” the little girl pulled on Dianne’s
arm, “There’s my house.” At last they were
standing in front of a plain-looking green-
shingled bungalow, a Nash Rambler parked in
the drive. A woman met them at the door, gray-
streaked hair, rubenesque, paisley’d.
“Mom,” the little elf enthused, “These nice
people walked me home, I was lost.” Then she
ran past her mother into the kitchen.
“Won’t you two come in?” the woman held
out her arm, “Thanks so much for helping my
d a u g h t e r ! M y n a m e i s Él i s e . ”
The living room was allspice and cardamom,
you know, the way healthfood stores smell? Old
books lined the far walls, and a reconditioned
piano-organ graced the corner. An odd stuffed
couch, throw rugs and tie-dye pillows. Oak
stairs led to the alcove loft.
J u d y C o l l i n s w a s s i n g i n g Where the Time Goes
on the recordplayer, and Look and Dianne sat
dreamily lost in their own personal worlds, now
gone submediant with strange new colors,
sounds and motion.
“Let me make you some tea, like peppermint
or chamomile?” the woman smiled, noticing the
halcyon dark glitter of their eyes.
Look and Dianne both giggled, too overcome
for choices. But something in the woman’s
manner was soothing, calm. They felt
themselves re-centering, shimmering trails of

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colors becoming a rainbow blur, the cacophony
of bright sounds more a symphony.
“This is nice,” he offered, as they sipped their
tea. Dianne agreed, “You have a nice home
here.”
“I’m a writer,” Él i s e r e v e a l e d , “ I ’ m s t u d y i n g
aroma therapy, shiatsu massage. And sometimes
I do tarot readings for people.” Then after a
moment, she smiled at Look, “Would you like
me to do your’s?”
The little elf girl was nowhere to be seen, but
he could hear her quietly giggling, somewhere
far off.
“Sure,” he replied offhand. After the last few
days, anything new offered a small reed in the
torrent.
Él i s e r o s e a n d l i t a n i n c e n s e t a p e r , c h a n g i n g
the music to Jagjit Singh on the tablas, in a
morning raga. Then taking the tarot deck from
an oaken box on the mantle, she knelt at the low
table, cutting the cards, caressing them into
Look’s hands.
“Shuffle the cards carefully. Think of
nothing,” she smiled impishly, then seriously,
the corners of her mouth rising and falling with
the tabla’s pulsing beat. The effect was eerily
hypnotic in his hallucinatory state of mind.
With a soft snap, Él i s e l a i d f i r s t o n e c a r d t h e n
another in a small cross-shape pattern before
Look, then four cards in file up the right side.
She gazed at them, puzzled, then reached out to
erase the pattern with her hand.

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Look exhaled, reading the confused
expression of her face, “What’s wrong?” he
wondered.
“N-nothing,” she countered, “Must have dealt
the cards wrong. Here, do it over.”
Look shuffled them again, this time trying to
clear his mind of all thought. Él i s e l a i d t h e c a r d s
out. They were the same! “I can’t do this,” she
stammered, “Something’s wrong.”
Look insisted, “Hey, come on, you can’t leave
me tripping on this! What is it?”
Dianne leaned close, drawn in, wide-eyed.
“ W h a t i s i t y o u s e e , Él i s e ? ”
She studied their faces, then sat back on her
heels. “The first card, here, is Now. The reason
you were brought here, the Crux of your Life.
That card’s The Fool. It means many things. Not
in the sense you might think, it’s not about
intelligence, or lack of it. More fresh,
spontaneous, open to the flow.”
“That’s Look!” Dianne enthused.
The woman went on, almost in a semi-trance.
“This second card, crossing, is The Tower. It
means great change or upheaval. That’s not
necessarily bad. It can mean growing as a Being,
or....,” she added softly, “or, it can mean a total
disruption to your life, even unwanted
freedom.”
His eyes widened. The lightning bolt striking
the tower was the Zapatas’ own tattooed
insignia!

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“I...,” he started, but his thoughts were still
too peyote-scrambled to put ideas together.
Dianne slipped her arm around him,
watching. The raga’s tempo increased, the tablas
a staccato drone.
Él i s e c o n t i n u e d , “ T h e t h i r d c a r d , h e r e , c l o s e
to you, is your Unconscious, your Root, if you
will. The Magician is positive male energy,
c r e a t i v e a w a r e n e s s . Y o u r F o r c e o f W i l l , ” Él i s e
broke her trance, glancing up to his face, a warm
mother’s smile in her eyes.
“This card, on the left, is your past, The
Lovers. The past you now have to let go of.” She
cast sad eyes toward Dianne, “Is that you two?”
Dianne smiled, an almost rueful hurt in the
corners of her eyes, her voice just a whisper,
“No...,” blushing at her innermost thoughts.
Él i s e h u r r i e d o n .
“The card above, here, is your goals, your
purpose, it’s the Two of Cups,” she glanced to
Look, chagrined, “it means a union, or a
bonding with your Lover, or...,” she paused,
“with Fate.”
Look stared at his hands, noticing the twisted
catskein of veins, the way the calluses
sandpaper’d off to pale side skin, the soft
whorls like sand dunes. His mind riveted on the
image of Michelle that first night in the little
bedroom, silhouetted in dawn’s pale light.
Aphrodite.
“The card to the right, well, that’s your
Future, Three of Swords, it ...,” Él i s e s t o p p e d .

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“It means great heartbreak.” She increased her
pace now, nervous and uncomfortable at being
their medium.
“These four cards are related elements,
they’re your Influences, if you want to think of
them that way. The one closest to you is who
you are in your inner vision, The Hanged Man.
It means...” then she smiled, finding a new
interpretation, “it means letting go, accepting,
going with the flow, with the Cosmos.
Above that is the expectations of others, it’s
The Chariot,” Él i s e ’ s v o i c e s t r e n g t h e n e d .
“Others see you as victorious, self-asserting,
powerful.”
Dianne offered innocently, “Well, he is!”
He stared at the cards, the last two glyphs
clearly speaking their imagery.
Él i s e p u t o u t h e r h a n d , r e s t i n g i t o n L o o k ’ s .
Their gaze met and held as she spoke.
“This one’s your hopes and fears, the
influences on your final outcome. The Eight of
Swords. You’ll face many tough struggles, great
difficulty, confusion, imprisonment,” she
breathed a big sigh. “The last one is your Fate.
That card is The Judgment.”
Then Dianne interrupted, “What does that
mean, Judgment? Is Look going to be tried for
something?!” glancing alarmed in his direction.
Élise shook her head, “No, not that…. It’s the
Judgment of Fate, the outcome of all Life’s
struggle. Nobody knows how it will turn out,
nobody can read the future, not even the Tarot.”

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T h e n s h e g i g g l e d au chanson.
“The Future is Creation’s blessing, inventing
Time so that everything wouldn’t happen all at
once!”
Look laughed, “That’s for sure!” smiling at
her unintended meaning, his lucky escape from
Chicago.
Dianne insisted, “No! Élise, isn’t there a way
for the cards to show what will happen?”
Él i s e ’ s e y e s g l a z e d o v e r , s t a r i n g o u t l o s t i n
thought. “Well...,” she spoke, with a
conspiratorial smile on her face, “sometimes
after a reading, I like to cheat a little and see
what the next card says. You never know!”
Underneath the table she crossed her fingers
tight, praying, The Star, The Sun, The Ace of
Pentangles!
Look reached his hand across, turning over
the next card. It lay skewed, a skeleton riding a
horse. Death.
Dianne cried most of the way back to their
house, as much from the intensity of that strange
afternoon, as the inevitable coming down from a
magical rave.
As afternoon wore on into evening, she felt
better though, and went inside to heat up some
food. Look sat outside alone. Everyone had
gone back in their own houses now, and the
sycamore trees rustled in the freshening north
wind rolling down off the plains.
It was the end of summer, and also the end of
their dream, him and Michelle, for a place in the

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country all their own. Time of year to be resting
content, harvest in, dog-tired. Instead, their
band, Lou and Dianne, Look and Michelle, they
only had each other, just the meager jobs at
Krager’s and Saltie’s to survive on.
It wasn’t gonna be easy.
“After dinner, let’s ride out to Saltie’s, OK?”
Look asked Dianne, coming in off the front
porch. He sat there at the nook table, cleaning
seeds and stems for one last joint, rolling it up
in licorice papers as a treat.
“I’ll call Nobody and tell him you’re in town,
maybe they’ll want to meet us over there,” she
smiled. Dianne walked into the hallway and
called. “He said they’d maybe be out there later.
He’s got his people in town over at his place.
Said he’d tell Sammy and Will. Anyway,
dinner’s ready.”
They sat down together. Simple fresh
succotash of corn and beans, dilled new
potatoes, a couple of big left-over chicken
d r u m s t i c k s , w a r m e d u p a n d s e r v e d a’ ratatouille.
Dianne’s home cooking was incredible, and
Look ate like a ravening animal.
They did the dishes, listening to Stevie Nicks
throb her heart out on the record player, then
curled up on the davenport together, fading
gloom of evening, floor lamp turned low,
Santana playing on the radio.
Look lit their last joint, and they passed it
back and forth between them, savoring the dark
warm ambiance of the silent old house.
“Santana’s the best, huh?” Look sighed lazily.
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“Clapton’s better,” Dianne challenged,
giggling.
“You can samba to Santana, Dianne! Clapton’s
all refrain, la-la, la-la, la. What about Jeff Beck?”
“Nobody’s better than Jimi,” Dianne
countered, laughing at Look’s mis-
characterization.
“Except Greg Allman,” he raised a hillbilly
salute, “My man!,” with a whooping laugh.
Dianne settled it, curling up a matchbook to
shotgun the last of their smoke, “Ravi Shankar is
beyond b e y o n d . . . . ”
He couldn’t argue with that, he was too tired.
“Let’s take a nap, then we’ll ride out to Saltie’s,”
he sighed, ”I’m beat, didn’t sleep much last
night.”
He’d been lucky, the impound of his truck a
cosmic break, now it was off the streets and so,
yet unfound by the searching CPD. The police
were waiting for that confirmation before going
on the air with a bulletin, not fully trusting or
understanding the store clerk. Besides, negative
PR, a bad cop, an underworld hit.
The captain ordered his detectives to talk to
no one, especially no reporters, until they had
the vehicles in impound and apprehended the
shooters. Their other lead, the New Yorker,
traced to out-of-state, some guy from Indiana.
They had a background running.
It’d take some time.
Dianne snuggled in next to Look, spooning,
an old red crocheted blanket drawn over them,

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nothing but the soft lamplight to break the
gloom, just the low murmur of the radio and the
silence. Their breathing became more regular, in
syncopation, soft body heat radiating between
them. They dozed then, sighing in and out
softly, until the bar traffic outside began to pick
up, and they woke.
Look’s found his hands had unconsciously
slid up to cover Dianne’s breasts, and she
cupped them to her, “That feels nice, Look.”
He slid back a bit, propping up on one elbow.
Not wanting to pull away, he let his hand slide
down her waist, onto the warm skin of her belly.
“Do you like me Look?” Dianne whispered.
The question caught him totally off guard.
“Umm, sure! Come on Dianne, let’s go for a
ride.” She smiled up at him then, dreamy,
stretching her arms overhead. As her hands
came down, she snagged Look’s neck, pulling
him to her.
They kissed softly, Dianne’s full lips wet and
eager. Look pulled back, “Come on, let’s go.”
Dianne laughed, “...OK.”
Lou’s Norton took a bit to figure out, shifting
and all. Dianne hugged against his back, telling
him when to shift, how to lean, and so they did
fine. Cruisin’.
The Norton was a very nice bike.
They both wore riding leathers and Levi’s,
Dianne with her hair all tied back, Look his
machinist’s hat turned backward. He liked the
horse straddle of it, wide-leg plowing through

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heavy dense air, with an attractive warm-
hearted girl hugging his waist. He threw his
weight into the turns, gripping the tank tight
with his knees, head down, opening her up.
There’s nothing like riding a wild horse.
They pulled into Saltie’s, and for a weekday
night, the crowd was pretty good, mostly locals,
a few bikers down from Peoria. Pushing open
the familiar oak door, his arm tight around
Dianne, Look breezed into the room like he
owned the place. Jacques was back to tending
the bar, and a little surprised to see Look and
Dianne together.
“A-a-a, Jack,” Look shouted, arm up. All the
heads in the place turned as they sat down at
the bar.
Jacques came around with two tall-neck’s,
kissing Dianne and bear-hugging Look. “I’m
sorry to hear about your trip up north, Michelle
called down this afternoon,” he offered,
kindness wrinkling the edge of his eyes, in
kindred spirit.
“Did she say how Lou was doing?” Dianne
asked.
“Yeah, she was laughing, it must hurt like
hell, but he’s already clowning around about
it.”
“How’s Michelle?” Look asked.
“She’s OK,” Jacques replied, “Says it’s boring,
just waiting. Said she was going over to
McCormick Place tomorrow for the tool-and-die

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convention, see if she can make a little money
on the side.”
Look’s eyebrows shot up, and he started to
rise up of the bar stool, but he caught the ruse
in Jacques’s sly smile, and popped a fist off his
shoulder.
“ Y e a h , right! ” T h e y a l l l a u g h e d , h a l f i n r e l i e f ,
half at Jacques’s joke, mostly at the feeling they
were all home together, safe.
“What happened to you!?” Jacques wondered,
“Shelley said you lost your truck.”
Look leaned in close over the noise of the
jukebox, and retold the story once again for
Jacques, filling in the details. A couple of the
regular patrons tried to listen in, then moved
away at Jacques’s scowl.
“Well, sorry, man,” he slapped him on the
arm, “and thanks, Dianne, for running the bar
last couple days. Drinks are on the house, of
course.”
Jacques walked back around behind the bar,
and served the people who’d been waiting.
Look and Dianne toasted each other, looking
around them for familiar faces, lazing. As
Jacques walked by again, he offered, “Go on
upstairs if you want later on, the ten o’clock
news might have something.”
So they had a few beers, talked with a few
people they knew, then stood outside in the
sparkling starlight and talked, sharing a smoke.
Dianne threw an arm over his shoulder,
reminding, “Look, it’s 9:45.” So they hey-ho’d

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toward Jacques, and he nodded toward the
upstairs, shaking his head OK.
“Take a few beers on up with you,”
“Thanks! Hey?” Look asked, “if Lou’s crew
shows up, tell ‘em we’ll be back down in
awhile.”
Walking up the stairwell in the semi-dark,
even with the bar noise from downstairs, Look
remembered that first time with Michelle, the
memory stirring him. He turned to look back at
Dianne, “Watch your step.”
Her face was open, upturned, smiling, their
hands loosely warm together. Look’s gaze
lingered for a moment. At the top of the stairs,
he paused to feel for the door knob, and Dianne
pressed close in against him, laughing, loose,
like a prom date.
“Hi,” she breathed. Again, the memory.
They grabbed a towel from the kitchen, and
moved back into Jacques’s smoking room,
pulling the TV-on-a-cart out from behind the
Victrola where he kept it during the week. The
Peoria news show was just starting, national,
then Chicago highlights. Mostly local stuff came
on afterward. Corn and soy prices.
Dianne leaned against his shoulder as they sat
together on the chaise, and reaching down,
pulled her embroidered purse into her lap. She
took out a vial. “Want one?” she smiled,
holding up a red “barbie”. Look’s eyes went
wide, then relaxed.
“Naw, I’m OK,” he tried, but she persisted.

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“Just one, it takes the edge off, you’ll like it.”
He had. Look had been sitting by the lodge
fire one bitter cold night up at Winter Park,
when he’d met Jeri and Julie, two sisters from
Englewood, just got back from skiing, all
glowing and giggling. Jeri was an austere, aloof
brunette, taller than her naturally raven-haired
younger sister, the fun one.
Julie and Look were slamming tequila
shooters in the bar, and the next thing he knew,
she slipped him these green gel caps, some kind
of tranquilizer. Jeri came on strong after that,
Julie following her lead. They ended up at his
A-frame, smoking Thai stick he’d bought in San
Diego from a Nam buddy.
The girls got loosey-goosey and wild, dancing
topless. Look remembered the sloppy kissing
and hot foreplay on his waterbed..., before he
passed out.
Next morning the girls were gone, and with it,
his chance to score. So he knew the draw of
downers, Lu’ud’s, angel dust, heroin. He’d seen
what it did to people, tranq’d out in Saigon,
dulling their senses, letting them do what they
had to do to get off.
All part of the Wheel of Life.
“Sure, OK,” he finally agreed. Then they sat
there, leaning on each other, blurring at the
edges, listening to the grim economic news,
sipping their beers. It was probably good Look
took that red. When the news switched to
C h i c a g o , t h e l e a d s t o r y w a s a b o u t him. Or rather,
this guy who looked an awful lot like him.
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Right there on TV, his old driver’s license
mug shot. Sure, the DOL picture was stiff and
nondescript, and anyway, he’d grown a scruffy
beard since then. Look chugged down his beer
and turned up the volume as Dianne leaned
forward to hear the report.
“The Chicago Police Department today
released this picture of their prime suspect,
Michael Lewis Sumpter, wanted in connection
with the investigation of a brutal double-murder
at the University of Chicago campus Monday
night, involving the execution-style killing of an
off-duty security guard, Turner Gribble, and
suspected underworld figure Eddy Maribino.
The suspect and an unknown female
passenger were identified by an eye-witness at
the scene.
Just this afternoon, the suspect’s abandoned
vehicle was located near downtown in a City
impound lot. The viewers are warned the
suspect is still at large, and considered armed
and extremely dangerous.
This is Len O’Connell, Chicago.”
Look and Dianne sat in stunned silence. A
moment before they‘d been playfully flirting,
and waiting for Michelle and Lou to get out of
the hospital, ready to pick up the pieces of their
lives. Now it all inverted. Razor wire fences
closing in around them, suffocating.
Dianne stared at Look, completely lost.
“What’s going to happen to Lou!?” she
hiccuped, “They’re going to find Lou, aren’t
they Look!!?”
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“Naw, don’t worry...,” he paused, in a trance,
then regaining the conversation, “Don’t worry
Dianne, I made up a story about a motorcycle
crash, and they didn’t ID Michelle. They don’t
even know about Lou. The hospital people are
cool.”
Reassured, Dianne turned toward him,
catching his face in her outstretched hands.
“You can hide out at the house, I’ll keep
working, we’ll have everything we need. Don’t
worry, I owe you one, you remember?” Her
lapis eyes were strange, first piercing like a
hawk, then unseeing, glazed over.
Doesn’t even know what she’s saying, L o o k
thought.
“No, Dianne, no, I can’t,” he breathed slowly,
his hobbled brain working out the reason. “They
have my address at the machine shop, only a
matter of time before they make the connection.
I can’t even go down to the bar right now!”
Dianne wasn’t giving up, “You wait here, I’ll
go and tell Jack. Maybe he’ll let you hide out
here.” Then she leaned over, planting a full-on
kiss, heading for the stairway.
Look snapped off the TV, sitting there alone,
lost in silence. Dead to the world. Then he stood
up and pushed the cart back behind the
Victrola. The one he and Shelley had played
every night, rubbing bellies, listening to old
jazz and blues. He cranked it again, and set the
needle to scratching, the familiar sounds
bringing those moments back like a heartbeat.

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Dianne came back upstairs, two beers in hand
and a dish of boiled peanuts from the bar. “Jack
says be sure and stay up here until closing.
He’ll talk with you in a bit, Lee’s coming over
now to tend the bar.”
So they sat there together, two plague victims
in a doctor’s waiting room, holding hands,
eating peanuts, sipping their beers and listening
to Muddy Waters play the blues.
A half-hour later, Jacques bounded up the
s t a i r s , “ Y o u ’ v e g o t s o m e t r o u b l e s , e h , mon
frère? ” J a c q u e s s m i l e d , t r y i n g t o s e e m r e l a x e d .
Look could read the tightness there though. It
was in his connection to Saltie’s, to the card
room, and to Michelle. He knew what Jacques
was gonna say next.
“Here, eat these,” Jacques held out two thick
sandwiches, cold-cuts, like in the old card room
days. “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you, you
have to get out of State. Sooner or later they’ll
get down here, someone at work, someone at the
bar, you can’t take the chance of them finding
you, taking you back up to Chicago. To prison.”
“Listen Jack, I could turn myself in, tell them
what happened,” Look pleaded weakly,
“nobody knows about the drug deal, nobody
knows about Lou. We could say we were
heading home from Wisconsin, got off on the
wrong exit, Shelley was going in the store to ask
directions, and I got caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah, right Jack?” Dianne agreed, “It was
self-defense, wouldn’t that work? They didn’t
find a gun.”
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Jacques paused and thought for a moment,
rubbing his forehead, “Maribino, Maribino,
where have I heard that name before?” Then
sitting down on the couch, shoulders slumped,
he searched Look’s eyes.
“You said you didn’t hear the first gunshot?”
Look nodded.
“ T h e n i t w a s n ’ t p o l i c e g u e s s i n g , i t was a hit!
You were just in the way as witnesses. Maribino
was investigated for off-track betting around in
Cicero, figured he was some way related with
the mob. People kept turning up dead. Word is
he’s an enforcer.”
“If I hide out, it should all blow over, right?”
Look hoped, “I can move to Macomb and get a
job over there or something.”
“Sure, you could live with Michelle and work
nights as a janitor! Use a fake ID!” Dianne
shrugged, then, “Wouldn’t the police give up
after awhile?”
J a c q u e s s h o o k h i s h e a d . Kids!
“No! The Maribino family is going to put out
a hit on you for killing Eddy. Once lab ballistics
makes Lou’s .357, and they type that bloody
hole, it’ll be a real circle-jerk. The CPD never
forgets anyone who shoots a cop, even if they
were just in the middle.”
“Come on Jack, you’re being a little
melodramatic.”
“Hey, they’ll keep on searching for you,
you’re the missing link, and the Maribino’s will
keep following their lead. Sooner or later that

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pistol’s gonna turn up, and they’ll piece the rest
of the drug deal together.”
“Well then what should I do?” Look
shrugged.
“You’ll just have to travel at night, get out of
State. Get away,” Jacques summed up again.
There wasn’t anything left to say.
Look knew Jacques had grown up on the
street in N’Orleans, and had lived a lot more of
real life than he had, just a ‘50’s Howdie Dootie
kid, dumb sum’bitch coal miner’s son. Even if
he was only protecting his bar, his card room,
his ex-girlfriend, Jacques was right, Look had to
get away.
So they sat there, planning, thinking of places
to go, or relatives, friends who’d moved away,
anything. It was way after midnight, and they’d
narrowed it down to working the waterways,
inland or marine. Migrant work, mining, nothing
offered anonymity. You could always get a
deckhand job, no questions asked, get paid
cash. Jacques suggested N’Orleans, then
rethought, “No, you have to know somebody,
that means exposure. Use an alias.”
“What about the NorthWest?” Dianne asked,
“No one I know is from there, it rains all the
time.”
“Jeez, I don’t know....,” Look shook his head.
“Look, maybe you should think about
Alaska!?” Jacques interjected, “Their fishing
makes the Gulf’s look like popcorn candy.
Listen, if you work down on the Mississippi,

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you’ll just work a wage. You work the Gulf,
you’ll just be making beer money. Up there you
could maybe get on a highliner, hit the big haul,
make it all back! Disappear up there, settle in,
then bring Michelle up when you have a place.
Start a new life.”
Then the phone rang. Jacques rose to get it.
Dianne leaned close, rubbing Look’s back,
reassuring him. Jacques waved them over,
cupping his hand over the phone. “Lou’s in jail!
Michelle’s calling from a pay phone. Here,” he
handed the phone to Look.
‘Michelle? Michelle!? Are you OK!?”
“Hi, honey, I’m fine, just tired. Are you
staying at Jack’s now?” Shelley’s voice sounded
hollow.
“Yeah, we’re OK, what happened to Lou!”
Look waved at Jacques and Dianne, indicating
that he’d try to verbalize Michelle’s
conversation.
“Oh Look, it’s terrible! I came down to the
lobby to get something to eat and went out for
some air. Then the police were outside, and had
Lou handcuffed to a wheel chair, rolling him out
the front door. It was awful, I couldn’t do a
thing....” Shelley’s voice broke.
“It’s OK, Shelley, you’re OK. The police came
for Lou, you were in the lobby when it
happened?”
“I asked the desk nurse upstairs, they seemed
real surprised I was still there. I think they
called CPD again, so I left. I’m down at the
Convention Center now,” she went on.
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“Good, so you’re at McCormick Place,OK,”
Look continued, “What happened, how did they
find out?”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry Look. Lou asked me if I
had a joint, and so I gave him one we’d brought
with us, remember?” Shelley was sniffling now,
“Told him it was for later, maybe over at the
park or something, but I guess he couldn’t
wait.”
“ L o u g o t b u s t e d f o r pot! ? ” L o o k s h o u t e d ,
looking at Dianne, shaking his head he wasn’t
sure.
“The night nurse said they smelled the
smoke, and went in the room. Lou’d rigged a
soft drink cup and a straw into a hookah pipe
and was trying to blow the smoke into a pillow
case he’d soaked with his IV!!” Shelley was
giggling, “He’s just crazy! I’m sorry.”
Look slumped, holding the phone in
disbelief, unable to repeat the story. Dianne
grabbed it from his hand and spoke to Shelley,
softly at first, then getting hysterical. This
wasn’t the first time Lou’d strayed into deep
water, now he’d be a repeat offender doing time
up in Cook County. Dianne handed the phone
back to Look, tears ruining her face. She looked
older, dazed. The downers sure didn’t help.
“Shelley, come home, we have to leave town,
they’re gonna make the connection to me.”
“I know,” she sighed, “but I’ve known Lou
since forever, I can’t just leave him. Can you
wire me bail money? I’m staying here.”

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“ W e d o n ’ t have a n y m o n e y ! W h e n w i l l I s e e
you?!”
“Don’t worry, love, I’m all yours,” Michelle
soothed, “just call me, OK? Now let me talk to
Jack.”
Look motioned with his hand, and passed
Jacques the phone. He put his arm around
Dianne, holding onto her. She was a wreck.
Jacques spoke in short bursts, like a captain,
directing. Then he hung up, went in the kitchen
and brought out three beers.
“I told Shelley to stay up there until the bail
was set and then call me. I’ll try to get Lou out
if we can. I’ve got the last few weeks take from
the bar. Don’t worry Dianne, we’ll get him out,”
he soothed.
“I’m going to take her home, Jack. Call you in
the morning. I can run the bail money up to
Michelle,” Look hoped, casting at straws.
Jacques grabbed Look by the shoulders,
shaking him hard, pushing right up into his
face. “NO!! Look, you’re a good kid, but you’re
b e i n g s t u p i d ! Y o u ’ l l d o murder, hard time! HARD
TIME! N o w I ’ m t e l l i n g y o u , y o u g e t o n t h e r o a d
tomorrow morning for Seattle, do you
understand!? DO YOU UNDERSTAND!”
Look hung his head, Jacques’s focused energy
like a shotgun blast in his face, “I understand.”
“Now take Dianne home and then pack. Pack
tonight! ” J a c q u e s f i s h e d i n h i s p o c k e t , p r e s s i n g a
wad of bills into Look’s hand. “Here, I grabbed
this from the till when I heard the news, it’s $300
bucks, that’ll get you to Seattle. You go down to
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the docks, catch a boat up to Alaska,
understand? Then you send for Michelle. Pay
me back later. Got it?”
Look shook his head faintly, “OK.”
The Norton shook and vrro-om’d into life. He
lifted Dianne on behind him, then waved curtly
to Jacques standing by the door, like he had to
his old man once long ago. Maybe the last time
that he’d ever see him, ever see this place again.
The bike spun, spitting gravel, then as they
hit the asphalt, Look laid down low over the
tank, speed shifting on up, twisting fast and
hard, as they roared off into the night. Gone.
Jacques went back inside.
A blur of milky-way washed across an ink-
black sky, Orion shining down high above. The
Hunter.
The house was still warm, lit with a honey-
glow from the floor-lamp, the mingled smells of
dinner still tingeing the still air.
Home, L o o k t h o u g h t , and now it isn’t mine
anymore. M a y b e h e d i d n ’ t n e e d t o g o , m a y b e
he’d hide out here.
“Look, don’t leave,” Dianne put her arm
around him, anxiously reading his face, “I hate
being alone.”
“I don’t want to,” he smiled, soothing, trying
to elevate her spirits. “Hey, let’s go to bed, we
can talk about it in the morning. Maybe I can
wait until Lou and Michelle get back.”
Dianne smiled, relaxing, and slipped her arm
through his. He helped her climb up the stairs,

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first checking to make sure their party mess was
cleaned up, the lights were off, doors locked.
Suddenly he wanted things to be neat and tidy.
They both leaned together into Lou’s room,
lurched, steadying, then Look helped her jacket
off. Laughing, he pushed her on the bed and
unsnapped her 501’s, peeling her out of her
jeans.
“There,” he smiled, wrapping her up in the
quilt, her body unresisting, “Can you get some
sleep? You’ll feel better in the morning.”
She reached up.
“Don’t go, Look, sleep with me,” Dianne
pleaded, stroking the hair at his temples,
crooning, “Just sleep next to me, that’s all,
OK?”
Look sat on the edge of the bed, deciding.
Then he shucked his leathers, and slid into bed
beside her. Dianne rolled on her side, cupping
his hands to her breasts, the same way they’d
been napping before. Good, nice. He could feel
she was still awake, waiting.
Then she took his hand and moved it down
her flank, pulling it over her hip. He left it
there, passive. Time passed, the heat of their
bodies building between them. With a heavy
sigh, Dianne rolled towards him, her legs
parting, his hand falling down between,
covering her damp panties.
She kissed him, mouth open, tongue probing,
sloppy. Look kissed her back gently, trying just
to disengage, but her hand was down fumbling

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at his bone, her kisses grown more passionate,
breathy.
“Don’t you want me, Look?” she whispered.
“Dianne, I,,,, Dianne,” he stammered. Then
fatigue, all the beers and the downer took over.
His bone fully erect, he tore her panties off.
Dianne moaned in his ear, her legs scissoring
wide open. He felt for her wet, pressing apart
the soft petals with his thumb as she pulled him
on top of her. The sensation was strange, her
skin different to him, her smell.
She was shorter than Shelley and moved
different, more direct, already pushing,
writhing, desperate to get off. Then his bone
slipped in, and they fell into a fast bronco-
busting ride, her knees high up, holding him
tight inside, rubbing hard. After a minute, he
felt her give a little shudder, losing their rhythm
with a gasped, “Oh!” Then he popped too,
churning deep.
Short and sweet.
Dianne crooned up at him with big dewy
eyes, smiling a dreamy smile, then her eyes
glued shut as she rolled back into their spoon
position. Look curled in behind her, the
exhaustion of the last few nights like a lead suit,
his arms and legs paralyzed with lethargy, head
spinning. Dianne was sighing softly already,
and a moment later, he was too.
He woke to the sound of early morning traffic.
Dianne still slept soundly. His face blushed,
realizing he was in Lou’s bed, holding Lou’s
girl. He gingerly levered over her, skipping out
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of bed, into the shower. A glass of orange juice
and some toast unblurred his eyes, his headache
disappearing with the hot coffee.
Back upstairs, he shook Dianne gently with a
s h e e p i s h s m i l e o n h i s f a c e , Maybe she won’t
remember, jeez, I hope not! H e l e a n e d c l o s e r ,
shaking her again.
“Dianne? Hey, wake up, I’ve got to be
going.” His words trailed off as something
plastic crunched underfoot. It was the vial she
carried in her purse.
Empty.
“Dianne!” He shook her harder now. Her face
was ashen, the lines emphasized on her sallow
skin. Look leaned down and put his ear to her
lips, but felt only uncertain warmth. He pushed
Dianne onto her back, and pressed his ear
against her sternum. Her breasts were cool and
flaccid to his cheek, no whisper of breath, and
only a pitter-patt of a heart beat, like scattered
rain drops tailing off a summer shower.
“Dianne!” He shook her shoulders hard, and
then cupped her jaw up, puffing a breath of air
into her lungs. They resisted. She was still alive!
He slung her up off the bed, holding her limp
body up with his arms, kicking her feet out in
front of her.
“Come’on, walk Dianne!, walk!” She crumpled
into a ball on the floor.
Look ran for the phone, but as he punched in
911, he remembered his own vulnerability. The
operator came on, “911, state the nature of your
emergency.”
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“Operator, my, umm, girlfriend is
unconscious, she’s barely breathing, I don’t get
a pulse!”
He left out that one important detail. No
sense bringing out the narc’s. The operator was
smoothly efficient, and he had to lie again to get
away. “Someone’s at the door, I have to go.”
He hung up. It would only be a few minutes
before police and ambulance converged on the
house.
Look ran to his room, stuffing winter clothes
into his duffel, then he threw his old military
jacket on, slid into his RedWing’s, looking
around. He ran back into Lou’s room, and
checked Dianne’s pulse.
She was still alive.... He puffed another breath
for her, massaging her shoulders, then ran
downstairs with a trash bag to throw the
ashtrays into it, rolling papers, the roachclips,
everything.
Back up the stairs, breathless, he checked her
pulse again, she was still hanging on. No time
to lose! He dumped their stash into the trash
bag along with Lou’s works, then lifting her
hips, slid a pillow under her, turning her head,
in case she vomited.
God, Hurry!
He made the front steps, carrying his duffel,
and walked briskly off down the street, looking
back only once, unconsciously, back at the only
home he’d ever known since he left his parent’s.
In the distance, the warble of ambulance sirens.
Look chic-caned down a sidestreet, picking his
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route, stopping at a gas station at the cross-
street to use the payphone. As he fished for a
quarter, he tossed the trash bag into a dumpster.
“Nobody?! Hey, this is Look! Yeah, hey, I
need you to get over to Lou’s,” he pleaded,
“Dianne’s taken an overdose, the ambulance is
there, I’ve gotta get out of town. Can you go
over?” There was a long silence.
“Is Dianne alive?”
“ Y e a h , s h e ’ s alive! Y o u n e e d t o h e l p h e r o u t ,
be there, you know. Lou’s in jail,” Look spoke
nervously.
“I umm, I, ahh, have people over, maybe, uhh,
get Will to go take a ride over there,” the voice
trailed off.
“It’s Dianne, man! Lou!! You know I can’t go
back there!” Look begged, but the line was
dead.
Like rats deserting a sinking ship, all of them,
even Look. Nothing cuts to your heart deeper
than leaving someone behind, or being left
behind. The price that you pay when you cross
the line, whether you meant to cross it or not.
Look slung his duffel up, walking away down
the main highway west out of town, his thumb
s t u c k o u t , h u m m i n g a n e l e c t r i f i e d Midnight
Rider, J i m i o n l e a d .
No one driving by even noticed him. Just
another Hump-Day, gotta get to work.

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Fifteen - Pandora’s Box

I wanted to keep reading the journal, but I

couldn’t. It was way late, and the kerosene lamp
had burned down so low I could barely find the
screen door in the dark. Out there, the fields,
the woods, the mountains blended together in
one dense blackness. The moon had set, stars so
close overhead you could drive the Milky Way
like a ribboned highway.
I found the chaise Granma kept in the living
room, like a couch with only one arm, or a pallet
with a big rolled edge, just big enough that I
dropped straight off to sleep, clutching onto an
old afghan for warmth, the wood stove pinging
as it cooled.
No sense stoking it, it’d be another warm day.
I dreamt I had hitched across the Rockies, but
then somehow Look and I had gotten twisted all
together, and I was him, working my way north
up the Sierras, heading on toward Seattle, but
soaring here over the homestead too. When I
stared out across the valley in my dream, far
away I could see myself approaching!
Then Granma was shaking me, scolding,
“Nick! It’s near sunup and time to rise, get up!”
She can be an ornery old gal. Guess the elders
don’t sleep too well.
When I got back down the mountainside, after
a cobweb-clearing sunrise dip in our little
waterfall pool just for end-of-summer
childhood-recall’d, Granma was already

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working in the kitchen, softly humming to
herself, the wire carrier on the counter filled
with fresh barred-rock chicken eggs, and a wide-
mouth gallon jar filled near to the brim with
fresh, foaming goat milk. Yumm!
If you’ve never tasted fresh farm eggs, or
more especially, had a glass of fresh goat milk
chilled in the creek, you haven’t lived.
The brown-glazed sourdough crock-pot sat in
the sink with a wet washcloth stretched over it,
and in a large ceramic bowl, Granma was mixing
starter, flour, eggs and milk with one of her big
alder mixing spoons J.D. had carved for her.
The kitchen walls were full of ‘em, folk art,
the alder branches all twisted up and wire-
curled out in the woods, banzai-fashion, then
J.D. would harvest them a year later, strip the
bark, and carve elaborate utensils with wildly
curving handles.
It was an Agfa moment. The pale morning
light filtering through the single window’s
curtain haloed her upper body as she stood at
the farm-style sink, the old cast-iron water
pump jutting out of the countertop like a
trusted sentry, a steaming teapot clouding the
air above their classic Monarch wood cook
stove.
“Nick,” she spoke, “I’m making waffles, your
favorite, get a jar of apples from the pantry,
OK?”
I reveled in the brimming shelves that I’d
stolen from as a kid. Preserves of every kind,
each in season, cherry, plum, salmonberry,
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huckleberry, blackberry, apple, pear, blueberry,
cranberry, crow. Pickle crocks stuffed with
crunchy dills, sweet watermelon pickles,
delicious minty kelps. Tall Mason jars packed
with corn, peas, pole beans, tomatoes, baby
carrots, and Granma’s blue-ribbon succotash,
multi-colored with red peppers and flavored
with cardamom.
On the back wall were racks of dusty bottles.
Dark velvety-tasting wild-berry wine. Over
there, Grampa’s ‘brandy’ he’d mix from heavy-
syrup plum wine with TarHeel white-lightning,
and in a crate, our pale-straw dandelion wine,
with it’s uncanny hypnotic effect, reminiscent of
a way-of-life far more subtly complex than the
monotonous grind-for-the-buck today.
I’d helped Granma one spring day year’s ago,
we found a field so yellow with dandelions you
couldn’t see the grass, the livestock not yet let
loosed onto it. So we’d let ourselves through the
wire, then picked and picked and picked a peck
full. After, I plucked until my fingers were
golden, dropping the dandelion petals into the
crock of well water and white sugar.
Granma smeared a piece of toast with the
yeast, and covered the crock with a sheet, board
and a brick to ferment. We boiled up a bunch of
bottles, then filled them up, capped with
balloons, and later on corked the flasks as the
must cleared, adding a raisin for fizz.
That dandelion wine was a kick in the pants!
Man! Cool and sweet, like moon gold. I still
look for that field when I come upvalley, but

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they must have plowed the dandelions under, I
guess.
Never seen it bloom again, not since J.D. died.

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Sixteen - Touch Down

The world outside the airplane window was

streaked with low scudding clouds and
shimmering steel gray waves of rain, broken
only by the cold glint of winter sunlight on the
wind swept ocean below, and the dark huddled
masses of the outer islands. The plane was
bucking like a Navajo pony. As the "fasten
seatbelts" sign lit, Look pulled his seat upright,
and watched the mountains of the main island
loom out of the mist. A lovely dark-haired
stewardess wobbled by, holding onto the
overhead bins, not smiling. The plane bucked
and lurched in the downdrafts, flaps extended.
Look could make out individual combers on
the sea far below. Then shredded cloud layers
obscured his window. The cabin went dark, and
the plane’s engines grew strangely silent as the
captain throttled back for the approach glide,
coming in steep and fast. The hapless
passengers all stared blindly forward, feeling
their way down through the buffeting storm
outside.
The plane sank lower, its wings flapping like
some wounded goose, the endless seconds
passing in near silence. Then the engines
whined up in smooth roaring thrust. A glimpse
of white-capped waves, jagged rocks close-up,
blurred runway lights, stunted tree-shapes in
the mist, the engines screaming now like
banshees.

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A sudden wind gust lifted the wing, and the
plane rolled and yawed. One wheel tangled
with the ground, and they were thrown back and
forth as the plane wavered from side to side.
Just ahead of him a woman stood up abruptly,
screaming high, like a rabbit in a snare. The
pilot fought for control, hitting reverse-thrust
just as the other wheel clawed down.
"Shad’up, lady," a stocky burly-beard in red
plaid bawled, pulling her back down into her
seat, "For Rurik, that was a great landing!"
Everyone laughed nervously, and the cabin
lights came on, chiming. Look surveyed his new
home as the plane rolled slowly to the gate. It
was just September, and already it was snowing.
Rurik Island was first sighted by Demetri
Djanko, Albanian navigator to Russian sea
explorer Captain Baranov, while passing to
leeward of the place. He describes in his
journal, “a faire mountaigne paeninsula largus
( l a r g e ) of esmeralde grene, much cloude covered and
leaping about with sea lyfe, (it) juts into the sea
ongeanes (against) the swopen ( s w e e p o f ) Aleutian
(archipelago), and by cold, fevered waters ist
suronder ( s u r r o u n d e d ).”
No one knows the origin of the name itself.
Sure, Captain Kotzebue had referred to it in his
South Seas journals, but who was Rurik? Djanko
detailed the expanse of the new land, naming all
Rurik’s rugged mountain scapes, as Baranov
explored her narrow fjords during the long
midnite-sun summer months.

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But they failed to reach beyond the southerly
shore. “As our vessel made no headsweg ongeanes
(headway against) the fiers nort wyndes, and so
passe desguiser ( p a s s a g e r e m a i n s h i d d e n ? ) , ( w e )
continue to Katchemak and Nilsheguk, where our
Kaptain hopes to reprovision.”
Baronov never returned, except as he passed
far out to sea. So the place stayed a mystery,
populated only by burly Aleut’s, living in half-
buried bara-bara along the beach, dressed in
their puffin-feather shirts, plying the dark
waters in seal hide kayaks, as they bartered sea
otter furs with seasonal Russian trading vessels.
For which they received only iron bar, beads,
bright red cloth, disease, and the Orthodox
religion of the mad monks who remained
ashore.
Only later American whalers, studying the
old Russian logs, rediscovered their reference to
the place, and located a northern anchorage at
Kamishak. They found not only the feverish
waters and fierce north winds, but also the
hidden truth. Djanko’s peninsula was, in fact, an
island, a large one at that, separated from the
Aleutian Range by a narrow strait, where passed
by in summer uncountable hundreds of great
whales on their annual migration to the Bering
Sea.
Hence the earnest slaughter began, and a
great industry was born. Rurik became the pre-
eminent whaling station of the frozen North
Pacific, where a mariner might rely on ice-free

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harbor, strong drink, and the hot blood of the
local island women.
So it remains to this very day.
The Rurik Island air terminal was smaller
than a Greyhound bus station, the rush of
escaping travelers overwhelming the tiny space,
p a c k e d w i t h w e l c o m e r ’ s , w e l l -wishers and
w e l l -drinkers fro m t h e u p s t a i r s b a r . L o o k s t o o d
in the calm behind a pillar, waiting for his
duffel on the slide, then picked up a cab driver
and got a ride to town.
T h e S e a -Straits crane, standing stark, alone,
was the first sign of civilization in the dark
wilderness of mountains and ocean, then a sea
of boat masts, ablaze with sun-bright halogen
lights.
As they rounded Paroque Mountain, the tiny
village of Rurik came into view, sitting there on
a knoll behind the harbor, gray-white in snow
like a herring gull, its pale lights winking off a
looming ice-cloud overhead. The irregular
winter horizon, featureless dull gray, served to
isolate the spare fishing town in both space and
time.
"What's your name?" the cabby offered.
"Look, I..., Lewis," he started off on his alias.
"Where you workin' Lew?"
"At the Star...the Star of Rurik," Look replied,
"s‘what they told me in Seattle, anyway."
The cabby smiled, "The Star’s right
downtown," he nodded, "‘fact, it is downtown!"

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They talked a bit in the last stretch of road,
cabby filling Look in on the town, ships, the
fishing seasons. “Lew, city council rules
everything here, it’s all a pay-off. Philipino’s
rule cannery workers, and prostitution if you’re
into that. The Japanese-owned canneries rule the
waterfront, and the Seattle skippers rule the
boats. The locals mostly scratch around.”
“What about the cops?” Look needed to say.
“Ahh, don’t worry about those cowboys,
Lew,” the cabby laughed, “after the Sheriff quit,
they hired a bunch of Barney Fife’s to pick up
the drunks and break up fights, that’s about all.
But,” he paused, turning, “be careful who your
friends are, man. This town has no mercy and a
very long memory, OK?”
The first street brought them past the harbor
and it’s bars, and swung them around in front of
a huge beached ship, eerily lit and permanently
part of the shoreline. "Welcome to Rurik, Lew,"
the cabby laughed, "that's fifteen-fifty.”
He got his duffel and paid the guy an extra
five for the briefing, then splashed across the
street to the Cantina Tavern, and a chance to
relax before reporting in. The Cantina was all
warm paneling and curious faces, sounds of a
bowling alley leading off the back.
"I’ll take a six- p a c k o f B l u e , " h e a s k e d , " a n d a
Coors draft," putting his duffel on the floor.
The girl working at the bar eyed him warmly.
Pony-tail, nice round tits, tight-ass leather skirt, good
looking even with the hard lines on her face. She set a

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glass of beer in front of him. “We got Bud and
Mickey’s on tap. You want Mickey’s?”
“Sure, I’m easy.”
He joked with a deckhand he met, like most
people in Rurik, up from Seattle. The guy was
just waiting for crab season. They talked about
the fishing for awhile, then as he was about to
leave, the bar phone rang. The girl spoke,
smiling, and looked around, then she rang a
ship’s bell hanging over the bar. A second later,
Look was staring at another beer lined up next
to his.
"What's goin’ on?" he asked.
"Harald Haugesund just called from Ballard,"
she threw back over her shoulder. "He bought a
round for the house.” She gazed directly at him,
smiling, "Welcome to Rurik...."
Look’s new bar-mate elbowed him, winking,
said her name was Karen, her old man gone out
to Dutch Harbor crabbing. "I think she likes
you," he chuckled, then he turned back to watch
the bowling.
Look tried to think of an opener, but the Star's
crew blew in the room on break and Karen got
busy.
Driving cold sleet slammed into his face as he
left the Cantina. The Star sat huge and looming
over him, its great gray flanks dimpled and
pitted with age, animated by the groans and
thuds of heavy equipment within. A small door
cut in her side at the waterline, and a tiny bulb
illuminated the dark pathway between
black-webbed crab pots. He yanked the door
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open and plunged into the warmth and light
inside.
The lobby was empty except for a native
Aleut on the payphone. Reading Look’s face, he
pointed off to the right. Look found himself in a
cafeteria, really just picnic tables shoved against
an old cargo door, strewn with styrofoam coffee
cups and a ravaged pack of Lorna Doone's. No
one else was around. The office was a mere
hole in the wall, with a filing cabinet, a
p u n c h -clock, a listing swivel-chair and a pen-
scarred school desk cozied up to a worn-out
blotter pad.
Look set his duffel down, and thought about
his last few days since Seattle. He’d have to add
this to his new journal. Thank God I met that
skipper in Ballard, the Anita B! The one who’d
taken the time to feed him a bite to eat, to
explain how it worked. Seattle fishing families,
friend’s of friends, well, Look could wander
Seattle’s docks forever, but he’d never find a
crew job, and the boats can’t take hitchhikers.
No insurance.
“Get over to the cannery office,” the skipper
had told him, “right on the downtown Seattle
waterfront. They’ll fly you on up for six months,
then take your chances for a deckhand job while
you’re working.”
Suddenly from the gangway, a burly
b a l d -headed Pavorotti burst in, glancing at
Look’s gear with all the amusement of a savvy
bank guard spotting the long trenchcoat in July.

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"I'm the new engineer up from Seattle," Look
blurted out, but the man ignored him.
He swung into his captain's chair and stubbed
out a cigarette, then launched into a shouting
match with two of the crew who’d followed him
in, a guy and a young girl. Look eyed the girl,
she eyed him.
The big man listened to the crewman as he
yelled, then cut him off, “I don’t care what you
do on your time off, or who you do it to, but
balling her up there in the chain locker on-shift
isn’t my idea of work. You’re both fired.” Then
he thrust himself up, towering, and the two
shrank back, turning, gone.
"I'm Joe, the night boss," the man growled,
holding out a gnarled ham for a hand. "What's
your name?"
"L-Lew," he sputtered, "Lewis Michael. Just
got in."
"Well, Lew, welcome to Rurik. We don't have
anything for you right now. With the bad
weather, plane seats out are booked through
next week, and we got the former plant engineer
to keep busy until then.”
Look just stared blankly, not wanting to make
the wrong move. Joe lit another smoke. Look
guessed he was likely used to waiting for that
dawning light of comprehension. "Well, uhh,
what should I do?"
Joe smiled a cunning smile, the ropes of blue
smoke clinging to his hand like seaweed.
"C'mon, Lew, leave your stuff here," he said,

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"and follow me. I think I know just the job for
you."
Their path wound down long metal corridors
and up metal rung steps, the handrails shiny
with age, working always towards the bow of
the Star. At last they found themselves between
two huge converted cargo bays, with great
stacks of fish tubs framed against the bulkheads,
and a giant sliding door open to the driving
snow.
"Lew," Joe yelled over the din, "we'll use you
on shrimp-pick line until the other engineer
ships out. You’re going to have to learn how to
maintain these units. Just find a place and jump
in...and here's some rubber gloves, you might
want to use them." Then he turned and stomped
off without a second glance.
It was incredibly exhausting work, under the
old flickering florescent lights, with the door
blowing icy cold on his legs, the blur of tiny
pink-and-gray sea creatures bringing tears to his
eyes, and radio stations shouting in the recesses
of his mind.
“Anyone tells you they’ve worked shrimp line, well,
you’re talking to one tough dude!” h i s j o u r n a l s a y s .
After midnight, they all broke for lunch. His
head whirled as he yanked off both the gloves
and stared at his bleeding fish spine-speared
purple-red thumbs. A quick cup of stale coffee
and handful of Lorna Doones, a smoke and dry
gloves, then they walked back and hit it again.
"How long is the shift?" Look asked, picking
with the one hand he could still feel.
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"‘Til they run out," his mate deadpanned,
"another eight hours or so."
Outside, snow turned to freezing rain beating
the empty docks, ice’y willawa winds whipping
hard off the surrounding snow- c a p p e d
mountains, clanging the stays of boats' rigging
in a mournful solo. On the horizon, a pale glint
o f y e l l o w - g r a y s i g n a l e d f a r -off crab boats, st i l l
cruising the banks for one last haul.
Gonna be a long night....
It was just after dawn next day when the
shrimp finally ran out. Look made his way up
the main street towards the Star Motel, stopping
under overhangs to avoid sudden downpours as
a new storm lashed the town. The motel clerk
gave him the key, then went back to her TV,
crocheted couch and meal on a tray.
He cracked a beer and lay down on the floor,
his brain roaring with fatigue, then he tried
calling Saltie’s on the phone. It’d be late
afternoon, maybe she’d be setting up about now.
It just rang and rang.
Over the storm outside and snow on the TV,
L o o k c o u l d h e a r a s i n g -song male voice in the
next room, cut off by a deeper, more
authoritative one, working its way to a fever
pitch. The first became a whine, then the
unmistakable sound of fist on flesh. A guttural
command, then, "Donny..., Donne-e-e...," the
first voice pleaded, "don't, Donne-e-e...."
Furniture began rhythmically banging against
the plaster wall.

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Look downed his beer and took a long, hot
shower. When he’d gotten dried off, he could
only hear quiet sobbing through the wall. The
radio stations in his head began to crackle and
fade to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Laying on
the bed, he savored one last cigarette as the
ceiling faded to black.

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Seventeen - Count the Time

Look tired of the microcosm world on the

Star, working the rotating shifts, sleeping in a
small cabin in the bow, with all the noise, the
petty emotions, the thievery of a prison. One
Friday evening he’d finished night shift two
hours late, and wandered over to the Cantina.
Karen was tending bar. Just the sight of her
reminded him of Michelle, so after they’d joked
a bit, flirting madly, he broke a five for change,
and called from a payphone by the restrooms.
First he tried calling Saltie’s, but nobody
there answered. So he tried Shelley’s over in
Macomb. It’d be 7AM Saturday morning by now,
and she’d have had plenty of time to get back
home.
Her roommate answered, Cherise, a pale
blond iceblue-eyed Wisconsin girl, mostly a
party’er, in her senior year at Western. Phys Ed.
She knew Look only as a shadow, in and out
again, then gone. Michelle’s body guard and
chauffeur. Michelle admitted she was wild
about him, but Cherise didn’t really see why.
“Cherise?” Look guessed, “Hi! It’s me, Look.
Is Michelle there? Can I talk with her?”
The phone was quiet for a moment, a lull
from the satellite telephone relay way up here.
“Look?, Hi! This is Cherise. How are you?”
But her voice was modulated.
“I’m fine! (‘Look? Are you...’) No, I’m...,” they
both laughed, fighting the odd transmission

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delay. “I’m working up here in Alaska! (‘Look?’)
What!? (‘You’re in Alaska!?’) Yeah! How ya’
doin’? How’s senior year goin’?” (‘Oh, wow,
what’s it like!?’)
Impatient, he repeated, ”Hey, Cherise?
Michelle there? I’m at a payphone.”
“Look, sorry, she doesn’t live here anymore,”
Cherise’s enthusiasm suddenly faded out, then
interpreting, “Michelle’s at Jack’s place now.”
“Jack?!” Look felt a surge of heat flush his
face, “You mean she’s staying over at his
place!?”
“Look, I’m sorry,” the tone in her voice said
volumes, “You’ll have to ask Michelle. She just
said she was going back to Little Osage to live
with Jack.”
There wasn’t anything more to say. He
exhaled, “OK, see you, bye, Cherise.”
“Sorry... bye, Look.”
Karen smiled warmly and waved as he
walked away from the phone, his stomach
dropping out from under him like a fast
elevator. He smiled back, but had to lower his
face in pain. He’d already told Karen all about
Saltie’s and Michelle, now she’d be sure to ask
him if that’s who he’d been talking to. Then
what?
No sense sticking around this place anymore.
Next day he moved out of the Star and into a
vacant trailer he’d spotted, up a branchwater
creek in the headland flats, where all the cast-
out cannery workers lived, the one’s who’d

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finished their six-month hitch, and for whatever
reason, ended up staying.
Alaska was like that in the drifter days,
backwater to the whole world. Sometimes you’d
be so broke you couldn’t leave, and sometimes
you’d stick around, thinking you liked the
place, until you’d be so broke you couldn’t
leave. Either way, you’d be stuck.
It reminded Look of back home in the hill
country, flat grassland intercut with alder and
spruce woods, tilting up to mountain outcrops
of black rock, his people all hard-working
families, kept too poor by the avaricious mine
owners to move on.
The trailer wasn’t much, thirty by eight, oil
stove’d little kitchen, couch and nook, standup
bath and a bedroom. A squatter’s shack, but a
palace compared to his metal-wall cell on the
Star. He got ahold of a beat-up bent-frame old
Toyoto pickup to get back and forth to work,
finding out right away it made him a whole lot
more valuable for other possibilities.
Then he just up and quit the cannery one day,
and started in welding and webbing up crab
pots, over there at Dickson Metal Works, you
know, out by the auto boneyard and metal
dump? Just piecework in an unheated shed, but
with dogged perseverance, Look was making
some good money, rebuilding the nestegg he’d
lost, and for Michelle’s plane ticket from
Illinois.
Some day.

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Now that Look was living in the flats, he was
starting to make the acquaintance of some
mighty amusing people. There was Kenny and
JoAnne, out from the MidWest. Kenny a sandy-
haired razorfaced dude, a meth’d out rapper
like a lot of guys, a small-time deckhand.
JoAnne an intelligent, warm-bodied, brown-
eyed woman, who’d left to escape small town
values. The “pin-heads” she called them.
Only she found that hanging out with drifters
meant hanging onto anyone she could. A whole
slew of Kenny’s and JoAnne’s lived out there,
ex-hippies some, some just poor white trash,
names like Morning Star and Shadow Moon,
mixed in with the Pat’s and Tom’s and Andy’s.
Lean-faced guys scrapping for whatever the
townie’s would let ‘em have, and their smooth-
faced women trying to hold onto whatever sense
of security they could get. All of them hunkered
down in these scattered abandoned military
barracks, left over from WWII, refurbished with
scrap metal from the dump and Rurik’s
goodwill hand-me-down.
A hobo camp.
But they knew how to party! Every weekend
in the flats was a hoe-down, a sauna, potluck, an
all night romp. Look knew in a flash Jenny’s
wedding hadn’t been deja vue at all, but a
premonition, foreshadowing these tranquil
country weekends, there on the edge of the
wilderness. Just a bunch of good folks getting
together to let their hair down, playing hacky-
sack or volleyball on Saturday afternoons, then

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they’d break while the gals threw some food
together and the guys split up some kindling,
until blue smoke from the banya stack
announced it was Sauna Time!
The Belle Rouche folks, as they called the
place, had built a rude hogan up on stilts above
the creek, its walls all rough board and batt,
roof shingled with old corrugated tin, a half-
drum stove. Big enough for a good dozen
people. After, say, fifteen minutes or so, the
rocks would be hot enough to throw out steam,
then everyone, both guys and gals, would strip
down naked outside, quickly layering the
benches along the walls, waiting breathlessly for
the sweat to begin.
Carl and Dan vied for the title sauna-master,
both old bulls around town, they’d sit across
from each other around the red-hot stove,
dropping dipper after dipper of water on the
smoking rocks, laughing loud pirate “Arr-r’s,”
and daring everyone, “You want it hotter?!!”
until the skin would near bubble right off your
backside in the searing heat.
One after another, the sauna’rs would stand
up suddenly in the half-light, gasping in pain,
raise the floor hatch and then plunge down, with
an explosive “Aiyee-e-e!” into a deep icy pool
dammed up from the creek below. Belle
Rouche’s sauna was world-famous!
At last, damp and steaming in the frigid air,
Look would dress quickly, walking back to
someone’s shack with whatever townie girl had
her eye on him. There, they’d all laugh and chat,

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munch down on a big potluck buffet, and dial
u p N P R ’ s Heart’s of Space f o r a m b i a n c e w h i l e
they talked story late in the evening.
First one couple then another would drift off,
then he’d take his willing little sheila back to
his place. Just local island girls out for a good
time. Nice, they didn’t mean anything much.
Sometimes he’d feel like calling up Salties’ just
to see how Michelle was doing, but those times
he did get through, it was Lee on the other end,
and he’d say he didn’t know where they were.
Weeks passed in hard work and easy
dissolution, until the snow started sticking
around for good, and then one sad weekend, the
sauna burned down, just like that. The seasons
had changed, people moved on. Life is layers of
spiraling circles anyway’s, endlessly changing,
and you can’t do nothin’ about it.
Just go with the flow.
Her name was Anne, and they met out on the
street by chance, both walking up to the
highschool for the hop. First they’d danced
together, and with other people, then they just
started talking, and wandering around.
Afterward, Anne came over to where he stood
and asked if he'd walk home with her.
The snow had stopped as they wandered back
downtown, and in the clear wintry air, the
A l e u t i a n ’ s g l a c i e r- c a p p e d p e a k s s t r e t c h e d a w a y
across the curve of the earth until they were lost
below the horizon.
“It was an unforgettable sight, and if you ever get
up there you'd see what I mean,” L o o k ’ s j o u r n a l
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t e l l s . “There’s the bustling fishing port of the white
man, ticky-tacked with steel and oil onto cold black
rocks in an icy sea, and then..., why then there’s the
other Rurik, the aboriginal one. An ethereal magical
place of misty mountains and crackling aurora’s, sun-
speared feather-downed spruce forests rising with the
dawn from a cobalt blue sea.”
Anne and Look talked about their past as they
walked, and how they both left home, Anne as
soon as she graduated Kent State, heading west
to the coast, playing around Berkeley, Marin
County, partying down in Laguna Beach. Then
she’d headed up to Alaska for the chance at
some real cash money.
Look kept his story basic, just a hillbilly,
Navy Seals, machinist’s mate, like that. Letting
Anne bridge the gaps. She didn’t insist, but
wanted to know about his handle. “How’d you
get a nickname like Look?”
He thought a second, recalling, “When I was a
kid, my Mom was always picking up after me,
so I could never find anything in my room. I’d
yell, ‘Hey, Mom, where’s my baseball mitt?’ or
something, you know, and she’d yell back,
‘Look for it!’ After awhile, she’d just say,
‘Look!’, ‘Look!’ over and over. Pretty soon my
Dad was calling me back home, ‘Hey, Look!’ too.
That’s how the other kids nicknamed me. Look.”
He did a quick church-steeple, open-the-
doors, see-all-the-people pantomime with his
hands.
Anne dropped her head, shaking it softly in
laughter, dark curls bouncing with mirth. Then

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spotting their destination, she announced, "This
is it."
They were standing in front of an ordinary
n a r r o w w o o d f r a m e c o m p a n y r o w -house, with a
huge yellow and purple rutabaga painted across
the face. Anne laughed at Look’s expression,
"We call it the Turnip House. No one liked the
color white, but ‘Rutabaga’ was too hard to say,
ha-ha-ha-ha. So it was our compromise. C'mon
in and meet everyone."
As they entered, the living room was all dark,
with a white bed sheet hanging on the far wall.
A slide projector cast stunning panoramic
pictures of Interior Alaska on the fabric. There
on the couch, alarmed eyes turned toward
Look’s, many hands reaching out on the coffee
table, raking it clean.
"Relax," Anne assured, "Look’s OK. We met
by chance on the way to the high school."
Everyone turned back to the show. Look and
Anne sandwiched themselves together in an old
chair, as slide after slide flashed out. The
Brooks Range in red and gold. The Malaspina
Glacier and its braided runoff streams. Mount
McKinley in a rare view from the west face.
Lake Becharof on a cool fall morning, mist rising
into an autumn sunrise.
It was incredible photography. Jason, the
show host, had spent his winters in the
canneries, then his summers traveling through
the Interior, hitching on flights with bush pilots,
rafting rivers, taking photos. Someday he’d
work for National Geographic.
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A joint passed 'round, then a jug of wine, and
after the slides ran out, they all zome’d together
about their winter plans, until way after
midnight.
Outside the window, the Northern Lights
shimmered neon green across a crystal sky,
dancing sheets of fire lanced through by flashes
of red and blue, like ghostly hands playing
s o m e c o s m i c C e l t i c h a r p . You can see them! Anne
took Look by the hand and led him up the stairs
to the loft, to her pad in the corner, and there,
kissing fiercely as they undressed, they made
love until dawn put them to sleep at last.
Anne moved into Look’s place out in Belle
Rouche. At each day’s end, with the sun setting
earlier and earlier, cold really digging in, she’d
meet him at work, and they'd hang out at the
Anchorage Bar, a sort of home away from home
for the scruffy set, no pool table, no shuffle
board, no darts.
Instead, a bank of washing machines across
one wall, a circular bar rail where guys could
press close around the girl bartender, and the
best damn patio in the world, facing SW over
the harbor, out past the inner bays, on out to the
broad, blue Pacific.
Each setting sun on the far-off horizon
beamed down on an eclectic mix of people from
all around the world, sharing amazing odd
adventures from distant realms, passing joints
around, just sitting there and relaxing as crab
season madness began in earnest.

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That's where they met Mik Penwold, eccentric
of the best kind, a fiddle player, boat builder
and like everyone else, afflicted with the crazy
fishing disease. He'd gone out with old-timers
who’d broken the industry open, made a bunch
of money, then, love overcoming wisdom, had
plowed it back into an old wood-planked
s c h o o n e r h e ’ d n a m e d t h e Augenblik .
Mik had stripped her to bare wood,
refastened her planks and slapped in a rebuilt
big-dog slow-ro diesel, with a huge bronze prop
off some salvaged dragger, running the
Augenblik a t a s m o o t h c l i p a r o u n d R u r i k . H e
would sit there at the Anchorage, telling about
the old wood schooners fishing waters around
Rurik every summer, some earning their keep
running crab pots through the winters, giving
five strong men a living wage after nearly fifty
years at sea.
Jobs on these boats would only open up if
there was an injury or a big fight, for fishing
king crab was the peak, the top. The ultimate
test of a man, the ultimate reward if he fought
the sea and won. Or died trying.
T h e r e ’ s a p i c t u r e o f o n e o f t h o s e o l d a f t -cabin
Seattle schooners up in the Harbormaster's
office, her topsides and rigging coated with
thick frozen spray after a grueling February
storm in the Bering Sea.
Imagine you’re Neptune, flying over the surface of
the sea on a shining thimble of steel. Now, remember,
you have to wrestle with four hundred pound webbed-
iron crab cages, dozens of them, hour after hour, day

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after day. Endlessly hauling, grappling, pushing,
stacking and tying, while through all this, your
thimble’s bucking and twisting like a Brahma bull with
a burr in its blanket, caught on a storm-tossed sea.
Sometimes the waves come up under you so fast it flat
buckles your knees, and sometimes you fly up off a
comber and your feet dance on air! Waves bigger than
a house, sixty, seventy feet high. A Nantucket sleigh-
ride! Spewing your guts out, and swallowing a tub of
salt water right back. It’s War! You fight it, you eat it,
you sleep it!
[Look’s journal]
He unloaded those big crab boats, just in for a
few hours, their linebacker-husky crews
checking on their bond portfolios, playing with
their hometown honey’s, sampling the best toot
in town over to the SpinDrift Club each night.
Then back out to sea again.
For Look, unloading and butchering crab
meant hard work, freezing cold, and long hours,
but let him hear tales fresh off the dock. He
talked to one stand-in, a lucky greenhorn on a
single three-week run, he’d flown back home
with eighteen thousand in cash!
He’d seen these crabbers stuffing $100 bills
into girls’ cleavage at the SpinDrift’s wet T-shirt
contests, teasing them go topless, then $100 into
their panties, begging them to strip. And they
would! Buck naked!! It was mad money, crazy
money, HUGE money!
S o w h e n M i k a n n o u n c e d Augenblik w a s
heading out to Dutch Harbor, saying their
engineer had to go back to Seattle until next

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spring, that he’d sprung his back out, and then
asked, “You want the engineer’s job, Lew?”
well, there wasn’t anything else Look could say,
except “Sure!” without another thought.
Mik laid it out for him, “We’ll pick up our
deckhands out west, they’ll know the local crab
grounds. You get 12½% of the net, but you’re
gonna have to work up on deck too, and cook.
Agreed?”
Look asked, “Seem’s like a lot more work to
me.”
Mik straight-faced him back, “Everyone works
the same, eight up on deck, eight soak ‘em, eat
with a four hour wheel watch, eight pick ‘em,
maybe eight to move ‘em, four hours sleep, then
over again.” He stretched back in his barstool,
“You’ll have it easy, man! You get to cook, take
care of the machinery, when you’re not up on
deck. Think you can handle a whole winter of no
sleep? We leave in the morning.”
Look smiled, rubbing his hands, thinking of
the fifty, sixty-thousand dollars he’d have to re-
finance his life again. “Let’s go!” So they shook
on it.
Look and Anne left the Anchorage Bar,
driving out to Belle Rouche in silence, only the
hiss of tires on the dark wet pavement, the quiet
beauty of the alpine wilderness rushing by in
the moonlight.
“Anne,” he opened up at last, “I’ve gotta take
that crew opening, you know that, right?”
Anne stared straight ahead, knowing
something entirely different. Her only comment,
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more of a curse, "You should look before you
leap, Look. They lose a few of those old
schooners each year. The seams open with the
pounding, then the sea swallows them up."
But it was too late, she knew that too. Mik
and Look had shook on it, and she knew he was
going to crab the Bering Sea with or without her
blessing.
That night they ate quietly, thoughts
unspoken, sitting there in the half-light of the
kerosene lamp, with only the soft drawl of
country radio dusting the silence. They
undressed and made love one last time,
caressing, slowly, deeply. Anne held his face in
both hands afterward, silently gazing at him,
tears in her eyes. Then they spooned together,
fingers interlaced.
Anne whispered about Kirlian forces, the aura
beings give off, astral rays pulsing from
fingertips. “See, hold your fingers near mine,
can you feel the push and pull of it, like two
magnets?”
Look said he could, like he was riding a
cushion of starlight.
“That’s why they call it ‘touch’,” Anne sighed.
“See, it’s from the French, toucher, t o p e r c e i v e .
D’you know when you caress your own child’s
skin, it feels just like touching yourself?” Then
she pulled Look’s arms tightly around her,
crossing his hands over her belly.
Later, in the quiet hours before dawn, as Anne
slept softly, murmuring to herself, Look rose.
He combed his hair back, chugged down a cup
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of cold coffee standing by the sink, and with his
duffel already packed, breathed a warm kiss
onto her neck.
Then he let himself out the trailer door.
The moon overhead was half-full, like a ivory
and gun-metal blue goblet high in the sky,
casting just enough light on the hillsides so
Look could follow the deertrail cuneiforms
footpathing a shortcut across the hills and over
into town.
His way led upward, across plateaus
separating the higher hills, contouring around,
bright lit and then shade, immense cold and
vault quiet. Overhead a faint aurora borealis
hissed in green shimmering curtains, like the
o c e a n c a r e s s e s t h e s h o r e o n a w i n d l e s s n i g h t , in
saecula saeculorum .
He stood on the bluff above the dark rune of
Rurik, breathing softly, hidden in the trees,
Gandalf the Sentinel. Beyond the town lay the
harbor, a dark paysage of flickering lights, in
charcoal’d grays and crusted white. Everything
was waiting, tensed with bated breath. It was all
about to begin. Look smiled, ready to take that
great leap of faith. Eight of Swords. On his way
far out the Aleutians, to the ends of the earth, to
test himself against the sea.
First light filtered pale over the eastern sky.

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Eighteen - The Circle Game

The Thanksgiving pre-dawn was cold and

crisp in Unalaska as Mik and Look made
preparations for their outing. They loaded their
shotguns into the little inflatable boat, swung it
carefully out over the water, and lowered it
g e n t l y d o w n t h e s i d e o f t h e Augenblik .
The sun was breaking warmly on their faces
from a perfect cerulean blue sky on that day, as
they motored down Unalaska Bay. Look stayed
in the bow with a paddle, ridging up and
splitting the razor thin ice cake floating on the
frozen sea, while Mik steered the little kicker,
telling him about other trips to Hat Island,
hunting on the abandoned rabbit farm.
Snow-capped peaks ringing the tiny Aleutian
town sprang out through the clear air like a
crystal vision, and they plowed through a calm
swell toward the tiny island. Their wake lay
traced behind them like a slip of ice foam drawn
on silvered porcelain. An eye-tearing cold wind
moaned from across the Bering Sea, as though it
had been alive forever, and only wanted to rest
awhile in this great bay.
It was the kind of perfect wintry day Nature
reserves for only once a season.
Then a dark nimbus cloud drifted lazily over,
dusting their boat and their clothes with large
clotted flakes of snow, softly at first, then a
shower, until the hills, and then the harbor, and
finally even the sea itself lost it’s form. Just Mik

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and Look and the boat drifting in a twilight
patch of dark water.
The inflatable crunched over shoals, and they
ran up onto the low black gravel beach of Hat
Island, pulling the boat up over into the brown
ryegrass.
“I’ll go cover this side,” Mik motioned, “you
take the headlands, we’ll work our way back
together, and hey,” he winked at Look, “don’t
shoot me, OK? I’m the one with the red ears.”
They marched off on their separate ways,
Look taking his path straight up between
collapsed, gray- green lichen-encrusted hutches,
left behind when the farm had gone bust. He
moved across a landscape of dark broken rock,
pale gold grass sparkled with hoar frost, his
path winding ever higher and higher toward the
seaward cliffs at the far end of the island.
He half-crouched as he walked, waiting to
spot his first sign. Lots of warrens, lots of well-
worn trails.
But no rabbit.
The sun had filled the sky by now, the supine
dry grass smoking with cold fire in the false
heat, and he thrilled himself standing up high
on the edge of the great dropoff, alone on a
pinnacle of rock two hundred feet above the sea.
Look gazed out at at a wide circle of glimmering
blue glacier-capped peaks, meditating on
nothing, his mind an absolute blank.
In the utter stillness of early afternoon, warm
and calm as spring, he heard a soft thumping
sound. Stepping slowing around a big boulder
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set against the cliff edge, he spotted a huge
rabbit, an alpha male, stretched out full length
on it’s side in the grass, his creamy-gray fur all
fluffed up.
The creature sensed his presence, and threw
his head up over his belly to stare into Look’s
eyes. Then he turned away slowly, almost
stiffly, sweeping his own gaze out toward the
pristine bay below them, the crown of glacier-
capped peaks, that pale cornflower-blue sky
reflecting off a lapis lazuli sea, all seamlessly
bound together in space.
The rabbit meditated, motionless.
Look raised his gun to shoot, waiting for the
creature to move, to run. It was a good day to be
alive. He let out his breath and checked it,
steady. The rabbit gazed back again, eye met
eye, their spirits melding. Then in one pure
motion, rolling erect and springing, the creature
catapulted straight off the cliff face!
Look’s shot blasted harmlessly at the duff.
The rabbit flew upward toward the sun, arms
outspread, then he fell in a graceful silver arc,
his long ears flapping, still gliding, down, tiny,
a mote, until he was one with the sea’s surging
breakers, pounding the jagged dark rocks far
below into a frozen spume.

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Nineteen - All Shine On

I finished reading Look’s story of Hat Island,

and glanced up. Granma was crying softly to
herself, staring out the windows at the gray day,
made all the more miserable by cold slashing
rainshowers. Indian summer was nearly over....
It’d been wonderful warm weather this summer,
almost had vine-ripe tomatoes! Now we were
headed into a Pacific Northwest winter, an
endless numina of cold rain and saturated
ground. Hey, I felt like crying too.
“Granma, are you all right?” I sympathized
with her, figuring it was the story’s sad ending.
“Did that story of the rabbit make you cry?”
“Oh, Nick, that was lovely!” she smiled at me,
“No, I’m crying because my hangnail hurts so
bad!”
We’d been just sitting around, not much sense
going outside, and besides, half of farming life
is the bill paying, budget minding, market
planning, some. Doing what the talk shows call
“visualization.” See, just figuring how to stay
alive. That’s the tradeoff. You tend to God’s
creatures, He tends to the lilies of the field. You
just have to make do for yourself.
“Hold on, I’ll get the clippers.” Then I eased
her socks off, trimmed around her purple-and-
pink corn’d toes as best as I could, and threw on
some peroxide and Betadine.
“Thank you Nicky,” she smiled, relaxing. “I’ll
make up a pot of tea, maybe you could look

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over my orders this month, see if I might’ve
missed anything.”
A gust of wind rattled the walls, puffing a
draft of smoke back out the woodstove. Then
moments later, the roof pitter-pattered with pea
hail showers, as the window panes started to fog
over from the cold rain outside. I glanced at the
order form, but Granma never missed anything.
You could take her to the feed-and-seed and
load the boat, she could still tell you within a
fiver how much we’d owe.
“Here we go,” she set down two cups and a
plate of crumb cake. “Irish Breakfast, is that
OK?”
I didn’t know if she meant the cake or the tea,
so I just smiled and poured our cups full,
laughing as she dropped a sugarcube and
dollop of goatmilk in her’s.
“Cowboy tea, huh?” I guffawed, remembering
my own childhood, how Grampa taught me that
one. I saw his face, now J.D. was gone, so I got
sad too.
“You know Nick, the Tibetans always put
some butter in their tea, and no one has ever
figured why, but they use the butter so the oil
layer will keep the tea from steaming off its own
heat!”
Granma’s a sharp old bird, I have no idea
where she got that. We sipped the tea and ate
our cake.
“I’ve got to tend to Starbuck,” she announced.
Guess sore feet got her thinking about the
livestock, how their hooves start to split in the
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wet weather, and like I said, she loves old
Starbuck. I’ll bet she’d let him spend the winter
in the living room, you know, if he could fit
through the front door.
“OK, come with you,” I signed with my eyes.
We slipped on our boots and slickers and went
out.
Where yesterday had been sweet tangerine, it
was just cold and raw wet outside now, fields
all beaten down and smattered with a carpet of
sleet, the bright leaves torn off the trees,
mountain tops hidden in mist and a carpet of
early snow. We walked with our hands in our
pockets, stopping by the haybarn to grab a
halter, paring knife and our work gloves. Then
we rounded up Starbuck, hiding under the
cedars, and the goats came along too, figuring it
was chow time.
“Nick, put Starbuck in his stall and give him a
can of chow with his oats, I’m going to milk the
goats and then we’ll trim their hooves,” Granma
suggested.
So I helped Starbuck get settled down, damp
and steaming, then threw a blanket over him
and got him started on his feedbag. A happy
camper. The goats were a different story. No
one’s ever figured goats out. They can be just
the sweetest, yet orneryest of creatures. You’d
think they’d want to get bedded down! Instead
they stepped on the milk pot, poked us with
their horns, fought over the chow and bleated
over their hooves as she tried to clip them.

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Granma persisted. We got them trimmed, and
semi-quieted down in their pens, then sat on
haybales and listened for the rain to let up. I’d
been thinking about the apple waffles we’d had
for breakfast a while back, and now the cold
weather had me wanting waffles for dinner too.
With hot raspberry syrup!
“You know, Nick,” Granma began, “I never
told you this, but that story of Look’s has me
thinking back on J.D. Do you remember the last
time you saw him?”
“Sure Granma,” I replied, “I remember you
said he got the whirls bad one day down by the
creek, and then he had to go to the hospital.”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone this, OK?”
“Sure!? What’s going on Granma?” I looked
up. Concern was in her eyes, but more than that.
Her far-off gaze wasn’t entirely focused, as
though she saw some ephemeral figure, was
waiting for his approval. “What, Granma? Say
it!”
Her voice trembled, “I don’t know how to tell
you all this, it’s a memory I know you cherish,
but do you remember when J.D. passed on?”
“Yeah, sure! He had a stroke, wasn’t that it?”
“You know he passed suddenly, and I would
have called you, the doctor kept saying he was
improving, then he was gone. Besides, J.D. was
so stubborn he’d have never let you see him like
that.”
“Like what?” I could see her in past-tense
now.

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“Nick, J.D. had a brain tumor,” she began to
gesture, “The doctor’s thought at first it was a
stroke, and they wasted a lot of time waiting for
him to get better. Wanted to put him in a
nursing home to save me the trouble. I told
them J.D. would never allow it, and besides,”
she lowered her gaze, “I wouldn’t know what to
do without him.”
I could see how hard this was to relive, and
reached over to put my arm around her. “You
don’t have to explain how it happened, Granma.
J.D.’s at peace now out in the orchard, here on
our land. You got him back home to high
country from down-valley, there in the flatlands,
and that’s all that matters.”
Granma sighed, “No, Nicky, honey it isn’t all
right, because it’s not our land anymore!” She
began to weep onto my shoulder, unable to
stand the unburdening.
“Now what does that mean, ‘not our land’?
‘Course it is!” I soothed, “How’d you figure this
out?”
“When I wouldn’t put him in a nursing
home,” Granma went right on, “the doctors
decided to send us to Seattle for scans, that’s
when they found the tumor. Inoperable, they
said, in the medulla, metastasizing. ‘Though I
don’t know how they figured all that out.”
“Who was the doctor, Granma?”
“Oh, Dr. Skogland, he delivered your mother
when I was younger. He’s always been our
physician.”
“You mean he was treating J.D. for cancer!?”
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“Oh, I must look a fright!” she interrupted.
The rain had tapered off to a silent misting
drizzle.
“You look fine,” I laughed, “Let’s go up to
the house, get some tea, then we’ll walk down,
see J.D.”
So we walked back, and finished the pot of
tea, still lukewarm on the stove. I put a drop of
butter in mine, to remind her that I’d been
listening. It tasted good.
“I should’ve never agreed with them,” she
went on, as we walked down the fence row
toward the orchard, arm in arm, a weak orb of
sun trying to beat the steam off the hillsides.
“They said maybe they should run more tests,
Dr. Skogland, well, the other Group Care
doctors did. You know, it used to be Valley
General?”
“They find anything? Didn’t you have
MediCare?”
“Well, they said he had a blood-vessel tangle,
that’s what had caused the whirls, and they only
found the cancer ‘cause is was there, near the
tangle in the scan.”
“Why didn’t they operate!?”
“They did, they did....” I thought she’d cry
then, I sure felt like it. My memories of J.D.
were so robust and full of life I couldn’t imagine
him brought down by ‘tangles’. Granma traced a
finger over the rough-hewn limestone marker,
while I read the inscription:

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_________________
| Jesse D. Paul |
| 1917-1984 |
| Beloved of Ettie |
| _________________ |
| |


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“That when the trouble started,” she began
again, “trouble with the HMO.’ I raised an
eyebrow. “Dr. Skogland said he wasn’t qualified
from there on, that a team of specialists would
take over.”
“Granma, that’s how it’s done,” I tried to
sooth her, “Your own doctor makes referrals to
specialists.”
She looked at me almost with distrust, like a
horse when you accidentally lean them against a
nail, that “us against them” generational thing,
where the elders grow silent. Then she
brightened, I think J.D. was speaking through
her.
“Group Care made us sign so many consent
forms he got exhausted. Think that might have
given him a real stroke, he kind of drifted
around after,” she explained. “Then the
Administrator said they wanted to try mixing
radiation and some new experimental
treatments that had high recovery and not much
risk. Some kind of tiered-treatment ‘cocktail’.”
“Hey, you know, ‘try anything’! Did it work?”
“Nick, the doctors were just experimenting on
J.D.!” she was bitter, “and they caught us in a
trap. We signed the homestead away as one of
our assets. Then when J.D. got worse, they said
MediCare wasn’t going to cover x-treatments
after all, and so wouldn’t cover the aftercare
either.”
“Did they threaten to stop treatment?”
I was confused, Things like this just don’t happen
to people!, picturing J.D.’s torture and pain
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through the radiation regimen, sapping his body
of strength, and then the vomiting, and the
body-wracking poison chem-o formulations
they’d tested out on him.
“I don’t know, maybe they meant the best, but
to me they never seemed very concerned at all,”
she lingered in doubt, “at least not as concerned
as the Administrator was about garnishing all
our assets afterwards. J.D. hung on for nearly
seventeen weeks, the Group Care hospital bill
just ran on and on, and Dr. Skogland said there
was nothing he could do to help since the HMO
took over the hospital.”
“Granma,” I kind’a shook my head, “I’m sorry
to hear that’s what happened to J.D. I just don’t
know what to say. Didn’t you have any savings,
or major medical insurance coverage, or
anything?”
“J.D. wanted me to hold the savings and only
put the homestead up. See, Mr. Gudbranson
down at Vergers Savings & Loan arranged for a
mortgage,” she worked around my question,
“we used our savings as collateral to get the
paperwork through. He got us a very good
rate.”
“So you’re set then? Vergers paid off the
doctor bills, and you can make payments on the
place from the interest on your savings, right
Granma?”
“Oh dear, the money was going out so fast,
and the new mortgage wasn’t worth very much,
just this old house and the outbuildings. I
wanted to call you, but you were back East in
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school. J.D. was so embarrassed about how
feeble he looked, and being on a shoestring
about the money and all.”
“You mean you’re running out of money?!”
“It’s worse than that,” she sighed, moving
away from the grave site like she didn’t want
J.D. to hear. “I should’ve never listened to the
that Administrator, Dr. DiTomo. I said we
didn’t know if we could pay for all of the
medical costs, and then he suggested his broker
at Straub, Hall and Groeste. Mr. Gudbranson
said he did business with them too.”
“So you were using your savings to anchor
the mortgage, paying down bills from mortgage
principal, and spending your social security
retirement income to pay down the mortgage
premiums? That’s good! What was the broker
for?”
“Dr. DiTomo said we could make more on our
principal than we were paying out in interest, if
we let the broker invest it for us. J.D. talked
with him, then the broker came over and we
signed an application. He seemed like a nice
man, said his name was Ronald Roach. He
invested our money in high-yielding bonds, I
think he said. We were making over 15%, Nick!
“
“Granma, those are junk bonds, they’re risky!”
The sun was fading behind the storm again,
only the mountain tops visible above the low
hanging clouds, like islands in the sea. The
wind was starting to pick up too. “Come on,

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let’s go inside, you can tell me about it while we
walk.”
“Mr. Roach was very polite. He explained
about how the US Government had guaranteed
real estate bonds that were being refinanced,
and how the yield could exceed our mortgage
interest and actually make us more money back
again,” Granma filled the silence, as we shuffled
through the fall leaves back up to the house.
“He said that Straub, Hall and Groeste would
carry the paper, it would always be liquid, we
could always withdraw our money if we needed
to.”
“Granma, I don’t think that’s legal,” I scoffed.
“If you’re buying a bond, you’re buying the
paper, not some broker’s promissory note!
Those re-fi’s were from Reagan’s Savings & Loan
bailout, the price we paid for trickle-down
economics. Rates as high as 30%, so you weren’t
getting any kind’a deal from Roach.”
Granma ignored my harsh jab.
“One day Ronald, well, Mr. Roach called and
said one of our bonds had ‘called’, and he was
moving us into ‘better paper’, as he put it. After
J.D. passed on, I found he had moved our
holdings into Steffens and Durval County
bonds, on a ‘bond restructing’, Mr. Gudbranson
warned. When I asked Mr. Roach to sell, he
never returned my calls. Nick, he’d promised
the Government guaranteed the bonds and that
our holdings would always be liquid!”

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“Granma! Are you saying Roach put you into
defaulted bonds? How much exposure do you
have?”
“What Nicky?”
“How much of your portfolio was in default?”
She laughed, like I was the slow learner in the
family. “Mr. Gudbranson told me Straub, Hall
and Groeste had made an illegal restructuring,
but I’m not real sure what that means exactly.”
“Oh, jeez,” I hung my head. “How much!?”
“Nick, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.
W e h a d all o f t h e m o r t g a g e p r i n c i p a l i n v e s t e d
with Straub, Hall and Groeste, and we were
paying off the mortgage coupon and the medical
bills with the bond yields and our social
security,” she spilled it all out. “Steffens-Durval
defaulted. We have nothing. I can’t pay off both
the mortgage and the medical bills with what’s
left of our savings. We’ll lose the homestead!”
We’d reached the front porch, and for just a
brief moment everything seemed as it should
be. The stock were safe inside and the haybarn
was full up. All that was left to get done was
harvest the squash and the potatoes. As long as
the weather held, we’d have time for that. On
the face of things, life was good.
The wind was whipping up the trees now,
their bright fall leaves cascading off in sheets,
leaving only oily black patterned traces of their
branches against the darkening sky. We could
hear the first hiss of rain in the trees up behind
the well, and then the far hills were lost in gray,
as solid showers slammed across the cold fields.
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I took Granma by the arm and we went inside, to
hover by the fire and wait out the storm.

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Twenty - Talking Book

It didn’t take long for Mik to round up a crew

and a first mate. Everyone was jumping ship,
looking for elbow room. The Bering Sea season
was already an acknowledged bust. Where the
year before crabbers loaded up in a single trip,
now they were scratching, hold’s half full.
Quarter’s even. Every crab pot had once been
packed tight with the gigantic scrabbling
crustaceans. Now the crab were gone. Vanished.
T h a t w o r k e d i n Augenblik’s favor. All they
were out so far was the groceries and fuel from
Rurik Island, weren’t in the hole like some of
the big Seattle boats, their skippers reeling
home from the bar, stone drunk. There’d be
boats on the auction block after this season.
The party was over.
Alaska Fish & Game threw them a bone, with
a new season out in Adak, half-way down the
Aleutian chain to Russia, so far out there you
had to pray to get back home. Mik and his first
mate made the rounds of the crabbers, talking a
joint venture. They’d go as a group, crab
together, lay and pick their pots in rotation, and
then split the receipts equally among all their
boats when they got back to Dutch.
It’d worked in Prince William during the slim
herring seasons, not enough fish to feed
everyone. The boat’s had drawn straws, and
those that did go fish divided their catch
receipts among the entire Cordova community.

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Everyone made it through the winter that year,
communality in action.
But the big Seattle boats told Mik to shove
off.
The fucking Bering Sea was their’s, and they’d
fuckin’ fish it ‘til there wasn’t a fuckin’ kingcrab
left on the fuckin’ grounds. Seattle crabbers are
that way. Every other word ‘fuck’ this or ‘fuck’
that. Must be their fuckin’ school system.
“Hey, you fuckin’ Alaskan’s go on out there.
We’re fuckin’ staying in the fuckin’ Bering. Now
get lost.”
As November came to an end, a scraggly
group of schooners, re-rigged draggers and
seiners sailed out of Unalaska Bay onto the
broad gray North Pacific. They headed west for
a hundred leagues, traveling night and day past
isolated cone-hat’d islands on the Chain, until
the radio stations were all Russian and
Japanese. No one had a clue where they were. It
was radar and Loran back in those days, and
Loran got pretty flaky out this far west.
So they dead-reckoned.
Look tended to the diesel main. She was in
good shape despite her age, clacketing low and
slow, but the high-speed four-jug auxiliary ran
hot. Might be the keel cooler, might be injectors
mis-firing, valve leaks? He kept an eye on the
gauges and checked the alarms. If they lost the
auxiliary, they’d lose the circulation pumps.
Then the crab in the hold would die without the
constantly circulating sea water.

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Mik stayed on the radio to the others,
studying the charts, and then Korovin Volcano
loomed above the horizon, dark over kelly
lowlands. They followed the Cape on into a
tangle of islands and inlets between Atka and
Adak. It was a brave, and a foolhardy thing they
were attempting to do, to fish unproved ground.
Maybe if Mik hadn’t crabbed with old-timers
before, pioneering new ground of their own, he
wouldn’t have tried it. But this was his dream,
bang on.
They anchored up that night in a sheltered
inlet on Kagalaska, Look staying up on deck for
some air. The sun was setting southwesterly,
illuminating the snowy flanks of Kanaga and
Tanaga volcanoes, twin cones smoldering
orange-blue. It was heaven, pure and simple.
True wilderness. Probably no one had been here
since Russian fur traders centuries before.
Maybe a destroyer anchored during the WWII
Aleutians Campaign, or a PBY landed to wait
out the fog, then flew off again. That was it.
Abyssal silence.
“Cook up a lot of grub, Look,” Mik
suggested, “We’re going to have to work around
the clock to get the crab back to Dutch still
alive…. Oh, and check that auxiliary again,
OK?”
“We’ll have left-over turkey tomorrow,” Look
reminded, laughing to himself at the memory,
earlier in the afternoon on the high seas, when
the turkey, all brown and butterball, had shot
from the oven as the boat took a big roller. No

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one had seen him pick it up, brush it off, and
push it back into the stove.
“OK, Glenn, Fred, listen. Chuck’ll run
hydraulics,” Mik explained. “Want you to move
the pots around, clear the pot launcher, and
make sure we have extra line handy in case we
hit a deep. Look, after dinner’s ready, you eat
first, then grind bait and stuff the jars for
tomorrow morning.”
They all set to work, under the bright crab
lights, getting the boat ready. Adak wouldn’t be
like the Bering, that flat shelf of river silt
extending out four hundred miles from shore,
limitless uniform hundred fathoms. For Adak
they’d have to rig on the fly, then add line if
they hit a deep spot, so that the heavy steel
traps wouldn’t pull the marker bouys under,
and then four hundred fifty dollars ‘be lost just
like that.
Look finished up after they’d gone to sleep,
hands covered with sticky gurry from the bait
grinder. Since he’d been the only one left on
deck, he killed the lights and enjoyed a jet-black
sky, bright constellations wheeling, fiery
diamonds, pale meteors arcing down, aurora
shimmering cold green. Even the sea itself was
a l i v e , t h e r e u n d e r t h e d a r k h u l l o f t h e Augenblik,
in a microcosm of the universe overhead.
He was seized with the stillness and eternal
solitude of the place, and then with a sudden
urge. Walking to the bullrail, he hung it out,
letting the stream of piss splash away below.
The ocean reacted with a phosphorescent glow,

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and so he concentrated on prolonging the water,
until his whole being was coursing like a
mountain stream, bubbling into the vastness of
the sea, lit by the aurora overhead in the
heavens, mirrored in the glowing dark waters
below.
The top of his head seemed to melt away, as
winds from beyond time whistled across his
windpipe, and set the dark spirits of ancient
hunters and primal fishermen moaning in the
vastness. Still it flowed, his life and warmth
pouring from him, and Look felt a moment of
transcendence, as though the fluorescent stream
was his soul, and his body merely a lump of
dark lava, cooling in the hissing rains of
creation.
For a whole week they fished hard, dragging
the huge kingcrab out, some of their carapaces
were two hands wide, outspread, legs dangling
three feet to the deck! That’s what the old-timers
meant when they called these kingcrabs. Look
smiled easily to himself, each crab meant more
money in his pocket, and there were thirty or
forty of them in a single pot!
Every night the boats in their group would
anchor together in an inlet, and blare their
favorite tunes across the water. “Chuck E’s in Love”,
“Jammin’”, “Settin’ Me Up”, “Truth Hits Everybody”
echoed over the shore, and finally, even over the radio.
Out this far on the Aleutians, who gives a fuck about
the FCC!? The boats started running a little radio
station all their own, evenings. Look played Albert
King’s Angel of Mercy, dedicating it to Anne and

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Michelle. Then after a few hour’s sleep, they were off
again.
By the start of the second week they were all
totally exhausted, little or no sleep, eat on their
feet, working day and night. Then dozing on
anchor watch, Look felt, rather than heard, the
engine alarm.
Mik was shaking him.
“Come on, the auxiliary’s way too hot, we’ve
got to shut it down and pop the head,” he
jabbered, frantic. There was thousands and
thousands of dollars riding on that pump
system just to keep the crab alive, let alone get
them home. “I’ll start the main, we can run off
the batteries.”
Look groaned. They should’ve taken care of
this back in Dutch Harbor. Mik knew that too.
The main’s alternator was heavy duty, sure, and
the batteries were huge to kick over the big
diesel. But alternators weren’t made to draw full
current for long.
Besides, once the batteries ran down, they
weren’t used to a deep-cycle, might not take a
full charge back again. That’s the trouble with
batteries. Never count on ‘em, never ever turn off
an auxiliary if you got one!
The rest of the crew slept on through as the
main coughed back to life, used to sleeping
right up until the first buoy hove into view. Mik
and Look donned their overalls, earphones and
dropped down into the engine room. It was
tight, stinking and loud. The auxiliary was
running hot and rough. Look cut the fuel, and
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after it died and cooled, they unbolted the head.
Mik shouted an oath. One of the valve sets was
burned, the cylinder off-colored gray-white.
“Shit, Mik!” Look slumped his shoulders.
“We’re fucked once the batteries run down.”
“Maybe not....” Mik pulled the drill off the
bench box and laid out the tools he’d need. “An
old-timer showed me this once when I was a
greenhorn during halibut season.” He drilled a
hole in the piston head, tapped it, and ran a cap
screw down over a drilled out tab piece. Then
he gouged two short keys in the block, each side
of the piston chamber.
Look just watched and passed Mik the tools.
“OK, now let’s see if this’ll work, give me a
welding rod, strip the coating off for me,” Mik
wiped his forehead. “We going to try to tie the
piston up and restart on three cylinders. Jig it
over with the bar.” Look pushed in on the
ringgear with a prybar, slowly turning the
engine until the piston was near top dead
center. Mik cut the rod across the top of the
cylinder, fit and set it doubled in the two
grooves, and wired the tab and the welding rod
tightly together.
“Now what?” Look asked.
“OK, now go ahead and drop the pan, unbolt
the piston rod,” Mik directed, I’ll go check on
the circulation pumps.”
The batteries were getting lower, Look could
see the lights flicker in the engine room as the
a l t e r n a t o r t o o k u p t h e l o a d . It’ll be melting pretty
soon now. He worked fast, draining the oil into a
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bucket, dropping the pan into the bilge in his
hurry, cursing. Then he fought with the nuts,
lying on his back on the oily diamond plate. It
was done.
“Got it Mik!”
They rebolted the oil pan back on, torqued
down the head, and dialed out the unused
injector on the rack. A half-hour’d passed.
“OK, shut down the circ pumps, let’s try to
start the auxiliary and recharge the batteries,”
Mik ordered.
“What are you guys up to?” Glenn shouted
down the ladder, waving to him as Look was
passing.
“We’re jury-rigging the auxiliary, a bad jug.”
“Need any help?”
“Naw, make some coffee and mix up some
orange juice, OK?”
“You got it.”
Mik was wiping his hands clean, the head
cover back on. “Go ahead and start it up.” Look
hit the switch. The starter lugged, spitting, then
the auxiliary lurched once, and settled into an
uneven throb on three. Oil pressure held. They
had power.
“OK, switch the circuit back to the auxiliary,
and restart the pumps. Let’s see how the crab
are doing.” Mik climbed ahead up the ladder.
The crew was up already, Glenn making their
breakfast, Fred out grinding bait for the new
day, Chuck poring over the charts, everything
normal again.

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They’d been lucky. Despite the loss of a
dozen pots in deep holes, they’d landed a lot of
kingcrab. That afternoon Mik got on the radio,
rounding the other boats up, readying their
group to head back to Dutch.
It’d be a story book fishing trip.

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Twenty One - In My Life

The long run back from Adak was more than

just a weary blur in Look’s memory. They’d
partied their last night in the inlet near Cape
Yakak, facing Kanaga, all the boats in their
group rafted together in the semi-sheltered bay,
rocking to a slow swell coming in through the
pass.
Rum-’n-cokes, beers, joints, Marlboro packs
mixed in with snack food scraps littering the
table. The two girl cooks made the rounds of the
boat pack, looking for a bunk mate or
threesome, and Look had a chance to dance
belly-to-belly with one, a skinny shag blonde in
torn-off parachute pants and a dago-T top.
Mik radioed back and forth early next
morning and found a place to buy diesel, in case
the Augenblik ran short, with no fuel for nearly
four hundred miles. They’d tied up over at
Adak, that bleak naval outpost, while Mik went
off under escort to sign for the fuel. Two Navy
guards stood in full parade gear, helmets and
l o a d e d r i f l e s , a t t h e Augenblik’s bow and stern.
Look tried joking with the guard at the stern
while they topped off their fuel, recounting his
time in the Seals and Viet Nam. But the guy was
a just cheechako recruit, a BQ rat, and only
wanted to get back inside.
They ran steadily ENE, heading back for
Dutch Harbor, far enough off shore not to have
to constantly watch the radar, close enough to
study the glacier-capped peaks, the steaming
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volcanoes, and the teeming wildlife that is the
Aleutian Chain. At times, great swells rolled on
through, driven by some distant storm far out
on the Pacific, pitch-rolling Augenblik in the
night like a drunken hobby horse.
C h u c k , t h e m a t e , s t e e r e d h e r in behind
Umnak Island after they reached Nikolski. They
dropped the hook, jogging while Look made
breakfast. Fred and Glenn were still sleeping
from the wild wheel watch the night before, so
the three of them dropped the Avon over the
side, and went on ashore.
Mik shot a nice caribou, a couple hundred
pounds of fresh meat, he and Chuck butchered it
up right there as best they could. Look nosed
through an old collapsed bara-bara, finding a
walrus ivory fish hook and some Russian
trading beads in the frozen ground.
Then in the distance they saw three people
moving, riding something, snow-go’s, coming
towards them. They were a party from the
hunting camp, they said, come out from
Nikolski. Mik had killed their caribou. Chuck
pushed forward, protesting the single shot, but
Mik understood what they meant. “Here!” he
handed over a hindquarter, “I’d like you to have
this.”
The Natives’ attitude changed right there, and
they doubled Mik, Chuck and Look back on
their machines, running on into town. The
village was just two rows of pastel-painted
square shacks, sparse and snowpacked, facing
the sea. People were walking around talking,

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women skinning caribou, kid’s running back
and forth. They took Mik, Chuck and Look on
the rounds of the houses, meeting elders,
sipping tea, eating pilot bread and searching for
a common language.
Then one of the young guys spoke the magic
words. A banya was going. “Come on!” he
invited.
They crouched in the outer area, just
driftwood, a plastic tarp and a frozen mud floor,
shucking their clothes. Inside they bent half-
over, and crowded in, sitting on their heels. Mik
and Look both laughed explosively,
remembered the banya at Belle Rouche, and
they chided the Native men to stoke the half-
drum stove higher. Chuck was uncomfortable in
the close-packed space but set his teeth. Look
asked one of the Native men what they found
way out here to burn.
“Pampers and paraffin,” he explained in
monosyllables, and Mik roared even louder at
that.
“Well, stoke it up! Let’s get this cooking!”
The young man went back outside, and began
talking in to the other men in Aleut. The stove
door creaked open outside there, then they
heard a wet flop as he threw a petrol-soaked
Pamper on the fire.
The warm smell of mud and sweat changed to
the stink of diesel, great gouts of vapor pouring
from the cracks in the stove. One of the native
men shouted, and Look tried to yell a warning,
but it was too late. The outer door creaked open
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again, and with it, fresh air. The driftwood
banya cover blew straight up into the air, then a
sheet of golden-red flame flashed across the
crouched pack of men, blowing them, and the
pile of stacked driftwood, naked out across the
snow.
“Who-o-o!” Chuck ran off in a straight line,
the hair on his head singed to a curl, skin bright
red. Mik and Look rolled on the snow, trying to
sooth the pain, then they turned and spotted the
Natives standing there, laughing out loud.
Chuck was running back, frozen wattles
dangling, his legs gone white from the cold.
Fred and Glenn never knew what they missed.
Once they were on the Bering Sea side,
exposed to sudden willowa blasts of bitter wind
a n d d r i f t i n g i c e f l o e s , M i k t o o k Augenblik into
Makushin Bay, right under the great volcano,
and anchored for the night near an abandoned
Aleut village. Look tossed over a prawn pot and
sliced up the caribou liver for dinner, staring
across the sheltered waters of the cove at the old
driftwood huts through the galley porthole. The
crew ate fresh venison until they couldn’t stand,
and then slept the sleep of the dead.
Next morning, their pot was full of five-inch
white-spots, twenty pounds of them, and Look
made a big Caesar salad, served up with
omelets, sweet rolls and strips of tenderloin.
“Eat hearty,” Mik exhorted, crumbs spilling
out his mouth, “tonight we pull back into
Dutch.”

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They made their entrance that afternoon, the
sun clear and strong on the high mountain
headlands protecting the bay entrance, and
unloaded. It wasn’t a big haul, not even
eighteen tons worth. Mik said Look’s share
would be over seven grand, though they still
had to net-out the costs of getting Augenblik b a c k
to Rurik Island. After a little jostling, Mik
moored her outboard of other crabbers at the
Queen of Pacific p r o c e s s o r s h i p , a n d t h e y s h u t
down the engines.
It was home, sure, now they were back among
familiar faces, bars and buddy’s. But Look was
still a prisoner trapped on a floating steel
factory. When he’d been out fishing in Adak, in
t h e p r i s t i n e w i l d e r n e s s , t h e Augenblik f e l t l i k e
she had wings. Now she was off the sea, in port,
rafted out from the processing ship with the
others, her engines dead, it felt like an oily,
stinking, dirty rattrap with no way out.
There was lots of work to do though. The
auxiliary had cracked it’s head, and when they
pulled the bad cylinder out, there was the dark
line on the silvery metal jacket. So there was no
juice, until Look ran a thick cord over to the
boat next to them, stopping to say hello, and
plugged into shore power. He lugged the
a u x i l i a r y h e a d o v e r t o t h e Queen, a n d s e a r c h e d
for her machinist, hoping for a regrind.
The heavy seas had carried away their radio
antenna. Look had to climb up the mast and
work his way back down the forestay, hanging
upside down with a co-ax in his hands, feet

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wrapped around the wire like a three-toed tree
sloth, as he reattached the co-ax with nylon zip-
strips.
That’s when it happened.
The processor ship’s crew was on break up in
the galley, and everyone was staring out at this
human trapeze artist, faces pressed to the
portholes. Hands working in automatic rhythm,
he amused himself by staring back at them,
winking and saluting upside down. Then he saw
her. Pulling himself on up, he wrapped over the
wire, checking again.
No way...it’s not possible!
He slid down the forestay, burning on
through his gloves, hitting the deck in a roll. He
looked again. Their faces were all gone, break
was over. Must’ve been his imagination. He
threw his gloves down and plunged back into
the cabin, slamming the hatch behind him.
Damn! While he fixed dinner for the crew, his
m i n d r a g e d , Tonight I’m gonna go party at the
Elbow and just get fuckin’ blotto!
Later he was lying in his bunk, just showered,
waiting for the roast to finish. Sipping a can of
Coor’s while he jotted passages from the Adak
trip into his notebook. Outside it had gotten
dark, a monotonous rain beat against the hull.
Mik and the crew would be back any minute.
There was the sound of footsteps coming down
the gangway. A familiar face stuck his head in
the cabin, a guy from the boat next door.
“You got a visitor, man!”

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Look saw a slim form in raingear stepping on
around the guy, as he backed away with a “see
ya’,” and a big grin. A hood obscured the face,
shadowing there under the pale overhead light,
then he heard Michelle’s voice whisper a soft,
“Hi!”
Look sat up so fast he cracked his head on the
bunk above him, his mouth open in disbelief.
Shelley was peeling off her raingear, closing the
door behind her, dressed only in sweats, then
dressed in nothing at all.
He swung his legs off the bunk and stood up,
towel falling away, his bone gone fully erect.
They closed the space, lips locking, breathlessly
exploring each other, caressing, unbelieving.
Look picked her up bodily, and they rolled into
his bunk.
They moved in practiced rhythm, drawn up
tight, lips glued together, coarse breathed, his
motion like a tom-tom, pushing deep inside.
“God!” he exploded, then still hard, slowed his
rhythm to her’s, caressing more gently now,
moving their center back and forth, until he felt
the heat rising, the glide of fluid, flushed
tenseness, and her breath quickening.
“Now, love, now!” she moaned, and once
more he rode up high, fast and deep as they
came, a great sob gasping together through their
mashed lips.
Then they lay curled together under the thin
blanket, soaked in sweat, still unbelieving,
kissing, talking and kissing again. “I thought I
saw you this afternoon! It was driving me mad,
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why didn’t you come down to the boat?!” he
asked.
“I knew i t w a s y o u , b u t w e w e r e o n s h i f t ,
foreman would’ve had my ass if they caught
me,” she laughed, teasing his thick beard.
“Really, that was the worst wait of my life,
honey, not knowing for sure.”
“Shell...Shell,” Look kissed her whisker-
burned cheek. “I’ve called you every chance I
got! Where were you? I talked to Cherise, she
said you were with Jack.”
“I was,” Shelley admitted, “I made a mistake,
that’s all,” she shrugged her shoulders. “That
was then, this is now. Do you forgive me?”
Then she was stroking his bone again,
guiding him inside her. They moved more
slowly this time, letting the urge rise, then fall,
each time up a little higher, tensing up a little
tighter, fingers clenched overhead, bridging,
belly to belly, lips locked, grinding.
The tidal wave crashed over them at last, a
hot shudder rippling up their flanks, spawning
an eerie convulsion that passed up through their
bodies, like lightning flashing out into the
ionosphere. They slept then, twined together
like the paired scimitar blades under the gri-gri
palm on Michelle’s lucky coin.

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Twenty Two - Pride and Joy

Mik, Chuck and the rest of the crew had

worked their way from the LunaSea Bar to each
boat in turn, sharing beers and smokes with the
crews, talking about Adak’s catch and the
upcoming Pribilof season. They all knew about
Look’s visitor. Even so, as they ate the caribou
roast buffet up in the galley, their voices
boomed out with laughter, trying to draw Look
and Michelle out so they could get an eyeful.
Their patience was rewarded. Shelley smelled
the meat and heard the laughter, and she shook
Look back awake. “I’m famished, honey!
Haven’t had anything but canned goods, white
rice and frozen burger on the Queen, if you can
call that food!”
Look waved an arm in the air, exhausted, then
dozed off again. Shelley lay on her right side,
head propped up, covers drawn up over her
ripe breasts, laughing at him. “I mean it Look! If
you won’t get up, I’ll go in their myself! Like
this!”
That worked. Grumbling, he dragged on his
sweats and socks. They padded into the galley.
Everyone’s eyes lit up in merriment, then, after
seeing Michelle, in amazement. A whistle
escaped Chuck’s lips. “Jeez, Look, were you
going to keep her all to yourself?” they joked,
wide-eyed. Michelle blushed.
Look half-smiled, looking for coffee and his
smokes. “Yeah, yeah. Shelley, these are the
guys, umm, that’s Mik, Chuck, Fred, Glenn.
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Guys, this is Michelle, my girl.” They all
reached across the table, shaking her hand,
murmuring hello’s, asking where she was from,
making room for her to sit.
“Look, grab a plate for Shelley!” Mik ordered,
and Glenn jumped from the table, turning at the
‘fridge, “What can I get you?” Chuck and Fred
were already making small talk with her. Look
came back with a plate, cup and utensils,
pushing the debris away, setting her a place.
“OK, guys, let her eat,” he pleaded, and after,
as the evening got later, and they all got to
know each other a little, Mik slid a video into
the tape player, Fred popped up some popcorn,
and they sat around watching American Graffiti.
Then the guys took off in pairs, heading on
out to the bars, knowing that Look would want
some time with Michelle before she slipped
b a c k o n b o a r d t h e Queen, and they’d have to
strike on back to sea.
“That was nice, Look, I like the guys,” she
yawned, “I have to get back though, honey, they
want us back onboard, and my shift starts in a
few hours.”
“Ask your roomie to take your shift.”
“I can’t Look, she’s working nights already.”
“Here, give her this,” he slid a tab of
dexadrine into her hand, “and tell her you’ll
i n t r o d u c e h e r t o o n e o f t h e g u y s o n Augenblik .”
Michelle laughed, tussling with him. “Forget
it! I’m going back to the ship, can’t get any sleep
here!”

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“Michelle! OK, listen. Come back early then,
I’ll help you cook breakfast for the crew, maybe
I can talk Mik into letting you work on the
boat.”
“And be your galley wench, eh?”
But he knew she would. They nuzzled awhile
in his bunk, then she had to get back.
“Get your roomie to cover you for tomorrow.
I’ll see you, get here early,” he reminded.
Then she was off running across the slippery
decks, clambering the rails in her rain gear
under the harsh deck lights and hard black
shadows, the diagonal slash of winter rainfall
fading everything to gray.
The next morning Look woke to the sweet
smell of bacon frying. The guys were all back
from the bar, sleeping in the bunks around him.
Probably sleep until noon if Mik let them. Look
pulled on his sweats, and walked up into the
galley. Michelle looked just incredible. Her hair
was longer than he’d recalled, lighter, and tied
back, curling down her sweet curves. Soft plaid
shirt, salt-faded jeans, pair of deck slippers.
Like she’d been working on boats her whole life.
He slipped behind her, cupping her pippin
breasts with his rough hands, then slid them on
down into her 501’s, fumbling at the panty
elastic. Shelley wriggled off, then turned to slap
him a kiss. After a bit, they smelled the toast
burning, and spun back to cooking. Bacon,
omelets, (burnt toast went out the porthole), so
Look whipped up some Bisquik sweet rolls.

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That all set, Look hollered down that
breakfast was ready, as Shelley sliced venison to
go with the meal. Skillets full of julienne onions
and silver-dollar sliced backstrap. Yumm. The
crew trundled up, bleary eyed, nodding to Look
and Shelley. Everyone ate in silence, wolfing the
food, while Mik laid out the day.
“Look, why don’t you, and Shelley if she’s not
on shift, head over to the store and stock up on
what we don’t have, the rest of us will be out in
Back Bay re-rigging the pots we’re renting for
the Pribilof’s.”
“Chuck, take the guys and load the pickup
with our extra line. We leave tomorrow
morning. Look, when you get here, move the
boat over to the fuel dock and gas up. We’ll
haul these pots up to the grounds this trip,” Mik
waved his arm to the back deck, “there’s a
loading wharf in the Bay, we’ll load there and
haul the rented pots up on our next trip. Any
questions?”
“I’ll need some money for filters, we’re down
to the last ones,” Look reported. “I should
change them out. I’ll go ahead and change the
oil on the main before we move over to refuel.
The auxiliary head is holding pressure OK now.
Guess that steel epoxy putty works!” he
l a u g h e d . “ T h e m a c h i n i s t o n t h e Queen reground
the head, and we’re ready to roll.”
Chuck, Fred and Glenn chimed in with their
requests for beer, pop, candy and smokes for the
next trip. That brought up the other question.

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“You guys, Michelle cooked breakfast, what
do you think about her going as our cook for
this Pribilof season,” Look asked with shrugged
shoulders and an offhand manner, just in case
they laughed at him.
Fred piped up, “Sure!” and Glenn ribbed him,
“You’d like that!” Chuck was circumspect,
thinking about the crew’s interaction, how it’d
affect their crew shares. “I don’t mind. Up to
Mik, I guess,” he added.
Mik cut it off. “Not this trip, Look. We’re just
moving pots, and while we’re gone, Michelle
s h o u l d t h i n k a b o u t w h e t h e r she wants to go.”
Michelle smiled as they all padded off to get
dressed, still hopeful she could change Mik’s
mind, “I’m making a special meal for you guys
tonight!”
Then she and Look suited up in their
raingear, and headed off to the store. When they
got back, the crew was long gone, and they were
alone on the boat again. Tired. Shelley helped
him load groceries in the ‘fridge, and then she
fixed themselves some lunch while Look went
below and changed the filters and oil. After they
ate, still time to refuel, they lazed in the
wheelhouse as the afternoon sun warmed in
through the ports.
Look nuzzled Michelle, doubled up there in
the heavy padded captain’s chair, as they stared
out at the busy harbor before them. The hills
around the town were shrouded in snow, setting
off the dark gray timbers of Unalaska’s tiny huts
against the powder.
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“So tell me, what’re Lou and Dianne up to?”

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Twenty Three - Delta Blues

Jacques groaned, rolling out of bed, shuffling

slowly into the kitchen, past the mess in the
dining room, the pile of bottles and ashtrays,
used decks of cards, the chip rack. He’d called a
couple of the clients over last night, lifting
enough to pay for Lou’s bail, and for his
responsibilities to Michelle. The first thing he’d
do, when they got back in from Chicago, would
be to drop Lou off, and then bring Michelle
home.
To Little Osage, where she belonged.
He missed the old days, her animal eroticism,
her common sense, her hard work. He envied
Look, for having won her. He’d seen her spirit
soar with him, both of them so free and
spontaneous, alive. He wanted that too. Now
Look was gone, Michelle would be his again.
Like before. Only more.
Jacques wiped his hands through his graying
hair, pulling it back into a tight ponytail, and
rubbed at the coarse bristle of beard he’d been
growing. He looked like a hippie pawnbroker!
Bon! The beard has to go once she comes home. T h e n
the phone rang, as though Michelle had been
reading his mind.
“Jack, it’s me, Shell. Lou’s up on possession,
with three prior’s. The Defender said he could
get him easy time if he pleads guilty, but Lou
says they have no evidence and wants to go not
guilty. He wants out, can’t hack County. The

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judge set bail at twenty-five hundred, I think
they want to cut him loose.”
Michelle, Michelle, Jacques thought, picturing
her standing there, desiring her more at a
distance.
“I’ll call my bondsman, they’ll get money up
to you. Let me know when they’re ready to
release, I’ll come up and get you both,” adding,
“You can stay here, Michelle.” Priming the
pump.
Michelle knew that. She knew exactly what
her options were, that Jacques would need her
to rebuild his fortunes, recover the lost bail
once Lou skipped. Look was gone, maybe
forever. She’d better hit the ground running, it
was time to pay the piper.
“OK. See you, love....” She owed him that
much, for picking her up that day in San
Francisco.
Shelley hung up, and walked back to her table
at the Public Library. It was better than nothing
while she waited for Lou to get released. At
least there was a Chinese book collection, she
could read and dream, her lurid fantasies more
real than those of other girls her age, wandering
through Marshall Fields in search of something
new. Michelle had never been like that, wasn’t
in her blood, that suburban shopping thing.
So she lost herself in the stacks, half enjoying
the few day’s solitude before she re-entered her
former life, with Jacques’s demands and Saltie’s
needs. That last time with Look had been almost
maudlin. He’d been so beat down and abused,
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she’d felt so exhausted and used. They each had
little to give, little to receive. Morning found
them still asleep, leaning together, oblivious to
the hospital staff. Then he’d run again.
Later she took the Ell south to the Red Star
Hotel near Chicago Circle. A slice of pizza, and
cup of coffee with the late edition of the Sun
Times, she spent the next two days in a limbo,
hovering between the austere Public Library
and her little Circle in the sun. Then Lou was
out, and for a few hours they walked around,
until he lost the shakes and roseyed up a bit.
Jacques met them later that day downtown.
Lou sat down at the counter of the hamburger
joint across from the Art Institute, watching as
Jacques and Michelle, hand in hand, crossed
over the traffic. Just waiting until rush hour was
over before they drove back, they’d left him
there to go linger on fine art, such as it was. The
dour waitress took his order, double chocolate
malt, onion rings, double cheese with fries,
smirking at his eyebrow ring.
Let her smirk, L o u s h r u g g e d , i t h a d s a v e d h i s
ass in the slammer, he’d held his own. It’s
insane in there nowadays, but the eyebrow ring
put the hardcases off. He shrugged, wolfing
down the burger and mopping up a half bottle
of ketchup with the fries and onion rings.
Slurping on the malt, he limped to the phone,
his crotch an agony of stitches, pads and tape.
He dialed the house, but there was no answer.
Then he called down to Krager’s. The manager
said Dianne didn’t work there anymore.

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Oh shit! Now we’ve really got money problems!
Lou swallowed his pride and called her folks,
Thomas and Kathy Mably. Thomas was OK, but
slow-speaking, a Lutheran minister, and Lou
liked Kathy, but man, could she talk a blue
streak! Preacher’s wife, you know. Dumb luck,
he got Thomas.
Dianne listened in the kitchen as her father
went and answered the phone. She was eating
on her own now, hair all stringy, lying in a blue
cotton bathrobe, watching General Hospital with
her mom. Still kind’a numb, doctor’s had said
she might have permanent brain damage, and
they were still running scans on her vitals for
liver failure.
It’d been close, he’d said, whoever called 911 and
propped her up had saved her life.
Look had, she knew that, and she loved him
for it. Look so gentle and kind. Where had they
gone that night? She couldn’t remember. Saltie’s,
then what?
Oh well....
Lou was trying to work around Thomas, but
he wasn’t buying it. “Listen, mister, you just
forget about Dianne! We trusted you, we took
you into our home! See what you’ve done to
her!? She almost died! Dianne doesn’t need
losers like you in her life!”
He hung up. Lou slammed the payphone
down, cursing, then plugged another coin in the
box. It rang and rang unanswered. He wandered
back to his booth, staring the other patrons
who’d heard him curse.
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Fuck them! What the fuck was that old man
babbling about, ‘almost died’?
He smoked a Marlboro, made one more call to
Dianne’s, and then slugged down one cup of
coffee after another, until the afternoon wore on
and he was staring at an empty pack of smokes
and a full bladder. Outside, Michelle and
Jacques were walking down the sidewalk
toward him. Jacques had his arm around her,
pulling her tight against the chill.
Yeah, I can see what he’s after, L o u s m i r k e d , s a d
at that memory long ago, when he’d been young
and Michelle younger, and they’d both toyed at
the great mystery themselves, back the first time
they’d met. Then he’d become more like her
replacement brother.
Jacques steered Michelle across Michigan and
into the hamburger joint. It’d been a great
afternoon, she was open and light-hearted, the
fine art and literature her favorite pastime.
Tres bien! She’s ripe for this, h e s m i l e d , w a r m i n g
at the thought of a regular lover again, instead
of just the occasional night out, the cat’s cradle
game.
Lou was waving, getting up, shuffling to the
m e n ’ s r o o m . It must hurt like hell, his wound ,
Jacques winced, then turned to Shelley, “You
want anything, ‘cheri, I ’ m g o n n a h a v e a c u p o f
coffee, then we can hit the road.”
Michelle looked up at him from the booth,
smiling, her blue-green eyes sparkling. “No, I’m
fine.” Jacques was wonderful, adept at three
languages, the nuances of culture on the
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Continent as well as the Mississippi. He took
small pleasures gratefully, knew hers as well,
and how to provide. Her fears of before had
dissolved at the Art Institute. They had a past,
they were good lovers, and worked well
together. A middle-aged man has all the
advantages, and none of the disadvantages. He
u n d e r s t o o d t h a t i n t u i t i v e l y . It’ll be easy to stay
happy with Jacques, ….until Look gets free, she
mused.
Lou was tottering back as Jacques passed him
on the way to the payphone. Michelle watched
as he patted Lou on the shoulder, exchanging a
few words, then Lou let himself down in the
booth with a groan.
“How’re you feeling, Lou?” she sympathized,
“is your circulation getting better?”
He looked away, trying to be dignified, then
laughed explosively, head tilted back, “Fu-u-u-
ck! It itches like hell!” They chuckled and she
put her hand on his. “Really, you OK?”
Lou smiled, “I wanted to thank you and Jack
for bailing me. Don’t think I can go back
though.”
“You’ll pay him back. D’you call Dianne?”
Lou’s face darkened, and he dropped his
gaze. “Her mom says she took an overdose
Tuesday night, and blames me. Her dad
wouldn’t let me talk to her, then when I called
again, her mom asked me to hold off. Guess
she’s pretty messed up.”
“She’s OK though, isn’t she?”

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“Yeah,” Lou reassured her, “Maybe a little
light in the head for awhile is all.”
Jacques came back then and sat. “So are you
ready to roll, Lou?” he wondered, “Anything
else you’d like now that you’re outside?”
Lou stared him straight in the eye. “Yeah, I’d
like to not have to go back. Thanks for bailing
me.”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders, “Up to you,
but pay me back!” And that was it. They all
knew Lou would skip. Anyone who’s been
inside would never ask a friend to do the time
just to save a buck or two.
The long drive back was boring, the Interstate
after Joliet just a straight shot to Springfield,
with a little jink at Bloomington. Nothing but
corn and soy. Lou took his prescription and
slept, free and clear, alive again. Michelle
cuddled up next to Jacques, safe, protected.
Jacques just boomed along down the road, a
whole man, the ruler of all he surveyed.
They dropped Lou at his house. Will had
moved in, cleaned up the place and taking care
of things until someone got back. He helped
Lou up the steps like a big brother, waving at
Michelle as they drove away.
The trip back to Little Osage went quicker.
Michelle stretched out and slept the whole way
there, her head on Jacques’s lap while he
stroked her hair with his free hand. He woke
Shelley in the parking lot, carried her across the
threshold, and helped her up the steps,

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undressing in the dark upstairs bedroom where
she’d first been with Look.
Jacques was tender, taking his time, tracing
his nails down the curve of her belly, nuzzling
gently at her thighs. After awhile Michelle
forgot, and began to moan, rocking her hips
gently, holding his head down, then pulling him
up and in with a sigh.
Together they rode off into the sunset.

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Twenty Four - Ashes to Ashes

Michelle sat up suddenly. The wheelhouse

was closing in on her, past and present all
mixed up. Look was gazing expectantly, setting
sun etching his raw- boned face in red-gold,
highlighting his dark smiling eyes. “So what
happened after you dropped Lou off?”
Shelley gulped, “Hey, gotta get dinner
going!”
Look followed her, helping her peel the steak
packs, quarter the potatoes, slice the vegetables.
A blue plate special, rich gravy from the
morning’s fry-up, the steaks broiled just right,
potatoes boiled then mashed, broccoli steamed
to perfection with cheese, ice cold 6-pack. Mik
and the crew were late, they must have gone out
to the bar on the way back.
Look and Shelley laid back on the galley
bench, half-watching the video. “Come’on,
Shell,what happened to everyone?”
“Lou came by a week later with Dianne,” she
continued, skipping a stanza or two, “they
dropped by Saltie’s in the afternoon. Said
Dianne was entering drug-rehab, the district
attorney told her he’d erase her record if she
cleaned up. So it was their last night together
before she checked in at the Hamilton clinic,
you know, Springfield’s politician’s all go there
to dry out?” Shelley shuddered, “Look, you
know that you actually have to sign yourself in,
to commit yourself, and they don’t have to
release you! Isn’t that sick!?”
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“So what happened to her and Lou, are you
telling me they’re straight now!? I don’t believe
it!”
“No, Lou’s still Lou!” Shelley laughed. “But
Dianne met a St. Louis accountant in the clinic,
an alcoholic. I guess they were truth-or-dare
buddies at twelve-steps. She told me he gave
her a fixed point of reference, and she gave him
a shoulder to cry on. Anyway, they both got
better, and then got married. Lou found out
from her father, a couple of days later. They
were in Tahoe on their honeymoon. She called
me from St. Louis just three weeks ago. Guess
she’s real happy now.”
Look stared out the porthole, his jaw muscles
churning, wondering if Dianne had remembered
their night together, if their fling had started her
down the road away from Lou. And he
wondered too if she had told Michelle, if that’s
why she went back to Jacques.
“I know, babe, it’s hard when people change,”
Shelley rubbed his shoulder with her hand.
“Lou took it pretty hard, her not telling him. He
gave everything to Jack for the bond, then took
off for Oakland. Said he wanted to stretch his
legs awhile.”
“Lou?!” Look stared hard at her, “Gone?!”
Shelley recounted, “We got the warrant for
his arrest a couple of days after he split, then a
postcard from out in Elko, you know, Nevada?
A jack-a-lope, have you ever seen one of those
cards? He said he was fine, and heading on into
Truckee that night.” Shelley paused. “Hope he
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never made it to Oakland, though, that’s no
place you’d want to try to start over in.”
“So how’d you find me out here then?” Look
puzzled, wondering if he’d ever run into Lou
again.
“Your weirdo note, don’t you remember it?”
Shelley laughed, nuzzling at his neck, sliding
her left hand inside his drawers, tickling just
enough to get a rise, “Lou showed me.”
Look blanked out, then suddenly laughed
too. He’d forgotten the scribbled card he’d sent
leaving Rurik, wanting at least someone from
h o m e t o k n o w w h e r e h e w a s b o u n d f o r , “ Lou and
Dianne. Alaska’s great! Heading out West on a crab
boat as engineer cook. Say hi to Shelley for me,”
s i g n i n g i t , a l i a s e d , “ I Am!”
He rolled on his side on the narrow bench,
clutching Michelle by the hips, drawing her
roughly up against him, pressing hard against
her. There’s a Dutch word for it, gemuss, y o u
know, just wanting to eat someone up. He
kissed her softly, “Can we start again where we
left off?”
She smiled, tears glistening her eyes, “ We
never finished, babe, I couldn’t stop thinking
about you, Look!” Then laughing, “but can we
go to bed? I’m getting a cramp!” Like giggling
school kids, they scribbled out a note to the
crew, her cook job all but forgotten, then raced
for his bunk.
The sun dropped below the horizon into a
blue-black dusk, and the lights of Unalaska

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village winked like Christmas tree lights against
the pale gray snow.
Back in Little Osage, it’s already past midnight,
Shelley thought, waking when Mik and his crew
came in, listening to them eat and joke,
complementing her cooking. She smiled when
she heard Mik sum it up, “Yeah, after this next
trip, I’ll let her cook for us.”
Then everyone was snoring in their bunks
around her, and it was her shift on the Queen in a
few hours anyway, so she slipped out, kissing
Look, then ran back to the processor. She didn’t
want to blow it by missing her shift and being
AWOL too.
But the tiny ship cabin was stuffy, her
roommate was from San Diego and couldn’t
stand the icy draft from the porthole. So the
space became unbearably hot, the constant whir
and clank of the ship’s bowels disturbing.
Shelley meditated on Illinois, sleepless,
recalling how she came to be up here in Alaska.
Once Jacques had brought her home and she’d
settled in, they had to get Saltie’s going again,
had to get cash flow back, build up the bank, get
the card room playing again before he lost all
his clientele. So they sat together one night after
dinner, going through Jacques’s insurance
commissions and his cosmetics sales receipts,
figuring out the most likely downline income
he’d derive. It wasn’t enough.
Jacques took the plunge. “Michelle, I don’t
want you to have to go through what I did, and

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think you don’t either, selling insurance and
cosmetics.”
“Hey, we’re in this together,” she protested,
“I’ll make this work, just tell me what I have to
do!”
“ N o , ‘cheri. No. I’ve got a better idea. I’ve
been working on this since we got shaved. It’s a
sales plan, for real estate. You know, things are
growing now that the vets are all back and
working. We could sell them a business plan for
buying up defaulted real estate! It’s The
American Dream!”
Shelley had no idea what he was talking
about, guessing, “Like, Simple Simon? Show me
a dollar and you can smell my pie?”
“Something like that,” Jacques smiled.
In just weeks they had the fulfillment
packages put together and some advertising
going on the local radio stations. Jacques’s
circuit went through down-State, evening
meetings, pep rallies sort of, he got those
narrow-minded farmers really thinking big.
Made them into fishers of men.
Word-of-mouth works wonders.
Before long their meetings were packed with
just about every businessman and farmer in the
whole region, listening with bated breath to his
well-heeled plan for growing rich in real estate,
and wiping their foreheads as they google-eyed
Michelle’s supple body.
Jacques would open with a flourish, flashing
c-notes, whirling Michelle on the stage before

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their gawking faces, then at the closer, he’d arch
her back so they all got a good look at her
pomegranate breasts.
The Good Life, any fool could see, lay in real
estate!
Jacques had discovered the formula for
success in the eighties. Money and sex. Real or
imagined, hey, it didn’t matter. The seventies
had been all disco, drugs and sex, the eighties
would be about sex and money. You play, you
pay. His Make a Million! real estate scam sold
like hot cakes. It even impressed people it
shouldn’t have impressed at all. His clientele at
the Capitol began calling up, asking for a piece.
So he thought about it for awhile, and took
the logical step. For a share of the MaM action,
he asked the Governor’s State Property Division
Manager for a simple favor. You see, Jacques
wanted him to grant a state-contract to build
and run a vet rehab clinic.
The concept was blood simple, and perfectly
legal. He still held the lease on a corner store in
Springfield, the one he’s been reborn from long
ago. Jacques called Sammy and his father over
one night, mid-week, and offered to sell it to
them, explaining his scheme. They would buy
up the place, then evict the tenants, now a
convenience store. Jacques would get them a
contract to rebuild the old store into a halfway-
house, and lease it back to the State.
But there’s more.
His mother’s family physician, Doctor
Kendall, was retired down in Baton Rouge. The
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white-haired old man had agreed to run the
clinic. It was foolproof! What Jacques didn’t tell
them was this. He’d get a consulting fee, sales
commission and a big percentage of the net from
the good doctor. Fair is fair. Jacques was well on
his way to becoming filthy rich.
Things went like clockwork. They always do
when you know people with easy money in high
places. The clinic was set to open at the New
Year’s, after the remodeling was done. With the
income from the real estate investment
confidence scam, Jacques had a deal going that
would put him on easy street.
“Ahh, Michelle!” he crooned to her that night,
a f t e r t h e p a p e r s h a d a l l b e e n s i g n e d . “ Bon
cheance! We’re set now!” She wore the red silk
kimono Jacques had given her, casually open,
the gentle musk of her expensive perfume
rustling the fabric. They lounged on the big
settee in his upstairs smoking room, languidly
sorting the documents, his arm over her
shoulder, caressing her gumdrop nipples.
Jacques brought out a bottle of ‘49
Rothchild’s, soda crackers and a little tin of
B e l u g a o n a D e l f t d i s h . “ C h e e r s , ‘cheri!” Shelley
downed a whole tumblerful. Then she unzipped
his fly, licking him up hard with a shy pensive
smile. Made him take her, legs akimbo,
coughing up right there on the Karistan.
But their celebration, like the sex, hadn’t
lasted. It never does. With big money comes big
management responsibilities, commitments,
protecting what’s won. Michelle saw a side of

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Jacques she’d never noticed before, in the days
of fighting their way up, satisfied just to have
things go right.
He was on the phone now all the time,
planning every step, the next door to open up
for him. Saltie’s seemed like a nostalgia trip,
something tired, jaded, his father’s. Jacques was
born again, a virile moneyed man, with a lovely
fine young mistress.
Their phone rang night and day.
At first Shelley hadn’t minded, it wasn’t about
the sex anyway. More about setting things right
again, winning back her future. After awhile
though, the hustle and aimlessness took its toll,
and she began to enjoy the rich buzz of fine
wines, the good doctor’s methadone, soft
unfocused blur of assured success.
Without even noticing, her life was slipping
away, one cotton candy day after another.
But not for long.
She’d crashed out on the smoking room
couch, in the middle of the day, when Will
called up from Springfield, “Michelle, there was
this guy down here asking about Look. Called
him Michael Sumpter. Some kind of grease-ball
in a suit, know what I mean? Sammy was here
and heard his accent. He says the guy has to be
from Chicago.”
Shelley sat up fast, a cold sweat beading on
her forehead. “What’d the guy want? What’d he
say?”

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“Oh, some bullshit about insurance. Look’s
auto insurance was about to lapse, wanted to
make sure he kept his coverage with winter
coming on. Real pushy dude, kept working the
conversation around to where was Michael
living now.”
“Oh, God! What’d he look like?”
“Like a goombah!” Will laughed again, “Don’t
worry, we didn’t tell him anything. ‘Never heard
o f h i m ’ , y o u k n o w , I f l i p p e d h i m o f f l i k e i n Easy
Rider.”
Jake Maribino wasn’t put off so easily. He was
back on his feet now, had the license from
Look’s truck through his connections downstate,
it wasn’t too hard to nose around Springfield as
an insurance agent, or a skip tracer, or as a
what-have-you. Next stop the City Recorder’s
office, then on to the landlord’s place.
“Sir, Michael Sumpter had some money in an
old savings account,” Jake introduced himself to
the landlord and his wife. He was just running a
trace, he said, trying to get the money back to
Michael. “This address here was Michael’s last
known residence, I’m sure he’d be grateful,”
handing over the slip of paper, hinting there
might be something in it for them.
They looked at each other, and again at Jake’s
card. It seemed legitimate, Northern Trusts
Associates, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago. The guy
was well-dressed. The landlord pleaded to his
wife with his eyes, and she waved him forward
with her hand, scolding.

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“OK, won’t you come in a minute, sir, I’ll get
a copy of the original rental agreement. That
used to be our own home before we retired, did
you know that?” the man puttered in his desk,
searching. Jake smiled like the Cheshire cat.
It hadn’t been as much help as he thought,
nothing really to go on. Some guy named Louis
Balfour, and his ‘wife’ Dianne. No mention of a
Michael. But he’d gotten their references, one of
them Dianne’s parents, and after stopping at a
bar to use the head and to call back to
Debolepesco, Jake checked in the white pages,
and took a ride over to the Mably house east of
town.
“Ahh, hello, ma’am, my name’s Jake
Masterson, I’m with Northern Trusts?” he
smiled wanly, trying to appear mealy mouthed
despite his great bulk.
Kathy Mably shied back from the screen as
her husband Thomas pushed his way into the
porch light. “Yes, sir, can I help you? What is
this in regards to?”
Then Jake came right to the point. Michael
had money coming to him from a trust, and he
hadn’t left a forwarding address when he’d left
town. Jake talked to the current tenants, and
they’d told him to try over here at Dianne’s, just
trying to help out.
“Our daughter isn’t here, she’d married now,
moved out of state,” Thomas clipped dryly.
“Sorry, sir,” then he turned away, reaching to
close the door.

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Jake’s shoulders sagged. Just another dead
end. He’d never nail this lead. Then he tried one
last trick, greed. “Excuse me, sir, it’s important!
You see, his uncle has left him a very large sum
of money in trust. And, sir, I’m sure there’d be a
gratuity for helping!”
Thomas Mably stood reserved as any preacher
would be, but inside he was all sulfur and
brimstone. Dianne had told about Look, after
she remembered it, what he’d done with her, to
her that night. God! There was an awkward
pregnancy to deal with now, and her new
husband was sure to wonder if the birth seemed
p r e m a t u r e . That whole miserable bunch, that skinny-
ass’d Lou and his Zapadda punks. Now this new boy,
Michael!
It was more than his self-righteousness could
bear, To think that gypsy bastard has a windfall
coming to him! J a k e ’ s o f f e r o f a t i p p u s h e d h i m
over the edge. Thomas wasn’t some damn
concierge! “You can find him out at Jacques
Desaultel’s Tavern, off the Havana road, 136,
northwest of here,” he trembled with rage,
“That’s where he hangs out, with some bar girl
who works there,” then he added, “and tell him
for me I know what he did to my daughter!”
Jake hummed a tune to himself as he drove
out of Springfield, into the setting sun, bathed
a l l i n r e d . A Taste of Honey, h e k a r a o k e ’ d , g i v i n g
it a little Al Hirt belt on bass line, “a taste, so
m u c h sweetah than wine!”
Michelle was tending bar as the weekend
crowd started to filter in. Jake walked up, and

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his sharp suit put her off when he asked for
Jacques. A client? She said he’d have to wait,
but he just smiled. Didn’t have anyplace he
needed to go now! She was right, it was all just
a matter of waiting….
Then he started asking about Michael, and
S h e l l y m a d e t h e c o n n e c t i o n . Oh God! It’s Chicago
all right....
Jake kept hanging around, and so she took off
for her sister’s next morning, slipping quietly
out of bed as Jacques slept. Jeannette and Bo
took her in without any questions, and since
they didn’t have a telephone way out there,
nobody was the wiser.
Ten days later, her ticket in hand, Michelle
was on a plane leaving ORD, heading for the
Aleutians.

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Twenty Five - Go For It

Augenblik left before dawn the next morning.

L o o k j u m p e d o v e r t o t h e Queen t o t e l l S h e l l e y
that Mik said she could have the cook job, but
she was on shift.He ended up asking Nadine,
her cabin-mate, if she’d tell Michelle for him.
“Sure...,” she waved her hand, still half
asleep, teasing Look with her saucey profile,
“...see you.”
Then they were off, heading across the Bering
Sea, already whipped to a scudding chop by the
fierce north wind. Mik was hoping for a lull in
the weather before the real cold set in, so they
could move the pots without danger. It took
thirty hour’s run to reach Saint George Island,
then drop their crabpots in a double string,
unbaited, the doors tied open, along an arc just
south of the island, semi-protected from any big
floes drifting down from the Norton Sound pack
ice.
“We’ll just get the pots out there for now,
then bait ‘em up on the next run, and pull ‘em
once the season opens,” Mik explained to Look
on the way. The rest of the crew already knew
the drill, so it was an easy trip, more like
shooting clay pigeons than hard work.
But on the way back they got caught in a
blow, wind gusting up over seventy knots. Mik
took over the wheel as the crew wedged
themselves tight into the galley benches as best
they could, heads rolling back and forth in the
wrenching swell, running off downwind. The
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boat fell from one huge wave to the next in a
gut-churning rough ride.
First it’s that devilish little roll, you know,
the last clickity-clack on a roller-coaster? Then
weightlessness, plunging down, bow burying
into the next wave with a shock, steep following
seas driving her down, deep, shuddering. Green
water swallowed the bridge ports again and
a g a i n a s Augenblik t r i e d t o r i s e u p .
Other boats hadn’t been so lucky. They
listened to the crackling VHS radio as the
crabbers chattered back and forth. One said he’d
been plowing through forty-foot waves with a
full load of pots, heavy sea spray freezing on
the pot webbing, making their boat wallow, top-
heavy, the crew out on deck beating ice off with
baseball bats. There were other stories, worse.
‘Mayday, mayday, mayday...” came over the
radio as the sun lightened the sky. Look and
Chuck listened to the relay of directions back to
the Coast Guard rescue, between bursts of static
and the other boats squawking. “...we’re down
at the stern, rolling seventy, and the...!” Then
there was silence.
Look’s mouth watered with a sharp metallic
taste, vision blurring. Felt like he’d been gut-
punched, that same vertigo and powerlessness.
He pushed up off the bench, running for the
back deck. Chuck saw him first, blocking his
way, plastic bucket in hand.
“Puke in here if you’re going to, you’re not
going out on deck in this blow!” his stern face
creased with compassion. They’d all been there,
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everyone has a point where they hurl. Some
can’t take the slow roll of big ships, and some
puke up on crab boat’s hobby horse. Old-time
skippers, their sea legs no good on land, blow
lunch when they tie back up at the dock!
Look puked until his stomach turned inside
out, kneeling there in the passageway between
galley and backdeck, holding the bucket with
his knees. After a bit Mik came back to see how
he was, Chuck holding the helm. Glenn and Fred
just sat there, eyes staring straight at the
horizon, unseeing, zomed out.
“Are you OK?” Mik offered, helping him
stand up again. Then he popped off down the
ladder into the engine room to check the roaring
diesels. Coming back up, he caught a lurching
roll, and tripped on the bucket. The acrid stink
of vomit spun up into the galley, and Mik
leaned against the bulkhead, his eyes blearing,
roping out saliva as he gagged.
Pots and pans were clanging around,
bouncing along the deck, the galley table a mess
of rolling coffee cups and tipped-over ashtrays.
They braced there, the two of them, Look and
Mik mopping up with towels, then wedged the
hatch open enough to throw the mess out on
deck. Up in the wheelhouse, Chuck whooped in
glee, holding up his free hand rodeo style as
Augenblik p i t c h e d a l o n g t h r o u g h t h e h e a v y s e a s .
Mik ran them in behind Round Island, just a
small green blip on the radar against a ragged
tapestry of huge waves, but enough hard
ground to hold on a hook and break up the

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swell. They spent a sleepless night, main rev’d
low, jogging in place to keep the anchor from
dragging, or worse, parting the line.
At least the roller-coaster ride was over.
Next morning the wind ratcheted down a
notch, and then toward afternoon, Fred made the
headlands on his watch, and an hour or so later
they were out of the heavy swell, moving on
into the calmer waters of Unalaska Bay. Man!
Home has never looked so good..., Look thought, the
rolling hills imprinting on his mind like a
h o m i n g p i g e o n , ...home from the sea.
A raft of boats were tangled up on the
processors, with everyone coming in from the
s t o r m . T h e y g o t Augenblik t i e d u p a s b e s t t h e y
could at the loading wharf, then Look set off
toward town. The gale wind whipped and
tugged, throwing him offbalance as he walked
bent over, sleety rain pelting him sideways.
Shelley was just finishing her shift, sitting in
the Queen’s big galley, drinking coffee with
Nadine and avoiding eye contact with the
horndogs prowling on the upper decks. Then
Look was standing there, dripping in his
raingear, and she ran to him.
“You’re back! How’d it go? This storm is
awful, isn’t it?” she chimed, hugging him tight.
“Hey, baby,” was all Look could muster.
They hopped a ride in the back of a passing
pickup truck and rode out to the wharf. The
crew had already straightened the mess up,
battened everything down, then taken off for the
bars, just Mik and Chuck left, playing cribbage
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when they walked in. Shelley went to fix dinner,
fancy sauerbraten caribou, baby carrots she
whittled off the ends of some Nantes she found
in the cooler, rotecole, r e d c a b b a g e i n s w e e t - s o u r
sauce, and boiled potatoes with caraway.
“It’s Dutch,” she explained to Mik while the
meat braised, “or German, I’m not sure which,
but it’s good, you’ll like it.”
Mik and Chuck started planning the next run.
They’d take the rented pots up, bait them along
with the pots they’d left soaking, then they’d
hide behind Saint George until the season
opened. That way they could start pulling crab
right off the get go.
Look and Michelle went out on the backdeck.
The storm clouds had parted, the clear air
rippling milky bands of sparkling stars, a thin
crescent moon setting huge next to a bright
evening star. Augenblik s q u a t t e d l o w o n t h e b l a c k
water, or maybe it was just the ring of high
jagged peaks around them.
Look ran his hand up under her flannel shirt,
caressing, feeling her nipples harden. Michelle
let him. “Did Nadine tell you that Mik said you
could go?” he breathed warm into her scalloped
ear as they leaned on the tafrail, gazing out
across the silent bay.
“I already told my shift crew boss I’m leaving,
when does Mik want me to move my stuff in?”
Shelley wondered, “and where do I sleep?” she
teased him.
“I don’t know, let’s ask,” they headed back in.

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Then the food was ready, and they sat down
together. Shelley uncovered the platters and
their rich smells filled the galley. Mik got up all
of a sudden and went to his cabin, returning
w i t h a m a g n u m o f s a k é.
“Traded for this with a Japanese buyer we
tied up to during halibut. Was saving it for a
special night, or Christmas, whichever came
first,” he popped the cork. “Well, tonight’s a
special night.”
Chuck found some candles, and they turned
off the auxiliary, killing all the lights, and lit the
tapers. It was an eerie transformation. When the
Augenblik was off the sea, tied up, with the
generator throbbing the deck plates, she seemed
less a boat and more a factory.
Now in the dark and soft candlelight, her
wood paneling snapped out in warm relief, and
the gleam of the brass porthole over the sink
l e n t a s p e c i a l f l a i r t o t h e a t m o s p h e r e . Augenblik
was a beautiful boat, hand fitted by the best
shipwrights at the end of the steam ship era,
before the heyday of modern steel.
M i k c a p t u r e d t h e m o m e n t , “ T o t h e Augenblik !
May she sail the seas for another fifty years.”
Everyone raised their glasses.
“And to Michelle for this great meal,” Look
added with a nod in her direction.”
“Here, here!” Chuck seconded.
Then the alarms went off.
“Grab a flashlight!” Mik ordered, his face
grave. The overhead lights weren’t coming on.

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He flipped the switches again. Nothing. “We’ve
got problems, let’s get down below!” he
shouted, “Shelley, stay here.”
Look and Chuck grabbed a flashlight of their
own, as they ran into the galleyway and threw
open the hatch to the engine room. In the harsh
beam of the flashlight, all they could see was
d a r k o i l y w a t e r . T h e Augenblik was sinking right
at the dock!
Mik pushed past down the ladder, then Chuck
and Look followed. The main engine was near
submerged. Odd boxes and oil cans washed
slowly back and forth as they pushed their way
through the bone-numbing seawater to the stern.
Mik dove under, while Look and Chuck played
their lights in the darkness, watching as he
worked his hands around the shaft.
He popped back up, sputtering.
“It’s not the shaft-alley, can’t feel a leak in the
stuffing box, let’s check the overboards, you’ll
have to dive under to find them.”
The ice’y water was chest deep against him as
Look worked down one side and Chuck down
the other, diving, probing with their hands, eyes
burning from the diesel and lube oil floating on
the bilgewater. Look found it first, the rush of
turbulent water pushing against his hand at the
through-hull.
“I’ve got it, bring me some rags and a stick!”
Mik waded over with a mop, Chuck plucked
up some oil rags from the floating siwash.

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“Break off the mop handle!” Look shouted,
and in the wild darkness, broken only by their
flashlight beams, Mik, Chuck and Look fought
to plug the hole. Then they stood there together,
soaked to the bone and shivering with cold,
laughing.
“That was close!” Chuck bit off.
Michelle was standing by the hatchway when
they came up, and Look said straightoff what
happened.
“We lost a through-hull fitting, should’ve
checked the engine room after we tied up, but
w e w e r e a l l s i c k a s d o g s . A l m o s t l o s t Augenblik !
You go into town and find Fred and Glenn at the
Elbow, tell them, round up a trash pump and
get back out here, OK?”
“Are you all right?” she asked, but they were
already stripping down, digging for clean
clothes, trying to get warm again.
“Go on, Shelley! We’ve got to stay, pump her
out with the gusher on the back deck.”
“You want me to come back?”
“No! Stay on the Queen. I ’ l l c o m e g e t y o u i n
the morning,” Look strode quickly to her,
steaming in his skivvies, his massive chest
heaving, and threw an iron arm around her
waist, tight, “Now go!”
They worked all night at the manual gusher
on deck, pumping out the hold. Fred and Glenn
found a trash pump and got there just at dawn,
and with two streams, they were sucking air by
mid-morning. Mik and Look went below to

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assess the damage, and then they sat there
glumly at the galley table, littered with their
plates of half-eaten sauerbraten a n d c o l d rotecole,
stubbed out cig’s and empty Dr. Pepper bottles.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Mik summed it
up. “The garboard is leaking, the through-hulls
are all corroding off, I cracked the radiator hose
fittings and tasted saltwater, I think the keel
cooler got damaged at Round Island. They’re
going to let us on the grid this afternoon at high
tide, we’ll check that, and we can work tonight
recaulking,” he coached, “Now let’s try and
make this season opener, OK!?”
Look broke the news to Shelley while the
crew moved the boat around to town. “See if
y o u c a n g e t y o u r j o b b a c k o n t h e Queen. We’re
going to be stuck here for awhile. I don’t want
you on the next trip, not until we see if
Augenblik ’ s g o i n g t o m a k e i t . ”
Michelle started to protest, but saw the steel
in Look’s eyes, she knew he was backed against
the wall. So she didn’t tell him about her
Philipino crew boss, what he warned when she
said she was quitting, about how the word gets
around in a small town. Maybe she could find a
job on another processor ship before then.
“I’ve got to go, bye,” and they kissed gently,
lingering, each knowing disaster, both not
saying it.
The crew worked all that day and all the next.
Shelley dropped by every once in a while to
tidy up and cook something, staying on shift
schedule like she had her old job back, being
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their cheerleader. Fred and Glenn were the go-
fer’s, Mik and Chuck knew the boat repairs, and
Look stripped down the engines.
On the afternoon of the third day they floated
Augenblik o f f t h e g r i d a t h i g h t i d e , a n d m o o r e d
near the fuel dock. The season would open in
sixteen hours, and they didn’t even have the
pots loaded yet! Look ran the fuel hoses to the
two tubes, filling the tanks in tandem to save
time. Then they raced to the loading wharf in
Back Bay, Chuck redlining her engine.
He shouldn’t have.

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Twenty Six - Serve Somebody

They all felt it, the hard vibration, and Look

was down the ladder in a shot as Chuck eased
off. Mik was there right behind him, and they
stood, each side of the shaft log, and watched in
dismay as sea-water piped past the stuffing box
into the bilge. A torrent.
“Shit!” Look frowned, “Can we tighten it?”
“No,” Mik advised, “I mean, we can, but
that’s not the problem, we have to tie up and
see.”
Instead of a quick pace they idled to the
wharf, and so it was already dark when they got
there. Fred and Glenn fixed some hamburgers in
the galley while Mik, Chuck and Look crowded
around the reduction gear. Look laid a
machinist’s scale against the propeller shaft, tale
of the tape. It was clearly bowed. Then he
popped the cover on the gearbox, shone a
flashlight down into the cogged teeth. The
gleam was obvious, they were mis-aligned,
corners chipped and missing, and a dust of
silvery powder suspended in the oil.
“Shit, Mik, I’m sorry, man,”
He was silent for a long time, Chuck and Look
just stared at the trickling stuffing box, smoking
their Marlboro’s. The main sat there, ticking as
it cooled.
“I’d say let’s go for it,” Mik exhaled, “but
after the other night, I’m not so sure.” He started
absent-mindedly wiping oil off his hands with a

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r a g . “ H e y , g u y s , Augenblik ’s all I got, we can’t be
hauling clear out the Pribilof’s with running
gear like this.” He gazed around at the dark
walls for a moment, “I’m calling it. We’re shut
down until I can get it rebuilt.”
Chuck muttered an oath and marched off,
dragging himself up the ladder. “What’s his big
problem?” Look tried to make light of the
setback.
“Chuck’s the mate, he’s gotta stay here until
we get this gear rebuilt,” Mik explained, “but
you don’t. Go on, get your stuff, see if you can
make the season on some other boat. I can pick
you up for tanner crab or something. Tell Fred
and Glenn.”
That night he couldn’t find Michelle. Nadine
said the crew chief had let her work again, “But
it’s only until the new girl gets up here from
Seattle, they already signed her out.”
He knew that story.
“ T e l l h e r t h e Augenblik i s t i e d u p , I ’ m l o o k i n g
for another boat to fish the Pribilof’s.” Then he
started making the rounds of the boats in the
harbor.
It’s tough pounding the docks. You got to
jump right into someone’s galley, people you’ve
probably never even met, interrupt their crew’s
dinner, staring daggers at you, and the skipper
bored, high or drunk. Then ask him for a job?!
In Dutch it’s about as easy as it gets. There’s a
lot of fights, burnout’s, dead drunks, drugs,
pussy, all kinds of reasons to play musical

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chairs. You just have to find the open berth
before the other guy does. Like dating.
T h e n e x t d a y h e g o t l u c k y . W a l k i n g b y t h e Tor
Avenger a s i t w a s b e i n g u n l o a d e d , h e h e a r d
Queen’s crew shouting for assistance. The
pumps had turned off, and the crab tank was
filling back up with seawater, four guys up to
their knees in ice’y brine and a mountain of
scrabbling kingcrab around them.
T h e r e w a s n o b o d y o n b o a r d t h e Avenger, o n e o f
those big steel Marco’s from Seattle. Look slid
down into the engine room, so clean you could
eat off the deckplates, all new gear, expensive
piping. He studied the valving for a minute, as
the crew foreman yelled for him to hurry from
up above.
“Got it!” he hollered at last, figuring out the
panel, then checked a valve position, pushed a
button, and the pump kicked in again.
Coming back up the ladder, he heard a scuffle
on the deck, the foreman protesting, then a
louder voice shouting, “Who the hell turned on
the pumps!?” Look swallowed hard, pushing
out the galleyway ondeck.
“Someone must have left the valving wrong,
you were flooding your crab tank with the
workers still down in the hold,” he shrugged as
he passed by the guy, a big barrel-chested
scruffy Scandinavian.
“GET OFF MY BOAT! ” t h e s k i p p e r s c r e a m e d .
Both the crew boss and Look scrambled on over
the railing, leaving the unloading crew standing
down below, soaking wet.
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Jeez, what an asshole!” Look chuckled to the
foreman, and then they were both laughing
hard.
“Harald Haugesund, he’s a real dickhead,”
the guy explained. Then he climbed onboard to
tend to his crew, calling back, “But he catches a
lotta kingcrab!”
Look thought about that for awhile, watching
and waiting, but the skipper never came back on
deck. So he climbed onboard again, waving to
the crew he’d helped out, and pushed back into
the wheelhouse.
“What’dya want?” Haugesund scowled,
drunk.
“Wanted to apologize for a
misunderstanding. See, I had to reset your
valves and pumps to keep the crab tank dry so
they could get your crab hold unloaded.
Someone left the overboard open and turned off
the pump,” Look shrugged. “‘s just trying to
help out.”
“Yeah, it’s the fugkin’ engineer,” Haugesund
mumbled. Look’s ears perked up. “Fugk’rs no
good anyway, fugk’n drunk.” Then he pushed
past into his cabin, shutting the door. That was
that.
So Look spent the rest of the day jumping
from one boat to the next, usually empty
anyway, the crews in the bars while they
unloaded, or waiting to be. Later on, he found
Michelle in her cabin after shift, and they moved
back up the cafeteria to sit and sip coffee and

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smoke cigarettes, exhausted from the nerve-
wracking unknown rushing towards them.
“D’you find a boat? Nadine told me,” Shelley
asked him after awhile, not wanting to push.
“Yeah, thought I did, but the guy brushed me
off. I’ll try again tomorrow, otherwise, nothin’.”
“I’ve got to find something tonight or
tomorrow before the new girl gets here, did
Nadine tell you?”
“ Y e a h , i t ’ s O K , y o u c a n s t a y o n Augenblik i f
they want you gone from here. Come on.”
Then after walking around to the other
processors, waiting while she talked with their
crew chiefs, Look decided it was better that she
stay back on the Queen. H i t c h i n g b a c k o u t a l o n e ,
h e f o u n d Augenblik c o l d a n d d a r k , e v e r y o n e i n
town hustling like he’d been, just the bilge
pump cycling on and off again.
He walked out the back deck and leaned over
the water, laughing down at his weird-rippled
reflection staring back up at him. The mountains
stood cold and serene, like the hillsides above
his trailer in Rurik, and for a moment he
thought of Anne, and felt ashamed.
There really hadn’t been a reason to go, she’d
been right after all. He’d just gotten messed up
in the past, and the future, and forgotten the
present, where he’d had everything he wanted,
right there in Rurik.
He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.
In the morning Look met Michelle early up in
the Queen’s c a f e t e r i a . T h e y g u l p e d d o w n a c u p o f

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joe, then parted with a kiss, just like morning
commuters at the train station. His first stop was
the Tor Avenger, w h e r e h e f o u n d t h e c r e w o u t o n
deck, ready to get underway.
“Is the skipper on board?” he shouted up.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to go in there
now,” one of the crew laughed, winking at the
others.
Look was desperate, so he took the chance.
Just inside the galleyway, he heard ‘em yelling,
Harald and some other guy, sound of a woman’s
voice protesting.
“Ah, excuse me,” he interrupted, “I’m the
engineer from Augenblik , we’re down for the
season and I was wondering if you needed a
deckhand?”
Harald and Arne, Tor’s engineer, stared back
at Look, uncomprehending, both of them two
sheets to the wind. They’d been arguing about
the woman cook, whether she would go on this
trip with Harald, or with Arne. The boat was
brand new, so there was nothing for Arne to do
except stay drunk and out of the crew’s way.
The cook could keep him company.
Harald was furious, the woman was his hire,
and damn! She was going to stay in his cabin!
But Arne was an Fjordlandt’s oldtimer, and not
so easily put off.
“Stick around a minute,” he waved to Look.
This kid was the solution to his problem! “OK
Arne, here’s a twenty, go get me another bottle
at the LunaSea, and then you can have her.” He

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pushed the girl into his cabin, “Pack your shit
and get out!”
Arne was too drunk to see the ruse, shuffling
off like the victor, making plans for his debauch.
He’d grab a cab, send the bottle and car back for
her, then they’d relax down in the bar with the
other skippers.
As soon as the door closed behind Arne,
Harald ordered the girl to wait in his cabin.
Then he smiled to Look, waving his hand
invitingly toward the galley, “I’m sorry about
that, it’s hard to find a good crew.”
“Hey, no problem, man. Maybe I can catch
you on the next trip?” Look tried to act
nonchalant.
“No, no! Hey,” Haugesund spread his arms
wide, indicating with their outstretch the bright
expanse of the vessel, “I was thinking of this
t r i p . C a n y o u h a n d l e a b o a t this size?” he
emphasized again.
L o o k w a s f l u s t e r e d . T h e Tor Avenger w a s a
top-dollar highliner, just one trip could mean a
fortune! Oh, shit! What about that other engineer...?
He went for it. “Sure, I can handle it. No
problem!” he hoped.
As long as there’s all the operating manuals!
“Then let’s go! Where’s your gear?”
Harald waited just until the cab came back
with his AcquaVit, then cast off, Arne already
forgotten. They slipped the lines and cruised
out and around into the back bay, sidling up
a l o n g s i d e Augenblik .

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“Mik, guys!” Look shouted as he bolted into
t h e g a l l e y w a y . “ G o t a j o b ! O n t h e Tor Avenger!”
They all looked up, red-eyed from lack of
sleep. The new gears were still weeks away in
delivery, and by now most of the other boats
had left for the opener. They were stuck. Mik
pushed up from his seat.
“I’m going to go talk to your skipper a
minute, see if he’ll run our pots for a share of
the net.”
Chuck and the other guys wanted to hear the
story, and slapping him on the back, warned
him to keep his head down. “Assholes and
elbows…,” Chuck offered. “If you see Shelley,
t e l l h e r s h e c a n c o o k o n Augenblik. She can have
your bunk, if she needs a place to stay.”
“Sorry guys,” Look shrugged, “We’re leaving
right now, and Shelley’s looking for another
processor job. She’s...uhh, we’re trying to pay
down some big debts,” he subtly reminded
them.
Then he ran to pack his duffel, picking up his
gear drying in the engine room, checking all
around. Mik came back in, and shook his hand.
“Glad for you, man, come back when this trip’s
over, OK?”
As the Tor Avenger c h u r n e d o u t i n t o t h e o p e n
sea, Look turned to stare back, searching.
Augenblik w a s j u s t a t i n y c h i p o f w h i t e o n b l a c k
now, and then the towering headlands obscured
her from his view.

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Twenty Seven - Road to Nowhere

It was the Tor Avenger’ s l a s t t r i p m o v i n g p o t s ,

so Haugesund had Look out on deck for eight
hours straight, grinding up the big frozen blocks
of herring into chunks, stuffing plastic bait-jars
full. It wasn’t hard work, and that way he had
fresh air for the lumpy seas, so it didn’t bother
him so much.
Inside the Tor was another story. Susan, the
cook, was sick of the booze, of being
Haugesund’s hole-in-the-mattress. The crew
were all squirrelly too, waiting their turn,
teasing each other, and taunting Susan
mercilessly. Harald just drove the boat and
stayed drunk, that’s what he was good at.
Look remained the outsider as the crew
shifted into the round-the-clock work of crab-
fishing, always left out of the jokes, ignored by
Haugesund. So he focused on his extra chores,
checking the engine oil, the pumps and helping
Susan to fix the meals.
He could tell she needed an out.
The seas cooperated, and they were able to
fish nearly every opportunity, jogging near the
pots if the waves got too rough. On deck, the
crew toyed with Look, making fun of him as a
first-timer, ignoring his stories about an Adak
they’d never seen anyways. The first mate,
Ralph Swartisen, a Bothell boy, especially
disliked him. Maybe it was the way Look had
sidled in between Susan and the crew,
protecting her.
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One day on deck, the hold half full of crab,
and the deck pitching back and forth as they
danced the four-hundred pound pots onto the
launcher, Ralph let the hydraulics go slack for
just a moment, judging the angle, and the hook
came loose, swinging wildly up, and then arcing
down with the roll of the boat.
Look never saw it coming. Something brute
fierce slammed him above the ear, spinning him
around.
Ralph taunted with a “Hey, man, look out!”
Look stumbled, blinded with the pain, and his
path carried him right over the open hole of the
crab hold. One leg plunged to his thigh in the
ice’y seawater, then with supreme effort, he
pushed back upright on the other, limping as he
held his bleeding head and stumbled for the
galleyway.
Susan was calming, hermetic, helping him
control his emotions while she nursed the
laceration. “Just ignore them, get through this,
and you’ll be fine.”
“Why do you stay!?” he shuddered from all
the adrenaline still coursing through his body.
“Because Harald wants me to,” she shrugged.
Then Look was back out on deck, strutting
and smiling like nothing had happened, and the
crew left him alone after that. Haugesund kept
to his cabin, shouting orders from the
loudspeaker, or from the wheelhouse doorway
if he was really worked up.
So one day rolled around to the next.

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The Pribilof kingcrab, if you’ve never seen
‘em, aren’t like any other kingcrab in the world.
Sure, just as ugly, great big carapace like a
tarantula, spiny arms sharp, dangling daddy-
long legs. Most king crab are dull maroon and
creme colored, that’s the camouflage for where
they live, six hundred feet down or more, a
whole pod of them rolling in a great spiny ball
along the continental shelf, the juveniles hiding
inside for protection from the predating cod and
halibut.
So when you drop a garage-door sized trap in
front of them, all smelly with fresh-chopped
herring, like as not, that crab ball will just roll
right on into it, stuffing the webbing so tight
you have to tear ‘em out! That’s why Bering
crabbing went bust. Too damn efficient.
Bing, bam, boom, you had a load.
Pribilof crab aren’t like that, they’re not
nearly gregarious, don’t go running in packs
like those out on the rich silt banks of the
Yukon-Kuskokwim delta. Maybe the resident
fur seal population on the islands keeps the
crab’s solo, hiding out in the rocks with the
other weird creatures found there . N o b o d y
knows.
The Pribilof’s are like nowhere else on the earth,
L o o k ’ s j o u r n a l s a y s . Oh, and did I tell you? Pribilof
king crab are a rich ultramarine blue, tinged with
orange gold!
Rich, blue and gold were key words in Look’s
inner vocabulary as they raced to fill the hold.
They ran the pots in succession, and while those

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s o a k e d , Tor r a n s o u t h t o f i n d t h e p o t s M i k h a d
stashed. Look was at the launcher when the first
one came onboard, only instead of being tied
open, it was shut. Welded shut! The webbing
was stuffed with plastic bags of garbage! So was
the next one, and the next, each with a big
square of cardboard wedged between the bags.
“Seattle Rules,” in crayoned stick figures.
Look spun to the others, open mouthed, but
they all turned away. Damn, the Seattle boats
were arrogant, but there was no use arguing
about it.
“Throw ‘em back, let’s get out of here,”
Harald shouted from the loudspeaker.
T h a t n i g h t L o o k c a l l e d Augenblik on the VHS,
but even with the late night skip, he could only
make out bits and pieces. “Chuck, that you?”
“Augenblik ...kkrssccht...at wharf...ooeeoo…you
at?”
“Hey, you’re breaking up, man! Pass this
a l o n g , a n y o n e . W e j u s t p u l l e d Augenblik ’s pots
and they were stuffed with garbage and welded
shut. Seattle boats. Thought you’d want to
know, Mik, sorry.”
Harald screamed at him for a full minute
when he heard, bounding up out of the galley,
“What the fugk a r e y o u s p r e a d i n g t h a t shit on the
radio for!?”
Harald was a real screamer all right, and even
though the crew had accepted Look, or at least
left him alone now, Harald hadn’t, taunting him
more and more, ranking him about the engines,

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why this didn’t work, why that. Look knew
everything was brand new, and Harald was just
ranking because there was nothing else for him
to do. Nothing except drive the boat and fuck
with Susan’s head.
Harald was on her night and day. They must
have had a ying-yang thing, evil, sado-
masochistic. One night at the helm, Look was on
wheel watch, the auto-pilot taking them to their
next way-point. Susan burst out of Harald’s
cabin, screaming and drunk, in just her panties.
Look backed to one side in shock. Her hair was
all tangled, there were cigarette burns on her
skin. Harald stood there at the cabin door,
zipping up his pants, laughing, with his big
geoduck hanging out.
“What the fugk a r e y o u l o o k i n g a t , ” h e
s l u r r e d , t h e n b a w l e d o u t t o S u s a n , “ g e t t h e fugk
back in here!”
She hesitated for an instant, and in that next
second Harald lunged forward, grabbing her up
crotch and shoulder. Then pushing out the
wheelhouse door, he leaned far over the railing,
holding Susan upside down, screaming, high
above the churning black sea.
Look ran to stop him, slapping a vise grip on
Haugesund’s shoulder. Susan slipped down as
they scuffled, until Harald held her only by her
one ankle, flopping like a pale corpse on the
gibbet.
“Bring her back in!” Look screamed in his ear,
and then Haugesund seemed to get it all of a
sudden. He grabbed her other ankle, Look took
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her wrist. They dragged Susan back over the
railing, stark naked, as the gale wind howled
about them with evil laughter.
Harald and Susan disappeared back into his
cabin. Look caught a last plea from her eyes as
the door closed. Not a ‘help me’, but a ‘don’t,
don’t try’. He couldn’t stop though, and charged
into the room.
“Let her alone, she’s drunk!” he spat at him,
and then, “you’re fucking drunk too. I’m on
wheel watch tonight, she can sleep in my bunk!”
That was the wrong thing to say. Neanderthal.
Harald came up off his bunk like a shot, and
just as fast, Look dropped him with a right-cross
smack on the side of his jaw. Haugesund
slumped down into the corner and then the
alarms went off, nobody at the wheel. Now the
crew was up. Susan was screaming, holding
Harald’s head, hollering, “You killed him!”
There are times in everyone’s life where your
parent’s spirits are standing at your shoulder,
yelling “Do something, even if it’s wrong!” They
say apathy’s the eighth deadly sin, once you get
to heaven, or hell, you find that out right quick.
But sometimes there’s a greater wisdom in that
phrase, “Fools rush in.” Susan had warned him
with her eyes, but he hadn’t listened.
At the second week’s ending, they finished
the trip just as they’d started it. Look was the
outsider again, confined to his job baiting jars,
checking oil, pumps, staying out of everyone’s
way. No one talked to him. He’d broken up their
little game.
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When they got back in and tied up,
Haugesund launched Look’s duffel bag in a
great curving arc onto the dock, right in front of
t h e h a p l e s s u n l o a d i n g c r e w . “ GET OFF MY
BOAT!” he roared again, slamming the
galleyway shut. Everyone stared off the other
way.
L o o k w e n t o v e r t o t h e Queen. N a d i n e t o l d h i m
the bad news, “Michelle found a job in
Anchorage.” Some kind of fresh-pak processing
plant to fly herring roe to the Japanese, a big
holiday delicacy. “She just flew out two day’s
ago, sorry, Look. She said she’d call and leave
her new address with Jack,” Nadine explained.
“Said you could pick her up on your way back
home after Pribilof season.”
Look didn’t tell her about his disastrous trip
on the Tor Avenger. He figured she’d know where
t h e g u y s w e r e o n Augenblik, b u t N a d i n e s a i d s h e
didn’t. Instead she asked with a wink and a
come-on smile if maybe he needed a place to
stay.
He left the ship, and began jogging, duffel on
his shoulder. A beatup old Datsun rolled by,
couple of Native guys driving, and they gave
h i m a r i d e o u t t o t h e b a y . Augenblik was gone! So
they gave him a ride back in to Unalaska, and he
ended up at the Elbow, too early, bending back
a few beer’s, trying to get a handle on the day.
He picked up his drink and moved around to
the alcove, that’s when he saw Glenn.

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“Hey, man!” Look shouted, “what are you
doin’ here? Saw you’d moved the boat, where
you tied up?”
Glenn was sitting with three other guys, and
introduced them all around. They were another
boat, Sea Quest, h e ’ d j u s t s i g n e d o n w i t h t h e m f o r
tanner.
“Mik, Chuck and Fred took off back to Rurik,”
Glenn explained, “Remember that floating
p r o c e s s o r , t h e Royal Viking ? ” L o o k s h o o k h i s
head. “Well, they were heading to Rurik and
then down to Seattle to refit her as a mid-water.
M i k f i g u r e d Augenblik could run in the lee of the
ship, slow enough, they’d be out of the swell,
and could keep ahead of the leaks.”
“You mean he’s not coming back here?”
“Not after you called him on the radio! Maybe
next spring they’ll run up to Togiak and try to
find those crabpots on the way back. Said he
c o u l d g e t Augenblik refitted faster and cheaper in
Rurik,” Glenn finished. Then waving to the
others, “We were just gonna go get some dinner
at the LunaSea, wanna join us?”
Look turned, “How long ago did they leave?”
“Oh, I think they just left a little while ago, I
helped them untie about three.”
He was running faster now, east from the
Elbow, through the sleepy town of Unalaska,
dark shacks all shuttered against the cold. Look
ran and ran, panting, his mind a blank, painless
from the endorphins. As long as he kept
running, and didn’t stop, he wouldn’t have to
feel the pain.
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The shacks thinned out, and he was running
still through an old barracks, fallen down, gray
Quonsets. His mind kept yelling, seeing
M i c h e l l e , Don’t go! They hadn’t even had a
chance to say good-bye.
The ground began to ramp up, in crusty snow,
and he dug in, running straight up the hill until
he had to stop, panting for breath, legs like
lead. Then ahead of him, two hundred feet
above, he saw a red fox start running away.
Stop. Run. Teasing him.
Look gave his mind to the steeplechase,
feeling his legs ripple with strength, levitating
him up the hill in full flight. The creature would
stop, just a splash of orange-red against the
blue-white, look back at him, then run ahead
again. The snow was thick, wet, but his boots
found enough grip to propel him higher.
Then he was standing at the top, breathless,
circled around by the horizon, sweat pouring
down his face. The fox was gone, not even any
tracks left in the snow. He strained, holding
back his breath, staring into the distance, and
there, leagues away, a gray shadow, the ship’s
superstructure contrasting against the dark sea.
Next to it, a microdot of white and black,
Augenblik .
Look shoved his hands deep down in his
coveralls pockets, and fell backward into the
snow, melting in. They’re gone, all gone, everyone I
know. For the first time in his life, he felt
absolutely totally alone. His heart- beat lud-

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ludd’d, lud-ludd’d, slowing from the chase. And
then...it just stopped. Everything grew calm.
Is this all there is? He felt the earth fading away
beneath him, circled sky closing in all around.
Then his hand found an old joint that he’d
carried ever since Adak, and with that one
touch, all the memories, faces and the laughter.
First a ripple, then a chuckle, a chortle, and a
loud guffaw, he laughed up at the early evening
sky, and felt his heart start beating again.
The next day he made the rounds, but
everyone’d heard of the fight on Tor and it was
n e a r s e a s o n ’ s e n d . S o h e s t o p p e d b y Queen t o g e t
his crew share. The cashier was genuinely
c o n f u s e d . S h e ’ d h e a r d a b o u t Augenblik l e a v i n g ,
but he wasn’t on the Tor’s c r e w l i s t . L o o k t a l k e d
to the dock super, and the crew foreman that
he’d bailed out, everyone was sympathetic and
tried to help, but Haugesund had stiffed him!
“ Y o u c a n f i g h t Tor i n c i v i l c o u r t b a c k i n
Anchorage, here’s the affidavit’s of all people
you talked to,” the manager explained, “and
here’s a plane ticket back, I’ll take it out of Tor’s
receipts. Good luck, I’m sorry.”
The next morning Look was on that plane.
And as it circled once before heading toward the
east, he wasn’t sure if he was just leaving, or
had never really arrived.

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Twenty Eight - Dog Eat Dog

The Aleutian Air transport banked on final

into Anchorage International as the winter sun
was setting, throwing a burnished copper sheen
on the downtown office buildings, and glinting
bronze in Look’s dark eyes. He narrowed them,
swallowing his sailor’s grin at ‘land-ho’, and
stared down on the Turnagain Arm, a grim
turmoil of cracked floes, dirty ice chunks, the
tidelands an austere white-on-brown against the
black water, cut through with rivulets like
branching trees, rimmed in transparent ice.
Little moved.
The sun would stay at the horizon now, both
today, and for the next few weeks. Endless dark
and spit-cracking cold throw this northern
dogshit town into a freezer-locker cabin-fever’d
world of zombie’d office workers and stranded
natives. Anchorage is a just strip mall on the
rocks, a cold douche, as far from the real Alaska
as New York is from ‘ol Nantucket, or Chicago
from the Bayou, Seattle, the Blues.
Look savored that last moment of sunlight as
the plane rolled up to the terminal, and then the
red’s and gold’s faded, the blue gray of night
moving slowly up the mountainsides. His
chances for a survivable winter in Unalaska
were gone, along with the camaraderie, his girl,
the easy living. All gone. He was a stranger in a
strange land now, just another Lone Ranger in
leather stepping off the plane.
If only I can find Michelle !
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He strolled past the towering polar bear in
the hallway, frozen in a perpetual snarl, its eyes
glazed. Look grinned at the pathetic sight. Two
round-faced black women eyed him, “What yo’
smilin’ at?” mistaking his grin for a leer.
“Hey, just got out of prison,” he exaggerated,
but not entirely untrue. That set their eyes
rolling with warm laughter. A little nip of heat
for a soul on ice. It’d have to last him. He knew
no one, could trust no one, had no money to
show.
So his first hustle was the cabfare. “I’ll get a
party together from inside the bar, if you’ll give
me a lift downtown,” he offered, and the
emaciated cab driver nodded, amused. Look
dropped his duffel bag in the front of the cab
and strode back into the terminal.
In the bar, he grabbed up a half-empty drink
off a table, and raising it high overhead,
shouting, “Drinks at Leonardo’s!” A smattering
of people raised their own glasses in party-
mode. Soon, with a little flirting and a jolly
drug chanty, he had these two nerdy guys and
an office girl rolling toward the door.
“Where we goin’, honey?” she swooned, but
her companions planted themselves in the back
seat, her in between. Look was content to ride
shotgun, duffel between his legs, asking if
they’d like any Puna Bud, some Maui Wowie.
The two guys whispered in their own little
conversation, so Look smiled at the woman.
Over-medicated, he thought, and a bit overripe, b u t

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she’d do, and she smiled back at him like she
would d o !
The cab driver stared straight ahead, bored.
These Anchorage winter’s night fares were a
moveable feast, a rolling party, going from one
bar to the next. People get in, chitchat for about
three seconds, and then start drinking, smoking
dope, doing-up, fucking in the back seat.
Whatever. Nobody cares, it’s a fare.
If they’re a rich oil worker down from the
Slope, or a crab fisherman in from the Bering
with a bankroll, a cabby would know where to
get them drunk, get them coke’d up, even get
them a high school hooker if they really wanted
one. All fast talk and ‘party-hearty’.
As long as the cabby gets his fare.
The hack slid up to Leonardo’s, all twenty-
foot ceiling’d disco dance floor of it, and the
driver barely smiled when Look jumped out,
waving, “See you guys inside!” The other fares
were too confused, the two guys obviously
horn-dogging the woman, her puffy-face wasted,
waving her money around, them betting on a
pussy cointoss after the party was over.
“Here, my man,” they covered the entire fare
and then some, wadding a roll of bills into the
cabby’s hand, not wanting to wrangle, to spoil
their odds.
“Yeah,” the driver yawned, lazily picking up
his mike, “Later.” Then he drawled out in a long
sigh, “754 at Leo’s, dispatch, what’ve you got
for me?”

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Look strode straight through the club, aching.
The most available women in town, dressed to
pluck, surrounded by a bunch of honky-tonk
w a n k e r s m a k i n g s m a l l t a l k . Like women even care.
Their eyes were all on him in an instant, heads
turning, mouths pouting open, left hand’s
pushing back their hair, signaling single. He
bulled across the room and out the back exit,
like a panther, wild, cutting across the forest
clearing, exotic birds chattering excitedly.
There’d be another time. Right now he had to
find shelter, lose the duffel, lighten his hands.
He circled back to the cab and jumped in, “4th
Street.”
It didn’t work out. The bars he dropped into,
the R&R, the Frontier, were full of too-old
sourdoughs, beached natives, low-riders.
Nobody he recognized. Then at the Wharf an
Eskimo girl came up to him and put her hand on
his arm.
“Hi,” she spoke softly.
Long silky black hair, honey-warm brown
eyes, behind that hard-chic makeup and
attitude. It worked. They sat down together at
the bar, sipping on Black Russians, laughing at
the monkeys running back and forth behind the
glass. Really, for Look, a ‘native’ bar was a lot
better than a ‘town’y’ bar any day, all he really
wanted was to relax and enjoy himself.
They danced a few times, talking, and started
to get close, but hey, she was from out
Kuskokwim, staying here with village
girlfriends at Holiday Inn, him with nowhere to
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take her, not wanting to ditch her after, just a
kid. So he murmurred, “See you later.”
Back outside the night was fiercely cold, and
the sidewalk like frozen milk, irregular, biting
through his boots. His leather jacket, even with
a thick wool shirt turned at the collar, wasn’t
going to keep him warm. He began a soft hustle,
smiling low whistles and purrs to passing girls,
and pretty soon he’d parlayed a cup of coffee
here, a hamburger there.
Girls are sweet and easy when you get right at
it, as long as you don’t abuse the privilege.
The last few hours after 4AM were the worst,
all the bars closed, coffee shops shut up,
nobody but drunks on the street. Look kept
himself warm by walking up and down Fourth
Avenue to the Palmer Hotel and back, hovering
in the lobby until the night clerk asked him to
leave, then back again to the Holiday Inn,
hoping maybe he’d see that Kusko girl again.
He spotted cab 754 instead, and jumped in the
back. “Where to this time?” the cabby
acknowledged him, from before at Leonardo’s.
“Nowhere man, I’m just keeping warm,” Look
volunteered, straight-forward, and the cabby
looked back at him in the rear-view mirror for a
long time.
Then he offered lightly, “Well, your place or
mine?”
Look’s eyebrows shot up, and he barked out a
quick laugh. He hadn’t heard that line, not from
a man anyway, since the Lower 48.

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“Sorry, no,” he shook his head, rolling his
shoulders over toward the door, back out.
The cabby smiled too, “Hey, it’s OK, I was
just checking you out. You need a place to
stay?”
So Look met Stephen Agram, cabdriver.
“Madison Blue to my odd friends,” he added,
laughing gayly.
“Nice to meet you, M-madison, er, S-
stephen,” Look replied, still shivering from the
cold.
Stephen was sort of an odd gay guy at that. As
if he’d been a coal miner, say, or a logger in his
previous life, then lived in the Tenderloin until
he caught onto the odd new lingo, and lost sixty
pounds. A man who happened to prefer other
men, Stephen might could be your buddy at
work. Just like that.
So they talked awhile in the car, until he went
off-shift and the morning traffic began to pick
up. They drove out to his little bungalow,
parkside, there in the old neighborhoods by the
Arm.
“Go ahead, key’s in the coffee can. There’s
food in the ‘fridge, I’ll be back here after I turn
in my cab.”
He’d obviously lived the Alaskan bush
e x p e r i e n c e a n d l e a r n e d mi case es su case. L o o k
relaxed on the old corduroy couch, and covered
himself with an ancient tattered quilt, warming
by the gas heater. It was odd decor, mixture of
cowboy nostalgia, hippie rainbow, conflicted,

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opposite. Set of antelope horns on the wall,
sepia photo of an Indian chief, a 30-30 on the
gun rack beside a player piano with a gaily
crocheted doily on its bench. And a big nude
female portrait just above it. Rubbing your face
in the oddness of it.
Look dozed awhile on the couch.
Then the back door crunched open, creaking
as the frost and snow cracked away under the
sill, and he heard Stephen hanging up his coat
in the mudroom. He walked in, rubbing his
hands against the chill, smiling over at Look on
the couch,
“You get anything to eat? Freezer’s full,
man!”
Just for a second, Madison Blue and
Springfield Lou began to chimera in Look’s
memory. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but
just for a moment, he was back in their old
house, Lou was smiling, chattering away as he
rolled up a joint, Dianne asking him if he
wanted something to eat. He sighed hard,
bleary-eyed.
Then Stephen saw the long face, and cut it off
fast, “Hey, man, everyone has a down day, and
you need a rest. Maybe one day you’ll help me
out of a jam, too.”
There was some truth in that.
So Look forgot for awhile, helping fix up a
Flaming Spanish Omelet (as he called it), really
a Denver with plenty of paprika, jalapeno and
basil. They wolfed it down. Then the nausea of

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deep fatigue hit, even with the hot strong coffee,
laced with cream and honey.
Hmm..., no sugar, no booze, no cigarettes in this
place.
“Go ahead and crash, man,” Stephen pointed,
“you can wash up later. I’m gonna go hit the
sack..., wanna join me?” But he was only joking,
and it was the last time he ever hit on him.
Look napped in the quiet, window-shaded
house, dreaming of his grandparent’s place up
in Michigan, the big pond, the wooded knoll
over on Brandywine Creek. He’d written to them
once, after his parents and sister died in the
crash, and they’d invited him to come live with
them. But he hadn’t followed up on it.
In his dream he was running like, no, floating,
his legs not quite touching the ground, calling
out for his grandmother. Sitting lonely, lost in a
cranberry bog. Clouds parted, sun shining,
purples, reds. Her voice sang to him, “I’m right
here, Look.” Then his face relaxed, his hands
uncurled, and he slept.
When he woke, the kitchen light was still on,
and he heard the refrigerator closing. “Get up!
Get up!” Stephen motioned as he came around
the corner.
“What?!” Look resisted, drunk with sleep.
“Come on, you’ll miss it!” Stephen was
heading out the door in his woollies, his hair
tied up in a net.
Look struggled up and stood, pulling on his
pants and jacket, “Hey, what the hell you doing

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Stephen!?” It was -18ºF on the window
thermometer.
Stephen was standing on the woodpile in the
back yard, there alongside the tarpaper shack
garage, waving, shouting, “Last chance!”
Then for just a moment, his face blushed from
cool frost to orange gold, highlighting the nylon
stocking on his head, so he looked like some
hip-hop rapper. “The sun! It’s the last time we’ll
see it for days! It’s almost solstice! Hurry!!”
Look ran up on the woodpile too, freezing-ass
cold, whipping his arms, a hot splash of sun
warm on his naked chest, both of them laughing
aloud. Just for a moment. Then the sun sank
down behind a jagged mountain peak, and pale
daylight faded to twilight. In the space of a few
hours, gone to a frigid coalbin dusk.
They sat around afterward, talking. Stephen
rolled a joint, and Look took the chance.
Weirdness factor, you know, if their high got too
gonzo, he’d be out of a place to stay. If not, he
might have a new friend.
As it turned out, Stephen was a supremely
gifted host, subtly aware of all Look’s moods.
He kept the conversation light and breezy,
extending the high with more coffee and blues
on his old Teac reel-to-reel, John Coltrane,
Albert King, Miles Davis. Like at Jacques’s.
Time stood still, his worries fading, and life
adjusted, like an old pair of shoes, easy,
comfortable. They told each other jokes from the
road, the buzz of the weed slowly disappearing.
Look slept again.
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The house was cold and quiet when he woke
late in the evening, he’d finally slept a straight
six hours for the first time in months he’d spent
living on the boats. Stephen was on-shift,
working through the night, and Look struggled
with a desire to go out bar-hopping, or just back
to sleep again.
So he stretched, slid out a disc onto the
turntable, CSNY’s Deja Vue, t h e n f l i p p e d t h r o u g h
Stephen’s rock collection. Beggars Banquet, Rubber
Soul, John Wesley Harding, Led Zeppelin IV, Electric
Ladyland, Close to the Edge, Talking Book, Soft
Parade, Eat a Peach . C l a s s i c . N o w a d a y s i t w a s a l l
just post-disco retro.
I can’t go for that, h e c h u c k l e d .
He showered, changed his shirt, brushed his
boots to get the leather glistening, polished a
soft buff on his jacket, slicked back his dark
hair, and went out. In that part of Anchorage’s
neighborhoods, the bars were all back rooms on
the motels, where singles could check each other
out, if you want to be blunt about it. Look was
still too exhausted to hit the clubs, so he drifted
into a bar on the main drag. Christmas
ornaments, couple of older folks, and a lovely
blond bartender.
Surprise!
She smiled, asking what he’d have to drink.
Look sized her up as she turned away, really
lovely strong shoulders, nice profile, soft full
breasts, like a mother, her flat belly says
otherwise? And no ring on her hand. H e w a i t e d .

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After awhile she drifted back and offered to
play at dice for drinks.
“I’m Wendy. You from around here?”
Look cupped the dice and shook her hand,
smiling. He slammed the cup down on the bar.
“Nope, just got into town last night. Out West
crab fishing.”
They rolled in silence twice more, feeling the
vibe, then she speared the dice between her
fingers, pursed her lips and blew hot as she
looked into his eyes. She slammed the cup
down, then pouted at the bad roll, laughing,
“What’ll you have? The same?”
For a moment he thought of Michelle, of her
and Jacques, and the lonely agony of the night
before.
“No,” he smiled, “I’ll try something new.”
They drove out through Spenard. Wendy had
called up a girlfriend to take over the bar for her
at midnight, offering to give Look a ride home.
Two old-timers at the bar had glanced up at
that, winking and smiling as Look agreed,
cackling like demi-gods. The sourdough
slapped him hard on the back, and the other
codger sighed that he was glad romance was
behind him.
But not with much conviction.
Then they were driving in her little car, in the
warmth and closeness. Look reached over and
slid his hand slowly up her leg while she drove,
pushing up her jacket, gently unbuttoning her

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faded 501’s, and then eased his hand inside her
french-cut panties.
Wendy sighed. He withdrew, licked his
fingers, and slid in again. She squirmed, leaning
back as she drove, spreading her legs wide
apart. Look probed in deeper, twitching his
fingers, sliding in and out over the inner pleats,
parting them as she moaned, licking her lips,
gripping the steering wheel tight.
She stopped him with her hand, voice hoarse
and laughing, “I can’t drive,” but then let him
go again, unable to stop. Look slickered his
fingers in and out, sliding deep, softly over her
nubbin, in and out again.
Wendy let out a low whine as they slid up to
the curb by her apartment, and in the darkness
of her Subaru she reached for him, rippling
across his hard six-pak stomach with her
fingernails, stroking the taut bulge of his jeans,
their lips locking, licking, tonguing.
“Come on in,” she broke away.
They hung onto each other, keying the door
open on the run, tripping and falling on the
living room rug in the dark as they undressed
each other. Look tore off her jeans, scribbling
his hands up her smooth legs to the wet of her
lace panties, hot musk. She eased her hips up,
and he shucked the panties down, breathing
warm on her silky fur, licking her ruby petals as
she pulled her knees up, moaning.
She was gasping hard, whimpering that she
couldn’t make love, “I don’t have any rubbers!”

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He laughed, “Hey, there’s lots of ways to
make love,” then slipping his own jeans down,
pulled up on top, bridging over her, and slid
his stiff bone back and forth across her cleft
until her nails dug into his arms. “See if you
like this,” he whispered. Then sliding on down,
he licked her breasts, her belly, cupping her wet
with magic fingers, probing deep inside.
Wendy arched her hips high, pushing his face
tight against her, moaning loud. She was losing
it fast. He could feel her shuddering, frantic.
“Quick, do me, DO ME! Don’t come, please
don’t come,” she heaved.
He obliged, rising back up, slipping easily in,
hot and wet, grinding his hips slowly on hers as
she writhed and moaned in little yelps.
At last she relaxed, all dewy with sweat, her
skin goose-pimpled. Her hand reached down for
his bone, stroking him. “Let me do you,” she
whispered. Look rolled onto his side, helping
her turn, then she began sucking up and down,
tight, deep, scratching his sack with her nails. A
real pro.
His head snapped back, fireworks exploding.
Afterward they talked in the dark. She was a
single mom after all, had her kid at a friend’s for
the night. Going to community college days, and
working bars at night for tips. Welfare to bridge
the food and housing.
An old story.
Look remembered a saying from Rurik, “time
to fall in love,” but he didn’t feel that way.

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Didn’t feel right. He wasn’t in any position,
she’d probably been in lots of positions, who
could say? He decided this was their only night
together.
Look got hard again as they kissed, and
cupped Wendy’s breasts gently, teasing the
sweat down to her navel, circling, then stroked
her wet, slipping around the pleats. She
ummmed a big sigh, tugging on his bone,
desperate for penetration, going all the way.
“Hold on!” she gasped, and ran off toward the
kitchen. He jumped up to grab a drink of water
from the vanity off the hall, then settled back on
the couch. She came in with two glasses, and a
roll of saran wrap.
“It’s the only thing I could find,” she giggled.
They sipped the white wine, then she put on
some Fleetwood Mac, lit a candle, and they
started necking. She ran her hands over his iron-
muscled body, wide flat slabs of his pec’s, his
rippling belly, then slipped her hand softly
down along his thighs, ripped like a speed-
skater’s, teasing him with her fingernails.
“Here, help,” she breathed excitedly, holding
up the plastic film to wrap his pulsing bone.
Then she stood and stretched. Her breasts were
marvelous full, big rosey aureoles, hips
rounded and wide, her bush shining gossamer
in the dim candle light.
Wendy had just a lovely ripe body.
Mick pulsed out a beat as she hula’d down
onto his bone, sighing as it sank home, then
ground her pubis hard until it rocked him off
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the socket. She was really digging in. Look
relaxed and just went with it, feeling her getting
fluid, hot, slipping faster, until he couldn’t hold
still anymore.
“Come here!” he growled, pulling her shining
face down to his, sucking her lips, nibbling with
his teeth, tonguing until they were stuck tight
together. He rolled her gently down onto the
carpet, and began riding high on top, stroking
like a piston, long smooth ribbed moves. Wendy
just cried outloud in pleasure, moaning louder,
then she began grunting, vibrating.
Look felt himself tense, engorge and explode,
jetting hot pulsing lava. They spasmed and
grew still.
For a time, all he could feel were their hearts
beating and the soft clip-clop of the hall clock.
The candle burned down. They were a sticky
mess. Wendy smiled up dreamily, “Let’s take a
hot shower, OK?”
They jumped upstairs in the needlespray,
soaping each other up... and then, hey, went at it
again.
Wendy had dropped him off on the corner
near Stephen’s house next morning, he didn’t
want her to think he had a place of his own
when it wasn’t. She gave him her number, but
he could see that she was shielding herself. She
had her kid, school schedules, and money to
worry about.
“Sure, hey, maybe I’ll see you at school!” he
steered her off into her day, then turned as she
drove away.
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Stephen was already home, making
sourdough flapjacks, and laughed, “Oh, you’re
back again,” like he was talking to a stray dog
or something.
“Yeah, hey, sorry. Look, I’ll find a place
today,” he shrugged, but Stephen was holding
the coffee pot and a plate of flapjacks with a
“So, tell!?” look on his face. While they ate,
Look told him about the bar, and some sketchy
details, not wanting to cross any boundaries.
Stephen had been there before, and just gave
him a knowing smile, “So you got your rocks
off, are you done with that for awhile?”
After breakfast, they refilled their mugs,
threw on their boots, and walked out to the old
tarpaper garage. Inside, a dirt floor, blackened
with motor oil, some gray pressboards nailed on
the roughsawn studs, and a ceiling quilted from
pieces of recycled sheetrock.
“This’ll be yours if you want,” Stephen
offered, “there’s a gas connection on the side,
and electricity, just need to find you a heater at
the dump, some old plastic for the dirt,
carpeting over the plastic for a floor. That dirt’s
a lot warmer than concrete!”
Look smiled. Stephen had just offered him an
Alaskan’s dream, a dry roof! Soon, he’d be back
on his feet, just in time for spring herring
season.
They shook on it. When they got back inside
Stephen called a friend of his, Don Urey, a ram-
neck cool-hand-luke living with his pregnant
girlfriend in an old gravel-blasted Airstream
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trailer by the dump. Don salvaged everything
he could carry off for their future homestead up
in Tarkeepya, their back yard a warehouse of
construction materials under old tarps.
“Hey,” Don reached out to Stephen, shaking
hands, then to Look, cool blue eyes like a
huskie’s, checking him out. “Don Urey, pleased
to meet you. Stephen says you’re going to fix up
his garage, what do you need? I got probably
everything here.”
Then he’d run on, the cook’s tour, lifting
tarps, pulling out boards and sheets and rolls of
used carpet, “What about this one? It’s still in
pretty good shape...” Don wouldn’t stop. In
twenty minutes, they had Stephen’s suicide-
door Lincoln Continental stuffed.
For the prize though, Don slapped Stephen on
the back and they walked off aways, talking
money.
Stephen came over where Look was standing,
“Don says he got a good heater in working
condition, but he can buy a new one this spring
when they go on sale, says he’ll let you have it
for $125. It’s a hummer, a warehouse heater, it’d
melt the snow in Barrow!”
“Hey, only got a few bucks, man,” Look
c o u n t e r e d , No work in Anchorage in the winter
except as a handyman, and I’d need wheels and tools
for that.
“No problem, ” Stephen patted him on the
back. “Don sells firewood, and needs to have
cords split. He’ll cut you 25%, and I’ll front you
the $125. Take that heater today. Come on!”
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L o o k h e s i t a t e d . H i s m i n d r a c e d , Set up this
place, get me some cash, take off next spring to Rurik
for the Togiak herring season, get ten grand and my
Adak pay, fly back here, sue Tor. And try to find
Michelle.
Don and Stephen stood there, stock-still like
work horses in the snow, their eyes glazing
inside their own thoughts. Look spoke up.
“Hey, OK, give me a wedge and a maul, I can
split maybe three cords a day, easy. Let’s get
that heater!”
By that night, Look borrowing Stephen’s
handtools, he had paneled the studs, weather-
sealed the garage door, rolled out a plastic
ground sheet and a cigarette-burned red carpet
from some lounge remodel. It only took the
heater a minute to sweat all the frost off the
walls, and even if the floor stayed frozen, it was
his!
Stephen had thrown a broken-down freezer
into the bargain. They left it outside in the snow
for him to keep groceries stashed, and he’d
rigged a side-tap off the heater’s gas connection
to run a plate burner stove.
Done.
Only it wasn’t. Don came by the next day, his
beat-up International piled high with rounds for
Look to split. Soon the yard between house and
garage was stacked with cord wood, as he
smoothly pounded out piles of easy-splitting
spruce, and fought with wedges to get the
gnarly-grained birch burst apart.

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The stacked splits grew, and with them,
Look’s appetite. Stephen told him not to worry,
he’d spot him for the food. After a week of
deliveries, twenty cords, Look asked Don if he
could get a draw on his share of the work. “Hey,
don’t worry, man, I’ll settle with Stephen out of
your share, no problem, mate!”
But there was a p r o b l e m . E a c h t i m e h e a s k e d ,
Don shied off with, “Hey, gotta wait until I get
paid.” Or, “Oh, sorry, I bought some building
materials with that. Don’t worry, I’m keeping
track of your share.”
Stephen was spending more of his days away,
had even asked Look to stay out in the house
when he was gone. Then he returned after a long
weekend up in Tarkeepya with a grifty-looking
young couple, long-haired bushy-bearded guy
and his granny-dressed sheila. Some people
from his band, Rod and Tina.
“Hey, I said they could stay in the garage,
OK?”
Look stared down at his callused hands. It
was, after all, Stephen’s garage, and it was Don’s
stuff, and then he realized he was being taken,
and knew in a flash he couldn’t do a damn thing
about it. Nothing, ‘cept hit the road in the dead
of winter, down through Yukon and BC for a
thousand miles, praying to the hitchhiker gods
for a ride, -60ºF below at night. Dead in minutes
by the trail. No thanks. Tough it out.
He waited for his rage to subside. Be plenty
of time for a showdown later, when it got
warmer out, when he could afford to lose.
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So he let the couple stay in the garage. After
all, Stephen had let him stay in his house too.
When Don came by the next day, Look told him
his back was too sore, that he was taking a day
off. Don complained about missing his
deliveries, and Look told him flat out he was
through. Then he got right to it.
“I want my pay. We have twenty cords
delivered, another ten stacked here, fifteen’s my
share of every cord, right? That’s way more than
that heater and the materials you sold me. You
owe me some bread.”
There was a long silence. Look could see Don
figuring the odds. “Yeah, you owe me for the
heater, and those materials, and S t e p h e n ’ s b e e n
f e e d i n g y o u , and y o u o w e m e f o r y o u r s h a r e o f
the chainsaw, gas, the truck, plus what I gotta
pay for logs, buckin’ em, I’d say you still owe
me another two week’s work.”
“WHA-A-T! ! ” L o o k b o i l e d , i n f i g h t i n g m o d e .
But a fight meant jail time. If they traced him,
it’d mean extradition for murder. Hard time.
Flight now meant sure death, frozen on the
endless highway.
“Caught between a rock and a hard place,” h i s o l d
Pap used to josh about life in the mines, buried
alive.
“OK, I’ll keep working until then, but I want
to see your receipts, and I want a draw, then
when we’re through, I want an accounting!”
Look demanded.
Don was smiling. He knew he’d already won.
“I’ve kept track, man. I can’t give you a draw
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until you’ve repaid me first!” That was that.
He’d have to take the reaming. A drifter’s life’s
the same, whether it’s inside or outside of
prison. Everyone’s got a past.
And people take advantage.
So he started taking off at night through back
alleys in town when he gotten done with
delivering cords, searching for anyone who
might need their wood split, working late into
the night under the backyard lights, only the
thunk of the blade, the crunch of the snow, the
whisper of his panting breath. Most people kept
their door chained, pushing out the few bucks to
him, sensing how close he stood to the edge of
madness.
Some nights when he’d finish, he’d call
Saltie’s hoping to catch Jacques, to steal
Michelle’s address, find her here in Anchorage.
But it was always Sammy or Will that answered.
They hadn’t heard, and sure, they’d send him
some money. But they never did.
After awhile Look stopped trying.
He began to eat meals standing up. The
couple who stayed with him were all right, but
they were hungry too, and he didn’t want to be
eating in front of them. A beer sure tasted good
with that processed crap from the store, later it
was fortified wine for the warmth. Then he
started dumpster-diving behind restaurants.
Walking by a store window, Look caught a
glimpse of what he was becoming. Staring back
was a gaunt, knotty-muscled knit-cap’d bum,

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always cold in his feet, hobbled gait, his leather
jacket scuffed, torn.
“ M a n , y o u l o o k old!” a y o u n g k i d j e e r e d o n e
day, passing by him on his bike as Look was
wandering around the neighborhood trying for
work. There just wasn’t any outdoors labor in
the dead of winter, and the auto garage’s all had
their regular mechanics.
One night diving, as much for warmth as for
food, Look must‘ve chomped down on a rat-
gnawed scrap. Anyway, next day he stank like a
swamp, rotten egg belches and stinky fish farts.
It didn’t get any better. Don was driving them
farther on the deliveries, and longer in between
meals, only Dr. Pepper’s, Skippies Kracker’s
and Slim Jim’s in the long hours of work,
smoking Marlboros to kill the pain in his gut.
At the end of the week, Don figured he’d
gotten his profit out, took the maul and wedge
with him, and left Look with just twenty dollars
and some meager praise, “You’re a hard
worker.” That was it.
The couple seemed distant that night, like
they resented that he wasn’t out working late,
instead of cutting into their evening time, and
the smell must’ve gotten to them in the warmth
of that heated garage.
Next afternoon, Stephen was out getting ready
for work, and knocked on the garage door. Look
had been sleeping lightly, the heater turned
down so low that frost’d formed on the inside
walls, dreaming of alien cities, chrome’d towers,
rust and iridescent oil. Faceless golums,
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mercury vapor’d, bumped past him on the
sidewalks as he wandered by, lost.
“ J e e z , m a n , y o u l o o k l i k e shit! Aren’t you
taking care of yourself? Don says you quit
working for him!”
Look kind of stared, weak-knee’d and yellow-
eyed, gazing at the snow, at the shadows of the
trees in the pale sunlight, hearing a jetroar of
chickadees over the somnolent rumble of
Stephen’s rap.
“I’m all right, man. Don’t worry, I’ll find
work, you’ll get your money,” Look dissembled,
trying to remember if Don was to have paid
Stephen back, or if he still owed him for the
heater and the food.
Stephen sensed that opening, and took it.
“Listen, Rod and Tina say they can pay some
rent for the garage by next week, so I’m gonna
have to ask you to leave if you can’t.” Just like
that.
Look’s brain was melba toast, mensurating
Bessel functions, the AM radio stations blaring
in his head, spinning the dial, listening for clues
how he should answer. Nothing came. He
laughed, turning away to fall back on his mat,
“OK, man.”
Stephen closed the door, shaking his head,
glad to be getting shut of this drifter for a
paying tenant.
The next day the house was locked, Rod and
Tina’s gear rolled up and gone. Look woke
alone, stone cold. They’d all gone off to

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Tarkeepya, for some wintertime festival, Iditarot
or something. The gas was turned off, and the
light switch didn’t work.
Damn! L o o k h a d a m i g r a i n e , l i k e a s h i p i n a
wild sea, and the shit’s, bad. The gas station too
far to run, he steamed the snow with black
water, squatting, feeling life’s heat leaving his
body.
What did I eat? What the fuck is it I’ve GOT? My
damn stomach feels like I ate razorblades!
The answers all ran swirling into a nursery
rhyme within his fevered brain, as much found
on the license plates of passing cars, as on the
meaningless jumble of scribbled words in the
notebooks that he carried.
He dragged a pot to the center of the room,
and set another metal plate on top of that. Then
he lit a match, and began to burn his journal,
tearing out the spiral-bound pages, staring at
the creeping flames.
He crouched, minutes passing on to minutes,
cupping his hands before the heat, feeding his
past life, one page at a time, into the fire.
Then his head snapped back in shock, sure
that just for a moment he’d seen himself from
above, out of body, looking down on his own
wretched form.
Fresh air!
He ran to the door and wrenched it open
wide, sucking in bone-numbing cold, the glare
of the feeble sun refracting diamond ice on
black tree branches. He lurched over, knot in his

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guts, and vomited ropy bile, then stumbled back
to feed the dying embers.
But his frozen hands couldn’t grasp the
notepages now, and a far deeper cold was
sapping his mind.
The fire faded and died, ashes curling up
black.
Look passed out on top of his bag in a coma
of fevered dreams. He was lying in a flop house,
fetid, a dim room of stinking mattresses. Strange
men passed by in the darkness, staring at him
hollow-eyed, with dark thoughts Look could
hear, dark animal thoughts. Evil. His own pallet
was sticky with disease, stained with blood and
vomit, fungal. A young man thrashed nearby,
wailing for his mother, then retched copious
saliva onto Look’s feet. Warm saliva.
Look pissed himself, unknowing.
He was standing in a back alley, a dark
narrow alley in a dark sea town, a town of old
planks, black white-rotted wood, all slickened
with fish gurry and clotted semen. He retched
into the liquefied offal soaking his feet, and
then began to run blindly, in a slow loping
puppet dance of jerks and tears.
Down twisted alleys, past crooked doors,
over slanting rooftops, mumbling gibberish as
he staggered on beneath a howling jabberwocky
sky.
Look sat up weakly, still in dream, clutching
his churning, gurgling belly, swollen hot with
gas, then vomited on the carpet. He passed out
again, his head striking the frozen floor.
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He was running faster, sweating, desperate.
Dark armies of faceless men stood on the street
corners, laughing, grabbing as he stumbled by,
“hey, baby, hey, what’cha got for me, want some of
this, baby?”
He felt the press of clawed hands dragging
against him, the stink of their acetone’d breath
as he passed.
Roaring black night, rainy, cold, jagged
lightning. Doors opening as he ran past, the
w o m e n w h i m p e r i n g u n s e e n , “ What does he want,
why does he sleep all alone?” D o o r w a y s b l o c k e d b y
h u g e d a r k m e n , b u g l i n g f i e r c e l y , “ What the hell
do you want, get the hell out of here, dog!”
“Go on, get the hell out of here!”
Look sat back up suddenly, terrifyingly
awake, drenched in sweat, his ears roaring, guts
empty, raw.
Outside, a staggering bum threw a broken pallet
board at a stray dog, rowling, “Go on, get lost!”
Look tottered up, laughing insanely, and
scrabbled low across the yard, madly jimmying
at the windows, stealing on into Stephen’s
house.
In the dark kitchen, he grabbed a quart of OJ
from the ‘fridge, downing it in one long gulp.
That helped. He felt the sugar rush clearing his
brain. I need food!
But Stephen was a vegan, they all were, the
whole Tarkeepya lot of them. Everything had to
be ground, soaked and cooked slow. And those
fucking sprouts!

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He grabbed a spoonful of peanut butter, and
then another, swallowing, then choked. Gagghh!
His neck bulged, eyes bugging out. Look ran
back and forth, bumping onto walls, then
shoved his mouth on the kitchen faucet, blasting
d o w n b i g g u l p s , i c e c o l d . Whew! That was fucking
close! H e b e g a n c h e w i n g h a n d f u l s o f r a w M u e s l i ,
and felt a little stronger.
The house was still warm from the stove, so
he did the one thing he’d dreamed of these past
weeks. First, he put a pot of water on to boil for
tea. Hot tea! Then he went back into Stephen’s
room, rummaged around, and returned with
thick wool socks and fresh drawers. He yanked
his boots off, socks crackling, stiff with sweat
and blood. Then his Levi’s.
Fresh socks! Man, and fresh briefs!
While the tea was brewing, Look nosed
around. On the gun rack beside the piano rested
a 30-30 and, in a sheath, a nice recurve bow and
skin quiver. He poured himself a cup of hot
s u g a r e d t e a , Ahhh!, then slid the floors in his
new wool socks. The caffeine cleared his brain,
enough to form a thought, a single warped idea.
Think I’m gonna make a little withdrawal, heh-heh,
yeah, just a little cash from the bank.
And in that instant Look crossed over.
No man is inherently evil. He learns from the
ideas of peers and predecessors, or from his
own random thoughts and images. Exploring
potential survival strategies within his own
personal cosmology.
Learn or die.
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Sure, a man may become evil, when his
personal world becomes all-imprisoned, just as
men become evil when given unlimited
freedom.
LIVE<=>EVIL.
That’s the Great Paradox. The Key is to find a
balance, then keep that balance, on the head of a
pin.
Look had just lost his.
After he warmed his belly with another cup of
hot tea, feeling the heat run clear to his toes, he
slipped his boots over the new wool socks, and
began to riffle through Stephen’s old roll-top
desk for cash.
Then he found them. The car keys to
Stephen’s white Lincoln. He was free! Just head
on down to Seward, sleep in the car ‘til he found
a berth, work his way back over to Rurik and
f r o m t h e r e , t h e T o g i a k o p e n i n g o n Augenblik .
He’d win back his due.
Look’s hands were trembling as he took a
sharp carving knife from the kitchen, then
bundled a big jar of peanut butter, a sack of
muesli, tea, sugar and salt in a grocery bag. He
grabbed gloves and scarf from the mudroom,
then hesitating, crossed to the far wall and lifted
down the bow and quiver. He’d trekked the hills
and hollers as a kid back in West Virginia,
carrying a plain longbow, poaching gobblers
with his Pap.
Anything to get by.

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The feel of it in his hand was assuring,
familiar, a classic Groves Magnum recurve. The
seal-skin quiver held five cedar-spine turkey-
feathered arrows set with field points. A
neckerkerchief at the bottom wrapped around
some spare feathers, nocks, dental floss, a tube
of Duco, and an oiled cloth with five new
broadheads.
The Lincoln sat by the curb, mounded up
front and back where the snow had piled, but it
was January powder, and Look had no trouble
plowing through it with the big V-8. Then he
stashed the bow and quiver under a blanket
behind the car seat, and took off.
An hour later, Look was flying around
Turnagain Arm, surrounded by black woods,
green spruce and deep white snow, nobody else
on the wintry road. Feeling fine. He was warm
for longer than the entire past winter, warm like
the Yukon in summer, his feet wriggling inside
the wool socks, as he gripped the gas pedal with
his toes, radio blaring out the tunes.
He sang along best he could, spooning out
peanut butter from the jar, then a handful of
muesli, already starting to feel a lot better.
But it was clear his plan was foiled. So close!
The gas tank was only 1/2-full when he left
Anchorage, there wasn’t cash to fill it. His
money gone, he’d never make it to Seward
unless it was downhill from here.
And it wasn’t.
Ahead, a sign on the shoulder, “Hope - Right
5 m i l e s . ” What a thought! h e l a u g h e d t o h i m s e l f .
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Here I am, halfway to nowhere, don’t know nobody,
got no money, a boosted car and packing, but hey, one
thing I got is Hope!
Or at least he soon would have.
Look played the scenarios out in his mind.
Seward was a crap shoot, better he just enjoy the
day, and thrill to the close escape, go back, do
his hardtime getting healthy. When Stephen
finally kicked him out, take his chances
hitchhiking back down there on his own. No
sense waking to a patrolman’s flashlight, and
shackles, in jail, doin’ time just for a fuckin’
joyride.
So when the road branched off at Hope, he
figured he’d just stretch his legs and then turn
around, go on back. He didn’t expect to find the
side road, a hidden valley, beautiful open space
of aspen and tall spruce, cut through with berry
bushes, a swift-running creek, and hills covered
with golden dry grass, the crust of snow mostly
blown off by the winds.
The sun came out, higher now, warm, over the
mountains. Look stopped the Lincoln and got
out, shouting, once again back in the wilderness
he felt such a part of. Alive with Hope.
Nothing moved in a warm, windless day, the
sun flickering pale shadows on the ground.
Look wolfed frozen choke-cherries off the
ground-hugging bushes, a delicious sorbet.
Jackdaws cawed and flew overhead, looping
high in the air. Turning to follow their flight, he
caught a dark shape moving in among the
aspen.

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A bear. A big black.
His senses alive now, fed and free, Look felt
that adrenaline surge he knew from the sea. The
black bear was working slowly on uphill,
snuffling crowberries, moving toward a rocky
outcrop far above the car.
He drew the recurve from behind the car seat,
checked the quiver and broadheads, then put on
his jacket. As he began the stalk, working under
cover of scattered clumps of elderberry canes,
his thoughts drifted back to Viet Nam, to the
indigenous SE Asian tribes, how they fashion
their poison arrow heads from a tree the
Mentawai’s call "ariribuk ”.
The heart of the tree is soft and pithy, scraped
out with a bush machete to leave just bark and
slippery-smooth inner shell. A roll of the thin
veneer is cut in squares, size of your fingertip,
then worked into arrow points. They use a
razor-sharp iron blade fixed on a curved stick
the length of your forearm to carve the
broadheads, holding it against their leg while
they push the blanks against the tool.
First, a socket is carved down that fits the
arrow spine, then, the delta tip of the arrowhead
is edged to a thin line. Some spiral strips finish
it, made to hold the deadly poison distilled
from two kinds of tree sap and green chilis. And
in South America, Yanomami Indians scrape the
skin of poison tree frogs.
For Look, 145gr Super Razors would have to
do.

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He ran straight up through the dry grass, bent
low, working an intercept path between alder
brakes. Just before the ridge, they met. He had
crouched under an alder, trying to sense the
bear’s location in a tangle of brambles and tall
grass. Then the boar scented him on the wind,
and torn from its browsing, stood up tall on its
hind legs, searching, scarcely fifty feet away.
Look froze in the alder shade, arrow nocked
u p , h e a r t p o u n d i n g , k n e e s s h a k i n g . Hey, to watch
a bear is one thing, but to bowhunt close in, alone, a
whole ‘nuther.
The black was scanning, a big male in his
prime, dark fur burnt by the sun to a dusky
bronze-blond on the fluff of his ears and back
ridge. Seven feet tall, easy. His big muzzle
snuffled. Look raised up, his knuckles white,
and drew the bow out and down. The bear
spotted him, its red eyes enraged, territorial.
W i t h a l o u d “ WOUF! ” t h e c r e a t u r e d r o p p e d
and ran downhill toward him. He took only a
f e w s e c o n d s t o r e a c h L o o k , t h e s o f t twang ’d
release of the recurve lost in the bear’s roar.
Look jumped aside as the great beast plunged
past him, wounded, curled into a ball, tumbling
down the slope.
The bear’s body landed in a hollow just above
the road, jammed against the trunk of an alder.
He lay there, gurgling out his last breaths, the
turkey-feathered arrow rising and falling,
spotted with red blood, where it lodged in his
chest. Look scrabbled back down the hill after
the bear, and approached slowly, downwind.

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The creature moaned, shuddering. Look stepped
forward, his bow raised, and put an arrow
through the boar’s rib cage, straight into it’s
heart. He shuddered, paws extending, and died.
Look slumped to the ground and lit a
cigarette, body flushing with heat. It was over.
He’d prevailed.
The next full hour passed in unconscious
action. Look dressed the carcass, peeling the
hide, spilling out the guts, cutting off head and
feet. The boar had taken his arrow arc’ing in just
above the collarbone, then down through its
windpipe, heart, lungs. A fatal shot, and a lucky
one, taken on the run.
Out of respect for the bear’s spirit, same as an
Aleut hunter taught him back in Rurik, Look
buried the paws, and then the bear’s massive
head, at the base of a gnarled old alder tree
overlooking the golden valley. Then he rested,
slicing up the heart, eating it raw.
Tired as he was, and famished, the blood-
warm flesh of the bear poured straight into the
sinew of his being. He felt wild strength, a warm
cloak, covering him head to foot, like Popeye in
those old cartoons. Each swallow of bear’s heart
restored him, clearing his mind, flooding him
with hope, strength and renewal. A rare gift.
Hope. Always darkest before the dawn.
Later than evening, just before dusk, he
pulled back into the curb in front of Stephen’s
house, the carcass of the bear already near
freezing in the trunk, wrapped in it’s own skin.
Leaving it there to firm, he took the liver inside
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the garage, and finding where Stephen had
valved off the gas, turned the heater again.
That night he ate slices of cooked liver, and
dressed the bear for the freezer, totally
oblivious to people passing on the sidewalk.
They were no more than dark specters to him
now. Look felt himself becoming as wild as the
bear itself, already his plan of heading to
Seward tempered with the desire to first right
his position here in Anchorage, to stand for his
due, tell Don he wanted his fair share.
When Stephen and the couple returned late
the next day, that’s exactly what he did.
Stephen pounded on the door, disturbing
Look’s rest, and he rose like a cougar, eyes
smoking with wrath. He grabbed Stephen by his
jacket, “Yeah, I got into your house and
borrowed that bow and your car to go do some
hunting.” Stephen paled visibly.
Then Look turned to Rod and Tina, “If you
want to stay in my garage, you’ll have to like
meat, because I have a freezer full.” Then he
lifted the lid to show his dark red cache, glazed
with frost.
Stephen vomited on the snow, and Tina held
her hand up to her mouth, all of them
swallowing hard. “Oh, and one more thing. I
fixed up this garage, and I’m going to rent it. If
you want to sublet space, you’ll pay that rent to
me!”
Stephen and the couple scurried into his
house. After the lights came on and they’d all

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settled inside, he came storming back. “You
crossed the line, man!”
“No, Stephen, you did,” Look shot back. “You
told me to help myself, and then you and Don
damn sure to helped yourself to the sweat off
my back!”
They’d shouted down most of an hour, until a
patrol car passed by, called in by the neighbors,
and then they settled up. Look could stay until
spring equinox, or until whenever in the early
spring he felt like going. The rent he’d owe
Stephen for the privilege would come out of the
furnishings he’d bought from Don, and would
leave behind in the garage.
It was a good arrangement, a fair one. For a
short time, they looked pleased with themselves
for finding it. But then old fears came back,
‘what’s mine is mine’, and you could see that
edge in their eyes, figuring they’d gotten the
short end of the stick.
Human nature.
So they settled into an uneasy truce, the kind
of silent armistice the gold prospectors and fur
trappers must have formed in the decades
before. Wait out the winter, rest, save your
strength for survival.
Outside the weather turned unsettled, frigid
mass of arctic air pushing down across the
North Slope for one last blast, the faint sun no
warmer than a candle illuminating the
thermometer.
It was -40ºF below.

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Twenty Nine - Looking Thru You

Then one day it was just spring. Well, hey,

the goat-footed balloon man wasn’t out
whistling far and wee yet, but it sure felt like it
was. Maybe because the snow clumped up, and
the buds were swelling rosin, and early in the
dawn, suddenly birds would warble out in
song, then chirp back to silence, embarrassed.
The bear meat was nearly gone, Look was
back up to one eighty-five and feeling great. His
hard-knotted muscles had fleshed out round
and marbled, face no longer lean and hollow,
with a beard of oily black coils instead of
scraggly red. The young couple had gotten sick
of the smell of cooked meat and moved back to
Tarkeepya once the bitter cold softened.
He thrashed around Anchorage, riding the
bus, out along Northern Lights, Spenard, Tudor,
talking with shop stewards, construction
foremen, searching for work. Things were
looking up. Lots of possibles, lots of call-me-
next-week’s. And so bit by bit, a little day labor
here, an odd handyman job there, Look was
scratching together a grub stake.
And still hoping to find Michelle.
One evening he walked down through the
Park into that topless bar on 4th, you probably
know the name. He’d stretched out at a table
front-and-center, put a five-spot down, and was
sipping on a draft. It was early, and the girls on
stage were bored. Couple of business men on

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happy hour, construction crews blowing off, a
few solos.
And Lee! Sitting right there at the bar, looking
back at him, staring through him at the blonde
palamino outfit working out up on the stage.
Look grabbed his beer and jumped up. “Lee!”
he waved. Lee just leaned out on his stool,
looking past, ignoring him for the girl. “Lee! It’s
me, Look!”
Lee swung his gaze in, focusing, and then
they were bear-hugging, backslapping. “I don’t
believe it! Look! How have you been doing?!”
Lee beamed that big rebel smile of his. “Let me
buy you a drink! What are you doing here in
town? I didn’t recognize you with the beard!
Jeez, you’ve really put on muscle!”
Look set his drink down on the bar. “Been
fishing out West, didn’t Michelle tell you that?”
he explained, spreading his hands out. “Then
we got separated. I flew back here to see if I
could find her.”
“Anchorage is a big place, man,” Lee shook
h i s h e a d . R i g h t a w a y L o o k s a w i t . He knows where
she is!
But Lee didn’t say any more about it….
Lee didn’t say anymore about a lot of things.
It wasn’t his idea to fly up to Anchorage to try
and find Michelle in the first place, talk her into
coming back. So he checked out the local bars
and card room scene, started talking around,
and pretty soon he was sitting in on some pretty
interesting poker games. Alaskan’s just love to
gamble, and they had money, cash money. Now
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if he could play it right, get Jacques up here,
why, they could make a killing!
But Lee didn’t have any choice in the matter.
Michelle had left Jacques at an awkward time.
His Make a Million! program went horizontal
without her. The girls that he could find were
either too brazen and baudy, or too shy and
uncertain, country club whores or college girls.
He’d never realized before how much Michelle
figured in that equation.
He had other problems too.
With the sudden success of his venture,
opening the rehab clinic, with all the fancy cars
in the parking lot, and being in the spotlight all
the time, well, Jacques was attracting lots of
attention in the news media.
The kind of news that Jake Maribino studied
every night in his motel room at the ‘Havana
Hilton’, as he described it to Mr. Debolepesco,
laughing, when he’d call up to report back on
his activities.
“Mr. D., I’m sure the shooter is out of State
now, but I’m trying to locate his ex-girlfriend,
she just split one afternoon, didn’t show up for
work. What? No sir, they don’t have a clue, I’ve
been telling them I’m an insurance agent. Say?
Oh, well, not much, no, ha, ha, ha. Not down
here in the boonies.... I wanted to tell you, sir,
there’s something big going on here. Yeah!”
I’ll find out for myself first, you greedy old
bastard.
“No, not yet.... I will. OK, sir, I’ll let you
know.”
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But Jake had other plans. He’d spread himself
out around the town, the diner, feed and seed,
his cover always as a soft-selling insurance
agent, “OK, well maybe next time.” His shield
was his massive frame, nobody wants to mess
with someone who’s built like a gorilla. Just be
nice. So he’d put out the word, asking around,
and sure, there was a rumor some place down
there used to run a high-stakes card game after-
hours.
He was close to something big, and he knew
it. His brother’s killer, sure, but more, this was
some kind of scam he could grab a piece of. A
card room? Real estate? A drug clinic!? What
was the deal here?
They’d stonewalled him over at Saltie’s, that
burly bartender too big to mess with, and
Jacques like some Duke in his barony, staring
right through him, didn’t know about any kind
of games he might sit in on.
Jacques had learned his lesson. Play his cards
close to the chest, and focus on getting Michelle
back. But he’d made one fatal error, so intent on
himself, and on growing his new business up,
on keeping his clientele, that he didn’t warn
them about the stranger, he didn’t spread the
word. In his own mind, he didn’t want to spook
them with his paranoia.
In reality, all he did was set himself up for
the fall.
If Jake knew one thing in life, it was how to
squeeze information out of people. On the street
as a kid down near Maxwell Street, he’d used to
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beat the truth out of drug runners, prostitutes,
bookies, anyone who could lead him to money.
After run-ins with the vice squad, and a timely
intervention by Mr. D., Tuo taught him the
civilized way, using a charade of false
familiarity and veiled violence.
‘Good cop, bad cop’, the old-time lawmen
used to call it, pre-Miranda.
So Jake ran some license plates that he’d
tagged outside Saltie’s one weekend, and came
up red hot. These were big players! People he
might lean on. He picked Bob Gautier,
Springfield City Councilman and a Frenchman
same as Jacques. Jake set up a business meet to
talk about fleet insurance with Bob, hyping
himself up as a discount broker for a big
underwriter down in Minneapolis. He reminded
him they’d met at Saltie’s when they hadn’t, and
sidestepped Bob’s alert-sense by noticing the
golf trophy by the window, and the fishing
photo of that big striper bass on his desk. Jake
moved in a slow spiral towards good-
buddyhood.
“Yeah, Bob, we used to drive all day to get
back up there to Boundary Waters. I’m telling
you, walleye as long as your arm, and not a
ranger around. True story! Up north there is
nothing but big bush, big water, and the best
pickerel fishing you’ll ever see!”
Bob smiled. This guy was a real gregarious
insurance salesman, sure, but not too sharp on
the closing part, you know? He was intrigued.
“So you play any golf up in Minnesota, Jake?”
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“Bob, I’ll tell you what. I was a canoe guide in
high school, we used to take those doctors at
Mayo up to Ely to spoonfish, get them out on
portage, paddle them around for a week, catch a
rack of muskellunge. And sure, they’d have me
over to their houses after, drinks, party’s, then
play the links ‘round Saint Paul. I’m telling you,
those doctors love their golf!”
Bob could believe it, Jake was built like a
Paul Bunyan. He just couldn’t believe Mayo
Clinic doctors would party with a hick canoe
g u i d e . They’d probably let him carry their golf bags,
h e l a u g h e d i n s i d e . But in gaining that false
sense of superiority over Jake, he had let his
guard down. You see, Bob loved to talk.
They told bold angling stories, sitting there in
his city office, laughing wildly at the lies. Then
over to the pub where Bob always ate lunch,
Jake beguiled him, asking what it must be like,
being a City Councilman and all. Getting to
make the big decisions.
Bob shrugged it off. Hey, it wasn’t a big thing.
T h e n h e c o n f i d e d , mano y mano , “ T h e y t e l l u s
how to vote anyways, it’s all scripted out
beforehand.”
Jake feigned the surprise of a backwoodsman.
“Naw! Naw, you mean it? Naw, you’re the man,
Bob!”
Bob switched the subject, uncomfortable with
the whole truth, and asked Jake about being an
insurance salesman. It was the break Jake had
been waiting for.

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Wringing his hands, he moaned how
insurance was getting old, the travel, all the
paperwork. His older brother had just died,
then his wife left him, there just didn’t seem to
be any point anymore. All he really wanted to
do was go bass fishing, and play poker.
“Say, buddy,” Bob was sympathetic, “I’ll tell
you what, we’ve got a card game a couple of
fellows and I play over there at Saltie’s. I’ll give
‘em a call, see if they’d mind some fresh blood. I
think we’re short this weekend anyways.”
Jake smiled gratefully, hang-dog, “Hey,
thanks Bob, let me take care of this tab!” Hook,
line and sinker.
And that’s how business gets done.
Jake pushed into Saltie’s as Bob called to the
others, “Hey, we’ve brought a fourth,” in the
bridge lingo from his old Methodist days. Lee
moved into the smoking room, slipping a Glock
p i s t o l f r o m a S a b a ña c i g a r b o x o n t h e b o o k s h e l f
into his waistband, then set a disc on the
Victrola to cover his move. Every sense in his
body was screaming. He could see Jacques felt
the same way.
This new guy was trouble.
But it was Bob’s play. They watched Jake like
a hawk, and he wasn’t any kind of card player
anyway, just nickel and dime back there in
Chicago. He played the horses, that was his
game. So after awhile they all relaxed, and the
play continued.
To their surprise, Jake was an interesting guy
for a salesman, with some raunchy hooker
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stories that got them all laughing, and then
when they heard how much he knew about horse
racing and making book, the others were taken
in....
Look drifted backward in time, hoping for a
slip on Lee’s part, “So what’s been going on in
Little Osage?”
Lee stared toward the stage, as a big-titted
cerise circled the fire-pole in the light, grinding
her way to the floor through the smoke. His
gaze blurred, seeing the past in his mind, and
began again.
“We didn’t see Michelle after she left Saltie’s
one day round Thanksgiving I guess, nobody
was able to find her, Look,” he shook his head.
“Jack’s running the place with Will and Sammy
now, and he’s doing business with Sammy’s
father, keeping busy.”
“Lee!” Look cut in, “Michelle’s up here! She
was out in Dutch Harbor working on a
processor. We ran into each other there! Haven’t
you seen her since then? She said she’d call
Saltie’s when she got here!”
Lee narrowed his eyes. The girl on the stage
had swung around toward them now, pushing
her plastic tits together and leaning forward,
pouting her lips, guys reaching their money up.
He couldn’t tell Look very much more, not
without blowing their whole play. Jacques had
set this up very carefully....
Jake shook everyone’s hand, thanking them
profusely, and left at dawn. He was getting
skinned by that pack of thieves anyway, and
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hadn’t gotten even a nod out of Jacques or his
striker Lee. It was time to git, and he was tired.
Back in his motel room he showered, slugged
down a double-Chevas, and hit the rack. Later
that day, Jake got back into his rented sedan,
had the steak and eggs at the diner, and drove
back over to Saltie’s. He drove through the
parking lot, and walked up the steps to the
second floor, knocking at the back door.
The game had about finished up. Lee was in
the kitchen, and he’d peeped through the
curtain, then blocked the door with his foot.
“Hey, Jake,” he wasn’t smiling, “what’s up?”
“Let me talk with Jack.”
“He’s busy.”
“Then get him unbusy, or do you want me to
come in there?” Jake set his jaw muscles
knotting.
Lee let his shirt drift open to show the Glock.
Jake ignored it, holding his hands out. “Hey, I
just wanted to thank him, maybe talk some
business.”
Jacques pushed past, opening the door, and
the two of them confronted Jake on the landing.
“I don’t need any insurance, Jake. Thank Bob for
the invitation.”
Jake frowned, staring through them. His wide
face changed, “Oh, I think you do. I think you
need some protection, big-time, and I need to
find Sumpter.”

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Lee tensed at the name, but Jacques put a
h a n d o n h i s s h o u l d e r . “ W h a t i s i t y o u really
want?”
Jake rolled the names off that he’d
memorized. The City Councilmen, the State
Senators, Commissioners, everyone that he’d
tagged in front of Saltie’s. “Wonder what the
State Gaming Board’d have to say about this
place of your’s? Bet your clientele wouldn’t
appreciate the exposure!” He studied his
manicure, then rolled snake-eyes, “I told you, I
want the kid....”
Lee studied Look’s face in the dim light of the
bar, the stripper was done dancing, now he had
to make small-talk. He wondered what he could
say to Look to convince him he should go back
to Illinois. He hadn’t found Shelley, so they had
no way to lure him back yet, and now Jacques
was getting desperate. Jake was really starting
to lean on him, his bar, his clinic.
“Yeah, Michelle called and said she was
waiting up here for you. Wasn’t much going on
at Saltie’s and Jack was busy all the time, so I
thought I’d fly up and check it out. Anchorage is
a nice place.”
Look would’ve argued the point, but right
now he only had one thought on his mind,
“Michelle, man, come’on, where the fuck is
she!?”
“Whoa, easy old hoss,” Lee held a hand up, “I
didn’t say I’d found her, the place she gave was
some motel off Seward Highway. She’s not there
anymore.”
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“Her roommate said she was working at a
fresh-pak fish processor, didn’t you get the
name?”
“Jeez, Look I don’t know, you’d have to ask
Jack,” Lee kept him teased, “those seasonal
processors come and go, don’t they?”
Look sensed he was being played, and backed
off. He’d find her, it was just a matter of
waiting. If he didn’t find her in Anchorage by
spring breakup, he’d fly back after Togiak and
look up Jennie and Bo.
But Lee really didn’t know. He’d been trying
to get in touch with Shelley, to talk her back
down, it had become almost an obsession now
for Jacques. Just get her back, then lead her
boyfriend to Chicago.
“So what’re you up to these days, Lee?” Look
changed the subject, “found any good card
games?” He forced himself to swirl the drink
around, puff on his smoke, look disinterested at
the stage as the next exotic dancer waltzed out.
“Yeah, actually, matter of fact, I have,” Lee
boasted, glad the conversation was going his
way. “Jack’s flying up here next weekend to sit
in on a little high-stakes match I’ve put
together.”
Look riveted him with a stare, “Can I be in on
it?”
“Sorry pardner,” Lee shook his head, “strictly
players. They don’t allow anyone else into the
room, just stock the ‘fridge and lock the door.”

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But he wanted to tether Look’s halter, just in
case.
“Tell you what. What’re you doin’ next
Monday night? The game’ll be over by then, and
Jack and I‘ll take you out to the Palmer for
dinner. What do you say? Like old times!”
Look pushed off from the bar. This was as far
as he was going to get. “How will I get in touch
with you?”
Lee wrote a phone number on a matchbook
and handed it to him. “Just meet us there at
8PM,” Lee feigned disinterest, “We’ll have a
celebration, hit the bars, go get some chicks,
OK?”
It was the toughest week he’d ever waited.
Look spent the time at the Library, going
through the phone book, calling around the
processors, walking by the open doors. Fish
processors don’t take calls to their line
employees, and they don’t give out names. A
new fresh-pak operation might not even be in
the book yet.
He couldn’t find Michelle.
And Stephen was giving him shit, trying to
push him out of the garage, get him out of his
life for good. The place stunk in the rising
temperature, Look only slept there anyways. He
felt a sense of anticipation, something was about
to change in his life.
Monday afternoon, just after the maids had
started their rounds, he snuck over to a motel,
handed the girl a five for a towel, and used the
shower in one of the rooms. Then he changed
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into new Levi’s, a blue-on-white chambray shirt
he’d got at Sears, and a khaki Karhardt vest with
a broken zipper from Good Will.
Striding into the Palmer, he looked like a new
man, an outdoors man, wavy black hair, curly
black beard, the heft and bulk of a fisherman.
People stared, in slender party dresses and
padded-shoulder suits.
He found Lee at the bar, and then coming
down the steps from the lobby, Jacques and his
young escort. “Hey, Michael, you’re looking
good!” Jacques smiled as he introduced Jennifer,
the party girl he was with. She was nice, a little
too young for this, and nervous.
“Pleased to meet you,” Look nodded.
They moved to a table, and Jacques seated
himself opposite Look, with Jennifer and Lee in
between. Ever charming, ever the showman, he
led them all through the ordering and the chit-
chat, like this was just some chance meeting
among business associates.
The dinner’s food and drinks passed by in a
blur, overcooked and oversauced anyway to
Look’s taste. Jennifer was leaning on Jacques’s
words. Lee kept his cards close to his chest.
Look’s anticipation was rising, unstoppable, he
just had to talk about old times.
“So hey, Jack, did that card game you’ve been
talking about remind you of Saltie’s?” he began.
Jennifer looked around, intrigued, “Saltie’s?”

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“Oh, we used to go to this tavern together,
back home,” Look meandered. “Jack was pretty
good at cards, there in the back room.”
Jennifer’s smile shone on Jacques, “Really?”
But Jacques got the hint. Give up Michelle, or
he’d bring the conversation around to her
anyway.
“Yeah, Michael and his girlfriend used to
tend bar there. Lee told me she was up here
with you?”
Jacques enjoyed the parry and thrust of this
game. He liked Look, his style, it was too bad
he was going to give him up. In a heart beat.
The game he’d been invited up to here in
Anchorage was much more than just a game of
cards. A new kind of game, a con that only
Jacques, with his raconteur style could pull off.
And Look was going to be his mule.
“Hey, Michael, Lee and I were going to party
with Jennifer up in the room, you want to join
us?”
Look studied their faces, all of them smiling,
artificial, each knowing that the other knew.
“No, I’ve got to get going, thanks for dinner.”
“Well come up to the room for a drink
anyway, I got something for you, a package
from back home,” Jacques winked.
Look’s whole demeanor changed in an instant.
Jacques had been teasing him! So maybe it was
letters from Michelle, a check from Mik, Lou’s
whereabouts!?

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The elevator ghosted them to the seventh
floor, room 704, a decent hotel room as they go,
two double beds, the bottles in a rack, clothes
on the bed, unmade. Jacques and Jennifer had
obviously been partying here already. He sure
a c t e d l i k e i t , a l l f l u f f e d u p . Poor kid .
“Here you go Michael,” handing him the
package, hand on his shoulder. “Sure you won’t
stay? Jennifer’s a fun girl?!” He knew that would
move Look along.
“No, thanks, got somewhere else,” he shy’d.
“Nice to meet you.” Jennifer smiled back, and
then Jacques walked him out into the hallway.
Jacques came right to the point, all pretense
gone. “Look, I’m trusting you here, I don’t know
this town like you do, I don’t know where I
stand.”
Look’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. What
a change! “What the hell’s goin’ on, Jack?”
“Listen, Lee and I won a whole lot of money
this weekend, but we still want to stick around
awhile. Michelle is back at her sister’s waiting
for you. Now I’ve wrapped the cash in this
package, can you take it back to Saltie’s for me
and meet us there next week?”
“Why don’t you guys just fly back?”
“Because Look, you don’t just roll into a
place, take a bunch of high-stakes money, and
blow town!? It’d look like a con! We want to
play it awhile, maybe see if we can start up a
Saltie’s here in Anchorage. You and Michelle get
the tavern going, you two are good. Will and
Sammy are holding on while I’m gone. Give the
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package to Sammy’s father, then have him call
me. Enjoy yourselves, you two kids deserve a
break!”
Look beamed, wanting to hug him. This was
more than he’d possibly hoped for. Michelle
was found, and with her, better, their old life
together at Saltie’s.
Jacques inhaled slowly. Even with all of his
years of conning people, it was hard to take
down an honest kid. “Here, here’s $500, take a
float plane to Cordova tomorrow, catch a jump
to Skagway, hop the ferry down to Washington
on it’s spring run back.”
“Hop the ferry? What’d you mean?”
“Hey! Have you forgotten? You’re a fugitive,
Look, a felon. The statute never runs out on
murder.”
His shoulders sagged. All winter he’d
avoided that label, distancing himself mentally
from the shoot-out as an abstraction, a distant
memory. Jacques was right, he’d have to keep
his head down.
“Jeez, I don’t know Jack, $500 isn’t much,”
hoping he’d let him off the hook.
“I don’t want you to get in any deeper, don’t
worry! I checked it all out already.”
“Yeah, but, ummm, what if I get stuck?”
“Look, if you have to, break into the package,
I’ve counted it twice. Just didn’t want you in too
deep,” Jacques beamed munificently.
“Remember, you owe me $800 now.” He
slapped him on the shoulder.

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“I, ahh, don’t know what to say,” Look shied
away, staring nervously left and right.
“How about thanks? Now go on, find
Michelle, OK?! Jeez!” Jacques laughed, not so
much at his ploy, but because Look had
absolutely no idea, and it flat hurt to watch. He
had to laugh to keep from crying.
Look never went back to Stephen’s.
Instead, he stopped at a payphone and called
Wendy up, then with the last of his own hard-
earned money, took her out on the town, out to
Leonardo’s where all the rich pretty people
hung out, and there whirled her around the
mirrored dance floor, popped a cork or two, and
spun out such clever tales from the frontier that
she was laughing like a school girl again.
The next morning, a big Twin-Otter flew out
from Spenard Lake, heading east for Cordova
with a single passenger inside, a traveler who
never looked back.

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Thirty - Green Tea

The guy driving the Ford Bronco talked non-

stop all the way south from Bellingham, once
Look made the mistake of telling him he used to
own a Ford pickup too. They’d met the last day
on the Ferry, up on the sundeck. Said his name
was Preston, and now he was babbling about
this, his first trip to Alaska, a charter to Yakutat
for a spring goat hunt.
Look tried interrupting with his story about
the caribou hunt on Umnak, but no sooner had
Augenblik’s i n f l a t a b l e d r o p p e d i n t o t h e w a t e r ,
the guy cut him off, grousing about the crappy
weather on Mount Logan, how he’d been socked
in and SOL for his trophy.
“It’s that damn lodge runs all those charters,”
he bitched, “they should know spring is bad
weather! I’ll tell you, I’m never going back up
there again, no way!” He kept sniffing about the
week spent sitting by the fire, before he’d beat it
back to civilization.
Never even got his feet wet.
“And the real b i t c h , ” h e l a u g h e d , n o t i c i n g
that Look didn’t care, “the rotten weather made
me miss my connection in Juneau and I had to
take the fuckin’ Ferry back on my comp time!”
He just kept going on and on, complaining
about all the bad breaks, as they coasted the
grade down into the Skagit Valley.
Look hollered to let him out at the Highway
20 offramp, ‘North Cascades Highway’ on the

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big sign overhead. He waved thanks at Preston,
then walked off, duffel on his shoulder, past the
farmer’s market, past the old potato coop
warehouse, on out the cross-state highway
heading east over the snowy Cascades.
He smiled. The wintry Skagit weather seemed
like a balmy spring day after Anchorage. It’d be
easy going from here, over the mountains, east
to Idaho where Route 20 splices into Route 2.
There, rest in Sandpoint, head north from
Bonner’s Ferry, walking across into Canada. The
border there just a booth and a lonely Mountie
anyway, one of his Adak buddies had said. Ride
the Canadian-Pacific across the Northern Tier to
Thunder Bay, then south to Duluth.
He’d call Will from Minnesota, surprise him,
and sure to, kind’a hoping Michelle didn’t have
a lover. Maybe Will could get in touch with her
at Jennie’s? Then just a day later, she’d be there
waiting for him at the Springfield bus terminal,
her arms open wide.
They’d get her old apartment back in
Macomb, with the pinewood floors and that
sunroom kitchen nook. Settle down, she’d go on
back to school, he’d get a job, nights as a janitor
at Western.
Then get married out at Jennie and Bo’s farm
next August, maybe raise some kids. Turn the
world off and drop out of sight. No one would
ever know. He smiled, facing the upvalley
traffic, thumb stuck out.
He was trippin’, but it felt OK. Hope.

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A faded VW pickup rolled to a stop, a hippie
guy and his girl, smiling. Look threw his duffel
in the back with all the farm supplies, and
climbed in front. The hippie said his name was
Karl, the girl Sharon. Said they lived in a
commune upvalley.
Bunch of tofu-heads, but nice enough to pass
the time with, they kind’a reminded him of
Stephen and his band of Tarkeepya’s. The guy
seemed straight, said he fought fires in the
summer, working in the shingle mills down in
Concrete during the winter.
They were part of this farm collective, trying
to build a family of people where they’d feel
right about raising children of their own. The
girl was sweet too, Look figured she’d be a real
knockout in a party dress. Even in flannel and
bib overalls, her curves showed.
“Sharry,” Karl spoke, “see if we have
anything to snack on up front here.” Look
t h o u g h t o f M i c h e l l e , mon cheri, fighting off the
ache. Sharon passed around some granola bars
and pear juice, and they ate quietly as the VW
chugged upvalley along the river.
“Where you from?” she started the
conversation. Karl smiled to show he was
interested too.
“Oh, I just came down from Skagway on the
Malaspina , y o u k n o w , A l a s k a F e r r y , ” L o o k
opened. “Lived up in Alaska the past winter.”
They nodded.
“I used to live in a collective, back in
Illinois,” he added, then regretted it
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immediately. These weren’t his friends from
Dutch Harbor, they were strangers. Now there’d
be a trail for the police to follow.
“What about you guys?”
The pair smiled at him warmly. “We’re
heading back to Marblehill to our acreage on
Clarkston Road. Before we lived in Wauconda,
over east,” Karl spoke.
Sharon added, “Dry land farming, wheat and
weeds,” with a wrinkle of her nose.
Karl shrugged, like, whatever.
“That’s where I’m going!” Look leaned
forward, eager to make eyecontact, maybe get a
lead on Idaho, getting up to Bonner’s Ferry.
They stared straight ahead, noncommittal.
Sharon smiled after awhile, “Well, be sure to
stop in Tonasket at the co-op. It’s a long, long
ways to Idaho and not many people on that
stretch. Why not take the bus to Everett, and go
across on Route 2?”
Karl put a hand on her leg, disapproving.
“Shar’, he knows what he’s doing.”
That night Look broke bread with the group
at their place in Marblehill, five couples and
four children, a relaxed bunch of hippies,
mostly outcasts from the old California ‘karmic’
circles, some. Some down from the North Plains
and so already inured to hard work, farm kids
who smoked pot and who believed in free love
and the West Coast, more or less.
He spent the night on the living room couch
as everyone padded off to bed, the young kids

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begging to play a little longer, the parents
thinking of tomorrow’s work yet to be done.
They fed him breakfast, fresh-cut oatmeal, a
slice of toasted sourdough, an apple, green tea.
Good.
Sharon told him about a boarding house back
near town, where he could wait until the snow
left the mountains. But Look was in rambling
mode, his old memories of the Rockies still
fresh in memory. So he walked back into town,
in time to wave down a Muni Light service truck
heading up toward the hydro dam.
“Where you headed, son?” the driver asked
dryly.
“Headin’ over to Idaho on 20, on to
Sandpoint,” as far as he wanted to say. Again,
the same advise.
“You’d do better takin’ the bus from Everett,
then across that way on Route 2. You’ll never
make it over the North Cascades. There’s five
passes between here and there. Just a bunch of
dry-landers, feeding their homefires or off to
Arizona for the winter, maybe a Colville Indian
might give you a ride, ‘bout it.”
Then came the news on the radio, halfway
there. “Z-krr-tch--road’s out--sst-s--plow’s
buried--zzch-k-krr--avalanche (.....) rescue ssks--
kkr...,” was all Look could make out.
“Damn!” the guy punched the steering wheel.
“Damn! Was going up Pasayten this weekend,
cross-country ski’in with the kids. Won’t get
through now.”

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Look blanked out for a second, “You mean,
they, ummm, I mean, the road is....”
The man finished for him, “Damn right!
Road’s closed until April, once they dig that
plow driver out.” Then realizing, he grinned
sheepishly over at Look, “Guess you’ll want out
now. Don’t get stuck up there in Numen, it’s a
company town.”
The truck pulled on away, crunching gravel.
Look was alone in the middle of the snowy
Cascades, so quiet that he could hear a
snowmelt creek gurgling down across the draw,
and willowa winds rustling the trees up at
snowline. Luckily it was a warm day.
He sat watching the river, the hydro guy had
said they were spilling the dam, getting ready
for spring runoff. The warm sun playing on the
water’s surface was mesmerizing. Time out of
mind.
Then high above, the ‘bud-da, bud-da’ of a
rescue helicopter, heading down valley,
probably with that snowplow driver inside,
half-frozen. After awhile, a lowboy ground on
by, heading up the steep grade, bringing a front
loader to clear the avalanche away. Activity
picked up after that, and he grabbed a ride back
to Marblehill with another hydro worker.
“You can wait for a ride here at the Cafe, the
best pie upvalley, that’s for sure,” he’d pointed.
Look went on inside, shrugging off the locals’
stares, feeling like that rabbit up in Dutch.
Trapped. Then with time heavy on his hands
and no clear plan how to get farther on, he
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found Lee’s matchbook and made a phone call
up to Jacques in Anchorage.
“Hello.” That was all, just hello.
“Yeah, hey, is Jack there? This is Look.”
There was a long silence, a drawn sigh, deep,
like someone barely whispering, just loud
enough they wouldn’t have to repeat. “Look,
this is Lee. Get clear of where you’re calling
from and don’t call again.”
Look stammered, “What’s going on? Come on,
tell me! Is Michelle there? Did she come back up
from Illinois? Where’s Jack?! Is he with her!!?”
Lee gave him another number, “Call this
phone, it’s a machine, just leave your number
and then hang up. I’ll call you right back. Just
let me get to another phone.” Then Lee hung up.
Their whole conversation hadn’t lasted more
than thirty seconds.
He called and left the number of his
payphone, then went back his booth, taking a
coffee from the pot, waving his cup at the
waitress to let her know.
He waited. Fifteen minutes went by. Twenty.
His nerves were raw. Then the phone rang and
rang. It was Lee. “What’re you still doin’ in
Washington!? You’re supposed to be on your
way back to Illinois! What’s going on, Look!?”
he demanded.
Look morse-coded, “Skagway on that charter-
skip, Bellingham on the Ferry. On my way over
to Idaho, avalanche closed the road. Now I’m
here.”

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There was a murmur, Lee talking to someone.
“OK, here’s the good news, you’re out of
danger. Now here’s the bad new, Jack got busted
by the FBI, he’s downtown in lockup.”
Look’s eyes popped wide, “Jack!?” All the
locals stared at him, so he lowered his voice.
“What the hell happened, did they bust the
cardroom!?”
Another pause, Lee scarcely breathing, “OK,
Look, I’ve got to tell you this, but I have to
make it fast, might have this phone tapped too.
Pay attention! Jack’s wasn’t up here just to get to
know the locals. We were playing this guy who
courier’s cash for the banks, out to the Aleutians
and Bristol Bay, you know, to pay the boat
crews for their fish deliveries.”
“Yeah, I talked with one of those guys at the
LunaSea in Dutch. What, did he play five
kings?”
Lee cut him off, dead serious. “Listen, I’m
sorry we didn’t tell you, but we didn’t want to
ruin your trip home. I’m sorry to lay this on
you, but the money you got isn’t a cardgame’s.
That money,” and here Lee swallowed, knowing
how Look would react, “that was money we
heisted from an airport hangar just before the
flight, Jack kept the courier busy playing a
sweet run of cards. It was a canvas bag full of
cash for the bank down in Rurik. He was
supposed to put it on the plane. Guess he
forgot. Sorry, man.”
Look leaned against the wall, staring over at
his duffel sitting innocently in the booth, filled
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with all the stolen cash. “H-how much?” he
stammered.
“You don’t need to know that, you’re only
carrying part of it. Just get to Will’s, and then let
Sammy’s father know you’re back in town,
understand?”
“ W h a t ’ s g o i n g o n , L e e ! ? T e l l m e , how much ?!”
There was a pause, what you’d call a cogent
lull. “A hundred eighty-five thousand, man. We
divided it three ways.” Then he repeated, “Get
to Will’s!”
“What about Michelle!?” It was too late, the
line was dead. He wobbled back to his seat in
shock.
The way-young waitress stopped in front of
his booth, grinning, hand on her hip, crackin’
gum. Her blithe attitude was too much for him
to handle.
“So, what’s your name, honey?” he teased, but
she could see he wasn’t really interested.
“Heather,” she smiled, being polite.
“Heather, hmm. OK, get me a cheeseburger,
Heather, some jo-jo’s and a Dr. Pepper. “ His
gaze brushed down across her blouse, her skirt,
her legs.
“Will there be anything else,” she shy’d away.
“Yeah,” he grabbed her by the wrist, “sit
down and talk with me awhile.” Then he saw the
change on her face, the fear behind her eyes.
“Sir, I have work to do....”
His hand relaxed and she slipped free.

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What the hell was I doing!? He wolfed the
burger and fries, then paid the bill and left, fear
balling his hands in his pockets, his emotions
whipping back and forth between heaven and
hell. It was after all, a lot of cash, whether
skimmed off some dumb rubes or stolen, but a
h u n d r e d e i g h t y - f i v e t h o u s a n d o u t o f half a
million!
He tried to estimate the bulk of that much
cash, obviously not ten’s and twenty’s from the
card game, more like fifty’s and hundred’s,
probably marked, and still in the bank
wrappers. A casual police stop would land him
in maximum, doing hard time, a nickel to a
dime, with a murder one extradition on top of
that.
“Listen Mister! You can wear this sideburn as long
as you like, but this other one is mine, and you’d
better just shave it off right now! Now get down and
give me fifty...!” d r i f t e d i n t o L o o k ’ s m e m o r y . O l d
hawdass divemaster from bootcamp, Warren
Conner.
That recollection brought a smile back.
He was a Navy Seal, after all, trained to
survive on his own wits, to meet and disable an
enemy, even if that enemy was now his own
mind. His first thought was to find cover, then
he remembered the boarding house across the
river.
Look glanced left and right at the door of the
cafe, and then jogged across the road. The sun
was low in the sky, casting a golden glow on the
hillsides around the town, dusted with late

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snowfall the night before. The old planked
bowstring bridge led over to a gravel road that,
if you followed it, went high into the North
Cascades, then down to Stehekin on the eastern
side, and the wide-open spaces of the Northern
Mohave.
His backdoor escape route.
There, beyond the bridge and across the wide
meadow, stood a sagging clapboard house at the
edge of the treeline, like a sentinel between
civilization and the wilderness. He smiled. He’d
stay there until the highway cleared, and if
things got dicey, he could head up the pass and
lose himself in the outback.
Look walked up the verandah and opened the
front door, “A-a-a..., anyone here?”
A voice ahead called out, “We’re back here,
come on in!”
The house was comfortably nineteenth
century, once a logging crew camp from the
days of one-log truck hauls, its wainscoted
walls and hooked rugs, couches and chairs
centered around an ancient mica-windowed
wood stove. The floor itself was straight-grain
doug-fir planking, grooved with age.
In fact, the place reminded him of Lou’s neat
little Springfield bungalow, with a hand-me-
down decor and a rundown feel. He felt right at
home.
“Hi!” he smiled, hand out to the man and wife
working in their kitchen. The guy was
spectacled, a lot like Michelle’s brother-in-law
Bo. She was slight too, grayed-raven hair
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braided Indian style. The counter was spread
with gallon jars of grains and nuts, and potatoes
and carrots from the root cellar, fixings for a
homecooked meal.
“Hello, I’m Jim Harrigan and this here is
Mary, we’re the caretakers of Altamira. The
name means ‘mountain lookout’ in Spanish, just
like this place.”
“Pleased to meet’cha, my name’s Loo..., umm,
Lew,” he replied, rekindling his old alias.
“Lewis?” Mary smiled, “Nice name. Lewis
and Clark explored the Pacific Northwest here a
hundred years ago. Would you like some
blackberry wine?”
The three of them sat around the little kitchen
table, staring out at the river bottom land,
chatting while they sipped the rich purple berry
wine. Jim said they’d been Foreign Service
workers traveling through here on their
Stateside vacations, then they’d returned one
day to run the place. It was going on their
seventh year now. They had a three-year old
little girl, Kelly, out playing dolls in the cedar-
split fenced backyard, there under the hanging
laundry.
Look was lulled by their stories of working at
the different international US Embassy’s and
their annual leave trips to Buenos Aires, the
Serengheti, Benares, Fiji. He’d forgotten his
fears of the afternoon. Night was creeping
slowly up the mountainsides, the deep cold
returning, when Kelly ran into the kitchen, into
her father’s arms, staring wide-eyed at Look.
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“My name’s Kelly,” she beamed, “I’m this
many,” holding up three fingers on her little
hand, checking to make sure. She focused on his
duffel. “What’s in there?” she pointed, “are you
a sailor?”
Look smiled, but sweat was beginning to rime
his armpits, and he gulped a quick, “I used to
be in the Navy,” before Jim shushed her for
being so nosey.
“You run upstairs and play, honey, we’ll call
you when dinner’s ready.”
Kelly skipped away sideways, stopping just
at the edge of the hallway and staring back at
Look, her toy held straight out, “This is my
dollie!” Then she disappeared. They all
laughed.
“So you’ve seen some of the world, then?”
Mary tip-toed carefully around the topic, “will
you be staying here long, Lew?”
Look had to swallow, unable to say much of
where he was from, and unable to say how long
he might be staying. “Ahh, umm, did a tour in
Nam. Spent some time drifting around in
Mexico after, Vallarta, you know, bummin’
around the beaches? Reno-Tahoe. Skied
Loveland, Big Bear. Just got to Washington this
week, kind’a like the place, don’t know how
long I’ll be staying,” he spun a story out,
figuring that an old rehash was better than
nothing, more comfortable.
But forget the parts about Chicago and Alaska!
“Mexico? Oh, we used to go down to Oaxaca!”
Mary enthused. Jim smiled, nodding his head.
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“Stayed at an adobe panceon in Tehuantepec, up
against the Sierra, on Mar Muerto. We’d go into
Oaxaca for the Christmas celebrations,” she
explained, gazing over her shoulder,
“‘Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace comino al andar’.
[Traveler, there is no road. You make your own
way as you go.] Machado, do you know it?!”
He responded in kind with a translation that
M i c h e l l e h a d t a u g h t h i m . “ T h e w o r d travel i s
from the French, travaill. I t m e a n s a p a i n f u l
effort, or else an instrument of torture, ha-ha-ha-
ha.”
They laughed together at the common bond.
“‘Yo tango no dinero,’” L o o k g o t c a r r i e d a w a y ,
“‘pero como se yama, chica? Quanto ano’s?’ was all I
ever needed.” [I don’t have any money, but
what’s your name, baby? How old (are you)?]
That’s about it.”
Jim and Mary glanced at each other, their
smiling expressions clouding over, disturbed by
the earthy reference, Machado’s wisdom already
forgotten.
Then, the subject of money having been
raised, Jim spoke about the room, “Lew, if
you’re staying, we have a weekly rate, I’ll go
and get the register.”
With that their fragile camaraderie changed as
it came, gone like a santana wind.
Jim laid out the plates and silverware while
Lew helped Mary make a Waldorf salad, talking
about his past life as a machinist. She told him
how they were starting a river rafting guide
business for the summer, running down the
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white-water section of the upper river. “We’ve
got some kayaks over on the Cascade, just down
there under those tall poplars,”
Jim offered, overhearing, “Maybe tomorrow
we can take them out? Mary can pick us up after
we run the rapids in Crete. They should be
awesome with the dam spilling! Then it’s all flat
river after that.”
So Look had another opportunity to fit in, just
for a moment, but his own life had nothing in
common with lollipop sport kayaks. All he
thought to say was, “Eskimos still use kayaks,
you know?”
That was so lame that Jim let it drop.
Their delicious vegetarian buffet seated Look
with the other house guests, Kenny and Cole,
both brothers from Carolina, out here looking
for Tarheel relatives on the Skagit. They talked
about the Turnpike and the Blue Ridge,
Winston-Salem and stock car racing. He just
smiled, not wanting to reveal his background.
After dinner, he excused himself and laid out
his sleeping bag in the men’s common room
upstairs. Searching for paper, Look found a
journal one of the trekking guests had taken
from the Sauk Mountain ranger station, and then
left behind as a novelty.
He borrowed a pencil from the desk in the
corner, and began recounting his life in Illinois,
then up in Alaska, eager to write down the
adventures, and to remember those familiar
faces, feel them close around him, Michelle
closer still. It was a habit he’d started, and then
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dabbled at before he’d burned his notebook.
Now he had the means and the moment to
recreate it.
After awhile Kenny and Cole trooped up and
laid out their bags, then tried to strike up a
conversation with him. He kept on writing while
they lost interest, scribbling until the oil lamp
ran low, and Kenny had to chide him, “Hey,
Lew, get some sleep!”
There’ll be lots of time to finish my story.

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Thirty One - The Heat is On

The call came in on the night shift, but Sheriff

Tom McConnett had standing orders with his
911 staff, “Only emergencies, got it?
Emergencies! Otherwise, don’t call the house.”
So it wasn’t until after he’d had his 6AM
coffee and jelly roll, joking with his two beat
cops in the small sheriff’s office in Vernors, the
Skagit County seat, that he noticed the message
on his blotter,
“Call State Office FBI, Olympia,
immediately.” No subject, yesterday’s date and
t i m e , l a t e n i g h t h o u r , a p h o n e n u m b e r . Shit! T o m
thought.
The number on Tom’s note rang up the desk
of Investigator Sam Burton, a seasoned former
detective who’d specialized in white-collar bank
fraud and embezzlement, before working his
way into the FBI on bank robbery. His
colleagues relied on Sam for his intuitive ability
to sniff out an inside job, to separate the wheat
from the chaff, as it were, and pin-point the
most likely path the stolen money had taken.
After that, it was a simple matter of obtaining
all the warrants, tax records, bank accounts and
wire transfers, then to locate the money. Once
found, the money always led back to the thief.
Just took patience, the patience of a wolf spider,
astride the victim’s path, hiding, waiting.
Sooner or later a thief always returns to check
his money. Then, bingo!

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They’d been lucky in the Anchorage case.
First a cabbie’d overhead a conversation
between two out-of-town card sharps,
mentioning a murder and someone he knew.
Then that girl at the escort service called and
told them about two guys she’d been with,
who’d divided up piles of big bills on their bed,
laughing.
Except one got away, and now there was a
third.
“Sheriff!” Sam started slowly, “Thank you for
returning my call, how’s your morning going?”
McConnett was sucked in, “Well sir, too late
in winter to talk about the huntin’, and too early
in the season to talk about the fishin’, so hey?
What’ve you got for me?” chuckling to himself
at the juxtiposed images. Surf ‘n Turf.
“What I’ve got,” Sam was serious, “is a
sheriff’s office that let eight hours go by before
responding to an FBI wanted notice, a notice for
bank robbery and interstate flight, right into
your jurisdiction!”
McConnett gulped hard, switching his plug of
Red Man over a little too close to the hot coffee
he’d just sipped, swallowing enough black bile
to choke. He spewed coffee and tobacco juice
back out across the desk as his chair tipped bolt
upright with a bang.
“Sir, I want to apologize,” he began, then lied,
“I’ve told the girls to call me at home if
anything comes in, day or night, but you can’t
get a good 911 operator anymore, now can
you?”
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“Sheriff, your girl said you weren’t to be
called at home,” Sam deadpanned.
McConnett winced at the caught lie, looking
around for a wastebasket to kick.
Sam got to it.
“I’m faxing down a description we think
might be a runner for the gang. Bank heist in
Anchorage, Alaska. We have a suspect in
lockup, didn’t get all the money, but we have
enough evidence that we’re sure we caught the
right guy.“
“Yes sir! Any description?”
“Don’t have much to go on for the runner,
headed south from Alaska last week, maybe
trying for the MidWest we think, your’s is the
first way over the mountains. We know he’s
stayed off airplanes so far, FBI’s had the airports
staked out. From a description, we think he’s
one Michael Lewis Sumpter. Figure that he
made it to Washington by now, somehow. Not
sure if he’s passing through or laying low with
the stolen cash. That’s about it. You pull in
every out-of-state drifter for questioning, you
understand me?”
“Yes sir,” McConnett saluted the air,
smirking. “Say, I don’t recollect you sayin’ how
much the haul was? What’d they get away
with?”
“Sheriff, you just do your job, and find that
burro. The amount is being kept confidential by
the banks involved,” Burton covered, adding,
“Oh, Sheriff, if Sumpter’s our man, he’s a

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fugitive on a Cook County warrant. Murder one,
be careful.” Then he hung up.
An inside job, I’ll just bet you, T o m s m i l e d a s h e
reached for his hat, gun and radio, “Alton, we
got a dragnet, bigtime. Let’s take a drive up-
valley, talk with the taverns, see if we can set up
a road block.”
Two patrol cars left Vernors, heading
upvalley toward Marblehill. One went striking
on up ahead, the other stopping in Woolsey,
making the rounds of the bars. A pincer
movement, they’d work back together,
somewhere in between, if their man was still in
the Skagit, they’d have him trapped.
Look woke up with a start. He’d way
overslept. Kenny and Cole had left for town
already, talking with shopkeepers and
waitresses, asking after the Winton family,
hoping to find their uncle, and so find a place to
stay, maybe a job. Times were tough in
Carolina.
He checked his duffel, making sure the lock
hadn’t been picked at, then trundled downstairs.
Mary was sewing a quilt, “I saved your
breakfast in the cooler, there’s milk and a
sweetroll, heat up tea if you want to, or we have
some instant coffee.”
Like back home at Lou and Dianne’s.
Kelly smiled at him, playing quietly with her
dolls, so he did a puppet pantomime with his
fingers, an imaginary Frankenstein, making her
giggle. Mary smiled, “You have brothers and
sisters?” but seeing the dark cloud descend over
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Look’s face, she changed the subject. “Jim’s
down on the river building a rack for the
kayaks, maybe you can trade work for room and
board, he’s always open to barter.”
So after he’d eaten, and slurped down some
coffee to get energized, Look wandered down
across the field, and through the braided
sidestreams and river runnels choked with dried
grass and brambles, until he reached the
Cascade, wild sister to the once virile Skagit,
made timid by all the dams.
Jim shouted hello at him, his hair wrapped up
in a bandanna, Chicano-style, down vest for the
chill under the mountain’s shadow, gloves,
jeans, water-moc’s. Marlboro Man meets Cesar
Chavez.
“A-a-a, Jim! See you got that rack started,”
Look waved. “Susan said you might need a
hand.”
“Sure, you want to work? I can trade you
room and board for a couple hour’s hard labor.”
L o o k w i n c e d a t t h e m e m o r y , wasn’t that Don’s
offer? But that was the past, and this was now.
He could always walk away, it wasn’t bone-
numbing cold here compared to Alaska. “OK,
what have we got?”
Jim described how he wanted to build a “six-
pack,” as he called it, a two-by-three rack for all
his kayaks, with a smooth loft for an inflatable
raft. All set above the spring high water line,
with a ridge pole roof so he could store paddles
and jackets in the dry.

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“Aren’t you worried about thieves?” Look
wondered, but Jim just shrugged.
“If they want to walk all the way over here
from the road, then drag the gear all the way
back to the bridge landing, hey, how can I stop
them?”
They worked in the scant warmth of a late-
winter sun clearing the peaks, cold breeze off
the snowfields, the rosin and pepper smells of
spring still just a hint in the air this far
upvalley. It was smooth work, easy work.
Look’s mind lulled, familiar framing, familiar
tools, familiar river, trees, sun, sky. Appalachia.
The time slipped away, and with it, all sense
of urgency, all feeling of fear and flight. He
could hole up here, live with Jim’s family after
Kenny and Cole moved on, when April came
around, he could roll on back to Illinois.
Michelle was safe with Jennie, he was secure
here. Nothing else mattered.
So Look didn’t notice when Mary took Kelly
in to the grocery store, talking with Vern Smith
about the Sheriff being up in town, looking for a
drifter, asking questions, and when she went to
pick up the mail, listening to the ladies at the
Post Office repeat the story, reading the new
wanted poster on the wall.
“Could be my husband!” one of the women
cackled, and most admitted that for the
description, you could be looking for just about
every Tarheel in the county, the whole bearded,
dark-hair burly lot of ‘em. Mary lost interest,
she didn’t care for gossip.
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Look couldn’t have known when Kenny and
Cole, as they were stopping in at the Rockton
tavern to ask after their uncle, were interrogated
by Deputy Alton Smith, made to tell their
stories first separately and then together, and
had to prove to the Deputy that there really
were Winton’s in the phone book.
“Sir, I’m sure once we find our uncle, he can
vouch for us. You can call our Mom back in
Carolina, she’ll be off work back there in a few
hours.”
Of course, Deputy Smith had no such
intention. He was just sweating them to see
what might pop out. “You seen anyone might
answer this description?”
“Well, yes sir, near ‘bout everyone we’ve
talked to, and sure to, there was this fella...”
Kenny began, and then Cole quickly finished,
“ Y e a h , t h i s f e l l a c a m e t h r o u g h last week before
the road closed, heading over the pass.” He
gave Kenny their “don’t tell” highsign.
But that was all it took. A little whisp from
Kenny, a little puff from the waitress in
Marblehill, and then the old man down in
Lyround, who said he’d almost ran into two
hippies stopping for a hitchhiker looked like
that, the day the pass road closed.
Pretty soon Sheriff McConnett and Deputy
Smith were smelling smoke, big time.
“Alton, now you keep this under your hat,
don’t be telling the girls, or that FBI
Investigator’ll be up here, movin’ in on our

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action. Let’s ratchet it up a notch, see what we
can smoke out of the woods.”
Then Sheriff McConnett got on the horn,
calling up and down the valley, telling his
people, “I’m pretty sure the fellah’s still up here
above Crete, maybe we’ll cover the bridge and
in Rockton, set up a roadblock tonight down
here at Lyround, see what we catch.”
“You’all might could call your friends and
acquaintances,” he added, “maybe have a
helicopter up this afternoon, kind’a see what we
can see.”
He’d left it at that, while they’d gone for
lunch at Lyround Cafe. Both had a plate of jo-
jo’s and a pattymelt, lot’s of mayo, Pepsi’s,
chewing slowly as they oogle’d the young
waitress, a single mother who’d just dropped
out of high school.
McConnett’s plan worked too, stirring up a
bee’s nest, a carne atmosphere. “He said a
roadblock, maybe a helicopter!” Soon neighbor was
calling neighbor, and people remembered
seeing Look up at Rockton, and along the road
to Marblehill, in the cafe, around.
The payphone began to ring, and Sheriff
McConnett just smiled, “Alton, get that for me,
will you?”

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Thirty Two - Eagle’s Roost

Look and Jim walked back to the house

through the long grass and hillocks of river
gravel, through the soggy pasture, still fallow
from grazing last season, maybe this year set to
potatoes or wheat.
“Lew, thanks for your help, that’s a good
day’s work!” Jim smiled, slapping him on the
shoulder.
Look turned, with a wan grin, like a
plowhorse fed a compliment, “Thanks, sure!”
but inside he felt warm and relaxed.
This time he’d gotten his labor’s worth!
But lost in their conversation and his
thoughts, he hadn’t heard the faint whispered
“bud-da bud-da” of the SCPD Bell Ranger,
flying upvalley, low over the yellow-brown
fields, skirting the dark green doug-firs and
cedars as it followed the winding steel-gray
river.
The Ranger flew on through a valley
narrowing between snow-capped hills, shrugged
tight with low clouds and slowly rising mist,
swirling like the slow circles of the bald eagles
overwintered on the river.
It wasn’t until they’d all sat down to dinner,
and Look laughed at Kelley trying to eat her
falafel without spilling, that Mary mentioned
her trip to town, and all the excitement. She let
it drop at that. Cole picked up the note,
offhanded, mentioning a deputy who’d talked to

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him, some kind of manhunt. Their eyes began
studying him in quick side-glances, the
conversation turning toward Look and his plans.
“Do you have family there in Sand Point?
When do you think you might be heading over
the mountains?”
Look just smiled and shrugged, forcing
himself with each movement to breath regular,
to eat slowly and talk without stammer, even to
blink at random intervals. Still, it’s impossible
to act natural.
“Have no idea when I’ll be going east, now
that the pass is closed,” he lied. “Was gonna
head on down to Colorado, maybe do some
skiing, but that’s out now.” Then he filled them
in on his bogus plans from the winters he’d
spent in Loveland a few years back.
That seemed to mollify them, or at least they
didn’t want to seem too interested. Jim and
Mary were the most relaxed, mature, balanced
people that he’d ever known. They knew
‘justice’ was simply relative, depending more
on circumstances in life than your actual
motives. Cole seemed relaxed too, but Kenny,
hmmm, Kenny looked like he was counting
reward money in his head.
L o o k ’ s h e a r t s t a g g e r e d , m i s s i n g a b e a t , Man,
it’s all catching up with me at last!
He shook off the victim mentality, when the
going gets tough..., a n d a s t h e y s t o o d a r o u n d i n
the kitchen, sipping plum brandy and wiping
the dishes dry, Look cornered Jim, asking him,
“Hey, if the weather’s nice, would you want to
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take that kayak trip we talked about down to
Crete?”
“Sure Lew, that’d be great! The dam’s spilling
the Skagit right now, river would be an absolute
gas! Mary can pick us up. Want to go
tomorrow?!”
Everyone turned to listen. Look flinched.
Mary opinioned, “You could leave real early
and follow on downriver as the sun rose, I could
pick you two up in Lyround around lunchtime,
after you run the rapids. We could pick up some
supplies then, Jim.”
Kenny and Cole chimed in. “Hey, you wanna
make it a foursome, Lew? We’ve floated rivers
back in Carolina, it’d be fun to try a kayak trip!”
Look sighed, blackness tunneling at the back
of his retinas. This wasn’t going the way he’d
hoped....
“Tomorrow night’s the full moon, what about
a night trip, you know, in the moonlight?” he
tossed out, trying to throw the Winton boys off.
“Lew, you’d have to be crazy to try it at night,
with both rivers flooding,” Jim snorted, “the
bank is full of downed sweepers, the water rips
and boils. Man, you’d flip in a second in the
rapids below the Crete bridge if you couldn’t
see the water’s surface.”
That had the desired effect, Kenny and Cole
turned away, their sense of adventure fading.
Look decided to send them packing.
“Awww, I was just thinking about it is all,
maybe when May gets here and it’s a little

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warmer out, we can try it,” he shrugged, willing
his body language to look resigned, like he was
giving up the whole idea.
He excused himself that and went on upstairs.
Look pulled out the journal he’d taken and
began to write in earnest, scribbling by the
kerosene light, flipping page after scrimshawed
page as he described everything in, terse, crisp
passages. Like Hemingway.
Almost like he was writing his own epitaph.
Kenny and Cole tripped up the stairs around
ten o’clock, looking sheepish, sleepy.
“Kelly said goodnight, she’s real
disappointed you didn’t stick around after
dinner,” Cole smiled. Then Kenny almost
ripped it by asking, “So, what’re you writin’,
Lew, your Crime Story?”
“Knock it off you guys,” he joked like a high
school buddy, trying to lull their suspicions,
“I’m just kinda’ keeping a journal of places I
might wanna come back to some day.” Then
throwing them off still further, “D’you guys find
your uncle today? D’you find any Winton’s up
here?”
The two shrugged their shoulders, admitting
failure, and that put them in the mood to sleep.
“Try not to stay up all night this time, OK,
Lew?” Cole asked, then they got in their bags
and were quickly sighing in deep sleep.
Look kept on writing, ‘til nearly midnight,
just finishing up as the kerosene lamp ran out.
It’s all in there now, everything from Springfield to

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Unalaska to right here in Marblehill, the whole story
of all my adventures.
Carefully repacking his duffel bag, he donned
his khaki coat and knit cap, and stole down the
stairs. Then standing by the door, he turned to
absorb the warm ambience of his Altamira
hideout one last time. Look picked up the little
rag doll that Kelly loved, holding it close in the
dark, and whispered goodbye.
Then he slipped quietly out the door.

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Thirty Three - Go With the Flow

The moon was high overhead as he made his

way across the frost-crusted meadow, heading
for the Cascade, for Jim’s little six-pack boat
stowage house. There was only the crunch of his
boots, the swish of fabric, his breath, slow and
steady, and the cold blue-white wash of
moonlight. All was dark, silent, asleep. Beneath
that, beyond the trees, the hiss of the river, like
a soft rain popping on high tension lines,
growing in volume, in detail, until all he could
hear was the voice of the river.
That dark voice beckoned to him, steering
him through the tangles of cedars stands and
blackberry thickets, uneven piles of rounded
boulders dragged down by the flood, until at
last his feet crunched on cobbles, and he stood
staring as the shimmering silver brocade of the
Cascade.
Cold dense air ghosted silently down from
the glacier slopes overhead, fogging his breath,
chilling his hands. He buttoned his jacket
tighter, moving slowly downstream until the
shadowy structure of Jim’s stowage house
filtered in against the darker irregular shapes of
trees.
There were four kayaks, two one-man, and
Look quickly slid one of those out from the
rack. Its bow fell with a muffled ‘bonk ’ on the
packed sand, somewhere in the black distance a
h e i f e r b e l l o w e d o u t a m o u r n f u l ‘ hawhn, hawhn,
hawhn’ i n r e p l y . H e r e a c h e d i n t h e l o f t a n d s l i d
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out a double-bladed paddle and a neoprene
cockpit cover, lacing it around his waist as he
stepped into the tiny craft. With the duffel
stowed in the stern, and the safety lines tied fast
around the cockpit, Look pushed himself out
into the current.
In a moment, the landing was lost behind.
He paddled quickly out to midstream, away
from the sweepers choking the shoreline,
moving at the swift pace of the river. Its dull
roaring sound was diminished now as he moved
with the flow, only his breathing and the
rippled splash of his paddle. The near-full
moon ran along with him, with its Grecian-
goddess-on-leering skull intaglio, illuminating
the silvery surface of the water. Sometimes his
bow would crunch on gravel shoals, and the
kayak would yaw suddenly, throwing him off-
balance, but always his strength saved him with
a swift paddle stroke.
Soon the river widened, joined by the Skagit.
The water became choppier, deeper, and the
moon hid behind mountains crowding close in
on the riverbank. Look moved to the other
shore, back in the moonlight, hidden under the
bank as he passed below the sleepy town of
Marblehill. For awhile he was still, steaming
from exertion and fear, letting the river carry
him on downstream. No one saw him, and
there‘d still be hours to drift downvalley, past
the police blockades.
Then he’d head off on backroads for Everett.

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Brilliant! h e s m i l e d t o h i m s e l f , r u b b i n g h i s
hands against the wet and cold, and then the
river jinked right, swirling in deep eddies up
against the road. Huge stone rip-rap lined the
bank, protecting, packed tight with broken
branches, the alder and fir sweepers reaching
out.
He paddled harder, stoked with adrenaline,
as the churning current pushed him nearer to
the rocks. Jeez! Got... to... get... back... in
midstream! H e s t r a i n e d o n h i s p a d d l e , r e g a i n i n g
his course with a half-spin as the river
straightened out, flattening back to black water.
On the hills to his right Look saw a
homestead cut out from the forest, the rough
structures gloaming green-white like sea foam.
Wonder who lives there? h e m u s e d , s e t t l i n g i n t o a
monotony of navigating the braided stream
channels, avoiding the rolling waters in the
river bends, and the sweepers in between.
The Skagit swept right, and slowly left again,
then suddenly Look could see Rockton squarely
before him. In a few minutes he’d be passing
under the highway bridge, passing the
roadblock! He’d forgotten in his panic the
kayak’s popsicle color was a bright beacon
under the moonlight, no way to disguise it now.
The river narrowed, deepening in its
approach. He saw the troopers standing there,
the bubble-top lights on their police cruiser. He
shipped his paddle and concentrated on balance
without motion, feeling the intimate caress of

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the river, anticipating the swirl of the current,
leaning low over the water.
The kayak drifted sideways, close in on the
bridge abutment. Look could hear them joking,
the glow of their cigarettes and coarse talk. He
bit his breath off, waiting for the glare and
sweep of their searchlight, shouts and pointing,
the hot stab of bullets through his chest. The
kayak glided by, spinning backwards, and now
he could see the cops’ silhouettes fading back
into the shadows behind him.
Made it!
The roar of adrenaline in his ears set him to
furious paddling, and he needed to. The river
was flowing steeper now, churning and roiling
up against its serpentine bends. He fought to
clear from the fallen sweepers, trees undercut
along the shore, to miss the wide gravel banks,
creamy pale there in the dark. His arms were
like oiled pistons, his paddle carving the
s u r f a c e o f t h e w a t e r , a n d s u d d e n l y L o o k was the
river, its motion, its flow. Miles passed by, only
the moon smiling down, an occasional bat
flitting by, chittering.
The Skagit River skirts Crete, with only a few
old log homes in the bottomland, the rest driven
to high ground by the spring floods. Then it
pushes up against the mountain, at the granite
bottleneck, just above the rapids. Look felt the
current increasing as the river narrowed. Then
the moon veiled behind tall fir trees, finally lost
behind the mountains themselves.

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Straining his eyes in the dark, he felt his way
through the blackness like a blind man, hearing
the echoes from the shore on each side, the
hissing suck and gurgle of gravel. Except for the
sudden scratches of sweepers on the kayak, he
was able to keep safely midstream. Ahead, he
heard the roar of the rapids, and saw the
massive arch of the WPA river bridge,
illuminated by the lights of the two patrol cars.
This time he felt no panic, floating far below
them, lost in the inky blackness, as much a part
of the river as the silent hills shouldering up on
the valley. Only the murmur of their voices, and
the staccato squawk of the police radio, then he
was past, pushing into even greater darkness as
the river bent right into the dense forest below
town.
Only the rapids to go, then I’m home free!
Look held his paddle loosely, balancing like a
high wire, coasting, blind to the rocks and
churning foam. The kayak bucked and swirled,
scraping on boulders, but it was highwater, and
spring runoff. Despite the bumps, nothing
blocked his way, nothing threatened to capsize
him except losing his own balance. Sweat
poured off his face, his paddle slapping the
water first left and right, kayak jinking, surging,
diving into the black night. He summoned all
his training, swimming at night, zero-visibility,
finding that inner guide.
Total faith in yourself, total faith!
Then suddenly the bumping lessened, and
went flat. He’d made it past the rapids! The
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trees thinned, the mountains moved back as the
valley widened, and there, cresting the hill,
there was the bright face of the moon again,
smiling down. He’d made it!
Now it was just a question of time when he’d
get away. He was exhausted, and cramped with
cold. The river bank beckoned, its silvery grass
and sand flat, an easy landing. Look spun hard
right, crossways to the stream, and dug his
paddle in deep for shore.
Maybe take a little rest for awhile.
In an instant, the fierce underflow ripping on
down the rapids caught his blade, jamming it
tight under the boat. He was already leaning
into the turn, but leaning the wrong way! The
kayak tipped hard, shuddering, balanced on its
sheer for a straining instant, then it flipped
lightly over, upside down, pulling Look
beneath the surface.
The uncaring moon drifted back into shadow,
as darkness closed in on the silently flowing
river.

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Thirty Four - Miracle of Life

Frigid cold water rushed past his head,

upside down in the stream, paddle fluttering
like a banner in the current, lines uncoiling as in
one motion he bailed out, choking, breathless.
But something was wrong! The cockpit lines
had tangled his leg beneath the other, slipping
down, and knotted his ankles tightly together!
He felt his head bumping along the gravel
bottom, his paddle useless.
With a terrific effort, Look curled upwards,
and swinging his arms out in desperation,
brought his face to the surface. A huge gasp and
gulp of air, then he sank back down, the flooded
kayak like an anchor, line cutting through his
ankles, his paddle scraping and tearing along
the bottom, the harsh swirl of current slamming
him left and right.
He held his arms wide, going with the flow.
Something smooth flowed up his arm, across
his palm, and he grabbed tight. A tree root!
Stopped now in the flow, the sheer force of the
river on the kayak hummed the tag lines,
tightening around his ankles, tearing tendons
and skin. Look fought black waves of panic,
holding to the stanchion, straining against the
hopeless unyielding force of the river.
Hold on! h i s m i n d s c r e a m e d , Hold on!
His eyes were open now, submerged in the
flow, and he felt himself yielding. Overhead,
through the rippling window of the water, the

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m o o n b e c k o n e d t o h i m , s o o t h i n g , “Give in, Look,
let go...!” E v e r y t h i n g b e c a m e i l l u s i o n i n h i s
mind, the heavy hand tearing at his feet
lessening, the burning strain in his arm fading
to a tug, the surging river now just a caress of
warm rippling by his deaf ears.
He remembered the wedding, the rainbow,
the meadow, lying on his back, and all the
butterflies.
Overhead, black shapes flitted low across the
water, and his silvery world grew darker as
those fluttering shapes packed denser and
denser into the corners of his vision. “Michelle!”
his mouth opened with a last bubbled gasp,
then total blackness.
He was lying on a grassy bank. The kayak lay
upside down beside him, the paddle still in an
iron grip in his clawed left hand. Then memory
returned. His body shuddered violently, his
teeth chattering. The night was cold as death!
He sat up in the darkness, vision clearing.
The moon was still there, ghosting on through
t h e c l o u d s . How in God’s name...?! Then a dark
shadow moved away, and now he could see an
orange-red glow, the smoky crackle of burning
twigs. A fire! The dark shape moved towards
him, and then he felt strong hands lifting him
up, hobbling him over to the light.
“You scared me, son,” the voice said,
“Thought I’d landed a real skookum Tyee in my
net there, sure to! Never figured it for a man
like you!”

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Look felt the warmth within his eyes first, and
then in his fingertips as he held them out to the
tiny blaze. Glancing over, he saw the shape had
a face, a broad-serious Indian one.
“Take your shirt and pants off, and we’ll
wring them out by the fire. Here, take a drink of
my coffee, and I’ll get some driftwood to get
you warmed up.”
The Native moved off, and Look choked down
big gulps of sweet cream coffee, feeling warmth
flood through his nerve endings, and then the
sharp bite of cold in his toes and fingertips. He
shivered even more violently, dancing on one
foot then the other, pulling his soaked jeans off,
jacket, shirt.
The old man returned. He worked in
effortless motion, slowly feeding the fire, one
stick on another.
“I’m not sure how I got here,” Look trembled.
“You were in the river over there, saw a shape
coming down, and then my net was jerking,“ he
said. “Found your hand fast on that tree root.
You were tangled up in sweepers, had to work
way on down, find the lines, fish you out.”
“Thought you was a big chinook,” the old
man repeated again.
“You pulled me out?” Look stared
unbelieving, sensation returning to his hands as
he sat with his feet stretched out toward the
heaped-up blaze.

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“You pulled yourself out. Just get warm
now,” the Native soothed. “Take another drink
of coffee.”
They sat there in the dark, the setting moon
behind pale clouds heralding the coming dawn.
The old man racked Look’s clothes near the fire,
steaming them dry. Except for the chill in the
air, after an hour had passed he began to feel
strong again, to feel sore and hungry. Neither
spoke, staring at the dancing fires, the popping
embers, shifting smoky plumes of blue gray.
Above them the planets whirled in their tireless
pantomime of a greater universe beyond.
“Come on, get your stuff on and I’ll drive you
home,” the man spoke slowly, “we’ll leave these
other things here and you can come back for
them later.”
Look retrieved his duffel from the kayak, and
followed the Indian to the road, trotting behind
him like a hunting dog, eager just to be alive.
As they drove off the man spoke, “Frank,” then
glancing over, “Where you from?”
Look warmed. “Oh, I’m Look. Thanks, Frank.
Umm, I was just camping out in Marblehill is
all, headin’ down to Woolsey on the river.”
The old man nodded, smiling in his eyes, but
straightfaced. “I’m heading on up past Rockton,
have a place there, and a couch you can sleep
on. Get you something to eat, then you can be
back on your way.”
Look shuddered, half with shivered cold as
the truck’s heater warmed the cab, and half at
the thought of the Sheriff’s roadblocks. The cold
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and hungry part of him won. He could always
wait for another chance to get back downvalley.
“Sure, that’s great, thanks.”
A half-hour later they pulled off the highway
at a sandblasted tin mobile home by the road.
Plywood boat sitting on a rack, an oil tank, a
fish smoker. Look could see in the first half-
light of dawn that he was just below the
homestead he’d seen from the river. The old
buildings, the cleared fields, a horse grazing,
stood out beyond the fence line behind the
Indian’s place.
Inside the man greased some pilot bread with
Crisco, and heated up a pot of coffee. The place
was spare, tidy. He lived alone. A carburetor
was pieced out on an old newspaper, and Look
took the chance to bring up engines, but the old
man just waved it off.
“Broken.” Then he tore off a stick of ruby red
salmon jerky, and set it beside Look’s coffee,
“Dog,” moving around in the back hallway as
Look gobbled down biscuits, coffee and fish, the
man returning with an Army blanket and a blue-
ticked feather pillow.
“Here, you get some sleep,” he turned toward
the back room, “then you can be on your way.”
The sun was well on its own way into a corn
tassel spring day when Look awoke. The Native
had turned down the oil stove, letting himself
outside to tend to his smoker. Look had the
feeling that time skipped a far different beat
inside these walls, a slower, ancient pulse, like
the one he’d heard back in the Aleutians,
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roaring in his temples. He rose and stretched,
shaking out his clothes, holding their damp
spots up to the warm stove. The fear and angst
of last night had already faded from his mind,
surreal.
Outside, the old man was skinning salmon,
sliding the Rapala between bone and fillet,
racking the splits on a cedar pole. Look stood
by the fence line, staring up at the homestead,
but nothing moved, just the old horse grazing in
the field. He idled awhile, watching the Indian,
but there didn’t seem to be a need to talk, or any
help he could offer.
“You heading on now?” the man read his
mind.
“I--I’d like to thank you for saving my life,”
Look started, not knowing what to say.
“You were in my net is all,” he shrugged,
“You must have other business here to finish.”
He pondered on that awhile, but there seemed
to be no insight, just the observation that he’d
fouled the old man’s net, and had better get on
with his life.
Heading back in to get his duffel, Look
spotted an Army cot folded against the trailer,
and underneath it, a knapsack and a tent sack.
He could make a run for Everett, or else settle
around here, camping out in the woods, until
the heat was off.
“You be interested in parting with your
knapsack and tent under there?” he asked the
old man, as he stepped back out the trailer,
hefting the duffel.
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The Indian kept slicing on the fillets,
carefully separating meat from skin and bone.
“Like to trade you for that gear,” Look
repeated.
“What have you got?” the man smiled up
from his work, holding the blade out, red with
salmon.
“You could have that kayak,” Look offered.
“Is it your’s?” the Native cut to the bone.
Look stared holes in his boots. All he owned
were his clothes and this duffel. All he carried
was the bank money, wrapped and bagged, and
what was left of the cash Jacques gave him to get
back to Illinois.
A fifty, a couple of ten’s, a five and a few
one’s. If he gave the old man the cash, he might
need it later for bus money, for food. And if he
broke open the money bag, well, he might never
get it closed again, he knew that. But if he snuck
back that night and stole the old man’s gear,
he’d be just a crawl-under-a-snake.
“Here...,” he shrugged, “here’s twenty. I don’t
have anything much, my clothes is all,” trying to
find a way out of the hole he’d dug.
The old man pulled the gear out from under
the trailer, and they checked it for mildew and
holes, but he’d kept it wrapped and dry, a
perfect faded green, it’d blend right in these
woods.
“Here you are, son, even,” the Indian handed
over the gear, along with two hard-smoked
salmon fillets as long as his arm.

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Look gave him the two ten’s and they shook
on it. Then he turned to go. “That kayak belongs
to the folks up in Marblehill, the Harrigan’s
place, AltaMira.”
The old man was already back to his fish
splitting.
Walking back down the highway, there where
the river cuts in hard against the road, Look
settled into a long-jake stride. As he passed by
the next drive, the one up to the homestead, he
glanced quickly around, then beat a retreat into
the woods, hiking up into the hills. He found a
little waterfall and a lookout, where he’d watch
and wait, until it was time for him to go.
“There are places in the North where the sky is so
wide, and nighttime winds sigh the spruce so soft,
That you feel the ping of the fire’s dying embers deep
within your heart, And bathe in the whispering blue-
green auroras, deep down within your soul. I must go
back there someday….”
In the rising heat of midday, a gaggle of snow
geese took off from the river bar, forming a tight
chevron above as they spiraled up through the
air, mournfully honking farewell, heading north
to the Arctic Sea.
The cosmic wheel of death, birth and renewal
was rolling around once again.

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Thirty Five - Not Fade Away

“G r a n m a ? ” I w o n d e r e d , “ D o y o u b e l i e v e i t ’ s
really true, I mean, about Look nearly
drowning, and then being saved like that?”
“Life is full of strange truths, Nicky,” she
laughed, “maybe it wasn’t his time to go.”
Granma and I have always liked the harvest
time. Lazy days of Indian summer. We worked
bent over in the far field, near Grampa’s grave,
breaking potatoes from the clodded earth where
Starbuck had tilled them up. There’s just
something vital about polishing flinty clay from
these hard-apple russets, like burnishing
nuggets of life itself. Even if you’re about to
lose your homestead, you still have to dig your
tater’s!
“But I mean, it’s impossible, isn’t it, to have
hung on like that with the dam’s spilling the
river full?!”
“Nick, if you’ll live long enough out in
Creation, you see things you couldn’t possibly
believe are true, if you were to read about
them,” Granma chided me.
“Then it’s true he stayed here, up above the
farm?” I queried her, “Do you remember him?”
We’d read Look’s last few journal entries the
night before, where he’d described the hay barn,
the garden, the waterfall so much like our own.
“Dear, a lot of farmhands worked here over
the years, I don’t remember anyone looked any
different from t’others.”

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“Come on, Granma,” I pleaded, “Don’t you
even remember the roadblock? Didn’t old man
Wallace ever say anything to you?” The
Wallace’s were the Skagit Indian family, had the
place down by the road. He’d passed on a few
years after Grampa.
“Well, Nick, now that you mention it, I do
remember J.D. talking with Mr. Wallace one
spring when a young hand was staying in our
loft. He said Mr. Wallace had helped the boy
somehow.”
“I knew it!” I shouted, standing there ringed
about by fiery-red vine maples, as I threw my
hands to the sky. “Granma, I think Look stayed
in our haybarn. He might’ve left his things
behind, and never came back!”
I waved my arms about like a prosecuting
attorney making his closing. “Granma listen, he
might’ve gone back for Michelle and left his
duffel bag stashed here!
“Oh, Nicky,” Granma scolded, flipping
potatoes into the burlap sack, “you always did
have a wild imagination! Why would he leave
his things behind!”
“Granma! What if that’s why Grampa wanted
me to have the journal, to look for that money!”
The mention of ‘money’ stopped her in mid-
speech. I could see she was working the
calculus, reliving a part of her past.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed, eyes wide,
“You know, I remember J.D. did say something
to me once, see, after you last came up to visit?
He was patting that journal he found, said he
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wanted you to have it! What was that phrase?
Oh! He said, ‘funny money’!”
We both took off running across the fields
then, laughing at the prospect of it all,
exhilarated at having finally solved that long-
lost riddle. The money was still hidden in the
barn! I got to the door and threw it open. The air
inside was dry and dusty with powdered straw
and termite flour. We only used the place to
store bedding for the stock in anymore. Granma
caught up with me then, out of breath, laughing
like I hadn’t seen her since before Mom and Dad
died.
“Nicky, it’ll take us a month of Sunday’s to
clean out this place, the money could be
anywhere!” she chuckled. We were both caught
up in that fool’s gold bonanza spirit. So I
headed up into the loft, asking Granma to fetch
the journal and read it to me, while I searched
through the old trunks. The part right at the
end, on how Look was staying up here, right
here in our barn! How he was thinking of
stashing the duffel while he hid out over at
Illabot!
She brought the journal back, along with a pot
of tea, and we sat there on the straw bales,
rereading the passages while we rested. Then
back up the ladder, pawing through everything,
a handkerchief tied over my face for the dust
and cobwebs. After an hour of it, I had to admit
defeat. I’d opened all the trunks and shook out
the old clothes, uncovered all the furniture and
searched it inside and out.

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Nothing.
“Granma, there’s nothing here, I’ve looked
everywhere!”
We sat reading the passages one more time,
hoping for any clue, while I climbed up on
Grampa’s work bench and searched the shelves.
Something, anything!
Nothing....
“Nick,” Granma wondered, “if you were
staying in here in springtime, right before all
the implements and tack were pulled out, with
the straw pile near at it’s lowest for the year,
where would you hide a duffel ?”
I thought a second, then we both smiled. “At
the back of the barn, under the bales!”
So I threw the big doors open for air, then
backed the tractor in with the cart. I tossed bale
after bale on it, moving them into a big pile out
in the autumn sun. Granma brought out some
toasted rye bread, cheese and milk, and we
rested in the warm air, feeling the prickle of
dust mixed with sweat. The back barn wall was
exposed for the first time.
Again, nothing.
“Granma,” I pleaded, “Try and remember
back then, anything Grampa might have said
about money! Maybe he put it in a safe deposit
box at the bank?”
“No, Nick, J.D. never did trust the banks, we
kept all our cash, what little we had, up here in
the house. Any paychecks he got went straight
into a certificate account, the bank took those to

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pay his medical bills. I have the papers, there
was no safe deposit box.”
“Wasn’t there anything !?”
“Well, your grandfather liked to collect coins,
that’s for sure! He used to show me the silver
dollars he’d buy from folks who’d kept them
through the Great Depression. He would just
cackle like a hen over those coins of his. For a
time he used to drive down valley nearly every
week to the coin dealers, why, I thought he’d
sold them all.”
I walked over to the far wall, pacing the
perimeters. We’d pulled everything out, nothing
left but the tool bench, the shelves, and the old
basketball hoop on the wall near the door. “It’s
got to be here!’ I puzzled, stepping backward to
peer up into the dark rafters.
Then my boot heel tripped on something and
sent me stumbling onto the dirt floor.
“Nicky!” Granma half-laughed, embarrassed
now at our lotto-fever, “are you OK, honey?
I stood up, brushing myself off, and kicked at
the ground. “Yeah, just tripped.” The dirt
caught my boot again, with a faint metallic ding.
A rusted coffee can bottom bent up out of the
dust. I kicked at it, then Granma stood right up,
pointing her shaking hand.
There, under the rusted tin, buried in the dirt,
was a tightly rolled burlap bag, and more...the
glint of silver!
It was Grampa’s treasure!

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We worked for nearly an hour, shuffling our
feet and digging, and found all together two-
hundred and twenty-one Folger’s coffee cans,
buried upside down in the dirt, each set on a
cedar shake foundation, so that you could walk
right over them and not feel the difference! Most
of the cans had between three to three hundred
fifty Morgan silver dollars in them, mixed in
with these beautifully etched Barber dimes.
Nearly all were in fine condition, really turn
of the century stuff! The kind of coins any
farmer might have a few of stashed away,
hidden back in the walls, down in the well,
preparing for another Depression. Coins that
Grampa could’ve quietly accumulated without
anyone raising an eyebrow or even a second
thought.
Granma and I both counted, and then we
tabulated the numbers and mint dates up.
Grampa’d collected near $76,485, face, buried
right there in the floor of our hay barn. We took
them in to the coin dealer down in Vernors,
uncovering one shiny bag on another, and man!
He’d started to stutter, the sweat pouring off his
face, and then made us a grand offer.
So that weekend we visited dealers in Seattle,
with a few bags at a time. Things went a lot
calmer. We’d picked up a coin guide, then
horse-traded one dealer against the other. They
figured J.D. had amassed near two hundred
thousand dollars worth of coins. It just had to
have been Look’s stash!

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The dealers gave us $378,442 for all of them!
Yeah, we added the checks up, that’s what the
tally came to!
“Should we turn this money in to the bank?” I
asked as we drove back up I-5, heading for
Vergers Savings & Loan’s mortgage office to pay
off the farm. “You know, at least return that
hundred eighty-five thousand they stole? Maybe
there’s still a reward!? As long as we declare the
rest of the money and pay taxes on it, we’re free
and clear.”
Granma studied me awhile, absentmindedly
running her fingers along the hem of her
sweater, like her touchstone on reality. Our car
had topped the Stillaguamish River grade now,
nothing but green countryside and sweet fall air
tinged with cinnamon, from here clear on back
to the homestead. She had a faraway look in her
eyes, maybe remembering J.D., or maybe just
trying to thank him in her own way.
“Nick, Look went through Hell, you know
that, don’t you? It was Heaven above brought
him here to our place before he went his way,
leaving that journal behind to remember him by.
Guess he would’ve liked knowing he got away
in peace, that they never found him,” she
breathed out a sigh. “And you know, I don’t
think the bank will miss that money much, do
you!?”

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Epilogue -

The gathering late-summer squall swirled up

dead leaves in the streets of Ukiah, rattling the
screen door open, then closing it lightly on its
rusted hinges with a soft “A-a-a....”
Michelle glanced up from her sewing, rising,
her mind replaying the sound, his name
bubbling from her lips as she ran down the
hallway.
“Look!?...”
But it was only the wind rising.
“What, honey? Were you calling me?” her
husband Bill shouted down from upstairs,
getting their two kids ready for bed.
“No, nothing, it’s nothing,” she answered,
swaying her body against the yielding mesh of
the screendoor, running her fingertips slowly
across the weathered grain of the woodframe as
she stared blankly out at the leaves swirling
past.
Je vous oubliera jamais....
A gust of wind swayed the live oak’s branches
then, its shadow silhouetted by the rising full
moon, etching a pearl-gold tracery on the hot
tears glistening down Michelle’s face.

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 378
Acknowledgements -

BIBLIOGRAPHY-

Douglas Newman, Green Mountain Lookout

Log, archived by USFS, Darrington, WA,
(reported by Rebekah Denn, Seattle Post-
Intelligencer, 1999).

Arthur Marmaduke, D u r h a m T a l e s a n d E v e n t s . . . ,
(self-published), 1994

M a r g e r y W i l l i a m s B i a n c o , T h e V e l v e t e e n R a b b i t,
Reprint 1996, Smithmark Publishing

Charles Eduouard Jeanneret (Le Corbusier),

T h e O e u v r e C o m p l e t e , 1996, Birkhausen Staff

Joan Bunning, L e a r n i n g t h e T a r o t, ( p u b l i s h e d
online):
http://www.learntarot.com

J e a n - P h i l l i p p e S o u l é, CASKE 2000, © 1997

(online)

A n t o n i o M a c h a d o , I N e v e r W a n t e d F a m e , (in
the translation by Robert Bly), 1979, Ally Press
St Paul

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 379
Special thanks to the Aleut and Eskimo who
guided me. They’ve added nuance to a rather
dry paysage.

VIDEOGRAPHY -

Specific video titles (italicized) are copyrighted:

The Munsters, KAYRO-VUE/UNIVERSAL

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 380
DISCOGRAPHY -

Specific song titles and albums (italicized) are

copyrighted:

“Sweet Home Alabama”, Lynyrd Skynyrd,

One More From the Road, 1976, UNI/MCA

“Truckin’ ”, Grateful Dead,

American Beauty, 1970, WEA/WARNER

“Who Knows Where the Time Goes”, Judy Collins,

Who Knows Where the Time Goes, 1968,
WEA/ELECTRA

“Midnight Rider”, Allman Brothers,

Eat A Peach, 1972, CAPRICORN

“Chuck E’s in Love”, Rickie Lee Jones,

Rickie Lee Jones, 1979, WEA/WARNER

“Jammin’”, Bob Marley & the Wailers,

Rotterdam, 1978, JPN

“Settin’ Me Up”, Dire Straits,

Dire Straits, 1978, WEA/WARNER

“Truth Hits Everybody”, Police,

Outlando D’Amour, 1978, PGD/A&M

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“Angel of Mercy”, Albert King
New Orleans Heat, 1978, WEA/ATLANTIC

“A Taste of Honey”, Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass

Whipped Cream & Other Delights , 1965, PGD/A&M

Ted Nugent, Free For All, 1976, SONY/COLUMBIA

CSN&Y, Deja Vu, 1970, WEA/ATLANTIC

Rolling Stones, Beggar’s Banquet, 1968, PGD/ABKCO

The Beatles, Rubber Soul, 1965, EMD/CAPITOL

Jimi Hendrix, Electric Ladyland, 1968, UNI/MCA

Stevie Wonder, Talking Book, 1972, UNI/MOTOWN

Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin IV , 1971,

WEA/ATLANTIC

Yes, Close to the Edge, (ReMaster) 1994,

WEA/ATLANTIC

Doors, Soft Parade, 1969, WEA/ELEKTRA

Bob Dylan, John Wesley Harding, 1967, SONY

CINEMOGRAPHY -

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Specific movie titles (italicized) are copyrighted:

P e t e r F o n d a , E a s y R i d e r, 1969,
COLUMBIA/TRISTAR

G e o r g e L u c a s , American Grafitti , 1973,

UNIVERSAL

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Disclaimer -

The persons, circumstances and events depicted in

this novel are wholly fictitious. Any similarity to actual
persons, circumstances or events is entirely
unintentional.

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ELANDRE PRODUCTIONS

Creation Myth