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I realized, only a few chapters into T.K. O’Neill’s Dive Bartender: Flowers in the Desert, that Frank Ford’s blunt grittiness wasn’t just a literary choice. It was a clever and calculated decision regarding a character that turned out to be one of the most likable protagonists I have ever encountered in a novel before. Ever! — Masa Radanic, The International Review of Books

CHAPTER 14

The steaks were excellent, high quality meat, and the sides Maria had created for them—baked potato with sour cream, salad, green beans—were sufficiently bland and un-offensive in a mid-western sort of way (possibly a request from Larry Richards) and didn’t add to the discomfort in Frank’s already rumbling digestive tract.

Huevos rancheros, indeed.

Now shuffling slowly toward his cabin beneath the star-filled sky, Frank was half in the bag from beer and red wine, and sleepy from the big meal, but he was struggling internally.

Behind a few glasses of wine, Richards had been persistent and insistent that Frank should stay and meet the two arriving members of the “consortium.” And, well, that just wasn’t Frank’s kind of scene.

What he really wanted to do was blow the hell out of here and get back on the road to California, the Golden State not that far away now.

He decided he’d stay just long enough to meet the new arrivals, if only to check out these rich boys Richards was hanging with and maybe get a read on them.

Frank was thinking Larry had slipped somehow, the man fallen from the lofty pedestal he’d placed him on. The whole ride down it seemed like Richards was living in his reptilian brain—a concept Frank’s former girlfriend, Nikki-the-sociology-major, used to talk about.

Larry was not exactly totally calculating, but he did talk obsessively about deals and scams and making money. And maybe he wasn’t actually suspicious and paranoid—although sometimes close—but he certainly was distant.

So the reptilian thing was at least partly accurate.

At times Larry’s voice sounded like a cheap tape recording. And he didn’t seem to care about anything but money. So you could say he showed a definite lack of empathy. A far cry from the warm and light-hearted Larry Richards Frank remembered from their youth.

Hell, Richards was the first guy he ever saw light a fart.

But did Frank really know him?

Do kids, especially boys, ever reveal their true selves to their friends?

If they even know their true selves…

Frank had met Larry in the summer before their sophomore year in high school. They both were working as caddies at Zenith’s most exclusive country club. They came from different family backgrounds, Frank from a “troubled home,” while Larry’s parents were stable and approached upper-middle class. Nonetheless, Frank and Larry became friends.

Frank always thought of Larry as someone living on the outside of wealth and looking in with envy. Certainly better off than Frank was but not in with the elite like Richards obviously desired. Both of Larry’s parents worked, which was a rarity in those times. His mother was in retail and his father was a lawyer with a private practice. This afforded Larry the opportunity to mingle with the rich while still looking to take advantage whenever he could. Frank could recall a number of schemes Larry had come up with while attempting to wedge his foot in the door of the luxury suites without paying the dues.

Larry was even kind of a trendsetter, in that he was one of the first to attempt soliciting door-to-door for UNICEF in the well-to-do neighborhoods.

Without any affiliation with the organization.

But after a few stops, one of the residents recognized him and he had to discontinue the scam.

Never got caught, though, and did pocket thirty-five bucks.

Thinking about it, Frank accepted that he, too, had a well-developed reptilian side.

And he wasn’t very proud of it at the moment.

Ah, but what the hell, he thought, pulling open the door of the dome, he’d be out of here tomorrow and off to the green of sunny California. Putting this parched land where too many humans already lived—more pouring in every day by the carload—behind him.

(End of Chapter 14)

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Frank felt the heat through the bottoms of his flip-flops as he walked across the sea-blue tiles surrounding the swimming pool, the sun and his chili-laden breakfast combining to make him sweat.

He was a little sluggish, but pleasantly relaxed. Richards was neck deep in the blue water already. Sun was like daggers. “Sure is fuckin’ hot here, Larry. Hard to imagine why anyone from Denver would want to come down here this time of year.”

“But it’s a dry heat, Frank,” Richards said with a slight wince, hands feathering the inviting water. “And they basically come down here for two reasons: Either there’s a chance to make money or they just want to raise some hell without the prying eyes. You’ll see what I mean when Bryce and Clayton arrive. The booze will be flowing. Those boys do like to get wild.”

“So there are two of these young lions coming.”

“Yeah. Humberto said Bryce phoned this morning. He and Clayton Cook are scheduled to touch down at Sky Harbor airport tomorrow morning at nine-fifteen. I’ll pick them up with the Rancho Deluxe airport shuttle.”

“What’s that?”

“This old Lincoln that used to be Howie’s. Suicide doors, continental kit, the whole shooting match. They keep it here as sort of a camp car. Thing’s in mint condition. We can check it out if you want to.”

“Maybe later. Right now I just want to get in that water.”

“Got any suntan lotion, Frank?” Richards said. “Sun here will fry you like a slab of bacon if you don’t grease up. There’s some in the cabana.”

“Yeah, thanks, Larry. Maybe after a dip. Too fuckin’ hot to stay out here very long, anyway.”

Man, this is a place like no other,Frank thought as he stepped into the shallow end of the pool, the water like soft velvet.Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty never did anything like this.

Or, more correctly, this was unlike anything the pair had experienced in the book, at least as far as Frank had read to this point.                       

Yesterday afternoon, as Frank and Larry were blowing out of Denver on the freeway, Richards saw the book on the back seat and went off on a long spiel about Neal Cassady, the real-life inspiration for Dean Moriarty. How the man had become legendary in Denver after the book came out. Richards, who’d read On the Road in college, said the characters were based on real people and that Neal Cassady was at one time an actual Denver resident who had indeed been a car thief, speed freak and maniac driver. And Jack Kerouac, of course, was now a well-known name in literature. Although Truman Capote once called Kerouac’s most famous work,“typing.”

Not writing.

Typing.

Frank was enjoying the book—hell with Truman Capote.   

After a glorious fifteen minutes in the cooling and soothing swimming pool, the bed in Frank’s cabin was sending out the Siren’s call.

He reluctantly got out of the luxurious water, put a towel over his head and went inside through the French doors, telling Larry he’d see him at dinnertime.

“I had Maria take out a couple of steaks, Frank,” Richards said. “Come by the house around five for the cocktail hour, the bar is well-stocked.”

(End of Chapter 13)

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Frank couldn’t recall ever eating such a spicy breakfast. Damn good, but a lot spicier than most anything you might find in Minnesota, even in a Mexican restaurant.

As Frank and Larry sat back in their chairs and let the eggs, cheese, ground meat and chili sauce settle in, Frank scanned the photos on the dining room wall.

More photos of the early days of the ranch, but these were focused less on the Mexican construction crew and more on older white men. One in particular, a tall, sturdy gent shown on horseback and in front of buildings in various stages of completion, had to be the patriarch. “Old Howie,” as Richards had referred to him. There was one of Old Howie standing with a group of men in suits who’d seemingly just arrived. Two of the men were looking down at the ground so all you could see was the tops of their heads. Another photo showed the same group in various leisure poses: drinks in hand, holding rifles, smoking cigars, etc. The two camera-shy gentlemen were not pictured.

But the pic Frank found the most interesting was a picture of Howie in a khaki-shirt-and-pants get up, standing next to a man wearing a dark suit and an air of importance. Both men were smiling at the camera, while behind them, two men, also in dark suits, were standing next to a black U. S. Army helicopter, seemingly waiting for the man with Parker.

Guy looks like Richard fuckin’ Nixon, Frank thought. Our former president, Tricky Dick, was now in self-imposed exile in San Clemente, California, after his stunning resignation from the country’s highest office.

“Is that Richard Nixon?” Frank asked, pointing at the photo.

“Sure is. Back when he was VP under Eisenhower. He and Howie were buds, I guess. Bryce calls that picture ‘Nixon pleased with graft payment.’”

The damn picture was giving Frank a funny feeling. He’d read somewhere that events in the past can leave psychic fingerprints, so maybe that was what he was sensing. He never used to experience such nonsense, but after his recent acid trip, the concussion, and all the other shit that had gone down in Zenith, his senses had become acute to the point of hypersensitive. And, at times, he swore he had a sixth sense.

Extrasensory perception.

ESP.    

And also more susceptible to whacked-out theories, a voice in his head reminded him. It wasn’t the Hater speaking, more like the Admonisher.

And take a look at that Howard Parker. Man resembled famous movie director Sam Peckinpaugh. Especially in the photos of an older, white-haired Howie. And all the photos kind of vibed like behind the scenes at a Peckinpaugh western. You almost expected to see Warren Oates lurking in the background somewhere.

And was that William Holden in the back row of the group photo standing with a beautiful Mexican woman?

But there was something else, something different Frank was sensing. Not like this place was a den of evil, some stronghold of conspirators complicit in the assassination of JFK or anything like that, but the vibe was less than immaculate. Like the psychic fingerprints were saying that off-kilter and unsavory things often happened here.

So maybe this place was also haunted by sins of the past, Frank thought, letting his mind drift.

But maybe it was just the residue of the amphetamine and the lack of sleep, playing tricks with his head.

Now he was too full and too tired to think. All he wanted was to get in the pool before he crashed out, that inevitable moment rapidly approaching.

(End of Chapter 12)

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Frank couldn’t recall ever eating such a spicy breakfast. Damn good, but a lot spicier than most anything you might find in Minnesota, even in a Mexican restaurant.

As Frank and Larry sat back in their chairs and let the eggs, cheese, ground meat and chili sauce settle in, Frank scanned the photos on the dining room wall.

More photos of the early days of the ranch, but these were focused less on the Mexican construction crew and more on older white men. One in particular, a tall, sturdy gent shown on horseback and in front of buildings in various stages of completion, had to be the patriarch. “Old Howie,” as Richards had referred to him. There was one of Old Howie standing with a group of men in suits who’d seemingly just arrived. Two of the men were looking down at the ground so all you could see was the tops of their heads. Another photo showed the same group in various leisure poses: drinks in hand, holding rifles, smoking cigars, etc. The two camera-shy gentlemen were not pictured.

But the pic Frank found the most interesting was a picture of Howie in a khaki-shirt-and-pants get up, standing next to a man wearing a dark suit and an air of importance. Both men were smiling at the camera, while behind them, two men, also in dark suits, were standing next to a black U. S. Army helicopter, seemingly waiting for the man with Parker.

Guy looks like Richard fuckin’ Nixon, Frank thought. Our former president, Tricky Dick, was now in self-imposed exile in San Clemente, California, after his stunning resignation from the country’s highest office.

“Is that Richard Nixon?” Frank asked, pointing at the photo.

“Sure is. Back when he was VP under Eisenhower. He and Howie were buds, I guess. Bryce calls that picture ‘Nixon pleased with graft payment.’”

The damn picture was giving Frank a funny feeling. He’d read somewhere that events in the past can leave psychic fingerprints, so maybe that was what he was sensing. He never used to experience such nonsense, but after his recent acid trip, the concussion, and all the other shit that had gone down in Zenith, his senses had become acute to the point of hypersensitive. And, at times, he swore he had a sixth sense.

Extrasensory perception.

ESP.    

And also more susceptible to whacked-out theories, a voice in his head reminded him. It wasn’t the Hater speaking, more like the Admonisher.

And take a look at that Howard Parker. Man resembled famous movie director Sam Peckinpaugh. Especially in the photos of an older, white-haired Howie. And all the photos kind of vibed like behind the scenes at a Peckinpaugh western. You almost expected to see Warren Oates lurking in the background somewhere.

And was that William Holden in the back row of the group photo standing with a beautiful Mexican woman?

But there was something else, something different Frank was sensing. Not like this place was a den of evil, some stronghold of conspirators complicit in the assassination of JFK or anything like that, but the vibe was less than immaculate. Like the psychic fingerprints were saying that off-kilter and unsavory things often happened here.

So maybe this place was also haunted by sins of the past, Frank thought, letting his mind drift.

But maybe it was just the residue of the amphetamine and the lack of sleep, playing tricks with his head.

Now he was too full and too tired to think. All he wanted was to get in the pool before he crashed out, that inevitable moment rapidly approaching.

(End of Chapter 12)

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This little cabin is pretty damn nice, Frank thought as he stepped out of the bathroom after his shower and noticed the dome was already a lot cooler than when he came in. He figured it must be something to do with the dome shape that made the AC work so fast.

He stepped into the sleeping area and opened his bag on top of the queen-size bed. The bedspread was multi-colored—yellows and reds and browns—in familiar Mexican sunburst patterns.

Frank dressed in the lightest clothes he had with him—a pair of khaki trousers and a bird’s egg blue button-up short sleeve shirt. And then, glancing in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, decided he looked like a dork and changed into a plain white T-shirt and his new swim trunks. Swim trunks were longer now than they used to be. Frank’s were off-white with a blue pinstripe, and the clerk at the Glass Block in Zenith had assured him that this was what they were wearing on the beaches of California.

As if the guy actually knew.

Walking across the blazing hot grounds in his shower sandals toward the cool comfort of the main house, Frank felt a little awkward, because he hardly ever wore shorts. Legs were blindingly white. But he knew he’d have to adjust to a new climate and new habits eventually, so why not start now.

Richards was lounging on a brown leather couch in the great room, wearing powder blue tennis shorts and a yellow polo shirt and reading a newspaper, a stack of papers on the cushion next to him.

“Care for yesterday’s papers, Frank? Afraid that’s the best we can do out here. They get mailed from Phoenix, week’s worth at a time. Pick ‘em up in Carefree.”

“I’ll pass, man. Thanks anyway.”

“No problem. So let’s go eat. I took the liberty of ordering you huevos rancheros, and I can smell the chili peppers.”

Frank followed him into the large dining room. Beneath a crystal chandelier and ceiling fan was a huge rectangular table made of thick dark wood, surrounded by sturdy matching chairs. A large window on the far wall had a view of the mountains, purple now in their majesty. There was a place setting at each end of the table, with linen napkins, thick white plates and sterling silver utensils. A shiny coffee pot sat on a silver tray in the middle of the table, along with a sugar bowl, a creamer, a sugar bowl filled with honey and two thick, white porcelain cups. A large wooden bowl of grapefruit and oranges and some smaller white bowls completed the picture.

A picture of the perfect western breakfast, Frank was thinking. Genteel living in the middle of the barren desert.

“Care for some coffee, Frank? Maria brews up a mean pot.”

“Don’t mind if I do, something sure smells good.” He smiled and looked at his surroundings, trying to take it all in. He’d never been this close to this kind of luxury before, unless you considered Mr. Pills’ place, back in Zenith. But there he was on the outside looking in, whereas here he was right in the thick of things.

And kind of enjoying it at the moment.

Richards lifted the coffee pot and filled the cups. “Cream, sugar, Arizona honey? Help yourself.”

“Black is good for me, man.”

Still standing, Frank took the cup and eyeballed the seating arrangement—plates on opposite ends of the long table. He showed a little smirk and sat down on one end. “We’re just like two lords of the manor in old England, man. You know, like in the movies where the king and queen eat dinner together but they’re thirty yards away across a long table like this.”

“The thought crossed my mind, Frank. Humberto knows that once Bryce shows up, no one else gets to sit at the head of the table here, so this is like his little joke on me.”

“If that’s the head of the table, then this (looking at his place setting) must be the foot.”

“If that’s the way you choose to look at it, then you’re at the foot. But remember, I didn’t set the table. Humberto just likes to throw these jabs at my supposed outsider status. He’s a good man. We talk a lot. You can learn a lot talking to the servants at a place like this.”

And, as if on cue, a gray-haired Mexican man with a limp, who looked to be around sixty, entered the room carrying a tray with two steaming plates of what Frank assumed was huevos rancheros, having never before had the dish.

(To be continued)

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The Mexican woman who’d greeted them at the door watched quietly as Richards hauled his bags up the wide staircase to the second level, Frank following behind with his head on a swivel checking out the photos and paintings.

There were several pictures of the Mexican construction crew and the early stages of the ranch house, interspersed with romanticized oil paintings of western scenes of cow roping and cattle drives.

Of course these assholes would have Mexican servants, Frank thought as he walked down the dark wood upstairs hallway. There were doors on both sides opened to simple but plush bedrooms.

“This one is mine,” Richards proclaimed as he entered a dark-paneled room with a skylight and a view of the mountains and the sun-spangled desert,

Richards dropped his bags down on the floor by the queen-size four poster bed, stretched and looked around, taking it all in with a grin.

“Which room is mine?” Frank asked.

“I’m thinking we should set you up in one of the cabins, Frank. They’re pretty cool. They have everything you’ll need: AC, TV, a wet bar—fully stocked, I might add.”

“I see,” Frank said. “Servants’ quarters.”

“Not at all, Frank, not at all. It’s just that all the bedrooms in the main house have been spoken for. Consortium members glommed onto them eons ago. Some of the douchebags even wanted to have brass nameplates put on the doors. But Bryce, for a change, showed a little restraint and put the kibosh on that one. Nevertheless, I don’t want to overstep my bounds and risk having one of the entitled ones get his shorts in a twist.”

“I hear you, man. No problem.”

Frank shook off what he felt was a slight—nothing unusual in this type of a set-up. And he was leaving for California, anyway, soon as he got himself recharged.

“Come on, Frank,” Richards said,  “I’ll show you the fun area.”   

They went back downstairs and clicked across the hardwood floor of a large dining room on their way to the back of the house, where they entered another room of leather and wood and head mounts of dead animals. Also more old black-and-white photos, a fireplace on one side and a pool table and a circular poker table in the middle, and what looked to be the latest in stereo equipment along the back wall. Off to the right was one of those giant screen projection TVs, a semi-circle of overstuffed chairs in front of it.

Through a large pair of glass French doors, Frank could see the sunlight dancing on the blue-green water of a huge, Lima bean-shaped swimming pool. Just beyond the pool were two tennis courts of green and red asphalt enclosed in a chain-link fence with light stanchions rising above the courts.

“They use those tennis courts much this time of year, Larry?”

“Only at night, thus the lights. But really, they’re not used much at all these days.”

“Bring your racket?”

“I didn’t. But there are plenty here if you want to play.”

“No thanks, man. I never did go in for white bread sports like tennis and golf.”

“You are such a real man, Frank, it makes my heart flutter.”

“Fuck you. Besides, I don’t have a white sweater to tie around my shoulders.”

“You are sadly lacking in the important things of life, Mr. Ford.”

“True. You still play much?”

“Not in a long while. Too long, really.” He grabbed a hunk of fat on his waistline and shook it between his fingers.

“Love handles, Larry,” Frank said. 

“Yeah, right,” Richards said. “I’ll get the keys and we’ll get you set up in your cabin.”

They went outside and, man, was it hot. Like lasers to the top of Frank’s head.

Were things getting thin up there?

They got in the wagon and Richards directed him down to the third and last dome in the row.

Frank swung in alongside it.

Richards got out and stuck a key from a large fob into the cabin door while Frank dug out a small suitcase and his shaving kit.

Frank was starting to slow down, fatigue crawling up his legs now, but the water of the swimming pool had looked so inviting he was determined to stay awake long enough for a dip.

“All right if I use the pool?” he asked. Richards was standing at the door of the dome like a maître d at a fine restaurant.

“Of course, man. Facilities are open to all guests at Rancho Deluxe. But I thought you were famished.”

Frank had forgotten his hunger—excited by entering the lavish grounds—but now he remembered. “Yeah, I could eat,” he said, walking past Richards into the dome.

“I’ll get Maria to rustle us up some huevos rancheros, maybe some fresh Arizona grapefruit. The pantry is always well stocked here.”

“You don’t have to trouble the staff, Larry, just show me the way to the kitchen and I can fix something up. I’m used to fending for myself.”

“The staff here is well paid, Frank. And they don’t do much when there’s nobody here. We’ll have a nice breakfast and then I may join you for a dip. I think they keep the water around eighty degrees. Got a suit? There’s a bunch for guests to use in the cabana at the end of the pool, if you need one.”

Richards stepped inside the dome and flipped a switch on the air conditioning unit.

Frank said, “I picked up a pair of trunks before I left Zenith. Going to California and all that shit, you know?”

“I do. So let’s go eat.”

“Man, I really need to shower first. My pits smell like old garbage cans.”

“I was going to say something,” Richards said, laughing as he walked back out into the heat.

(End of Chapter 11)

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Richards brought the station wagon to a halt at the top of the rise. From this vantage point you couldn’t miss it. Sun was high in the sky and glaring off the vast amount of tinted glass and polished steel between and around the dark wood frame of your typical southwestern ranch house.

Typical, if the owners were named Rockefeller or Getty.

Place seemed like it was nestled right up to the foot of the mountains, in a sheltered little valley. There was a gate mounted on stone pillars, with an arch above it. An adobe wall extended from the gate on both sides, wrapping around the perimeter of the property. Seemed to go all the way back to the mountains. The area in front of the house was paved with red bricks in a pattern of expanding circles. Near the left wall, about a hundred yards or so down from the gate, Frank saw three small, red, domed structures. Another fifty yards farther along sat two buildings fashioned out of the same dark wood as the main house. One looked like a stable or a barn and the other seemed to be a miniature version of the big house. But plenty big enough for people to live in.

Frank said, “So who’s the guy who built this place?”

“An old-time Denver tycoon by the name of Howard Parker. Made most of his money in railroads and mining. Some say he would invest in anything that came along if it looked profitable, ethical concerns be damned. The way his son Bryce tells it, this trait led to some of the old boy’s peers calling him Colonel Parker, after Elvis Presley’s sleazy manager. This was in his later years and I guess old Howie didn’t appreciate the humor very much. He drifted away from the old-school guys, which effectively curtailed the gatherings of the mucky-mucks out here. Bryce owns the estate now. He’ll be coming in tomorrow, I think. Sonofabitch is a real party animal, who also shares his father’s disdain for laws and regulations.”

The fifty yards or so leading to the front gate looked to be paved with bricks the color of sand.

The goddamn yellow brick road, Frank thought to himself as Richards put the Ford in gear and proceeded down the hill.

The arch above the gate consisted of two curved metal bars with wrought-iron letters in between. Sonora North.

“Sonora North?” Frank said as Richards stopped the wagon in front of the gate.

“The old man loved Sonora, Mexico. Back in the forties he owned a hunting camp down there somewhere. Bryce said the family also owned a hotel in Hermosilla. As the story goes, old Howie brought a crew of Mexicans up here from Sonora to build this place. There are old photos of the crew and the early stages of the house inside. Our location here is on the northern edge of the Sonoran Desert, so there you go.”

Richards got out of the wagon and went to the gate, where he pushed some buttons on a control panel mounted on the right hand pillar. Frank looked out at the mammoth, sprawling, two-story structure of gray-tinted glass and thick wooden beams as the gate swung slowly inward.

Richards drove up to the front door of the house, parked, and started fetching his bags from the back of the wagon. 

Going in the front door, first thing Frank noticed was the crisp, clean, cool air and the hum of air conditioning. Refrigeration. Dried the sweat on his chest and gave him goose bumps.

To his right was the living room. Or great room. And this one was really great. In the middle of the high vaulted ceiling was a chandelier fashioned from the wheel of an old Conestoga wagon. Resembled those Frank had seen in a few Minnesota cabins, except this one seemed to be rimmed with sterling silver instead of the usual steel.

The rest of the room was all dark wood and leather furniture, and a massive stone fireplace made of what Frank thought to be stones gathered from the area, same material as the gate pillars.

The Sonora factor was evident in the Mexican rugs on the hardwood floor, and also the wall hangings. Frank stared at a tapestry on the wall with a multi-colored pinwheel. Reminded him of something he’d seen on a mescaline trip in the late sixties.

The Parker factor was likely represented by the large number of mounts on the walls, running the gamut from African beasts—a lion, a water buffalo and a rhinoceros—to local creatures like the mule deer, coyote and mountain lion. A huge grizzly on its hind legs in the far corner of the room, toothy maw locked in a roar, seemed to be a nod to Teddy Roosevelt’s famous stuffed bear Frank had seen in history books.

(To be continued)

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The road wasn’t shown in Frank’s atlas.

It was hardly a road, really, more just a worn-down strip across the desert surrounded by nine-foot-high saguaro cacti and those clumps of unlikely vegetation Frank believed were mesquite.

Seemed like that was where tumbleweeds came from. He didn’t know for sure. All he knew for sure was he was rolling across the boiling hardpan headed toward a hill in the distance that probably seemed a lot closer than it actually was.

“So this fantastic Rancho Deluxe of yours is out here in the middle of nowhere, Larry? I’m beginning to wonder. Sure this isn’t a scam and we’re really going hunting for the Lost Dutchman Mine? I can’t see a fuckin’ thing but sand.”

“You got me, Frank, I confess. There’s gold in them thar hills, podner.” He pointed at the looming mountains to the east. “Just hold your horses big fellow, you can see Rancho Deluxe from the top of that rise up ahead. It will blow your mind, I promise you.”

“Seems like they went out of the way to get a little privacy.”

“Well, the old man used to entertain quite a few major players out here in the early days of the joint. They were the type that needed distance from prying eyes, from what I hear.”

“What about now? What do you guys do out here?”

“These days it’s primarily a winter getaway for the Denver residents, myself included. Now and then the consortium gathers together for some business planning sessions and a little R and R. There’s lots of partying, and these guys are also a little camera-shy. We’re talking second and third generation heirs from around the world. Rancho becomes sort of like a small-scale Bohemian Grove. Ever heard of that place?”

“I have. Saw a documentary on TV. You guys do rituals like Bohemian Grove?”

“If you consider drinking, drugging and whoring rituals, then yes.” 

“What’s this younger generation coming to?”

“Going to hell in a handbasket, Frank.”

“No shit.”

(End of Chapter 10)

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The dark was leaving the sky as Frank rolled by Flagstaff and hooked up with I-17, heading south.

The sunrise brought on a second wind.

Richards was snoring and drooling, head leaning against the passenger door.

Sign said Phoenix was 135 miles away.

Frank rolled down the window; the air was invigorating and sweet.

Northern Arizona is a cool place, Frank was thinking as Richards coughed and cleared his throat, opening his eyes.

“Sleeping beauty stirs,” Frank said.

“Indeed,” Richards said, coughing with a liquid edge to it. “Where are we?”

“Just south of Flagstaff.”

Richards looked at the big Rolex on his wrist. “Shit, we’ll be there by eight o’clock. You are a driving machine, Frank. I’ll buy you breakfast when we get there. There’s this place in Tempe used to have an ASU special breakfast back when I was in school. They were fuckin’ great. Cheap, too. Don’t know if the place is still there, but it might be worth a look.”

Richards’ breath was like someone puked on a skunk.

“Feel like driving, Larry?” Frank said. “This ‘driving machine’ is running on empty.”

“Sounds good, Frank. I’ll bring us in. Think I remember how to get around.”

Traffic was sparse so Frank just pulled over to the shoulder and stopped. Wide shoulders on these Arizona highways.

With Larry driving, Frank thought he should try and catch some sleep. But now with the sun up and the destination near, he was excited and filled with anticipation. He rolled down the window and felt the refreshing air as Richards swung the Ford back onto the highway.

Frank had half expected to see a barren desert with big cacti and bleached-out cattle skulls—it was Arizona after all—but instead, the scenery was brilliant. Reddish-brown cliffs and rock outcroppings surrounded by the green of pine trees had him euphoric. Anticipation of new and previously unseen locations was reviving him.

And before long they were dropping down out of the Vulture Mountains (Frank had the road atlas open on his lap) onto the desert floor. It was bright and hot. Baking, burning, blistering hot. Oven like.

Richards drove on and soon they were cruising on the outskirts of the Phoenix metropolitan area. Richards was bitching about the lack of air conditioning—refrigeration he called it—in the wagon.

Frank honestly wished he did have AC, but that was a feature you only rarely needed in northern Minnesota.

And the traffic?

“I knew this place was growing fast, but this traffic boggles the mind,” Richards said. “Not sure I want to go into Tempe and look for that old restaurant. I can’t even remember the name of the place.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a shortage of eateries,” Frank said, gazing out at the jungle of fast-food emporiums, chain restaurants and taco shops.

“Yeah, but that place was good—home cooking.”

“The cooking at my home was never that great,” Frank said.

Richards gave him a weird smile. “Maybe I’ll skip Tempe,” he said. “There are a couple of possible mall sights I want to check out before we head out to the ranch. ”

“This ranch in the desert sounds inviting, Larry, but I can tell you right now that my stay is going to be short. I was never one for heat and traffic.”

“It’s summer in the desert, Frank. Did you think it’d be comfortable?”

“Never really thought about it. Had too much else on my mind, I guess. But, you know, I really need to eat. You’re starting to look like a pork sausage.”

The air hitting Frank’s right arm was like oven-fired sewing needles as Richards got off I-17, known in Phoenix as Black Canyon Highway, and went east on 101, or Pima Highway, to 51, also known as Squaw Peak Parkway, where he headed south.

Sure have colorful names for their roads down here, Frank was thinking as Richards exited 51 at Bell Road.

They spent some time driving around the area, Richards lingering and circling around a couple of strip malls with small businesses like sandwich shops and dry cleaners and Chinese or Mexican food outlets. Richards drove through the parking lots and cruised around the neighborhoods, all the while observing and mumbling to himself.

After thirty minutes of this, Frank’s stomach was calling him out for neglect.

Then Larry said, “That’s enough of this shit. Time to head for Rancho Deluxe.” 

“Wasn’t there a movie with that name?” Frank asked.

“It’s a favorite of mine,” Larry said. “Harry Dean Stanton and one of Lloyd Bridges’ sons incarcerated in a penal ranch in Montana called Deer Lodge. A prison they call a lodge. Only in Montana, I guess. But, in a weird way, it kind of reminds me of my time in the St. Louis County jail back home.”

“So Rancho Deluxe is an ironic title then?”

“For the movie it is. But there’s no irony to our Rancho Deluxe. It is deluxe to the max, my friend.”

“Remember that show Sea Hunt, starring Lloyd Bridges? I loved that show. Made me want to be a scuba diver, until I discovered I was a shitty swimmer.”

“I loved it too.” Richards said. “All those air bubbles floating up the water column all the time.”

Then Frank felt rogue anxiety coming on against his will. Shit, he never even knew what anxiety was until Nikki started talking about it—however long ago that was.

And he couldn’t recall ever having anxiety until he did all that acid and got involved with those two murderous scags back in Zenith.

But maybe the LSD just made him aware of what was already there…

But, shit, that was another story. A story he didn’t want to hear anymore. A story he wanted to be done with. But it seemed to have a long shelf life.

“There going to be a lot of rich assholes at the ranch?” Frank asked.

“I don’t think anyone is going to be there but the servants, until Friday. Should have the place to ourselves until then.”

Richards turned onto Shea Boulevard, went back to 101 and headed north. This is Scottsdale now,” he said, looking over at Frank, “Phoenix’s answer to Beverly Hills.”

After what seemed to Frank like a longer-that-it-should-have-been drive, the urban sprawl began to thin somewhat. The country was mostly flat, with a few hills, a bunch of cacti and the looming McDowell Mountains to the east.

Frank’s stomach was grumbling and growling, his T-shirt was soaked with sweat, and the sun, even with his shades on, was giving him a headache. “Not much out here,” he said.

“City planners are always looking to the future,” Richards said. “Guarantee you there’ll be a mall out here before very goddamn long. And I will have a stake in it.”

“So Rancho Deluxe is in Scottsdale?”

“Technically, perhaps, but it’s actually closer to Carefree. Not much around but cacti, roadrunners, Gila monsters and armadillos… the occasional coyote or mule deer…”   

“What’s the place like?”

“Beyond your wildest dreams, Franko, beyond your wildest fuckin’ dreams.”

(End of Chapter 9)

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They were about thirty minutes down the freeway before Richards stopped looking over his shoulder or in the side mirror and visibly relaxed. Frank, on the other hand, was going up. His once droopy eyelids were opening wider and he had a fierce craving for a cigarette. Fortunately Richards didn’t smoke so there was no one to bum from, Frank’s recently purchased pack abandoned on the desk in last night’s motel room.

Driving with the windows down and the warm air blowing their hair, they took I-25 south and in three hours crossed into New Mexico.

Richards had worked on the Budweiser the whole way. Frank was a bit apprehensive about turning over the wheel to him, so figured the best thing to do was get his head in a similar place.

Wisdom not always one of his strong suits.

“How about you crack me one of those beers, Larry, got a lot of trail dust in my throat.”

“Drinking and driving is a recipe for disaster, Frank. Drover on a cattle drive only had one horse to control, you got three hundred under the hood of this thing.”

“Hanging with you is a recipe for disaster, Larry. Now give me a fuckin’ beer.”

Richards reached down to the floor at his feet and came back up with a can of Bud. “Your wish is my command, kind sir,” he said, popping the ring tab off the top and handing the can to Frank.

Frank took a pull and a shiver ran through him. “Shit is getting warm. Larry.”

“That’ll happen, Frank. You’ll just have to tough it out.”

“Thanks for the advice. Now tell me more about these associates of yours. The investors.”

“A bunch of young rich guys. Trust fund babies, principal heirs, number one sons of business tycoons… shit like that. Tons of cash and not a lot of business sense. Mall building suits them perfectly. And with someone like me along to guide their investments, it’s a safe trip along the yellow brick road.”

“You handling this like you did the old ski shop caper, man? Steal what you can and see what happens later?”

The thing about the combination of speed and alcohol is that it breaks down your inhibitions and frees you to say things that might be considered inappropriate by the receiver. Or at least a little blunt.

Richards frowned. “Somewhat different, Frank. But the same idea in general.”

“That’s what I figured. Y’know, Larry, for a member of the bar, you have a fast and loose relationship with the law and ethical behavior.”

“Listen man, these rich guys are, for the most part, a bunch of assholes. A lot of them are cheap, too. We go out on the town and they don’t bring any cash. Expect me to pay for drinks, tips, cab fares—all that shit. It’s like they think that not carrying cash makes them a regular guy or something. And when they do actually pay for something, it’s like they just ended world hunger or saved Bangladesh. You win a bet from one of them and it’s ‘Double or nothing, double or nothing,’ ad infinitum, until they finally win. And listen, they all make money on my deals. If I make a little more than they are aware of, so fuckin’ be it. It’s the only way to be these days, Frank. Only way to be.”

Frank was thinking this was a different Larry Richards than he remembered. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe now Frank was just paying attention. They were just kids back in Zenith, after all, and people tend to adapt to their environment.

Outside the car windows, the sky was turning dark. Inside the smooth and silent running Ford wagon, it was yada yada yada, blah blah blah, yak yak yak all the way to Santa Fe.

They talked about old girlfriends and buddies from high school and reminisced about past adventures. Like the time Frank punched a hole in the drywall at Gene Halvorson’s purple passion cabin party because Frank’s girlfriend wouldn’t come across.

Which started them on a long and detailed critique of all the desirable girls from their high school. Followed by a brief lament over those with whom they never had a chance.

Around midnight they hit Albuquerque and caught I-40 going west, Frank imagining the wagon to be the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo’s scrap yard spaceship in that Star Wars movie everyone was talking about lately.

Another couple of hours and they were crossing into Arizona, Frank behind the wheel for eight hours now and feeling as out of it as when he was a kid and his father went missing. His hands and feet were cold and his stomach didn’t feel quite right. Like maybe it was eating itself. And besides that, he was seeing things on the road. Things he didn’t think were real but didn’t know for sure. Like cars coming toward him in the wrong lane or semi trucks jackknifed across the road in front of him.

After a large number of these sightings he determined they were hallucinations. But that didn’t make them go away. And could he really be certain the next one to appear wasn’t real?

Every time?

Speed was just a nasty, brain-burning drug, and he couldn’t wait for the shit to wear off.

A ball of apprehension was growing in his gut.  Panic rising, he looked over at Richards, thinking it was time for Larry to give him some relief and take over behind the wheel.

One look at Richard’s eyes told him they were both seeing the same things.

Richards told him later that he was actually seeing black panthers—the animal, not the revolutionary group—crouching in the roadside ditches and up in the trees.

With the spirit of Dean Moriarty pushing him on—Frank was picturing Moriarty standing behind him with his hand on Frank’s shoulder in a pose reminiscent of a print of Jesus guiding a sailor through a stormy sea that Frank’s mother had placed above his bed in ninth grade—he smiled to himself and squeezed the steering wheel a little harder.

It was up to him to steer the spaceship to port.

And then the Hater popped into his head and began dragging him back through all the gory details of his recent past, Frank thinking that if he kept enveloping himself in every detail so goddamn minutely, big springs were going to explode out of his head like in the cartoons.

What he really needed was someone else to take over the reins. He was ready to follow for a while, find the freedom of being led. All the things that had happened back in Minnesota—all the shit he had to control and be in charge of—were taking a toll. He was burned out. In need of something he couldn’t grasp and couldn’t find.

But a cigarette would do nicely.

And then the light bulb in his head lit up. Shit, he was having a highway experience—a freeway flyin’ road trip, just like the folks in On the Road.

Larry Richards was leading him on a Kerouac-type adventure.

The Hater grew silent.

(End of Chapter 8)

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