E.Godz

Chapter Seven

Dov leaned across the table in one of the Blue Coyote Diner's back booths and played an ongoing game of Twenty Questions with the Native American man opposite. He'd been at it ever since he'd showed up for this agreed-upon meeting with Sam Turkey Feather and he was starting to get sick of it.

"Zuni?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "Hopi? Navajo?" More misses. Dov sighed. "Okay, fine, I give up. What is your—nation? Tribe? Look, I don't mean any offense, I'm just not sure which one's okay to say."

"You mean today?" Sam's mouth curved up. The rest of his face—bright eyes, black hair, smooth skin—made him appear to be about the same age as Dov, but his mouth was oddly older. Much older. A fine webbing of wrinkles creased his lips and the surrounding skin, and when he smiled he revealed crooked yellow teeth. It was striking, disconcerting, and fascinating all at the same time, and it made it extremely difficult for a body to look elsewhere when conversing with this man.

In fact, it was as if Sam Turkey Feather's mouth exerted an incredible power over anyone he met, a power he was more than happy to exercise to the fullest, to his own advantage.

No wonder he insisted on a face-to-face, Dov thought, his eyes riveted. Not that I wasn't going to insist on it myself, after coming all this way out here to Arizona to get his support. But I'll bet he gets plenty of other business contacts who try to keep their interactions with him on a long-distance-only basis.

What was it Ammi had said when they'd first beheld this man out in the diner parking lot? Oh, right: That mouth gives him a leg up on the competition, a foot in the door, and the upper hand. Then the amulet had started laughing so raucously, with no sign of ever stopping, that Dov had been forced to stuff the little silver blob into his back pocket and sit on him.

"Is that all the answer you'll give me?" Dov demanded.

Sam shook his head. He wore his jet black hair long, in braids tied with rawhide strips, adorned with silver balls and clusters of tiny animal fetishes carved from semi- precious stone. They clicked and clattered together whenever he moved his head, like the macabre decorations on Mr. Bones' painted staff.

"Why is it always so important for you white men to know the names of everything? What is it, a passion for pigeonholing? Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder? Brand-name recognition?"

"All I asked was a civil question: Which tribe are you from?" Dov said. He sounded petulant and no longer cared about whether or not "tribe" was the politically correct term of the moment.

"Yes, and I have chosen not to answer. Is this the only reason you came here to see me? I don't think so. You're here because of what I do, not who I am; where I'm going with my business, not where I came from. And what difference would it make to you if I did tell you my tribe? Would you have any idea of what that meant, besides having a label to slap on my forehead?"

"Hey! I happen to have a great deal of respect for—"

"—'you people'?" Sam chuckled. "Which aspect of 'you people' am I for you? The Noble Savage? Hmm, probably not: much too dated. The Proud Rebel against the White Military-Industrial Complex Oppressors? Nope: too guns 'n' granola. Thank God you're not a woman! You'd be casting me in every white woman/red man romance novel you ever read: Blazing Breechclouts, Tender is the Tepee, Whoopee Warrior and all the rest." He laughed again, louder. "I'd only disappoint you. I never work out, I couldn't find my abs on a bet, and I look like a real dumbass in a skimpy loincloth."

"Look, what I'm trying to say—" Dov made another effort to be heard, but Sam had his own agenda in high gear and was not about to be stopped.

"No, wait, let me guess! It's more fun this way." Sam picked up a piece of toast and waved it around as he spoke. "You once actually went and got a whole book about Native American cultures so you know lots and lots about what makes each nation special. Or else you've only got one or two tidbits you can toss off to impress me with how informed and aware you are. So if I tell you I'm Hopi you'll say, Right. Kachina dolls. Cool. Zuni? Yeah. All those little stone fetish animals. Cute and ecologically sensitive. Makes a nice gift for the folks back home and doesn't take up much room in the suitcase. Or Navajo? That's the motherlode: blankets, silver and turquoise jewelry, sheep, and maybe, if you actually read that book of yours instead of just looking at the pretty pictures, you'll remember the Code Talkers from World War II. But I'm not holding my breath."

"I wish you would," Dov snarled. "It's the only way I'll get a chance to say anything in my own defense."

"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me." Sam took a big bite of buttered toast and beat it senseless with his horrible teeth. "Maybe I'm right about you, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you really do know more than a couple of sound bites' worth about us injuns, keemo sabee. I don't care. It's not worth my time to find out, and it wouldn't give you any sort of leverage with me. So how about we stop trying to become each other's best buddies and just be businessmen? It's what I do best."

"Funny coincidence, that," Dov replied, giving Sam the gimlet eye. "So do I."

"Good." Sam polished off what was left of his toast and soft-boiled eggs, then slapped a twenty down on the tabletop and stood up. "Now we can go."

Dov followed him out to the parking lot, but he balked at getting into Sam's late- model Jeep. "Was that supposed to impress me?" he asked, one foot up on the passenger's side step-up.

"What?"

"Flashing that money. We both ordered the $1.99 breakfast special. Unless they charge one hell of a refill fee on the coffee in there, you just overtipped by a factor of five."

"Four," Sam corrected him. "And that's based on a twenty percent tip which is not the norm in these parts. You think I did that to impress you?" His mouth twisted into a sneer.

Dov felt his face flush. "So why did you do it?"

"Tell you later. Maybe. If I feel like it. Now either get in or stay out there, eat my dust, and haul your sorry ass back to the airport. Me, I've got customers waiting and if I leave them on their own too long, there's always the danger that they'll wise up and go home."

"Customers? You mean the distribution network for the fetish animals and the dreamcatchers?" Dov had done his homework: Sam Turkey Feather was on the E. Godz, Inc. books as the Southwest's major mass producer of Native American merchandise with a "spiritual" subtext. "I thought you had enough sales reps to monitor that for you. How can we have an effective business meeting if you've got to futz around with a lot of piddling details that your subordinates should be handling?"

Sam looked at him as if he'd stuck a pair of chopsticks up his nose and started barking like a walrus.

"Kid, you ever get tired of chewing on that foot, you come to me and I'll spice it up with a little Earth Magic-brand salsa before you stick it back in your mouth. I've been running a successful organization since before you were born and dropped on your head, and that includes knowing how to get the most out of business meetings. You think I do a hands-on customer call when it's not completely necessary? Check the spreadsheets. That's not the way we drum up the big profits, no pun intended."

"What pun?"

"Whoa. You sure you're Edwina's boy? See, I said 'drum up the big profits,' and what I do is— Oh, the hell with it. That's what I wanted to show you right now, if you could maybe stop holding us up with a lot of stupid remarks and let us get started. So which is it, kid? You in or you out?

"In." Holding in his frustrated anger, Dov got into the Jeep. Sam didn't even wait for him to buckle up before flooring the accelerator and taking off.

Distances in the Indian territories of Arizona were best calculated using the same mind-set brought to understanding space travel. Folks from Back East who sighed like martyrs over having to face two-hour commutes each morning went into slack-jawed shock when confronting the southwestern concept of a "short" drive. Two hours on the road might get you out of the figurative parking lot. The day was young and the summer heat was still weeks away, but by the time they reached their destination, Dov was exhausted, sweltering, his eyes were full of grit, and he felt as though someone had run his kidneys through a blender with a handful of rocks thrown in to really get the job done.

As he climbed unsteadily out of the Jeep, Dov looked around. They had left the highway some time ago, heading over secondary roads and fifth-rate sheep tracks towards a distant prospect of tawny mountains, but the mountains still looked just as distant even though the highway itself was long gone.

This isn't even the middle of nowhere, Dov thought. It's the suburbs.

As for Sam, he'd jumped easily down from his seat and was now striding across the arid terrain, heading for a cluster of what looked like rawhide igloos. The brown humps in the distance reminded Dov of the coconut halves used in the old shell game at turn-of- the-century carnivals. Shills and sharpers knew that you didn't get a lot of milk out of a coconut, but you could use them to milk the suckers for plenty.

"Watch where you step," Sam called back to Dov.

"Snakes?" Dov cast nervous glances at the ground. Unlike Sam, he wasn't wearing boots; just designer running shoes.

"Nah; empties."

"Emp—?" That was all Dov had the chance to say before an ill-placed foot landed on a discarded bottle of high-priced mineral water. His legs shot out from under him and he landed on his rump.

"Ow! Get off me, you big hippo!" Ammi's muffled voice rang out loud and clear under the wide open sky. It should have reached Sam's ears as the yelp of a faraway coyote, thanks to the A.R.S.

It didn't.

Sam gave Dov a hand getting back to his feet, then said, "White man speak with surly butt."

"You heard that?" Dov was incredulous.

"Only part of me that doesn't work up to snuff's my teeth."

Slowly, almost shyly, Dov pulled the silver amulet out of his back pocket and held it up for Sam's inspection. The man stroked his chin and mused aloud: "You know, I could really use something like this." He tapped Ammi's nose lightly, making the amulet swing at the end of its chain. "How about it, friend?" he asked the amulet. "Ever thought of a career in show business?"

"What's in it for me, Turkey Plucker?" Ammi retorted.

"That's Turkey Feather," Sam said evenly.

"No, it's not." The amulet flashed a silver smirk. "I used to work for the boss lady, Edwina Godz herself, before she gave me to the kid, here. I was in on plenty of official correspondence, including all the paperwork that went through the office back in the days when you first joined the organization. Your real name is Sam Turkey Plucker, only you changed it to Turkey Feather on Edwina's advice, because it'd sound better for attracting the tourists."

"Is that true?" Dov gave Sam a questioning look.

Sam tossed his head back and laughed. "Yeah, Tex, he got me, all right. Pow, right between the eyes. Another one bites the dust. My true name's Turkey Plucker and when I met your mama I wasn't much more than that, except I was maybe starting to figure out that there was better money to be made plucking the tourists. Edwina and me, we were living together out here for a while—she said she wanted to be somewhere she could tap into the earth magic without hitting a telephone cable. Your mama, she was good for me, taught me to stop looking and start seeing, know what I mean? Seeing things like opportunities."

"You and my mother were—?" Dov couldn't believe it.

"Back when she was maybe eighteen, nineteen, around then. Why? Shocked? Scandalized? Grossed out? What?"

"Hey, I don't care if you and my mother slept together or not," Dov protested. "It's just that you don't look anywhere near old enough to have known her back then."

Sam picked up one of his black braids. "Hair dye. Better living through chemistry. And once my business got going I had more than enough cash to buy me my own private plastic surgeon, if I wanted, plus a carload of retin-A."

"Then why didn't you do anything about your teeth?"

Sam smiled extra wide on purpose. "Because my spirit guide Old Man Coyote told me that if I tried to make my mouth look as young as the rest of me, he'd make sure that all the words that came out of it were young too. Young and foolish. Gotta listen to your spirit guide, kid. Bad medicine if you don't pay heed."

Dov grabbed Ammi from Sam's hand. "If you're quite through yanking my chain?" he inquired frostily.

The older man clicked his tongue. "I can tell you're not gonna listen to me. Too bad. I expected more from Edwina's boy. Oh well, nothing to be done about it. Come on. I've kept the Seekers waiting long enough." He turned and started off for the cluster of brown domes again.

"Now just wait one minute!" Dov objected. "I think I'm entitled to know what's going on here."

"No, you're not," Sam said, never breaking stride. "Edwina always saw, always listened. Taught me to do the same. I'm not gonna tell you another word about who I am and what I do. You'll only hear the sounds my words make, but you won't understand a damn thing. If you're your mother's son, you'll catch on quick enough. If not, no charge."

"No charge? No charge for what?" Dov demanded, scampering after Sam.

By this time they were within a stone's throw of the brown domes. It was flat land, but tough going. The ground underfoot was thickly littered with at least two score of the same kind of bottle that Dov had slipped on before. Other detritis cluttered the earth: empty energy bar wrappers, used tissues and paper towels, toothpaste-stained twigs and one lonely, tapped-out tube of hemorrhoid cream. As Dov approached, he noted that the domes, which he had initially believed to be made out of hide, were actually cheap tents, their ripstop material painted to imitate leather. They were set up in a ring around a circle of cleared, beaten ground. All of the rubbish he'd been dodging was kept to the outer perimeter of the tent ring.

Out of sight, out of mind, he thought.

Sam strode into the very center of the ring and cupped his hands to his mouth. Throwing his head back, he let loose a series of yips and yowls that any self-respecting coyote might envy. Immediately the door flaps of the brown tents stirred and a chorus of random animal noises streamed out in response. Grunts and bellows, hisses and squawks, meows and chitterings and even a few pathetic squeaks broke the silence of the desert. Then, from inside one of the tents, someone began to beat rhythmically on a drum.

"Gerald! Stop that, you idiot!" a very strident female voice overwhelmed the menagerie and cut the drumming off cold. "You don't do that until later, when Master Turkey Feather calls us into the circle and tells us it's okay. Jesus, are you actively trying to embarrass me?"

"Sorry, Pookie," came the chastened murmur.

Sam gave Dov a look of intense amusement, then whisked his face clean of all trace of levity. Looking grave and stoic, he sat down crosslegged in the middle of the circle and began to sing. The melody was almost nonexistent, nasal and repetitive, but the words were in pure English, a summons for all Seekers to emerge into the Light of Truth and walk the Path of Dreams that would take the Truly Worthy to the very Heart and Soul of the Great Eagle's Egg of Life. (It wasn't often you could hear spoken words being capitalized but Sam made it so.)

One by one, the tent flaps lifted and the inhabitants crawled out into the sunlight, blinking like moles. There were ten of them, all told. Most walked upright, but one platinum blond woman chose to hop along on all fours like a bunny rabbit while one of the men kept his arms stretched out while he swooped in a looping pattern around the outside of the circle, like a little boy pretending to be a jet plane. All regarded Dov with suspicion and jealousy.

"Who is this?" one woman wanted to know. She looked like a Barbie doll that had been left out in a sandstorm. "I've been camping out here for two whole days, and I still haven't been contacted by my spirit guide, which I think is all Mimsy's fault, by the way, because she went and hogged the spirit of White Buffalo when it showed up, even though it was obviously supposed to be mine, and if this guy can just come waltzing in here and join up on the Vision Quest at the last frickin' minute like he was boarding the A train, for God's sake, then my aura is gonna be entirely thrown out of whack and I want a refund!"

"The great spirit guide White Buffalo says to tell you that Courtney speaks with forked tongue," another woman tranquilly told Sam. She was built on the same model as the first whiner—a toned, tanned, and tucked physique enhanced by strategic lumps and bumps of silicon, saline, and collagen. "The great spirit guide White Buffalo also says that if Courtney can't remember that my name is no longer Mimsy but Flower-in-the- Crannied-Wall, then it's no damn wonder she can't get a spirit guide of her own."

"Oh yeah? Well if you ask me, the only spirit guide that should've shown up to claim you is a double-dyed bitch," Courtney sniped. "You've got no right to White Buffalo and no right to that name! If anyone should be Flower-in-the-Crannied-Wall, it's me!"

"How would you like my boot so far up your Crannied Wall that you sneeze shoelaces for a week?" Mimsy countered. Her self-satisfied serenity had blown away like a tumbleweed and she was ready to rumble. This was serious. The woman doing the bunny hop paused, the swooping man stood stock still, the other Seekers froze on point like a pack of bird dogs, eager to watch a good old-fashioned catfight. Only Sam looked worried.

I'll bet, Dov thought. Now I see how he's been pulling in the serious money all these years. This is much bigger than the fetish bead market: made-to-order Vision Quests for the financially affluent and spiritually destitute. Sure, take them out into the desert, burn some herbs, chant your grocery list at them, have them thump on some drums, and make them go on a fast until they get their Vision. How long do you think these overgrown spoiled brats would go without food before they start seeing things? Or imagining that they do.

Only trouble is, this fight isn't imaginary, and if one of these two Minnehaha wannabes gets hurt, she'll hire Big Chief Sues-With-a-Vengeance and hold the company responsible.

Dov had always had a keen nose for Brownie Point Earning opportunities. The only reason he'd managed to finish college was his ability to ingratiate himself with his professors while all the other suckers were burning brain cells by actually studying. He figured that if he could defuse the impending Mimsy-Courtney blowup, he'd be in good with Sam, which meant Sam's considerable financial clout would be backing him when it came time for the corporate showdown with Peez.

Sam could also provide Dov with another, perhaps stronger sort of influence: Having one of Edwina's old lover's on his side could only help Dov's chances for persuading her to give him the company. It was a win-win situation, and both of the winners were Dov, just the way he liked it.

Eyes on the prize, Dov took action.

Amazing how fast he was able to slip out of his clothes and stand there naked under the startled eyes of Sam's little group of Seekers. The hardest part of his impromptu striptease was kicking free of his lace-up running shoes and yanking off the socks beneath, but he managed to do so and to make it look like part of a ceremonial dance step. Now, as bare as a lizard, he proceeded to leap and stomp and cavort all around the earth circle, raising his voice in the nearest thing he could remember to a genuine Indian chant. (Could he help it if it was the lyrics to an Israeli rain dance, left over from Edwina's days of full immersion in folk culture studies?)

As he completed his orbit, Dov was pleased to note that Mimsy and Courtney had dropped their feud in favor of gaping at him like a pair of beached halibut. Objective number one achieved, he thought gleefully. Commence accomplishment attempt on objective number two.

Flinging himself at Courtney's feet, despite the grit that scraped his bare knees raw, Dov bowed his head, raised his arms, and declared, "Hail, Woman-Who-Is-Worthy. I am he who is sent from the Great Spirit to bring you word that you have been chosen. From this day forth, your spirit guide shall be Great Goo-ga-li-moo-ga-li, the White Otter, and your tribal name shall be Lives-Long-and-Prospers."

"Yeah?" Courtney brightened. "Nifty!"

"No fair!" Mimsy wailed. "She didn't get a Vision! How come she gets a spirit guide and a name and everything like this? Like it's— it's— like it's some kinda pizza delivery or something? And how come she gets an otter for her spirit guide? Otters are way cuter than buffalo! I want the otter!"

"Behold!" Dov shouted, leaping to his feet. Naked as he was, there was plenty of beholding for the assembled Seekers to do. "Behold that your mighty shaman, Master Sam Turkey Feather, has used his powers to summon me from the realm of the Great Spirit through long hours of self-sacrifice, fasting, and chanting. He has placed me within this body so that your eyes may see me and so that I may walk among you and give you the spiritual gifts which all of you have earned. Verily, even those of you who have already been vouchsafed a Vision of your spirit guides shall have these same Visions confirmed and sanctified. So decrees the Great Spirit, for never in countless generations has he ever known a group as worthy of this special blessing as all of you!"

A chorus of approving murmurs ran through the group. Why wouldn't they approve? The Great Spirit had just confirmed their own inflated opinions of themselves. Dov took that opportunity to duck into one of the dome tents and leave it to Sam to handle the loose ends. Alone in the dark he smiled, more than satisfied with how well he'd handled the situation. He'd saved Sam's bacon and now Sam would have to give him his approval and backing. It was that simple.

The tent flap lifted.

* * *

"You," Dov said as the Jeep jounced down the road heading back for the Blue Coyote Diner. He sounded as prickly as a giant saguaro cactus. "You, Sam Turkey Plucker, are one sneaky son of a bitch."

"Compliment accepted," Sam replied, grinning ear to ear. "Don't blame me. Did I make you take off all your clothing and declare yourself the Great Spirit's messenger boy?"

"No, but you're the one who told that nest of yuppie toad-lickers that the reason I'd appeared to them in the form of a naked man instead of an animal was because there was only one way for me to confer the Great Spirit's official tribal names on them."

"I didn't hear you complaining when you were conferring Courtney and Pookie and Heather and—"

"Yeah, but how about when you sent Gerald in to see me? Not only was I half dead from conferring Nicole—let me tell you, it's no wonder her spirit guide's a bunny rabbit!—but I do not swing that way."

"Neither does Gerald. Trust me, he was just as relieved as you when the Great Spirit beeped you to report back to headquarters ASAP, though I think Prescott was a little disappointed."

"Prescott? He the one doing the air show?"

Sam nodded. "I'll go back and give him his tribal name myself, with no conferring, thanks. Now if I could only remember what kind of bird he saw in his Vision, hawk or eagle."

"It couldn't have been a turkey buzzard?"

"Not if I want him to tell all his friends to come see me for all their gen-yoo-wine authentic Native American spiritual needs. How would it sound? 'Hey, man, it's the greatest thing: I just paid some old injun three thousand bucks to tell me that my spirit guide is a turkey buzzard! You should try it. Maybe he'll tell you that your spirit guide is a muskrat.' I don't think so. That kind of money changes hands, you give the customer eagles, hawks, bears, buffalo, wolves, like that, or you go back to the reservation."

"Glaminals," Dov mumbled.

"Say what?"

"Glaminals," he repeated. "The glamorous animals. The ones the customers can casually mention at cocktail parties and get all their friends staring at them enviously instead of rolling on the floor laughing. You know what I mean."

"You bet I do."

"So ..." Dov tapped his chin. "Three thousand dollars a pop. Impressive."

Sam dismissed Dov's admiration. "That's a low-end package. No frills. My high-end Vision Quests go for up to five and a half K, all major credit cards accepted. Discounts for senior citizens, not that any of the buyers I attract would ever willingly admit to being over thirty-five, let alone fifty."

Dov whistled long and low. Now he really was impressed with Sam's setup. "Is that why you tossed me to the wolves? Afraid I was going to muscle in on your market share?"

"Kid, I couldn't let you steal all my thunder. What if you had been able to 'confer' all of them? They'd tell their friends and then everyone who came to me for a Vision Quest Weekend Package would be expecting the same treatment. I had to do something so they'd understand it was a one-time-only experience. I mean, have some mercy: I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Who is?"

Dov intended his flip response as a joke. Sam didn't take it that way.

"No one is," he said. "Least of all your mother. She and I— Well, it was a long time ago, but still, I'll never forget it, or her." He lapsed into a silence that did not permit interruption. The sun-washed miles rolled past outside the Jeep. In a while he spoke again: "You see me as just a hustler, don't you?"

"I see you as a businessman," Dov said calmly. He was picking up some odd vibes from this man and he wasn't sure what to make of them. It was true: He did think of Sam as little more than a snake-oil salesman, peddling Enlightenment to the terminally trendy, yet every instinct in him screamed that he was wrong, that this man held some of the true power within him.

Mom would never have wasted her time with him if not, he thought. Even when she was still in her teens, she knew where to look for the real magic.

"A businessman," Dov repeated, "who actually happens to be a shaman, too. A real one."

Sam nodded. He seemed pleased, though he didn't crack a smile. "Kid, I'd like to come with you, see your mama, put everything I've got into trying to heal her."

Dov fidgeted uneasily. "I— I appreciate the offer, Sam, but when I leave you, I'm heading for Los Angeles."

"Your mama's dying and you're heading in the opposite direction?" Sam's brow looked like a thunderhead. "And there I was, wishing that you were my son."

"It's business!" Dov said. He was surprised at his own tone of voice, pleading so abjectly for Sam's understanding and approval.

"What kind of business makes you put your family second? From there it's just one small step to forgetting you've got any family at all."

The words stung like scorpions. For an instant, Dov forgot that he was here to curry Sam's favor and gain his backing for the takeover. "Oh, like your family must be so proud of how your selling their culture by the pound to a bunch of yuppies?" he snapped.

"They're not," Sam replied, his voice cold. "Most of them no longer count me as kin. Some don't even count me as alive, but I'm both. Even if they pretend I'm not there, I still do what I can to stand by them. That twenty dollars I put down back there in the Blue

Coyote? Our waitress is my great-niece. She doesn't speak my name, I don't try to make her, but I go there every day for breakfast and I always leave her plenty. I know she needs it."

Sam pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He looked Dov right in the eyes and said: "When I was growing up, we couldn't afford a lot of things. Regular dental care was one of them. You see what my teeth look like? I could change that if I wanted, now, buy me a smile that would blind an army, but I don't. I leave it the way it is so I'll never forget where I came from, or how it made me who I am."

He got out of the Jeep and walked a little way into the roadside scrub. Dov followed him, not really understanding why he felt compelled to do so. When the shaman had gone far enough away from the car for his liking, he tilted his head back and began to chant. Dov listened, and something inside him stirred, something told him that this was not the same sort of flimflam that Sam fed to his willing marks. This was the real thing. This came from the heart, from the soul, from the earth itself. Dov didn't know the words, but he could pick up the tune, and he did his best to hum along. He didn't feel stupid for trying.

When Sam finished his song, he looked at Dov. "Here," he said, reaching into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt. He pressed something into Dov's hand. "Charms to guard her. Send these to your mother, since you can't be bothered to bring them to her yourself. Tell her that Sam Turkey Plucker sang for her spirit and also sends her his promise that he will perform a healing ritual for her body."

"Sam, you know what the company means to Mom—" Dov began.

"Kid, if you're fishing for my endorsement to have you take over E. Godz, Inc., forget about it."

"You mean my sister already saw you?" Dov silently cursed Peez for a shifty-souled varmint.

"I mean I'm not saying yes or no to you or your sister or anyone until I have to. Your mother's still alive; don't be in such a rush to divvy up what's still hers."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Hey, spare me the speech about how you're really doing all this for her, okay?" Sam started back for the Jeep. "My people have a long history of white folks telling us how whatever they do to us, with us, at us, it's all for only the best reasons. You know what they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?" Dov nodded. "Well, look around you." Sam's gesture embraced the endless miles of glorified goat tracks crisscrossing his home turf. "Not a lot of paving done out here at all."

* * *

"Ahhhh, decent air conditioning at last!" Ammi rested on the armrest tray of Dov's seat and basked in the blessed coolness of the L.A.-bound jet's first-class cabin. "No offense, boss, but your pants pocket was starting to smell like a prairie dog's armpit."

Dov said nothing. He was gazing out the window, watching the blood red mountains slip away beneath them.

"Hello?" Ammi probed. "Earth to Dov! Please tell me you're not deciding to go off on one of those cockamamie Vision Quest scams yourself! I can come up with about twenty- seven better ways to drop five grand over a weekend, and I'm just jewelry."

"It's not always a scam," Dov said absently. "He can do the real thing, but that's not what the customers want. They'd throw a fit if you served them coffee that wasn't hand- picked, hand-roasted, hand-ground and hand-brewed, but when it comes to spiritual fulfillment, they want it instant or not at all."

"Whoa. Sounds like he got to you big time." Ammi clicked his nonexistent tongue.

"I think he did." Dov pressed his forehead against the window.

"So does that mean we're heading back? Going to visit Edwina, see how she's doing?"

"And give Peez a chance to snatch the company right out from under me?" Dov sat up straight and knocked back his glass of single malt. "No way."