Chapter 33

Hairy

“Oh God! Karen! Karen!” I shouted.

Karen and Consuelo were doing the dishes. Evidently, a high volume Spanish song in excruciatingly painful two part harmony was part of the washing. Consuelo’s husband Edgar was puzzling over an english language newspaper. I had the Classifieds.

Wiping hands on aprons, both ladies came into the living room.

“What?” Karen said.

“It had better be good, Newbie,” said her Spanish American cohort.

“Yeah,” Karen agreed.

Newbie came from a discussion we had had concerning backs with water on them and “Boat People.”

Consuelo could trace her heritage back to 1535 when her ancestor, Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo was issued or claimed a three million acre land-grant in and around San Diego. Records had been lost, recovered, lost again and disputed by Americanos. Facts are facts. My ancestors are Finnish and “Boat People.”

Firmly put in my place I conceded the victory. I stopped worrying about Karen’s friends ... we were, after all, newcomers.

“Remember that little town above Porcupine Falls?” I asked Karen.

“Like I’d ever forget that ... you asshole.” Fire blossomed in her eye.

“Steep wasn’t it,” I got a chuckle out of that.

“What about it?”

“That little town...”

“If five houses can be called a town,” Karen interrupted.

“It’s going up for auction.”

“What? The town?” She said, “That’s National Forest. Can’t sell National Forest.”

“It’s been in the Courts for years,” I said. “The Government lost. Seems there was a Patent Deed issued in the1890’s for that mine we found in the cliff face.”

“So?”

“The claim included the town. Government chicanery,” I said. “They stole it.”

“And?”

“The town and contents are to be sold Saturday starting at Noon. Wanna go?”

“Do I have to go down that road?”

“No.” I said, “You can see the falls from the cliff.”

“Yes.”

The racket in the kitchen began again.

“Señor,” Edgar said quietly. “Cigarrillo?”

“If you’re going to smoke, Edgar. Take it outside,” Consuelo said.

How she heard, I’ll never know ... I barely heard him and I was in the same room.

““Yeah. Vile things.” Karen said.

The singing? It began anew ... at the beginning.

We went out to the garage. My Dodge pickup looked lonely. The beat to death body was sitting on the ground and the really nice four wheel drive frame, engine and running gear was just sitting in the doorway side. An apple crate on two by fours was doing duty as a seat.

“Edgar?”

“Memento,” he took out a pair of high quality shooting earplugs, “Si?”

I started to laugh ... He gave me a look ... I pointed at his earplugs.

“I need a set of those.”

“Ah ... yes ... peace in the family,” he said, with absolutely no trace of accent. “Lets go to town.”

“You ... you ... shyster.” I said.

“That, Señor, is an insult to my honor. I am not a lawyer,” he grinned, “However ... my claim is even older than my wife’s ... compared to mine, her family is new. Town?”

“Wanna take my Dodge?”

“What are you doing with...” an expansive sweep of the hand, “This.”

“Ever seen an early Suburban?”

“Yes...”

“Dodge made one ... Town Wagon.”

“So...”

“I want a Town Wagon body.”

“Ah ... a Power Wagon,” Edgar said, “Lewistown, Montana ... there is an Air Force junk yard there. Maybe a hundred bodies.”

“I’m from Lewistown ... where is it?”

“East end,” he said, “Across from the old school and two blocks north.”

“I lived across the street from the old school. Washington and Ridgelawn. North east corner. Oh shit! I know where you mean. That long narrow field with all the junk cars. Air Force?”

“I have a pickup and a car trailer ... when do you want to go?”

“After the auction?”

“Monday?”

“Sure ... and No ... I don’t want to ride in your Dodge!” He exclaimed. “We shall take your Mazda. I have wanted to ride in a rotary. Sunny George makes three wheeler motorcycles with that motor.”

We took the Cosmo to Sheridan ... beer is cheaper than in Ranchester.

When we got home, the yard was full of Sheriffs, ambulances and reporters.