Ross Thomas: The Fourth Durango

“Did he forget-or just not get around to it?”

“You Catholic?”

Vines shook his head.

“When a bunch of Franciscans came back through here ten years later in 1782 and still didn’t found a mission, well, that’s twice, right? And wouldn’t you say that sort of makes it look like God forgot to give Father Serra and them the nudge?”

“It would seem to,” said Vines, who long ago had made it a point never to argue in bars about religion, politics or baseball’s designated hitter rule.

“The other mistake they made-the Franciscans and God-was founding that mission over there in Santa Barbara where the weather’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I always thought Santa Barbara had great weather,” Vines said, almost beginning to enjoy his straight man role.

“Not compared to here,” Fork said, signaling for another beer. After the gray-eyed young Mexican bartender served it, Fork drank two swallows, gave the mustache another quick brush and said, “If you want absolutely pluperfect weather, Mr.-uh-don’t believe I caught the name?”

“Kelly Vines.”

“As I was saying, Mr. Vines, if you’re looking for perfect weather, then the hunt’s over because this town’s got what the World Health Organization itself claims is the most salubrious climate on God’s green earth.” Fork paused. “Except for some tumbledown village on the Italian Riviera nobody ever heard of.”

Vines nodded a polite, even interested nod, took a cautious swallow of his bloody mary and looked around the still almost deserted hotel bar. “I’ve been to the Durango in Colorado, the one down in Mexico and the one in Spain, but never here to this one, the fourth one-until now.”

The corners of Fork’s wide mouth turned down, as if at expected bad news. “Well, that’s no real bulletin since about the only way to get here-unless you swim-is through the mountains over that killer two-lane state blacktop that peels off of One-Oh-One-providing you spot the turnoff sign in time, which not many folks do.” He paused, sipped his beer and asked, “How’d you get here-drive?”

“Drove,” Vines said. “But I had a girl guide.”

The chief of police grinned. “If you’d said you flew in or took the train or bus, I’d’ve said you were dreaming because the Feds closed down our so-called airport two years back for what they claimed were safety reasons, and the last passenger train stopped here eleven-no, by God, twelve-years ago now, and even Greyhound called it quits after GE boarded up the steam-iron plant two years ago next month.”

“Sounds like splendid isolation,” Vines said, this time taking two swallows of his bloody mary.

“You a hermit?”

“Not yet.”

“We’ve got a few of those-folks who don’t mind being kind of cut off from the rest of the world.”

Vines nodded his sympathetic understanding and waited to see what came next.

“The rest of us keep up pretty good, though,” the chief continued after another taste of beer. “We’ve got our almost daily paper that’s owned by some chain out of London, England. For culture, there’s our one-hundred-percent automated FM station that plays nothing but commercials and root-canal rock from dawn to dark and then shuts down. As for TV, well, we can’t get any reception to speak of because of the mountains and because no sane cable company’ll touch us. But a man can always buy a dish to catch the news and maybe rent himself a slasher flick or two for his VCR-or even one about some rich high school kids fucking each other.”

Fork stopped, as if curious about what his one-man audience would say. Vines took another sip of his bloody mary and said, “Paradise.”

The chief welcomed the comment with a satisfied nod, but his contentment vanished as he ran an appraising eye around the nearly empty lounge. “This place’ll probably file for Chapter Eleven once summer’s over.”

“The hotel or just the bar?”

“The hotel. Want to buy it?”

Vines ignored the question to ask one of his own. “How long’ve you been chief of police?”

An expression that Vines took for bittersweet nostalgia swept across Fork’s face and affected his voice, giving it a reminiscent, even dreamy tone.

“About nine of us back in ’sixty-eight were driving down from the Haight in an old GM school bus we’d painted up a sort of psychedelic Day-Glo-heading for the Colorado Durango. The Haight was dead or dying by then and we were aiming for the Rockies, heads all messed up with acid and dope and politics and God knows what all. You remember how it was back then.”

“Dimly,” Vines said.

“Well, sir, I’m driving and our navigator spots this California Durango on the gas station map. It’s late and everybody’s tired, so we turn off. The next morning after we woke up and saw how fine the weather was and all, we just stayed on. A few of us did anyhow. And ten years ago I got appointed chief of police and the navigator, well, she got herself elected mayor.”

“She?”

“Mayor Barbara Diane Huckins,” said Fork, finishing his second beer and pushing the glass away with the air of a man who knows his exact limit. “Or B. D. Huckins, which is what she calls herself now and how she signs everything, even though I keep telling her it’s reverse sexism or something.”

Fork stopped talking and again looked longingly at the black cane that still hung by its crook from the bar. “I swear I’ve just got to buy that thing off somebody, Mr. Vines. What d’you think the owner might ask for it?”

Vines framed his answer carefully. “I’m not sure he’d want money.”

Fork looked surprised. “That a fact? Well, how about a trade?” Before Vines could reply, Fork’s glum expression returned. “Trouble is, I haven’t got much to swap except climate-and just one hell of a lot of privacy.”

Vines seemed to consider the problem for several seconds.

“He might like some of that,” he said. “Privacy.”

“He here in town?”

“No, but this afternoon, I’m going to help him find a quiet place to stay for a few weeks. Maybe longer. Probably in Santa Barbara.” Vines smiled. “Despite its rotten climate.”

Fork sent his eyes roaming around the bar as he asked a question that obviously was far too casual. “Just how private has he got to have it?”

“Extremely.”

“And where’d you say he is now?”

“I didn’t. But it’s just north of here.”

Fork’s eyes stopped their roaming and settled on Vines with a cold and knowing stare. “Lompoc, maybe?”

Vines returned the law’s cold stare with an indifferent one of his own. The silent exchange lasted only seconds, which was just long enough to reach a rough accommodation, if not the deal itself. “Would that matter?” Vines said.

The chief replaced his cold stare with a warm and welcoming grin. “Hell, Mr. Vines, we take pride in being the live-and-let-live capital of the Western Hemisphere, especially since attitude’s damn near all we’ve got left to sell except a little weather.”

Fork started to go on but hesitated, as if to make sure his next question was as politic and inoffensive as possible. “What line of work was the cane’s owner in before he came to be a guest of the Federal government up there in Lompoc-if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He was a judge.”

“What kind?”

“A state supreme court chief justice.”

“Not this state.”

“Hardly.”

“Think the judge might swap me his cane and a little to boot for just a whole lot of privacy?”

“He might.”

Fork cocked his head to the left as if that gave him a truer perspective of Kelly Vines. “And just what line of work are you in, Mr. Vines?”