Martin Smith - Stallion Gate

Joe carried the boxes to the Hudson and carefully laid them on the back seat. He held the door for her while she got quickly behind the wheel, put in the ignition key and pressed the starter. Her sunglasses trembled until she caught her breath.

"Joe, if I were you, I'd pick up all that money and clean up that house before Dolores sees it."

"Dolores is dead. Died last year." Joe pushed the car door shut. "I thought you knew."

A Cadillac was squeezing through the alley along the back fence of the Reyes' yard, and Joe paid no more attention to Mrs Quist as she pulled away. The Cadillac was a white coupe with chrome louvres and it manoeuvred like a fighter plane up to the pump. The driver's window rolled down and a thin, black arm hung jauntily out. A diamond ring winked from the pinky.

"Hey, you are back home, Joe. I looked for you last night at the Casa and you weren't there." Pollack grinned and shook his head, expressing separate emotions at the same time. "Someone said they saw your jeep outside here. That's good. It's good to go home." Pollack had a sly, yellow smile, wide nose and a flat forehead that curved into tight gray hair with blue-black scalp shining through. When he spoke, his hands had the sort of fluttery movements that put Joe in mind of fans at gospel meetings. When he got excited, his eyes looked like they would pop with emotion. He always dressed in a silk shirt during the day and a tuxedo at night. Altogether, he gave the impression of an alley cat who had achieved a dignified old age. "It's good to see you back here."

"You drove all the way for the sight?"

"I was looking for you. I can't go up that secret mountain to get you, I've got to catch you when I can. I could've used you last night. Had a piano player must've been German. All he knew was polkas. Must've been a POW."

"Sorry."

"It's your club, too, you know."

"I haven't heard you say that for a long time."

"You don't share the profits, mind, because your daddy Mike never put any money in. But we were partners. His name is on the papers. He was going to buy in, but he never had the chance. I always sent a little money this way to your mother, you know. I didn't have to, but I did. What is that you're smoking? Smells like it collected in a hoof."

"I know." Joe dropped the homemade and stepped on it.

"Thing I learned was always be sharp. A person in the public eye has a responsibility to look sharp."

Joe stepped on the running board. "What are you leading up to? So I didn't get to the Casa last night."

"I'm selling it." Pollack was pleased with the surprise.

"The Casa Manana?"

"Yeah. Eddie Junior's coming home from Italy. I'm going to set us up in a nice club in Harlem."

"That's too bad. I mean, that's great for you and Eddie, but the Casa was the best club in the state."

"The only one with the authentic big band sound. One hundred thousand dollars. That's including kitchen, tables and chairs, liquor, liquor licence, plus parking lot. Practically an entire block. Albuquerque's going to boom after the war, you know."

"Why doesn't Eddie come here?"

"He grew up with his mother. All he knows is New York." Pollack's eyes wandered off in thought.

"And Italy."

"Italy, yeah." Pollack brightened. "A war hero like you. A veteran. Wouldn't it be great if you came to New York and played in our new club? One little thing, Joe. A matter of clear title. I'm going to need your signature on the papers, you being Mike's heir."

"Me being his heir? To what? I don't have a share of the club, you said so."

"It's a nicety."

"The nicety is, I'm a partner without a share?"

"There'll be a consideration."

"Money?"

"A consideration."

"A definite sum?"

"Considerable."

"Give me a number. A hundred dollar consideration? A thousand dollar consideration? Give me the range."

"I can't say."

"I can say. How badly can I fuck up your bill of sale?"

"Joe, we're friends, we're partners."

"I'm just finding out." Joe studied Pollack's aghast face. He slapped the top of the car. "Fuck it. Bring round the papers, I'll sign them. You don't have to bring any 'consideration'."

"You scared me." Pollack still looked gray.

"I'm sorry. Just… gravity's got me down today."

"Well. ." ." Pollack didn't dare say much else.

"You ever wonder what they're doing up on that secret mountain? On the Hill! What would you say if I told you they were making a machine to end the world? To blow up the whole thing?"

"Now I know you're fooling." Pollack started the engine, eager to get away.

"Yeah."

"Well. Now we got that settled, Joe, I best be going. Good to see you back in your own home."

"Yeah."

Pollack backed up, U-turned and eased between the Reyes' yard and the goat fence that served as the boundary for outhouses, compost heaps, cornfields. With his eyes Joe followed the Cadillac in gaps between adobe walls, past the Winter Squash kiva, into the plaza and under the cottonwood. He looked back to the dirt road between the outhouses and the homes. He hadn't noticed before that Mrs Quist's Hudson had stopped halfway into a cholla cactus. Her door was open and he could see her hands over her face, although he didn't realize she was crying until her dark glasses fell on to the ground. As she leaned to retrieve them, she almost fell out.

It was unbelievable. Mrs Quist had been robbing Dolores as long as Joe could remember; for years she'd paid Dolores a dollar a pot, fifty cents a pot, a fraction of what she could get in Santa Fe or LA. When Joe thought of the money Mrs Quist had made out of Dolores… It was a predatory relationship. It was like watching a cat cry over a mouse. It was insane.

He went into the house. On the table was the black seed pot, a dark moon with a seed-sized hole on top. In the air, released from the newspapers, was the dust of the pots, the starchy smell of dry clay and overwhelming scent of memory. Dolores was there in the chair by the table and all he had to do to see her was raise his eyes. She was a small woman with fine features and unlined skin and complete concentration. Her hands worked quickly, moving her polishing stone over the pot. Starting from the bottom, she drew a straight line up to the lip, and a line beside that, and a line beside that, using only enough pressure for the clay to rebound brighter until the surface of the pot was faceted by hundreds of lines like the iris of an eye. Then she gave the pot another pass, following the infinitesimal ridges between the lines. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but he heard the sound of her voice, which was musical. He pressed his back against the wall and looked.

No Dolores. Only dust motes stirring slowly in the light above the table, chair and pot, the last and only piece of hers he had. He snatched it up and ran out of the door.

The Hudson was gone. Coming along the outhouses and fences was a jeep, Sergeant Shapiro at the wheel and Corporal Gruber with him. The MPs had helmets, guns and clubs, so they were on duty. They were weightlifters, mouth breathers. Gruber had blunt, ceramic features, Shapiro a slack, blue jaw. His face was screwed up into something approaching passion or desperation. Joe had never seen them on the reservation before.

The jeep skidded to a stop in front of him. Gruber looked disgusted. Shapiro had trouble finding words. "Chief, did you see me the other day?"

"When?" Joe was still glancing around for Mrs Quist's Hudson.

"On patrol, walking my horse."

"No." Joe brought his attention back.

"It was the day the high explosive was stolen at the Hanging Garden. You didn't see me on patrol?"

"What day was that?"

"It was bad enough the bunker was broken into. Augustino saw me. Captain Augustino says I learn to ride or I go into the infantry and he's personally going to see I go to the Pacific. He says I'm going to be in the first fucking boat that hits Japan."