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."