Leonard said, in Dwayne Ducharme’s earnest voice, “Mr. Yardman, I’ve been very—”
“‘Mitch.’ Call me ‘Mitch,’ eh?”
“—‘Mitch.’ I’ve been very lucky to be transferred to our Denver branch. My company has been ‘downsized,’ but—”
“Tell me about it, man! ‘Downsize.’ ‘Cut back.’ Ain’t that the story of these United States lately, eh?” Yardman was suddenly vehement, incensed. His pronunciation was savage: Yoo-nited States.
Leonard said, with an air of stubborn naiveté, “Mr. Yardman, my wife and I think of this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To ‘relocate’ to the West from the crowded East. We’re Methodist Evangelicals and the church is flourishing in Colorado and we have a twelve-year-old boy dying to raise horses and my wife thinks—”
“That is so interesting, Dwayne Ducharme,” Yardman interrupted, with a rude smirk, “—you are one of a new ‘pioneer breed’ relocating to our ‘wide open spaces’ and relaxed way of life and lower taxes. Seems to me I have just the property for you: six-acre ranch, four-bedroom house for the growin’ family, barn in good repair, creek runs through the property, fences, shade trees, aspens, in kinda a valley where there’s deer and antelope to hunt. Just went on the market a few days ago, Dwayne Ducharme, thisis serendip’ty, eh?”
Yardman locked up the office. Pulled down a sign on the front door: CLOSED. When he wasn’t facing Leonard, his sulky mouth yet retained its fixed smile.
Outside, the men had a disagreement: Yardman wanted to drive his prospective client to the ranch, which was approximately sixteen miles away, and Dwayne Ducharme insisted upon driving his rental car. Yardman said, “Why’n hell we need two vehicles, eh? Save gas. Keep each other company. It’s the usual procedure, see.” Yardman’s vehicle was a new-model Suburban with smoke-tinted windows, bumper stickers featuring the American flag, and a dented right rear door. It was both gleaming-black and splattered with mud like coarse lace. Inside, a dog was barking excitedly, throwing itself against the window nearest Leonard and slobbering the glass. “That’s Kaspar. Spelled with a ‘K.’ Bark’s worse’n his bite. Kaspar ain’t goin’ to bite you, Dwayne Ducharme, I guarantee.” Yardman slammed the flat of his hand against the window commanding the dog to “settle down.” Kaspar was an Airedale, pure-bred, Yardman said. Damn good breed, but needs discipline. “You buy this pretty li’l property out at Mineral Springs for your family, you’ll want a dog. ‘Man’s best friend’ is no bullshit.”
But Leonard didn’t want to ride with Yardman and Kaspar; Leonard would drive his own car. Yardman stared at him, baffled. Clearly, Yardman was a man not accustomed to being contradicted or thwarted in the smallest matters. He said, barely troubling to disguise his contempt, “Well, Dwayne Ducharme, you do that. You in your li’l Volva, Volvo, Vulva, you do that. Kaspar and me will drive ahead, see you don’t get lost.”
In a procession of two vehicles they drove through the small town of Makeville in the traffic of early Saturday afternoon, in late March. It was a windy day, tasting of snow. Overhead were massive clouds like galleons. What a relief, to be free of Yardman’s overpowering personality! Leonard hadn’t slept well the night before, nor the night before that, his nerves were strung tight. In his compact rental car he followed the military-looking black Suburban through blocks of undistinguished storefronts, stucco apartment buildings, taverns, X-rated video stores, opening onto a state highway crowded with the usual fast-food restaurants, discount outlets, gas stations, strip malls. All that seemed to remain of Makeville’s mining-town past were The Gold Strike Go-Go, Strike-It-Rich Lounge, Silver Lining Barbecue. Beyond the highway was a mesa landscape of small stunted trees, rocks. To get to Yardman Realty & Insurance at 661 Main Street, Makeville, Leonard had had a forty-minute drive from the Denver airport through a dispiriting clog of traffic and air hazier than the air of Manhattan on most days.
He thought, Can he guess? Any idea who I am?
He was excited, edgy. No one knew where Leonard Chase was.
Outside town, where the speed limit was fifty-five miles an hour, Yardman pushed the Suburban toward seventy, leaving Leonard behind. It was to punish him, Leonard knew: Yardman allowed other vehicles to come between him and Leonard, then pulled off onto the shoulder of the road to allow Leonard to catch up. In a gesture of genial contempt, Yardman signaled to him, and pulled out onto the highway before him, fast. In the rear window of the Suburban was an American flag. On the rear bumper were stickers: BUSH CHENEY USA. KEEP HONKING, I’M RELOADING.
Yardman’s family must have been rich at one time. Yardman had been sent east to college. Though he played the yokel, it was clear that the man was shrewd, calculating. Something had happened in his personal life and in his professional life, possibly a succession of things. He’d had money, but not now. Valerie would never have married Yardman otherwise. Wouldn’t have kept the lewd Polaroids for more than two decades.
If he guessed. What?
The Suburban was pulling away again, passing an eighteen-rig truck. Leonard could turn off at any time, drive back to the airport and take a flight back to Chicago. He’d told Valerie that he would be in Chicago for a few days on business and this was true: Leonard had a job interview with a Chicago firm needing a tax litigator with federal court experience. He hadn’t told Valerie that he’d been severed from the Rector Street firm and was sure that there could be no way she might know. He’d been commuting into the city five days a week, schedule unaltered. His CEO had seen to it, he’d been treated with courtesy: allowed the use of his office for several weeks while he searched for a new job. Except for one or two unfortunate episodes, he got along well with his old colleagues. Once or twice he showed up unshaven, disheveled, most of the time he seemed unchanged. White cotton shirt, striped tie, dark pinstripe suit. He continued to have his shoes shined in Penn Station. In his office, door shut, he stared out the window. Or clicked through the Internet. So few law firms were interested in him, at forty-six: “downsized.” But he’d tracked down Yardman in this way. And the interview in Chicago was genuine. Leonard Chase’s impressive resumé, the “strong, supportive” recommendation his CEO had promised, were genuine.
Valerie had ceased touching his arm, his cheek. Valerie had ceased asking in a concerned voice, Is anything wrong, darling?
This faint excitement, edginess. He’d been in high-altitude terrain before. Beautiful Aspen, where they’d gone skiing just once. Also Santa Fe. Denver was a mile above sea level and Leonard’s breath was coming quickly and shallowly in the wake of Yardman’s vehicle. His pulse was fast, elated. He knew that after a day, the sensation of excitement would shift to a dull throbbing pain behind his eyes. But he hoped to be gone from Colorado by then.
Mineral Springs. This part of the area certainly didn’t look prosperous. Obviously there were wealthy Denver suburbs and outlying towns but this wasn’t one of them. The land continued flat and monotonous and its predominant hue was the hue of dried manure. At least, Leonard had expected mountains. In the other direction, Yardman had said with a smirk — but where? The jagged skyline of Denver, behind Leonard, to his right, was lost in a soupy brown haze.
The Suburban turned off onto a potholed road. United Church of Christ in a weathered wood-frame building, a mobile-home park, small asphalt-sided houses set back in scrubby lots in sudden and unexpected proximity to Quail Ridge Acres, a “custom-built” — “luxury home” — housing development sprawling out of sight. There began to be more open land, “ranches” with grazing cattle, horses close beside the road lifting their long heads as Leonard passed by. The sudden beauty of a horse can take your breath away, Leonard had forgotten. He felt a pang of loss, he had no son. No one to move west with him, raise horses in Colorado.