“I am back in the gym.”
“We’re getting there!” He turned and scrambled through an opening in the boulders and by the time Bradley got there Mike was a hundred yards ahead, and higher still, inching up a huge rock like a green, yellow, and red starfish. In the thin desert air Bradley could hear the screeching of the golf shoe cleats against the stone and the echo of Mike’s voice. “This is the only way over! But this is the worst of it, I promise!”
Bradley finally topped the same rock, then picked his way down the backside of the hillock. His duty boots were not bad for the terrain, and his uniform trousers were designed for physical activity. The afternoon air was cooling already and he felt the tingle of his drying sweat.
He looked out at the mine at the base of the next hill. The entrance yawned, framed by rusted steel girders. He saw no roads or paths or game trails, no evidence that the mine had had a worker or even a visitor in a century or more. When he got there Mike was sitting on a big boulder near the opening. The soft cooler sat beside him.
“Look behind you at the view,” said Mike.
Bradley turned and looked out across the desert, Adelanto faintly twinkling in the distance, the ribbon of 395 stretching from its dusty beginnings in the south all the way north to where it vanished. He could see the shiny steel plates of the solar plant swallowing sunlight through the dry, clear air, and the faint dome of the correctional facility.
“Bradley, I brought you here to give you a small piece of hard evidence of what I am, and what you can soon to be a part of, should you want to. You are among the most suspicious and least-trusting men I’ve ever met. Some understand me instinctively, through their hearts, such as Joaquin. But you are a man of the senses. You have to see and touch and smell. Because of men like you, there is actually a fourth step you must take if I am to help you and we are to become partners.”
“I figured there would be a catch.”
“Not really a catch. But, yes, as I explained, you must believe in me and make the Declaration of Parity. You must ask me to be your partner. But the fourth rule of partnership is that you must be fully aware of what I am. You must know who you are dealing with. As they say in American jurisprudence, you must be able to assist in your own defense.”
“That’s covered under belief. You already said your first rule was belief.”
“Some men can never believe until they know. That’s why we have rule number four. I have heard your doubts very clearly and loudly, Bradley. Way out here there’s nothing to compete with them. They’re coming to me static-free, as by fiber optics. They are as clear to me as carrier pigeons winging across the Veracruz sky. Shall I quote you?”
“Quote me.”
“…crazy as a shithouse rat. . a devil dressed for golf? why not? what better disguise. . he looks ridiculous but maybe that’s how he manages to get around so easily. . let him believe I believe. . he’s clearly and spectacularly insane. . tell him what he needs to hear. . an invigorating symphony of bullshit. . Scientology dweebs. . Do any of those pithy phrases ring a bell, Brad?”
“That’s just a parlor trick. Like Uri Geller bending spoons.”
Mike shrugged and slid off the rock and went to the mouth of the mineshaft and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees as if he were about to jump in.
Bradley looked at the little man, then down into the cave opening, a dark and ominous thing to a lifelong claustrophobe such as he was, and his mother and her ancestors had been. He saw, within just a few feet of the mouth, nothing but blackness. A wisp of dust raised by Mike’s golf shoes hovered in the sunlight above the hole. The dust was bright and hopeful, but unmeaningful to Bradley, compared to the eternal blackness of the mine. He thought of being locked in the trunk of his own car a few months ago, of the terror that had risen up inside him there in the dark confines.
Mike’s voice was sudden and loud. “Beatrice! Bea! It’s Mike. Yoo-hoo.”
Hands still on his knees, Mike turned and looked at Bradley with a mischievous grin, then turned back again to the hole. “Bea, I know you’re down there!”
Bradley looked at the back of Mike’s red PGA cap, and his compact torso snug in the yellow knit shirt, and his little round rump packed into the green cotton-poly golf pants. He pictured himself skipping forward and knocking Mike in with a flying axe kick. At this thought Finnegan turned again, with a hard look of assessment on his face. “Be careful what you think,” he said. This time his smile was not one of mischief but one of knowing.
“You’re not impressing me,” said Bradley. “Let’s get back. I’m tired of your horseshit and I don’t want to be your partner.”
“Beatrice? I’ve brought some things for you. Incoming!” Mike retrieved his soft cooler and took it to the yawning mouth of the cave. He unzipped a compartment and pulled out a bunch of chocolate bars, a common and popular brand, and held them over the darkness and let go. Bradley watched them vanish, heard them ticking against the rock on their descent.
“Beatrice Ann, I want you to meet Bradley Jones, one of El Famoso’s descendants. He’s a fabulous young man and we’re about to embark on what I think will be a very long and very profitable partnership. Yes, you heard me correctly. So, I just wanted you to say hello to him. I wanted you to tell him exactly what the stakes are when we talk about belief and partnership and angels and devils. He still thinks it’s all something I make up for my own amusement. Speak up, you vapid little virgin. Say hello to Bradley Jones, you angel you!”
Then a voice came from the depth and darkness, and when it first vibrated into Bradley’s ears, his legs lost their strength and he went to one knee on the hard, sharp ground. It was as if he’d been struck by an invisible hand. The voice was faint but clear, louder than conversation but not a shout. There was agony in it and pleading and anger. Its surface was hoarse with disuse and silence. “Bradley Jones, do not let Mike deceive you. El Famoso was a vicious murderer, a horse thief, and no part of a gentleman. Like him, you will suffer beyond your ability to imagine suffering. Look what the world did to Joaquin, partner of the great Mike Finnegan! And to Rosa and Chappo! Save yourself and your loved ones. Nothing on earth is worth his price. God and His angels wait to embrace you. We love you more than you know.”
Mike turned and looked at Bradley again. “That’s exactly what I thought she’d say. She really does need some new material.”
Mike jammed a hand into the pack and brought out in succession a fistful of meat sticks, two bags of pork rinds, three red apples, then dropped them all back in. He pulled up a six-pack of cheap canned beer, which he dangled by its plastic binder for Bradley to see. “Odd, but these are the things she has come to enjoy. In ninety-four years it’s come down to this unhealthy, processed crapola. Except the apples. I’ve thrown her homemade bread and real butter and honey and delicious smoked fish and fresh fruits and vegetables from around the world but no, she likes pork rinds and meat sticks and budget beer. Not that she needs these things. She needs no food or water to live, just as I wouldn’t need them if I were down there. But these are treats and they taste good and you know what? She is my sworn and eternal enemy, but I do like and respect her. Look at all an angel must live without-the same as we devils. And century after century she remains feisty and tireless, though utterly without humor. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Beatrice Ann? Fore!” Mike pushed the sixer back in and zipped the cooler shut and swung it out over the mineshaft and let it go. Four seconds later Bradley heard the light whack of it glancing off rock, then another, fainter with depth.
“We had a kind of Geneva Convention years ago,” said Mike. “To get these situations under control. For a while there was much too much of this, very distracting for both sides. Now there’s a hundred-year max on agent-by-agent detention, absolutely no torture beyond the boredom, heat and cold, and the obvious challenges of hygiene. So I’ll have to get her out in six short years. In the meantime I’ve heaved dozens of blankets down there, good ones, real Pendletons with Native American symbols woven in. And bushels of meat sticks and gallons of beer, and antibacterial hand wipes by the case. Costco. I just can’t quite bring myself to hate her.”