Shaman's Blues Read online

  Still smiling, Bryan slouched low in his chair, almost liquid in his ability to fold his spine into bad posture. “Roseanne said you liked our web site.”

  “I did not.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You hated our web site. Somebody liked it. Had a lot of hits. Hope you know I did it to keep your little friends employed.”

  The dismissive reference to Kenny and Frank grated on her. “You did it to keep your own job.”

  “No—I did it for them. And for Roseanne. I like Roseanne.” Bryan’s face softened as if digressing into a fantasy, and then grew serious. “I took a risk for them. Muffie is Ruth’s creation. She really did send a lawyer after me.”

  “And everybody in your movie might do that next. You lied to us, and so did Ruth. Maybe you should think about not showing this.”

  Bryan raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw, acting the caricature of a shocked person, and then turned off the expression and pushed himself out of his slouch. “Nice talking to you.” He stood and walked to Ruth with a new energy in his previously languid legs.

  What he’d said about keeping her friends employed came back to Mae. Her real goal wasn’t to stop the movie. She needed to make sure Kenny and Frank’s jobs were safe, and that Roseanne could sign the new lease. Mae stood, hoping to press through the crowd that had gathered around the artist, and ran into Jamie, returning to their table with a new drink.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Mae took a step in Ruth’s direction. “I need to catch Ruth before Bryan warns her not to talk to me.”

  “I fucked up, didn’t I? Bringing you here.” Jamie set his beer down and sighed. “It was supposed to be fun, and it’s been ugly. Fucking miserable.”

  “No, sugar, it was a good idea. I need to talk to her. Her restaurant manager can’t get hold of her and there’s people’s jobs on the line.”

  Trying not to think about the lost look in Jamie’s eyes, Mae wedged her way through the admirers around Ruth and her sister and brother-in-law, and interrupted with an extended hand and a smile.

  Ruth regarded Mae with a puzzled frown. “I think I should know you.”

  “Bless your heart, I’m sure you do.”

  Ruth’s face registered recognition. The potential for confrontation caught up with Mae and she wondered if she could handle this. But her anger over the mockery of Kenny drove her on. “If your fans can spare you, I really need to talk to you about my role in your movie. Alone.”

  Ruth reached into the pocket of her dress, brought out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “As long as I can smoke.”

  She led Mae out the back exit into a small yard of dirt and rocks with the usual adobe wall.

  “What about the movie?” Ruth asked, lighting a cigarette and taking a long draw on it. “Don’t you dare say you want to get paid for it.”

  “No.” Mae tried to keep her voice calm. “I actually want to talk about Dada Café. What are you gonna do with the restaurant?”

  Ruth exhaled smoke and watched it break up into the sky. “When the show is over, you strike the set.”

  “So you’re closing it, then? Some of them trusted you so much they really thought you ascended.”

  Ruth cackled and coughed, pushed her glasses up, and looked at Mae. “Really? I wish Bryan had kept filming. That would have been great. We shouldn’t have cut my ascension speech. There could have been a whole second act.”

  “You missed my point. You shouldn’t show it at all. It’s gonna hurt Kenny—and then you’ll take away his job on top of that?”

  “What else should I do?” Ruth walked away from the building, knocking ash onto the ground. She stopped, turned to face Mae. “Stick around and mother him?”

  “Kenny was really vulnerable. He thinks you saved him.”

  “I know. It’s like I created a monster. I thought the staff would all be like Roseanne, put up with Muffie for the money. I wanted to see them faking it, being Dada, part of the act, but Frank seemed to believe it, and then he brings me this little drowned rat of a kid straight out of detox. Kenny. Christ, he was so needy. I just handed him the chakra book and improvised.”

  “You could have dropped the act for him and Frank. Let them in on the joke or something. Not lied to them.”

  “Why? All my crap gives them something to do besides drugs. And they found a real yoga teacher, didn’t they? If I’d blown the cover, they wouldn’t have thought the job was spiritual.” A groan stretched out the word. “And what would that have done to my movie? You’ve got to admit, they add a lot to it.”

  “All you’re thinking about is your movie. You got people who need to work and a manager who needs to renew a lease. Are you really gonna let the restaurant go, now that you’re done with your joke?”

  Ruth circled back toward the building and studied Mae. “Miss Kind and Compassionate, what do you think I should do?”

  “How rich are you?”

  “That’s a nosy question.”

  “I’m serious. Because if you’re really rich, I think you should give Roseanne the restaurant. You’ve been mean. I think you owe people.”

  “I owe people?” Ruth took another breath of smoke and blew it out, watching it float away. “If they want to be fooled, they get fooled. People get what they ask for.”

  “The people at your restaurant asked for jobs. You need to decide. Roseanne has been trying to get hold of you. She needs to know.”

  “I won’t give it to her. That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard.” Ruth paced away toward the adobe wall. “I’m surprised you didn’t want me to give it to your poor baby Kenny.”

  “He’s not a poor baby. He’s a better person than you’ll ever be. But he has no skills, and he likes that place. I want his job safe.”

  Ruth dropped her cigarette on the dirt and ground it out. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m stubborn.”

  “I need to get back to my fans, as you call them. You may not like me or my work, or you may think I’m a rich bitch, but I’m a serious artist and my satires say something that needs to be said. About fools that fall for this kind of crap.”

  Mae stood in front of the door. “I could sue you over that movie. The whole staff at the restaurant could. Everyone who signed the form can—”

  “You wouldn’t win.” Ruth folded her arms and stared. Mae didn’t move. She had to act as if she thought she could win. Ruth let out a sharp sigh. “I’ll sell it to her.”

  “Cheap. She’s not rich.”

  “For whatever she offers. Now excuse me.”

  Ruth put a hand on the door handle, but Mae held her ground. She wasn’t sure Ruth would do what she said. How could she be sure Ruth’s word was good? “I could go tell Alan Pacheco about Frank and Kenny. Ruin your review.”

  “You want me to sell cheap to Roseanne. I said I’d do it—”

  “Call her now, while I can listen, and I won’t tell him.”

  With a hiss between her teeth, Ruth shoved the cigarettes back in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. Mae leaned against the door and alternately took her weight off one sore leg and then the other while she listened to Ruth’s side of the conversation.

  As Ruth explained her deception, Mae tried to imagine the irritable Roseanne’s reaction. She wouldn’t take it well. Apparently she didn’t. The negotiation took what felt like an hour, and Mae wished she had dressed for sitting on the ground.

  Once she finally heard the price named, and heard Ruth’s assurance that she would have her lawyer contact Roseanne in the morning, Mae trusted it was done. Ruth dropped her phone in her pocket and glared at Mae.

  “You can use your psychic powers to check up on me, I suppose. Make sure I lose plenty of money on that deal.” She put on Muffie’s voice to finish. “So that I burn off the karma that’s clogging the arteries of my spiritual heart. My anahata chakra has atherosclerosis!”

  Mae stepped aside and Ruth swung open the door to return to the near empty thea
ter.

  Mission accomplished. One mission. Before following the artist inside, Mae started to pick up the cigarette butt for psychic access to Ruth—nasty, but useful—and then realized she didn’t have to. She still had the Sanchez and Smyth catalog.

  Ready to leave, Mae looked for Jamie. He wasn’t in the theater. She hurried out to the gallery. On the serving table a nearly empty pitcher of margaritas stood by a row of empty beer bottles and picked-clean food platters. Jamie leaned against the wall, telling the bartender a joke. “Eros and Thanatos walk into a bar, and the bartender says, ‘Oh God, don’t you just love it to death?’”

  The bartender frowned, and then chuckled when he got it. Picking up a margarita, Jamie snort-laughed, slurped at the drink, and spilled a splash on the white tablecloth. “Fuck. I’m off my face.” He looked at Mae, unfocused. “Sorry. No idea I’d do this.”

  Drunk. He was staggering, word-slurring drunk.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A wave of anger, frustration, and guilt washed through Mae. She had left Jamie alone for a long time on what he thought was a date. But it wasn’t one, and he knew her issue with Ruth, and how urgent it had been to talk to her. Yes, the show had bothered him, in more ways than one, but this was no way to handle it. Was he drowning the loss of his gift? He’d seemed happy about it, then unhappy, and had started hunting for a beer when his mood shifted.

  “You shouldn’t have given him so much,” she said to the bartender. He muttered something about paying guests and began to clean up his station. Mae took the margarita glass out of Jamie’s hand, set it down and started for the door. “Let’s go, sugar.”

  Jamie lurched off the wall and followed her. “Never drink tequila.” He managed to step ahead to open the door for her, and hung onto it. “Bad idea.”

  “Is that advice or your story?”

  “Both. Jeezus, why did I do that? ”

  “I wish I knew. I kinda want to smack you upside the head. I won’t, but I’m none too happy with you.”

  As they crossed the graveled lot in the dark, Jamie stumbled on the uneven surface. Mae caught his arm and steadied him. Then he slipped and lost his balance so completely that she almost went down with him, and had to let him go. He landed prone, barely stopping his face from hitting the stones.

  “Fuck. Apricots.” He sat back on his heels and held up his hands. They were covered in smashed fruit pulp. “I slipped in apricots.” He sounded so amazed and offended, as if fruit shouldn’t turn against him like that, that Mae lost a little of her anger to the urge to laugh. Wiping his hands on his pants, Jamie immediately put them back in the apricots in his attempt to right himself. “Jesus.” He looked down at himself, and then held onto the apricot tree to get to his feet. “They’re all over my pants.”

  “As long as there’s none on your ass when you sit in my car.” Mae checked him from behind. What a skinny little ass. “Good to go.”

  “Sorry. Really sorry.” Falling back against the tree, he looked at her, breathing hard. The comedy was over. “Fuck. I feel like crap.”

  “Sick? Panic?”

  He wiped the smashed fruit off his hands onto his pants again. “Dunno. Just ... crap.”

  “I’ll take you home. Come on. We have to get some things from your van, and then I’ll drop you at your place.”

  “No. You can’t.” He took her arm for balance, and they walked to her car. He leaned against it while Mae pulled as much of the apricot mess off his pants as she could. He still seemed to be breathing wrong. Could he be having a panic attack even though he was drunk?

  “I’ll walk,” Jamie said.

  “Your hip needs a rest.”

  “Nah. Feeling no pain.” He pushed himself off the car and wobbled in place. “I’ll walk.”

  “You haven’t done a real good job of that so far.” Mae guided him into the passenger seat, relieved when he didn’t protest further, and went around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and started her car. “I hope you can stay awake while I drive. I don’t think I could wake you up if you passed out in my car.”

  “Just fell down. I’m wide awake.” He presented this as if it were a logical sequence.

  On the drive to Delgado Street, a short trip the length of Canyon Road, she made an effort to keep Jamie both alert and calm by talking. “Where do you live?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “You keep saying that, but you’re in my car, and I’m gonna drive you.”

  Rolling down the window, Jamie sang a few lines of the Four Seasons’ song Walk Like a Man, complete with Frankie Valle falsetto. “That hurt.” He leaned his head out the window, supporting it on his hand. “Fuck. Are we there yet?”

  “You sick?”

  “Dunno. Feel like crap. Jesus, I fucked up. Lost everything for bloody fucking nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Running his hand through his hair, coming fully back into the car, he began to fidget with strange urgency. “Sorry. Just shoot me.”

  “Breathe slow, sugar. Take it easy.”

  Jamie continued to squirm, and she sped up a little over the speed limit, hoping he didn’t either panic or puke. She didn’t know which was coming, and he didn’t seem to know either.

  She pulled in beside the van, and Jamie let himself out. He stood swaying, and then reached in his pocket and started for the driver’s door. Alarmed, Mae grabbed his hand and took the keys from him. “You are not driving. What in the world are you thinking?”

  He beat a fist softly on the van’s door. “I need stuff.”

  She remembered he had some kind of jerry-rigged wire fastening the inside of the van’s back gate because the latch was broken. He needed his backpack. Or had he left his toothbrush in her house? He’d only come out with the water bottle. Still, he needed his other personal-care things, and she would have to go in and get him his toothbrush. No, he probably had three at home, he was so neurotic about his teeth. Mae walked to the passenger door, unlocked the van, stepped in and started to clamber into the back. “I’ll get your stuff.”

  “No.” Jamie still leaned on the van, thumping it weakly. “I have to ... Don’t ... don’t watch. Let me go.”

  Sitting and leaning across the seats, she unlocked the driver’s door and gave it a little nudge. Jamie nearly fell, but grabbed the handle and opened it.

  “You’re not making any sense, sugar. What do you need in here? Let’s get it so I can take you home.”

  His huge black eyes stared at her, lost, a fear heavier and sadder than his usual panic seeming to well up and drown him. He climbed in and stumbled to the back of the van, reached into the paper bag and pulled out a knit hat and a heavy flannel shirt. “Go. This is our fucking goodbye. Go.”

  It was. Mae’s heart sank. She was leaving in the morning. They had to have their goodbye tonight, and he was a wreck, the goodbye a disaster. The depth of their friendship suddenly hit her, like one of those unexpected waves at the beach that washed up high and hard. He mattered to her. “I have to get your keys to you. I can leave them in the garden—”

  “Leave!” he shouted. “Fuck. Leave me alone.”

  Mae had never heard Jamie raise his voice like that, no matter how temperamental he’d been, and it struck her like a slap. Why was he yelling at her? Even if he was drunk and couldn’t be expected to make sense, it still hurt.

  She climbed out of the van and stood a few feet from it while Jamie staggered further into the cargo compartment and struggled with the wires on the back latch. The door shook, but he couldn’t get it undone. Finally he emerged from the driver’s door, not looking her way, seeming to think she had gone. With his hair stuffed under the knit cap and wearing the big thick shirt, he didn’t look like Jamie anymore. He had his backpack on, and carried the sleeping bag, which he tossed out ahead of him. Then he eased himself to the ground without quite falling, picked up the bag, and shoved the door shut.

  For a moment Mae stood paralyzed as Jamie started toward the alley. S
he’d dug up all the wrong secrets. Solved all the wrong problems. He’d been hiding this.

  Torn between protecting his pride and fearing what he might do, drunk and angry—he’d been drunk when he stabbed himself—she waited, and then followed at a distance as Jamie turned onto Delgado from the alley and tripped on the curb.

  “Fuck.” Dropping his sleeping bag, he landed on his hands and knees. He crawled to sit on the bag, head in his hands. Mae ran to him, knelt beside him. He shook with a fragile, unreal laughter edging on tears. “I walked into a fucking hole.”

  “There’s no hole, sugar. It was just the sidewalk.”

  “There is.” He rolled up in a ball, arms around his shins. “I fell in a hole.”

  “Come on, sugar.” She took one of his hands, tugging him out of his protective huddle. It wasn’t hard. He was easy to lead when drunk, verbally stubborn but physically malleable. Helping him to his feet, Mae picked up his sleeping bag and slipped her free arm around his waist, under the oversized shirt to get a better grip. He was hot and sweaty. Not a good sign. “Better come in. I don’t think you should be on your own tonight.”

  “You shouldn’t bring me in,” he said, once they were inside.

  She took his knit hat off him and helped him out of the flannel shirt. “Why?”

  He stared around the room, shivered. “I’m a mentally ill homeless person.”

  There was something almost funny, yet painfully sad, in the way he said it. How had it sounded to him when she spoke of Dusty that way? “I’ve had you in here plenty already. You’re my friend. Of course I should bring you in.”

  He looked into her eyes, then away. “No. Because now you know.”

  “I’m still your friend.”

  “But you know.” He swayed, seemed to watch a slow thought cross his mind. “Fuck. I didn’t e-mail the oldies.”

  “I don’t think you’ll make much sense if you e-mail them now. Wait ’til you’re sober.”

  “No, I have to. Every day.” Leaning against the wall. “They’ll worry.”

  “They don’t know you have nowhere to sleep, do they?”