Celilo's Shadow Page 6

  Undeterred, Potter withdrew his hand and asked, “And you are?”

  When several seconds passed and it became obvious Danny wouldn’t respond, Reba said, “My son.”

  Potter eyed Danny with new enthusiasm. “So, you’re Danny. Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  “I have nothing to say to you—or any reporter.”

  “Now, son, as I explained to your mother here, I’m prepared to write up your side of the dam issue for publication in our newspaper.” He offered one of his crooked-tooth smiles. “Be mighty good publicity for you folks. And I must say, you’re in need of some good publicity right about now.”

  Danny’s dark eyes narrowed to mere slits. “First of all, I’m not your son. And second, there’s no way your newspaper is going to publish anything about our cause. Except to discredit us.”

  Potter held his right palm in the air as if taking an oath. “I swear to you. If you let me interview you, I’ll print every word you say about why your people are opposed to the dam. Trust me.”

  Danny snorted. “Trust!” Here’s what I know about trust: a hundred years ago, your government signed a treaty giving us fishing rights here. Forever. But they conveniently ignored that pledge and began building a dam across the river. It will flood the falls out of existence when it’s completed and then it’s good-by fishing rights.”

  Potter shrugged. “We need the water for power. Electricity, you know. It’s called progress.”

  “It’s called betrayal.”

  “That’s a harsh word.”

  “But accurate. Maybe you’re right, though. Do you like inconsistent better?”

  Potter jotted some notes on his pad and then said, “You’re losing me, pal.”

  “For the record, I’m not your pal, buddy, or friend. You claim you want to report why our people are opposed to the dam. Fine. Let me spell out the facts so even you can understand: your country, the good ol’ U. S. of A., sets itself up as a model of democracy. It spends billions of dollars to help other nations, nations they owe no obligation to, while a people—whose country they seized by force of arms, incidentally—are not only refused help but have the very treaty obligating the help overturned.”

  Danny’s speech brought an approving smile to Reba’s lips, but Potter was not impressed. “Wait a minute, here!” he said, waving his notebook. “Wait just a doggone minute. The government has offered help to your people, and your chief refused. The Warm Springs are going to get over four thousand dollars, the Umatillas a like amount. Why, I happen to know for a fact that the Nez Perce tribe will get almost three million dollars. That sounds like mighty good help to me.”

  “Chief Thompson refuses to sign our salmon away for money.”

  “Well, there you go,” Potter said. “Let’s talk about the rescue attempt for a moment. I understand you were on Chief’s Island when the accident happened.”

  “Mother, I believe that fire is out now. Let’s take our supper and go home.” To Potter he said, “Don’t forget your shoes when you leave. Our people could make effective use of fine leather like that.”

  “Huh?”

  Danny smiled without warmth. “You know, to craft a pouch to hold all that money the government has promised us.”

  “Damn savages,” Potter muttered as Reba and Danny left. “I knew this stupid assignment wasn’t going to work.” Bending over with some difficulty, he picked up his shoes and rubbed the dust off with his sweat-stained handkerchief, “Hold their money, indeed!”

  Chapter Five

  “I’m telling you, kid, selling houses is as easy as farting. Alls you gotta do is point the client in the right direction and let ‘er rip.”

  Nick laughed before he realized Tony wasn’t cracking a joke.

  “I’m serious as a heart attack,” Tony said, elbowing his cousin. “Pay attention to what I say and do and you’ll learn a lesson you can take straight to the bank every time.”

  “Got it,” Nick said quickly. “Watch and learn.”

  When Uncle Sol sent Nick to The Dalles he’d ordered Tony to show his cousin the ropes. “Learn him something useful,” their uncle had said, “something that counts.” At Nick’s age, Tony had already figured out what it took to succeed and went after it. Claiming this gangly no-nothing as kin was an embarrassment. But he had to give the guy credit. Nick was eager—and if anyone could teach him a thing or two about sales, it was Tony Rossi. He’d been a top used car salesman in Portland when Uncle Sol tapped him to run the branch office of his realty business. He could sell warts off a bullfrog and the two years that he’d been selling homes in The Dalles proved it.

  Rossi Realty had originally housed a one-man law firm specializing in estate planning before Tony’s uncle leased the space. The facility came furnished with desks, office equipment, fully stocked supply room, and a spacious reception area for clients. All items of significant value—oil paintings, Persian rugs, leather furniture, and Tiffany chandelier and lamps—had been confiscated when the lawyer was arrested for bilking several of his elderly clients out of their life savings. The scandalous circumstances surrounding the lawyer’s downfall had adversely affected the owner’s ability to attract a new tenant. The property had been languishing on the market for several months when Uncle Sol—always one to spot an opportunity—approached the owner. Despite negotiating a drastic below market rate for the lease, Uncle Sol refused Tony’s pleas to duplicate the lawyer’s opulent décor. “You’re supposed to sell houses,” he snapped, “not impress people with a goddamn fancy office.” As a result, Rossi Realty had a strictly utilitarian look.

  The temperature had reached 98 degrees earlier in the day and the office still felt like a pressure cooker when Tony and Nick walked in at five o’clock. The realty’s part-time salesmen—Hoffman and Jensen—were nowhere in sight but Mildred was still on duty. She wasn’t much of a secretary. Her typing was of the hunt and peck variety and her shorthand was even worse. She never talked about her personal life, but it was common knowledge that her former husband was a mean drunk who’d used her as a punching bag for years. Tony figured there was more to her story but he wasn’t interested in her dirty linen and never asked. “I gave her more than a job,” Tony had told Nick when he asked why he’d hired her. When her husband’s booze-damaged liver finally did him in, Mildred’s self-esteem was as non-existent as her bank account. “I gave her a second chance at life and, believe me, that kind of gratitude is worth ten times more than what crackerjack typing and shorthand will ever get you.”

  Mildred had dimmed the overhead lights and drawn the shades in a futile attempt to cool things off. Tony paused at the door to loosen his tie and starched collar. He’d already shed his suit jacket and would’ve done the same with his sweat-drenched shirt if he had another shirt handy. The summer was just beginning and it was already too hot for comfort. Tony decided it was time he stashed a change of clothes at the office. Despite the stifling heat, he whistled a cheerful tune, doffed his Stetson and sent it sailing across the room where it made a perfect landing on the top peg of the coat rack. “Tony scores again,” he said. “How’re you doin’ Miss Millie?”

  She looked like a wilted dandelion but Mildred never complained. She slipped a protective cover on her Remington typewriter and beamed at Tony. “Good, boss. Really good.”

  “You’re a trooper,” he said. “Where’re Hoffman and Jensen?” The two part-time salesmen were hardly ever around. They took the term part-time to mean as little work as possible.

  “Knocked off early. Too hot, they said.”

  “Ha! When it’s hot, I get hotter. Ain’t that right, cousin?”

  “Absolutely,” said Nick.

  Tony took a folder from his briefcase and slid it across Mi
ldred’s desk. “Here, Millie, take a gander at this.”

  She opened the folder and scanned the sales agreement tucked inside. “No wonder you’re in such a great mood. That wraps up the Dry Hollow sub-division, doesn’t it?”

  Tony sat down in his desk chair, leaned back and stretched. “Yep,” he said. “It’s all sold out.”

  “Who’s the buyer?”

  “Same as Hillcrest. A government man like Sam Matthews. Typical dam workers, the both of ‘em. All muscles and no brains.”

  “Well,” said Mildred, “this calls for a celebration.” She opened her desk drawer and retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels and two whiskey glasses. She poured healthy shots into both glasses. When Nick reached for a glass, she snatched it away. “Hold it, buster. You’re a little young for the hard stuff.”

  “Aw, Millie,” Tony said. “Give the guy a break. It’s been a long and stinkin’ hot day.”

  She rummaged around in her desk and found another glass which she filled for Nick. “To Dry Hollow and Hillcrest,” she said.

  Tony lifted his glass. “To the U. S. Government. My favorite cash cow.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mildred said.

  Nick saluted Tony. “To the master salesman.”

  A moment or two of silent drinking passed until Tony rubbed his finger along the rim of his glass. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Uh, oh, Nick,” Mildred teased. “Sounds like trouble’s coming our way.”

  “Can it, will ya?” Tony said, tossing her a sharp look. “I’m thinking we should get a little gift for Matthews and his daughter. You know, sort of a thank-you for buying the Cherry Blossom house. For wrapping up Hillcrest.”

  Mildred’s frizzy eyebrows shot up. “That’d be a first.”

  “So, what? I’m not talking big bucks here. Besides, we can put it on the expense account.”

  “What about Dry Hollow? You want a gift for that buyer, too?”

  “Naw,” he said. “Just Matthews and his daughter.”

  Mildred looked a little befuddled but, as Tony expected, she said that whatever he wanted was fine by her. The surprisingly perceptive smirk on Nick’s face, though, gave him pause. “On second thought,” Tony said, backtracking quickly, “let’s get something for both families.”

  “Your uncle is going to love that.”

  “Who the hell cares?” Tony growled. He gulped down his drink and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Speaking of Uncle Sol, he called while you were out. Twice.”

  “Like I said, who cares?”

  “Okay, but he wants you to call him.” She dipped a shoulder at Nick who had finished his drink and was idly flipping through the pages of a magazine. “Maybe he wants to check up on young cousin here.”

  “Then let him call young cousin,” Tony said. “Any other calls?”

  Mildred handed him a thick stack of pink message slips and a sealed envelope. “The envelope is from Sheriff Pritchard. The money he got back from the Indian the other day is inside. The messages you can see for yourself.”

  “It’s about time Pritchard returned my dough,” Tony said. He tossed the envelope to Nick and told him to count the cash. Noting his cousin’s questioning look, he added, “I don’t care if he is sheriff. I don’t trust that loser.” Tony quickly thumbed through a few of the messages before pushing the stack aside, scattering the notes across his desk and onto the floor. “Anything in all this mess that’s important?”

  “Your sweetie, Clarice, called four times. Says if you don’t call her back she’s going to parade down Front Street in the nude until you do.”

  “Ha! That’d be a sight. Better not call her.”

  “You’ll have to deal with her sooner or later, boss. Her hubby’s been sniffing around the office quite a bit lately.” It was no secret that Mildred didn’t like Clarice, but Tony dismissed her concerns as simple jealousy. He knew she was right, though, about Clarice’s husband.

  “Yeah, I hear ya,” Tony said, eying his empty shot glass. “He’s one man I need on my side right now.” Noticing that Nick had finished counting the cash, he reached across the desk and grabbed the envelope from him. “All there?”

  “Yep.”

  Tony tucked the envelope in his back pocket. “Here’s another lesson for you, kid: don’t be screwing your banker’s wife when you’ve got an important deal cooking.”

  Nick sat upright in his chair. “I understand,” he said, assuming a sober and attentive look. “No screwing.”

  “Jesus, lighten up. I was only joking.” He turned to Mildred. “Forget Uncle Sol and Clarice. Did I get any calls of import?”

  “Just Stan Feldman. He wants to meet with you later today about the bluff property.”

  Tony slammed his fist onto the desk. “Damn it all, woman! Why’d you wait so long to tell me?”

  Mildred flinched as if he’d struck her. “Sorry, boss,” she said, hanging her head. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it don’t,” Tony said. He believed her apology was genuine. After all, she lived to please him and the fact that she’d upset him couldn’t help but distress her greatly. He reined in his anger and spoke in a gentler, conciliatory tone, “Why don’t you head on out now,” he said. “Nick and I will lock up.”

  “Thanks,” she said, offering him a grateful smile. She pointed to the half empty whiskey bottle. “Do you want me to leave this out for you?”

  “Yeah. Probably be here a while.” He paused with his hand on the telephone receiver. “Millie?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Be sure and get those welcome gifts that we talked about.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Tony rubbed his chin a moment. “Hell, I don’t know. Something nice. He shot a quick glance at Nick. “Something nice for both families. You can start with the Matthews girl.”

  “O-kaa-y” Mildred drawled. “What can you tell me about her? How old is she? Any hobbies or special interests?”

  “Come on,” he snapped. “It’s not all that complicated. She’s just a teenage girl.”

  Mildred looked at Nick. “Then maybe you should pick out a gift for her.”

  “M-m-me?” he stuttered.

  “Why not? You’re a teenager. You’d know what the kids like these days better than I would.”

  “Look,” Tony said. “Forget I even mentioned it. Just forget the whole damned thing.”

  ***

  The meeting with Stan Feldman was set for eight o’clock that evening at the Carlton Hotel. Built in 1921 as a get-away spot for Portland’s country club set, the hotel was located twenty-five miles west of The Dalles on a high cliff overlooking the Columbia River. The hotel offered luxurious accommodations, exquisite dining, and a spectacular setting, but it was the Carlton’s reputation for privacy that made it a favorite spot for sensitive business dealings. Tony had reluctantly agreed to let Nick sit in on the meeting. “You’ll need to keep your trap shut. Feldman’s a real prick but I know exactly how to handle him and I don’t want you getting in my way.”

  “Sure thing, Tony.”

  “Tonight, you’ll see what the art of finessing a deal is all about.”

  The ornate décor inside the hotel lobby oozed money—from the fine leather furniture and black marble flooring to the brilliant crystal chandelier overhead. When Nick paused to look around, Tony cuffed him on the shoulder. “Stop gawking like a damn rube, will ya? You’re embarrassing me.”

  Since they had time before Feldman showed up, Tony decided they should get some dinner. “Try to act like you belong here,”
he cautioned before entering the dining room. A tall, elegant blonde hostess ushered them to a corner booth. When she leaned over to hand them the menus, her ample breasts strained the flimsy fabric of her low-cut gown. Nick averted his eyes but Tony leered openly. “Dining at the Carlton is a true feast,” he said, winking.

  “Bon appetite,” she purred.

  Tony sighed as he watched her walk away, hips swaying suggestively. But the woman’s overt sexuality didn’t stir him half as much as Ellie Matthews’ coltish come-ons. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, even when he was with Clarice.

  “What’re you going to order?” asked Nick, scanning the menu.

  His cousin had barely registered the hostess. What seventeen-year-old guy doesn’t notice tits and an ass like hers? Their uncle had it all wrong. Tony should be teaching Nick how to seduce a woman. Now that’s salesmanship the kid could really use. “Jesus, who cares what we eat? It’s all good.”

  Later, after their drinks had been ordered, Nick asked whether Stan Feldman was a client of Tony’s.

  Tony snorted. “More the other way around.”

  “You’re buying property from him?”

  Tony nodded. “The Baker Bluff deal’s been cooking for months and I think it’s finally going to go through.” He shifted in the booth to cross his legs. “But we still have a few kinks to work out.”

  “So that’s why he wanted the meeting tonight? To work out the kinks?”

  Tony eyed Nick over the menu. “What’s with all the questions?”

  Nick shrugged his bony shoulders. “I’m interested, that’s all.”

  Tony tossed the menu aside as their drinks arrived. “Fine, but don’t go asking a lot of questions when Feldman gets here. Him and me still have some talking to do. The deal ain’t over yet.”