pace up and down, impatient and anxious.
She had been famous, once, briefly. At the peak of the hippie era she lived in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. Priest had not known her then — he had spent the late sixties making his first million dollars — but he had heard the stories. She had been a striking beauty, tall and black haired with a generous hourglass figure. She had made a record, reciting poetry against a background of psychedelic music with a band called Raining Fresh Daisies. The album had been a minor hit, and Star was a celebrity for a few days.
But what turned her into a legend was her insatiable sexual promiscuity. She had had sex with anyone who briefly took her fancy: eager twelve-year-olds and surprised men in their sixties, boys who thought they were gay and girls who did not know they were lesbians, friends she had known for years and strangers off the street.
That was a long time ago. Now she was a few weeks from her fiftieth birthday, and there were streaks of gray in her hair. Her figure was still generous, though no longer like an hourglass: she weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. But she still exercised an extraordinary sexual magnetism. When she walked into a bar, men stared.
Even now, when she was worried and hot, there was a sexy flounce to the way she paced and turned beside the cheap old car, an invitation in the movement of her flesh beneath the thin cotton dress, and Priest felt the urge to grab her right there.
“What happened?” she said as soon as he was within earshot.
Priest was always upbeat. “Looking good,” he said.
“That sounds bad,” she said skeptically. She knew better than to take what he said at face value.
He told her the offer he had made to Mario. “The beauty of it is, Mario will be blamed,” he added.
“How so?”
“Think about it. He gets to Lubbock, he looks for me, I ain’t there, nor his truck, either. He figures he’s been suckered. What does he do? Is he going to make his way to Clovis and tell the company he lost their truck? I don’t think so. At best, he’d be fired. At worst, he could be accused of stealing the truck and thrown in jail. I’m betting he won’t even go to Clovis. He’ll get right back on the plane, fly to El Paso, put his wife and kids in the car, and disappear. Then the police will be sure he stole the truck. And Ricky Granger won’t even be a suspect.”
She frowned. “It’s a great plan, but will he take the bait?”
“I think he will.”
Her anxiety deepened. She slapped the dirty roof of the car with the flat of her hand. “Shit, we have to have that goddamn truck!”
He was as worried as she, but he covered it with a cocksure air. “We will,” he said. “If not this way, another way.”
She put the straw hat on her head and leaned back against the car, closing her eyes. “I wish I felt sure.”
He stroked her cheek. “You need a ride, lady?”
“Yes, please. Take me to my air-conditioned hotel room.”
“There’ll be a price to pay.”
She opened her eyes wide in pretended innocence. “Will I have to do something nasty, mister?”
He slid his hand into her cleavage. “Yeah.”
“Oh, darn,” she said, and she lifted the skirt of her dress up around her waist.
She had no underwear on.
Priest grinned and unbuttoned his Levis.
She said: “What will Mario think if he sees us?”
“He’ll be jealous,” Priest said as he entered her. They were almost the same height, and they fit together with the ease of long practice.
She kissed his mouth.
A few moments later he heard a vehicle approaching on the road. They both looked up without stopping what they were doing. It was a pickup truck with three roustabouts in the front seat. The men could see what was going on, and they whooped and hollered through the open window as they went by.
Star waved at them, calling: “Hi, guys!”
Priest laughed so hard, he came.
The crisis had entered its final, decisive phase exactly three weeks earlier.
They were sitting at the long table in the cookhouse, eating their midday meal, a spicy stew of lentils and vegetables with fresh bread warm from the oven, when Paul Beale walked in with an envelope in his hand.
Paul bottled the wine that Priest’s commune made — but he did more than that. He was their link with the outside, enabling them to deal with the world yet keep it at a distance. A bald, bearded man in a leather jacket, he had been Priest’s friend since the two of them were fourteen-year-old hoodlums, rolling drunks in L.A.’s skid row in the early sixties.
Priest guessed that Paul had received the letter that morning and had immediately got in his car and driven here from Napa. He also guessed what was in the letter, but he waited for Paul to explain.
“It’s from the Bureau of Land Management,” Paul said. “Addressed to Stella Higgins.” He handed it to Star, sitting at the foot of the table opposite Priest. Stella Higgins was her real name, the name under which she had first rented this piece of land from the Department of the Interior in the autumn of 1969.
Around the table, everyone went quiet. Even the kids shut up, sensing the atmosphere of fear and dismay.
Star ripped open the envelope and took out a single sheet. She read it with one glance. “June the seventh,” she said.
Priest said reflexively: “Five weeks and two days from now.” That kind of calculation came automatically to him.
Several people groaned in despair. A woman called Song began to cry quietly. One of Priest’s children, ten- year-old Ringo, said: “Why, Star, why?”
Priest caught the eye of Melanie, the newest arrival. She was a tall, thin woman, twenty-eight years old, with striking good looks: pale skin, long hair the color of paprika, and the body of a model. Her five-year-old son, Dusty, sat beside her. “What?” Melanie said in a shocked voice. “What is this?”
Everyone else had known this was coming, but it was too depressing to talk about, and they had not told Melanie.
Priest said: “We have to leave the valley. I’m sorry, Melanie.”
Star read from the letter. “ ‘The above-named parcel of land will become dangerous for human habitation after June seventh, therefore your tenancy is hereby terminated on that date in accordance with clause nine, part B, paragraph two, of your lease.’ ”
Melanie stood up. Her white skin flushed red, and her pretty face twisted in sudden rage. “No!” she yelled. “No! They can’t do this to me — I’ve only just found you! I don’t believe it, it’s a lie.” She turned her fury on Paul. “Liar!” she screamed. “Motherfucking liar!”
Her child began to cry.
“Hey, knock it off!” Paul said indignantly. “I’m just the goddamn mailman here!”
Everyone started shouting at the same time.
Priest was beside Melanie in a couple of strides. He put his arm around her and spoke quietly into her ear. “You’re frightening Dusty,” he said. “Sit down, now. You’re right to be mad, we’re all mad as hell.”
“Tell me it isn’t true,” she said.
Priest gently pushed her into her chair. “It’s true, Melanie,” he said. “It’s true.”
When they had quieted down, Priest said: “Come on, everyone, let’s wash the dishes and get back to work.”
“Why?” said Dale. He was the winemaker. Not one of the founders, he had come here in the eighties, disillusioned with the commercial world. After Priest and Star, he was the most important person in the group. “We won’t be here for the harvest,” he went on. “We have to leave in five weeks. Why work?”
Priest fixed him with the Look, the hypnotic stare that intimidated all but the most strong-willed people. He let the room fall silent, so that they would all hear. At last he said: “Because miracles happen.”
