Centennial (3 page)

Harry Leeds broke in: “What we had in mind was the South Platte.”

“Good God!” I couldn’t help myself. The South Platte was the most miserable river in the west, a trickle in summer when its water was needed, a raging torrent in spring. It was muddy, often more island than river, and prior to the introduction of irrigation, it had never served a single useful purpose in its halting career. I couldn’t think of even one town situated on the South Platte. Yes, there was Julesburg—most evil town along the railroad—burnt by Indians in 1866 or thereabouts.

Then I remembered. “There is Denver,” I said lamely, “but if you didn’t want a major river, I’m sure you don’t want a major city. It isn’t Denver, is it?”

Miss Endermann answered my rhetorical question: “Have you ever heard of Centennial, Colorado?”

For some moments I racked my brain, and from somewhere a tag-end piece of information such as scholars earmark for possible future use surfaced. “Centennial. Am I wrong in thinking that it had another name? Didn’t they change it in 1876 ... to honor Colorado’s entrance into the Union? What was the old name? Rather well known in early chronicles, seems to me. Was it Zendt’s Farm?”

“It was,” Miss Endermann said.

“You know, I can’t recall a single fact about Zendt’s Farm. Gentlemen, I am not well versed in your chosen subject. Sorry.”

I assumed that this was the end of the interview, but I assumed wrong. “It’s for that reason we want you,” Ringold said. “Listening to your non-faked reactions to a town you never heard of and a river you despise convinces me that you’re precisely the man we want. The job’s yours if you want it, and we’re damned lucky to find you.”

With that he ushered us from his office, instructing Harry Leeds to go over details with me and bring the crowd to Toots Shor’s for lunch at twelve sharp. “We’ll discuss money then,” he said, “but so far as I’m concerned, you’re hired, unless your fee is unspeakable.”

Four of us went to Harry Leeds’ office, where gigantic photographic blowups of George Catlin’s paintings of Indians adorned the walls. “My tipi,” he said.

We discussed how I would work. I would drive to Centennial as soon as my classes ended, establish contacts with the Denver Public Library, which was some fifty miles away, introduce myself to the faculties at Greeley, Fort Collins and Boulder, and prepare research reports on what had actually happened at Centennial during its history, which had started only in 1844 with the arrival of Zendt and one of the mountain men.

“I might want to go further back,” I suggested

“The Spanish never settled that far north,” Wright said, “and the French never settled that far south. Lewis and Clark ignored the Platte altogether. We can start safely with Zendt in 1844.”

I was not to bother about literary style. I was writing neither a doctoral thesis nor a novel. I was simply submitting arbitrarily selected insights as to the character and background of Centennial and its settlers, and I could depend upon the home office to polish whatever segments they might want to publish.

“And regardless of what fee you and Ringold agree upon,” Wright assured me, “we want you to purchase whatever maps, agricultural studies, reports you need—you name it.”

“We would want you to send them back at the end of the study,” Leeds said.

“How much do you expect me to write?” I asked, still not clear as to the creative relationships.

“By Christmas, a fairly complete reaction to the site.”

“Usually I spend that much time on a chapter,” I said. “There’s a hell of a lot of first-class work been done on the west by some very good men, and I’m not going to presume ...”

“Vernor,” young Wright explained patiently, “we are not hiring you to do a research study on the sugar-beet industry of the South Platte. We are hiring you as a sensitive, intelligent man, and all we want from you are some letters which share with us your understanding of what transpired at Centennial, Colorado, between the years 1844 and 1974. Just write us some letters, as if we were your friends ... your interested friends.”

The other two agreed that that was exactly what they wanted, and we went off to lunch fairly satisfied that the project would work, but at Toots Shor’s, a restaurant I had not visited before, I was to receive a series of shocks which altered the whole project.

As we entered the restaurant the proprietor, a large man, ambled over to Harry Leeds and shouted, “Hello, you miserable son-of-a-bitch, haven’t they fired you yet?”

Leeds took this in stride, and Shor turned to me, grabbing me by the collar. “Don’t let this crumbum talk you into doing his dirty work. He’s known as the literary pimp of Sixth Avenue.” With that he showed us to our table, where James Ringold was waiting.

“He’s dead drunk, already,” Shor warned me. “How this stumblebum keeps that magazine goin’, I’ll never know.” With that he departed, and Ringold asked Leeds, “All settled?”

“All settled,” Leeds said. “We couldn’t be happier, right?” He addressed this question to Wright and Endermann, and they nodded.

Then it’s simply a matter of money. Use your car and we’ll pay twelve cents a mile. We’ll pay your hotel bills, but we do not expect you to take a suite at the Brown Palace. Don’t be alarmed if board and keep run a hundred and seventy dollars a week. You can travel as required but you cannot rent airplanes, road graders or dog sleds. Under no circumstances are you ever to be out a penny of your own money, except for whorehouses. We do, however, expect itemized expense sheets, and we pay out money only when they are verified.” I was accustomed to asking Dean Rivers if I might have, thirty dollars for a new atlas. This hit me so fast that I simply could not digest the details, but I noticed that young Wright was taking note of everything. “He’ll send you a copy,” Ringold assured me.

“Now as to fee,” he said, “you’re a top professor in Georgia. You’re worth a lot of money, and I’m sure they don’t pay you according to your worth. I’m not going to haggle. We’re asking two quarters of your time, half a year’s salary. We’ll give you eighteen thousand dollars.”

I could have fainted. After I had sipped a little consommé I said something which led to my next shock. I said, “Mr. Ringold, that’s generous pay and you know it. But if you’re gambling so much on this special issue, what if I get sick? Can’t provide the manuscript?”

He looked at me in amazement. “Haven’t you told him?” he asked Leeds.

“Never occurred to me,” Leeds said, and the other two shrugged their shoulders as if it had slipped their minds too.

“Vernor,” Ringold said expansively, “we have the article already written—every word of it. Illustrations and maps are well started. We could go to press next week. All we want from you is assurance that we’re on the right track.”

This information staggered me. I was being hired to write not a polished article which would appear under my name, but merely a house report to back up something already completed, a report which might never be published and might not even be used. When the article appeared, a sleazy job at best, there would be this byline: “Prepared with the assistance of Professor Lewis Vernor, Department of History, Georgia Baptist.” I was being bought, for a good price ... but I was being bought.

The food went sour and my disappointment must have shown, for Ringold said, reassuringly, “We always work this way, Vernor. We work like demons month after month on a project ... best writers in America ... but at the end we always want someone with real brains to vet the damned thing. That’s why we stay in business—facts are important to us, but understandings are vital. We inject a very high percentage of understandings in our rag and we’re asking you to help us on our next big project.”

My vanity was destroyed and my intellectual integrity humiliated. “I think this lunch is over, gentlemen,” I said. I tried to rephrase the sentence so as to include Miss Endermann, and loused things up.

It was young Wright who faced up to the debacle. “I’m going to make a suggestion. Professor Vernor, as you must know, Mr. Ringold’s offer was most generous. I handle these things all the time and I can assure you we would not hesitate to offer Arthur Schlesinger such a deal. We made such a generous offer because we respect you. You thought you were writing an article for us. I understand your confusion. Let me suggest this. Go out to Centennial. Carol’s already cased the joint. She’ll go with you to see if you respond the way she did. We’ll pay someone to take your classes. You can leave tomorrow. Better still, leave tonight. And if you decide to join us, when your report is finished, you’ll be free to publish it under your own name—maybe as a book. Six months after our publication the property becomes yours.”

“That’s a damned good idea, Wright,” Ringold said. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. Vernor, can you fly out to Centennial this afternoon? There’s a United plane at three.”

“I’d have to ask President Rexford.”

“Get him on the phone. Toots! You got a phone there?”

For the first time in my life a waiter brought a phone to my table, curling the long black wire across my chair. In a moment I was speaking with President Rexford, but I had barely introduced myself when Ringold took the phone. “Rexford? Sure I remember you. The Baptist Committee, that’s right. We want to borrow your bright boy for one week. We’ll pay three hundred dollars for some graduate student to cover for him. Is that a deal?” There was some conversation, after which Ringold handed me the phone. “He wants to talk with you.”

“Hello, Vernor? Is the project germane to Oregon?”

“Totally. But it’s not what we thought at all. I’d just be doing legwork for background stuff.”

“Could it lead to anything substantial?”

“Yes. It’s work I would have to do later.”

“Do they pay well?”

“Very.”

“Take it. Fly out to Colorado tonight. Professor Hisken could use the three hundred dollars and we’ll forget the graduate student.”

So that afternoon at three Miss Endermann and I boarded the jet for Denver, and because of the time difference we arrived there at four. She hired a car, and while it was still light we drove north. To the west rose the noble Rockies, to the east stretched the prairies, mile upon mile of treeless land. At the end of an hour I saw the sight which had been familiar to all travelers westward, a line of scrawny, limb-broken cottonwoods.

“There’s the Platte,” I said, and we entered upon a small north-south road which took us down to the river, one of the strangest in the world. It was quite wide, several hundred yards perhaps, but most of the width was taken up with islands, sand bars, rocks and stumps of trees. Where was the water? There was a little here, some over there, but the spring floods had not yet broken loose, and it was all a stagnant muddy brown. Its principal product seemed to be gravel, endless supplies of gravel waiting to be hauled away by trucks which lined the bank.

Across the Platte lay the little town of Centennial. The sign told the whole story:

CENTENNIAL

COLORADO

Elev. 4618

Pop. 2618

When we turned right into the one-way circle that took us across the Union Pacific tracks and into town
(
See Map 01 – Centennial, Colorado 1973
)
, I heard someone shouting, “Hey! It’s Carol!” and I looked over to see a black man standing before a barbershop.

“Nate!” Carol called. “How about Mexican food tonight?”

“Like always,” he called back. “Eight?”

We pulled in behind the barbershop and parked where a sign said that if we did not intend to register at the Railway House, our car would be towed away at a cost of twenty-five dollars. The bellman who came out to greet us recognized Carol, and they too had a reunion.

“I wanted you to stay here, right by the railroad, in order to catch the old flavor,” she explained as we registered, and this was prudent judgment, because everything about the place was old: the smell, the carpets, the uniform of the bellman and my room. But it was likable. Men traveling from one Colorado town to another in times past had climbed down from the Union Pacific and lodged here, and for a historian they had left memories.

At quarter to eight I met Miss Endermann in the lobby and she took me out onto Prairie—not Prairie Street or Avenue or Boulevard. Just Prairie.

“If you’re like me,” she said, “you orient yourself properly at the start. Well, Prairie runs due north and south. The center of town is where Prairie and Mountain cross, because Mountain runs due east and west. We’ll walk there.”

We went to the intersection, and she said, “It all starts from here. West to the Rockies. East to Omaha. South to Denver. North to Cheyenne. Streets begin at the east and run by number up to Tenth Street. Avenues begin at the railroad and run north to Ninth Avenue. It’s well laid out.”

We turned east on Mountain and walked four blocks to a noisy restaurant called Flor de Méjico, and there again we were warmly greeted, this time by a robust Mexican introduced to me as Manolo Marquez. “We knew you’d be back,” he told Miss Endermann. “Tonight the best in the house, on me.”

He showed us to a table covered by a red-checkered cloth and a well-greased menu which Miss Endermann told me had been invariable for the past five years. “I hope you like Mexican food,” she said.

“It’s not common in Georgia.”

“We’ll introduce him to it, Manolo,” she cried. “Three plates, with a sample of everything. And some Coors beer.” She asked if I knew this Colorado beer, and I said no. “With Mexican food it’s sort of heaven,” she assured me.