The Serpent's Bite (2 page)

It seemed obvious to Courtney that he was disturbed, angry, and deeply depressed about the situation in general, adding to her suspicion that things were not going well for Harry. He was a long way from the Harry of twenty years ago. This man was obviously suffering, perhaps facing the end of his career and way of life. He was definitely not the strong, confident, rugged figure she remembered.

“Not to worry,” he said, perking up, transparently trying to restore confidence and allay fear. “I'll bring you back safe and sound and give you the best damned adventure of your lifetime.” He turned to Courtney's father. “Just like last time. Right, Temple?”

“That's what I'm hoping,” her father said, nodding and offering a tight smile. It could not mask his concern.

“What do we do if one…you know…say a wolf or a grizzly pays us a visit?” Courtney asked. She felt genuinely frightened, remembering the famous story by Jack London about fending off wolves.

“Wolf doesn't go after humans.”

“And grizzlies?”

“Hell, you remember your grizzly lesson,” Harry chuckled. “Just don't get in his space. If you do, don't run. Assume the fetal position and play dead, and don't look the big bastard in
the eye or threaten him in any way. And above all, don't go near the cubs if it's a female. And remember, he's a foodie and needs lots of protein to feed his bulk.”

“Just lay there?” she asked. “And if that doesn't work?”

“Just pee in your pants,” Scott said.

“Is this trip necessary?” Courtney asked with humorous sarcasm.

“Haven't lost anyone yet,” Harry laughed, continuing. “Hell, we're here for adventure. Maybe I advertised the dangers too hard.”

“Adventure, yes,” Scott said. “But I wasn't planning an early demise.” He winked at Courtney. “Not just yet.”

“Not on my agenda either,” their father said with a chuckle.

“Looks like I made it sound worse than it is. Just remember, you're in my care. And if any of those big bastards start something funny, I'm fully armed and loaded and can take down one of ‘em in a couple of well-placed shots. You're under my care and protection. I've got more than thirty-five years of outfitting under my belt. My job is to bring you back safe, healthy, and happy and give you an experience to make conversation for years. Right, Temple? Did I deliver before?” He was getting repetitive.

“Sure did, Harry. And here we are back at the old cigar stand. It's been on my memory reel for two decades,” Temple said. “I'm looking for at least another couple of decades to tell the story. Fodder for my dotage.” He was cautious about talking about age now.

“I could do without the grizzlies,” Courtney said, forcing herself to maintain the light tone. “And I'll take your word for it about the wolves.”

“Actually I'd like to see at least one of both,” Scott said.

“If I have to, I'll hire ‘em,” Harry replied, obviously hoping this banter would bond them closer. “Actually I can guarantee you won't be disappointed.”

“Thanks a lot,” Courtney murmured.

“You're as safe with me as a baby in a cradle,” Harry said. Observing him, a faded version of his old self, did not give her much confidence. An image of old homeless drunks that infested Santa Monica popped into her mind.

She wondered how many times he had gone over the same ground with others, whetting their expectations with projections of danger. All part of the show. He was simply manipulating one's expectation in pure Hollywood fashion. As for her and her brother, adventure was hardly the reason for their participation. In stark terms, for them it was all about money.

“We're going over trails that are the furthest point from a road in the continental United States. And that includes logging roads,” Harry added, embellishing the expectation further.

Occasionally Courtney's mind drifted as she stole clandestine glances at her father and brother. She had almost given up hope that sentiment and nostalgia would one day force her father into a reconciliation mode.

From his friendly and affectionate attitude, she was encouraged to believe that he might again be willing to reverse course and restore his earlier generosity in financing his darling daughter's great dream of celebrity and stardom. As for the inheritance, she would find subtle ways to press him toward revelation. Was it still in effect as once revealed? A two-way split?

Her brother was another matter. She hoped that his weakness and his often-wobbly conscience would not gum up the works.

On the drive to the trailhead, following the two big horse trailers in one of their rented cars, with Scott driving, her father beside him, and Courtney in the rear seat, they maintained a protocol of polite chitchat as if they had made a pact with each other to hold back intimacy until they grew more comfortable with their new proximity. Once on the journey, thrown together for hours at a time in the vastness of the wilderness, there would be no way to avoid conversation and, hopefully, intimate exchanges, a prospect she viewed with both anxiety and optimism. Opportunity knocks, she assured herself, and despite all hardships, she was determined to take full advantage of it.

She noted that her father carried a digital camera on a leather strap that hung on his shoulder, which surprised her. Apparently in the four years since she had seen him, he had become familiar with computers. Noting the camera, it brought back memories of the many slides he had taken of their last trek, which he often showed to visiting friends on their old carousel projector. It was always a highly detailed showing, a soup-to-nuts portrayal of what became the family's quintessential great once-in-a-lifetime adventure.

Both at home and in his jewelry salon in Manhattan's diamond center on Forty-seventh Street, he had blown up pictures of the trip, one of all four of them side by side on their horses, with the jagged peaks of the Absaroka Mountains in the background. The pictures graced one of the walls of the jewelry salon and served as a conversation piece for customers, especially those very rich ones who kept and rode horses. In their spacious Riverside Drive apartment, she recalled
one picture prominently hung that showed them around the campfire, arms around each other, smiling at the camera as if, indeed, this was their happiest family moment. It might have been. Certainly their father thought it was. For her and Scott it was a lot more.

Noting the way her father had greeted them both, she grew even more hopeful that something momentous and wished-for would happen between them, a regeneration of parent-child dynamic, resulting in the genuinely copious gesture of generosity. Show me the money, she begged silently. For her this meant the longed-for freedom from financial stress, her principal objective. She was determined to focus all her energies and persuasive powers on that one goal. Be wary of any high hopes, she cautioned herself, having learned the primary lesson of an actor's audition: expectations that were too high often made for deepest disappointment.

Leading the mules and following behind Harry, riding a black horse, was Tomas, a runty deeply tanned bony-faced Mexican of clearly Indian extraction, with a surly look and a rare, joyless smile that displayed three gold-toothed front dentures. His features, shaded by a large, curly brimmed, sweat-stained cowboy hat, seemed expressionless, although his dark eyes betrayed a feral alertness that struck her as a studied attempt to appear deferential. He wore a dirty red bandana knotted around his neck and fancy worn snakeskin cowboy boots. His jeans featured a large shiny silver belt buckle embossed with crossed six shooters. She figured it was his own Mexican version of a movie cowboy.

At the trailhead as they unloaded, Harry had introduced Tomas to them as the cook, wrangler, and jack-of-all-trades.
Tomas acknowledged the introduction with a tiny indifferent nod.

“Knows his business. Right, amigo?” Harry said, nodding toward Tomas.

“Si
, Señor Harry,” the Mexican muttered.

“Only one helper?” their father asked, his expression skeptical. “Last time there were three. I think we talked about this. We had agreed on two.”

“Hell, this little Mex can do the work of three,” Harry said, brushing off the accusation. “Wait'll you taste his grub.”

“But I thought …,” their father began, politely protesting. “We talked of two people helping. Wasn't that part of the deal?”

He was acting true to form, a perpetual questioner, detail-oriented and persistent, a man who needed to know what was behind every action. She speculated that their father was paying top dollar. A consummate businessman, he expected true value for his money.

“I know my business,” Harry said with annoyance, his eyes narrowing. “We have two less helpers than last time, Temple, because the trip is shorter.”

“I know,” their father pressed. “I thought we had covered this in our conversations. Didn't we agree on two helpers?”

“Trust me, Temple,” Harry said, visibly exasperated.

Courtney was certain that her father was telling the truth.

“What I promised was one helluva trek, and I aim to keep that promise. As for this fuckin' Mex, you'll grow to really appreciate the sumbitch. He's one smart spic. When he's not working, he reads all kinds of book shit. No kidding. Does the work of three. I swear it. You'll see that I deliver what I
promise. Besides, you came to me because I gave you one hell of an adventure a few years back, and by God, I'll do it again.”

“I'm sure you will, Harry,” their father said with some hesitation. “I just thought—” He broke off the argument, glanced at Courtney, and shrugged. “Too late” his look suggested. Harry quickly changed the subject.

“You check the weather report, Tomas?”

“Si
, Señor Harry. Weather good now. Coupla days maybe rain.”

“Nights cool, days comfortable?” Harry prompted.

“Si
, Señor Harry.”

“Still …,” her father began, again showing an attitude of polite deference, his surrender not quite complete. She remembered his persistence when an idea consumed him. “It wasn't quite what we agreed.”

Despite his persistence, she could see he was surrendering reluctantly.

“Trust me, Temple,” Harry said again, his face reddening, selling hard now. “I've been at this for more than thirty-five years.”

His résumé was getting repetitive.

“I know how many people I need to create a great wilderness experience. Believe me, this little fuckin' Mex is great. Been with me on what?…more than a dozen treks, winter and summer. Knows his stuff. Great cook. Wait'll you taste his stuff—biscuits, dumplings, corncakes. You ain't ever tasted better trout than the way he fixes it. And what that sumbitch can do with meat and potatoes! Man's a natural. Hell, he knows more ways to cook up chili than any man alive. Great wrangler, too. A lot smarter than he looks. Sumbitch obeys orders. Right, Tomas?”

“Si
, Señor Harry,” Tomas muttered without expression.

Harry lowered his voice and chuckled.

“Thinks he's the Mexican John Wayne. Right, amigo?”

“Si
, Señor Harry,” Tomas replied with a joyless laugh, as if it were part of their regular routine for the benefit of clients.

“Show him your Duke Wayne walk, Tomas,” Harry ordered the Mexican.

Tomas smiled thinly on cue and did a passable imitation of a John Wayne walk. Like a trained monkey, Courtney thought, feeling a rising level of disgust. Her father shook his head and turned away.

“Sumbitch, ain't that something?” Harry guffawed, slapping his thigh, then with a wave of his hand he signaled the Mexican. “Let's move ‘em out.”

As Tomas began to unload the horses and mules from the trailers, Harry bent closer to her father and offered a stage whisper.

“Knows on which side his bread is buttered, Temple. Works his fuckin' wetback ass off if he knows what's good for him.”

Temple shrugged, obviously offended by Harry's treatment of the Mexican, although he made no comment. It was obvious that Harry McGrath was not the sure-footed confident outfitter of two decades ago; he exuded an air of desperation.

Harry's hair had turned chalk white, he had bulked in his middle, and the once-handsome tan and burnished face was a map of prunelike wrinkles, but his cerulean eyes, like blue pools plunked in a network of red wiggly lines, seemed tired and less alert than Courtney remembered. There was a boozy effluvial mist that enveloped and moved with him like a cloud, despite
efforts to disguise it with some clove-scented mouthwash or lozenge, which only made the odor more pronounced.

Hair of the dog, Courtney thought. The guy is a drunk. She guessed he might be on the wrong side of sixty, and his desperation suggested someone far past his prime, barely hanging on. She had never forgotten his earlier admonition on that long-ago journey that his guided trek through the wilderness was “short on luxury but long on adventure,” and she was certain that the slogan continued to describe what they could expect, only more so.

His girlfriend then, the cook on their first trek, was apparently long gone from his bed and board. Courtney recalled, too, that there was another person, a blonde teenager who acted as wrangler. There was one other, a quiet skinny kid who was an all-around helper.

She speculated that this reduction in personnel was quite obviously a sign of lean times for Harry's outfitting business, which he had pretty well confirmed earlier. She recalled that her father had remarked that the first trip had to be booked a year in advance, which did not seem to be the case for the new one.

Harry had greeted them with what struck her as exaggerated enthusiasm, although she suspected that his memory of them, after more than two decades of similar treks with different people, was, at best, vague. Oddly, her own memory of that earlier trip had deepened as she forced her recall. It was, indeed, a glorious and loving time with genuine affection between parents and children and a hopeful and, as it turned out, naive optimistic outlook. There was also the other, she mused, with a brief glance at Scott.