12:31 A.M.
“Shar, are you ever gonna let me get a decent night’s sleep?”
“Just one favor, Mick. One little favor. Did you locate any material on DeCarlo Enterprises’ Spirit Lake development?”
“Yeah. It’s on your desk at the office.”
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I need you to fax it to me at my motel in Monterey. Right away.”
Sigh. “Okay, I can do that pretty quick. What’s the fax number there?”
I read it to him.
“I suppose you dragged the motel clerk out of bed to get use of their machine?”
“Not exactly. He was dozing in front of the TV.”
“Someday I’m gonna have T-shirts printed up. They’ll say ‘I was robbed of my sleep by Sharon McCone.’ I’ll sell millions, make my fortune.”
I read the curl of flimsy paper with growing shock as I sat on the bed in my motel room. My natural father had shaded the truth when it came to his current connection with my birth mother.
Shaded? Hell, he’d painted it pink and tied it up in pretty ribbons!
The information Mick had provided said that DeCarlo’s Spirit Lake project was embroiled in controversy. A group of Modoc Indians in the nearby town of Sage Rock had brought suit against the development company, claiming tribal ownership of the lake and a thousand surrounding acres, stemming from an 1860 treaty with the federal government. The Modocs considered the lake sacred, and were opposed to any form of development.
In a brief filed with the U.S. District Court, an attorney for DeCarlo Enterprises stated that the 1860 treaty was unauthorized by the government. Furthermore, the only valid treaty between the tribe and the federal authorities was negotiated in 1864, and removed the Modocs from California to a Klamath Indian reserve in Oregon.
The Indian advocate who would be arguing the case countered that the 1860 treaty had been negotiated in good faith on the part of the Modocs; the tribe should not be penalized because they believed in the federal agent’s authority to do so. Various precedents were cited, and the brief petitioned for the return of Spirit Lake and the surrounding acreage to the Modocs.
The Indian advocate was Saskia Blackhawk.
No wonder DeCarlo had hesitated when I asked if he was currently in touch with her. No wonder he’d concealed the reason he’d kept track of her. My natural father seemed as capable of deceit as my adoptive parents.
What to do? The logical course of action would be to confront Austin DeCarlo with my knowledge. Or talk with Saskia Blackhawk. Clarify the situation.
But the logical course of action doesn’t always fit with the dictates of one’s emotions. Instead, I got up, threw the few things I’d unpacked back into my travel bag, and drove straight for Hy’s ranch in Mono County.
8:27 A.M.
Hy was asleep when I looked into the master bedroom of the ranch house, but at my first step he came fully awake and primed for action, as he always did when startled—a consequence of too much dangerous living in a long-ago incarnation. When he saw me, he relaxed, grinned, and swept away the covers.
“Nice surprise, McCone. Take off your clothes and hop on in here.”
Although the sight of his long, lean body enticed me, I shook my head. “Not now. I need to talk with you.”
“If you’re turning me down, it must be serious. Give me a minute. Coffeemaker’s loaded; all you have to do is start it.”
I went to the kitchen, flipped the switch on the machine, and sat at the table. The room was pretty much as I imagined it had been when he was growing up here: black-and-white linoleum, white enameled cabinets with scalloped underpanels, yellow Formica countertops, vintage range and fridge. The table matched the counters, the chairs were tubular chrome with red plastic seats. Retro all the way, and a collectibles dealer would probably kill for the contents of the drawers and cupboards. I was glad Hy had left the house virtually unchanged, because it conveyed a sense of permanence and continuity. The world might be veering out of control, but this was a refuge that connected us to a saner past.
The coffeemaker started puffing steam. As I fetched cups, Hy came into the room wearing his bathrobe, hair wet and curly from a quick shower. He brought the carafe to me and poured, kissed me on the forehead. “Okay,” he said, “what’s this talk that can’t wait?”
“I found my birth father.”
He paused in the process of setting the carafe on the warmer, then came over and sat down. “Tell me about him.”
As I recounted what had happened since we’d last spoken, I watched his reactions. Long ago we’d discovered we were each other’s touchstones—a metallurgist’s term after which we’d named our coast property. A touchstone is a black siliceous rock used to test the purity of silver or gold; similarly, we used each other to test the validity of our responses to people and situations. Neither of us had ever failed the other, and I could tell from his expression that he was now validating my reactions to Austin and the current problem—save one.
“You can’t run away,” he told me.
“I know, but I’m on such overload.”
“You’re on overload because you still don’t know everything. You need to get the whole story.”
“You mean talk with my… mother.”
He nodded.
“And then?”
“Take it where it leads you.”
6:37 P.M.
Hy had suggested I fly the Cessna from Tufa Lake to Boise; he had a meeting in San Francisco the next day, and could drive down in my car. I agreed to taking the plane, but I wanted to put in some time at the office and pick up clean clothes, so after catching a few hours’ sleep, I flew to Oakland and drove into the city in the old car Hy kept garaged near North Field.
When I got to Pier 24½, Ted was still at his desk, looking very much the capable administrator in spite of his wild Hawaiian shirt—a new fashion statement for a man who, as long as I’d known him, had favored elegant vests or jackets with his jeans. Today he seemed tired, but it was a good weariness, reflecting a day of challenges well met; he thrived on being in charge.
“Maybe it’s time I promoted you,” I said from the door of his office.
He started and looked up. “Shar, you’re back! Promoted me to what?”
I went inside, removed a stack of books from a bar stool that had inexplicably appeared there a few weeks ago, and sat down. This was as good a time as any to discuss some upcoming changes at the pier.
“I don’t have a title in mind,” I said. “Grand Pooh-Bah? How does that sound?”
“I like it. But what does a Grand Pooh-Bah do?”
“Runs the place when I’m not around. I’m getting stale; I need to be out in the field more.”
“Fine by me, but won’t that be stepping on Rae’s toes? You’ve always put her in charge.”
“She’s quitting to work on her novel.”
“Ah, the infamous manuscript that she won’t even discuss with Ricky. Well, I wish her luck. But what about my work for Altman and Zahn? D’you think I can handle both jobs?” Ted also managed Anne-Marie and Hank’s law office next door.
“That’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you: they’re expanding and need more space, so they’re looking to move across the Embarcadero to Hills Plaza.”
Ted’s face went still, as it always did when he was absorbing unwelcome news.
I added, “They haven’t told anybody but me, because the lease hasn’t been negotiated yet. But even if that deal falls through, it’s only a matter of time.”
“And they didn’t express any interest in taking me along,” he said flatly.
“On the contrary, we fought over you and I won.”
“Don’t I have any say in the matter?”
“Of course you do, but I already knew what you’d decide. In spite of their being good friends and your work history in the legal area, I’m aware you’re not crazy about the law.”
“… True. But I’ll miss them.” Briefly he looked pensive, then asked, “So how’d you lay claim to me?”
“Let’s just say that you may be the only Grand Pooh-Bah in the city who was won in a poker game.”
“Good Lord. Well, I accept your offer, title and all.”
“Comes with a raise, too. And I plan to hire you an assistant, as well as take on a couple of new operatives.”
“Where’ll we put them? Our space is full.”
“We’re taking over Altman and Zahn’s suite.”
“Business is that good? Well, of course it is. I should know; I’m the one who sends out the invoices.” He frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I was just flashing on the old days. You lived in that dreadful studio on Guerrero and the rest of us were crammed into the Victorian in Bernal Heights. Most people would’ve called it a wretched existence, but all we cared about was saving the world.”
“Well, one small legal cooperative wasn’t going to accomplish that. Besides, what’s wrong with being able to pay our bills and live like grownups?”
“Nothing, but in some weird way I think that you and I are still out to save the world.”
“Not the world, but some of its people anyway. We thought too big back then. Thinking small is more realistic.”
“Yeah, but right now I’m more interested in thinking big. Just how much of a raise are we talking about?”
Ted had left a stack of message slips in my office, all of them from clients, except one from Austin DeCarlo, asking that I call him. I lined it up with the edge of my desk and tapped my fingers against it as I considered what to do. Finally I picked up the phone and dialed. DeCarlo answered immediately.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “You said you’d call in the morning. I’d hoped to spend the day getting to know you.”
“… Something came up with an important client, and I had to get back here. I was going to call you later.” An outright lie. He and I had certainly gotten off on a fine footing!
“I could fly up there tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, I’m going out of town.”
“Oh, where?”
I couldn’t pile one falsehood upon another. “Boise. I need to see my… mother.”
Silence. “Well, I’m sure you do. But I’d like to see you first.”
Of course he would; he wanted to explain about the Spirit Lake project in a way that wouldn’t turn me against him. “Austin… It is okay if I call you that? At this late date I can’t see me calling you Daddy.”
He laughed. “I can’t imagine being called Daddy. Austin’s fine. What were you about to say?”
“I know about Spirit Lake and the lawsuit.”
More silence.
“I also suspect that you and Saskia are still angry at each other, even after all these years, and being on opposite sides of this suit hasn’t helped any. So I’m keeping an open mind, and I’ll continue to do so no matter what she tells me.”
“You’re a wise woman.”
“Hardly. But I’ve seen enough misery in my work to know what kinds of traps people’s emotions can set. I don’t intend to get snared by any—Saskia’s or yours.”
“Well, have a safe trip, then. I suppose it’s not politic to send my regards to your mother, but extend them if you think otherwise. And call me when you get back; I’ll fly up and spend some time with you.”
As I replaced the receiver I reflected that only the experience of growing up in the dysfunctional McCone household could have prepared me for navigating the emotional potholes and pitfalls of this new familial territory.