Forever Odd

a blind spot for me, sir. I can sort of feel a shape in it, but I can’t yet see the thing.”
        Far to the north, between the charred sky and the ashen earth, the rain resembled shimmering curtains of smoke.
        “I have to get moving,” I said.
        “If we turn up anything about a woman, I’ll call you.”
        “No, sir, I’d rather you didn’t. I need to keep the line open and save the battery. I just called because I wanted you to know there’s a woman in it, so if anything happens to me, you’ve got a starting place. A woman and three men.”
        “Three? The one who Tasered you-and who else?”
        “Thought one must be Simon,” I said, “but now he can’t be. All I know about the others is, one of them has big feet.”
        “Big feet?”
        “Say a prayer for me, sir.”
        “I do each night.”
        I terminated the call.
        After hoisting my backpack, I continued the climb that had been interrupted by the woman’s call. The slope rose a long way but at a gentle incline. Rotten shale crunched and slid from under my feet, repeatedly testing my agility and balance.
        A few small lizards skittered out of my way. I remained watchful for rattlesnakes.
        Rugged leather hiking boots would have been better than the softer sneakers that I was wearing. Eventually, I would probably have to do some sneaking, and these once-white shoes would be ideal for that.
        Maybe I shouldn’t have worried about footwear, snakes, and balance if I was destined to be killed by someone waiting behind a white paneled door. On the other hand, I didn’t want to rely on the theory that the repetitive dream was reliably predictive, because perhaps it had just been the consequence of too much fried food and spicy salsa.
        Distant and celestial, a great door rolled open, rumbling in its tracks, and a breeze stirred the day again. When the faraway thunder faded, the air did not fall still as it had earlier, but continued to chase through the sparse vegetation, like a ghost pack of coyotes.
        When I reached the top of the hill, I knew that my destination lay before me. Danny Jessup would be found here, captive.
        In the distance lay the interstate. A four-lane approach road led from that highway to the plain below. At the end of the road stood the ruined casino and the blackened tower, where Death had gone to gamble and had, as always, won.

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    TWENTY-ONE
        
        THEY WERE THE PANAMINT TRIBE, OF THE SHOSHONI-Comanche family. These days we are told that throughout their history-like all the natives of this land prior to Columbus and the imposition of Italian cuisine on the continent-they had been peaceful, deeply spiritual, selfless, and unfailingly reverent toward nature.
        The gambling industry-feeding on weakness and loss, indifferent to suffering, materialistic, insatiably greedy, smearing across nature some of the ugliest, gaudiest architecture in the history of human construction-was seen by Indian leaders as a perfect fit for them. The state of California agreed, granting to Native Americans a monopoly on casino gambling within its borders.
        Concerned that the Great Spirit alone might not provide enough guidance to squeeze every possible drop of revenue out of their new enterprises, most tribes made deals with experienced gaming companies to manage their casinos. Cash rooms were established, games were set up and staffed, the doors were opened, and under the watchful eyes of the usual thugs, the river of money flowed.
        The golden age of Indian wealth loomed, every Native American soon to be rich. But the flow did not reach as deeply or as quickly into the Indian population as expected.
        Funny how that happens.
        Addiction to gambling, impoverishment therefrom, and associated crime rose in the community.
        Not so funny how that happens.
        On the plain below the hilltop where I stood, about a mile away, on tribal land, waited the Panamint Resort and Spa. Once it had been as glittering, as neon-splashed, as tacky as any facility of its kind, but its glory days were gone.
        The sixteen-story hotel had all the grace of a high-rise prison. Five years ago, it had withstood an earthquake with minor damage, but it had failed to weather the subsequent fire. Most of its windows had been shattered by the temblor or had exploded from the heat as the rooms blazed. Great lapping tongues of