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  Micah’s body posture thawed. “What makes you think I don’t impress them already?”

  “Get on the bike, smartass.”

  Micah sat on the bike and leaned back, away from Gabe, but when they pulled out of the driveway, he hunched forward and hooked his fingers through Gabe’s belt loops.

  Gabe focused on the road, keeping his distance from cars, stopping at yellow lights, not pushing the speed. Micah had been on the bike a handful of times. To Gabe it felt like they were sharing a secret language better than any words. Not that Micah acknowledged feeling any connection.

  They stopped at a red light behind a white pick-up truck.

  “Hey, your mom said you’d come up to the house this weekend,” Gabe shouted over his shoulder. “That’d be good, don’t you think?”

  “This weekend?”

  “Yeah, we’ll hit the mountains. I mean, I heard you’re getting into camping.”

  “Why does it have to be this weekend?”

  Gabe took his left hand off the handlebar and turned around. “You haven’t been around a lot and we should talk.”

  Micah leaned back and looked at the sky. “Mom said you’d be pretty weirded out by all this. About the camp and the church.”

  “Wait, you’re going to a church camp?”

  Micah nodded, then opened his eyes wide and pointed forward. “Whoa, whoa, Dad . . .”

  Gabe snapped around and saw the truck’s reverse lights. For an instant, he thought the bike was sliding forward. He gripped the brakes hard and grabbed the handlebars, but the truck kept backing up like a dumb slow animal. Gabe shouted but he didn’t have time to wheel back, so he grabbed Micah by the collar and pushed him clear of the bike. At the same time, Gabe swung himself off and tried to lay the bike down without getting caught underneath. Cars around him honked and he jumped back.

  A man in a starched white shirt came out of the truck cab and put his hands over his face. “Oh, buddy,” the man said. “What happened here?”

  “Fuck yourself, what happened here? I’ve got a kid with me and you start back . . . back . . .”

  Gabe lost the words. His legs wobbled. Where were the words? His hands should have been around this man’s throat. The sun beat down, but Gabe went cold. This is it, he thought. The first time the body truly betrayed him.

  The driver waved his hands. The world came back to Gabe in a loud whoosh, and he heard a voice yelling at him. It was Micah, slumped against the curb.

  He looked red-faced and younger than his years. “Dad, what did you do? You threw me to the ground to save your piece of shit bike?”

  “No, no, I was helping. I was saving you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Look, buddy,” the other driver said. “Maybe we should call the cops or something, but I didn’t see you there. You must have come up fast on my tail.”

  Gabe pointed at the man. “You could have killed us.”

  “I don’t think we need that sort of talk.”

  Micah stood up and brushed his clothes off. “I should have waited for Mom.” His voice shook. “This is just so, so you.”

  The white truck pulled away and Gabe had to keep himself from hopping on the bike and chasing the man down. Traffic backed up behind them, and more cars were honking. Micah pulled out his phone and called his mother. By the time Gabe righted the bike and wheeled it onto the sidewalk, Micah was at a bus stop down the street, waiting for his mom to save him.

  Thirty minutes later, Helen pulled into a parking lot beside the bus stop. Gabe’s heart had stopped pounding, but Micah would not get back on the bike. They both sat in silence, feeling the heat radiate from the street. Micah kept his head down and avoided looking into passing cars. He swatted away all of Gabe’s attempts at explanation. Micah stood when he saw his mom.

  “No, no way,” Helen said. “Where’s his helmet?”

  “We’re okay,” Gabe said. “Some idiot . . .”

  “A helmet is basic . . . basic sense.”

  “We got in a wreck,” Micah said. His voice shook.

  Gabe saw the teenager trying to hide the little kid.

  “Not a wreck. This truck was in front of us . . .”

  Helen, still gripping her keys, pressed both hands against the sides of her head and looked down at the ground, breathing hard. Micah climbed into Helen’s backseat. A wasted day. Who knew how many Gabe had left, yet this one had rotted away.

  “He doesn’t like the bike. Never has. Even you must have seen that by now.”

  “I didn’t cash my check,” Gabe said. “I didn’t have time, but I have money. The construction crew paid me out.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “You lost your job?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s temporary. Everyone’s out of work, and that gives me time to come pick him up next week.”

  “You don’t have a job. You got in a wreck. What makes you think you’re seeing him next week or any week?”

  “I’m sick,” Gabe said. “I think it’s serious. I need to see him.”

  Helen’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide. “You’re fucking sick, all right,” she said. “You’ve never had a fever in your life. Don’t pull some ‘I’m scared of turning fifty’ shit with me.”

  “Let him decide about this weekend,” Gabe said. “Maybe he still wants to. I’ll melt this bike down if he wants me to.”

  Surprise flashed over Helen’s face before she locked back into her anger and got into her car.

  Gabe leaned into the back window and shouted to Micah, “Dude, watch the news tonight, they interviewed me about the airport. I didn’t even get to tell you about the skeleton.”

  Micah’s eyes swung his way, then back out the window. Gabe saw strains of himself in that angry look.

  Gabe turned to Helen. “I’ve got cash from the construction job. It’s not a grand but it’s close. I need to cash the other check . . . all the places were closed.”

  “Money isn’t enough,” Helen whispered. “You can’t buy your way into being good for him.”

  “You said you wanted money. That was the deal you made.”

  “Deal? You only respond when I hound you. If I hadn’t said go pick him up, be a father, you wouldn’t have gone. I have to scare you, or you don’t come through.”

  Helen shut her eyes. Gabe noticed the cracked, plastic steering wheel and the layer of dirt on her car. He reached for his vest pocket, but the zipper was undone. He reached into the other pocket. He patted his jeans and jammed his hands into his hip pockets.

  Helen raised an eyebrow.

  “During the accident,” Gabe said, “my vest was unzipped.” Helen started the car and faced forward, ready to leave Gabe in the dust.

  “Both envelopes were here. Right here,” Gabe said. “They were in my pocket and . . .”

  Helen cut him off. “You’re not even listening.”

  Gabe looked at Micah, who had his earbuds in and was retreating into his music, or was pretending to.

  “I can do it. I can get the money. A thousand dollars.” Gabe smiled. “It’s me, you know I can do it. I can always do it when it matters.”

  “Guess what, Gabriel? I don’t care anymore.”

  EIGHT

  CHARLES WAS HEADING BACK to the office with his head spinning. The meeting with the Apaches at the construction site had been brief—not much more than a handshake—but he had taken their numbers, and they knew his name. Good enough for now. Before hopping in the car, he had sent Addie a quick text: Things are changing out here and it’s good. Tell you more soon. She had been calling and texting him excited questions ever since.

  Charles cracked his window and let the air wash over him. Geronimo? He knew the name but only had a vague sense of the history. None of that mattered to him right now. When Salazar filled him in after lunch, Charles laughed and called it a hoax. He still assumed that was true, but he knew the truth would not matter. A good story buzzed, and this felt like a huge one.

  He w
as so distracted that he missed the exit for the plaza and his office and spent twenty minutes doubling back. Since Delaware, Charles had been telling himself his career was not over, but this was the first real evidence of his survival.

  Finally, pulling up to the office building, Charles hopped out of the sedan. The sun was setting and the office was almost completely empty. Branch’s cubicle fish must have been sent home. Jordan sat at her desk, and they eyed each other without a word. She had been visibly upset when Salazar sent him and not her to deal with the Apaches.

  Indistinct voices came from Salazar’s office. A man’s deep rumble, followed by silence, then the man’s loud voice again. The voices became clear as Charles went up to her door.

  “We don’t have a report yet,” Salazar said. “Once we hear from the Apache . . .”

  “I don’t want a report. I want them to run them off. I am not letting anyone else in on this deal.”

  The man had a faint Texas twang Charles had not yet heard in New Mexico. Then the door snapped open and a man filled the doorway. He wore a chambray shirt tucked into jeans and a bolo tie that made his head look rotund, like a twist tie on a round loaf of bread.

  “Boy, if I’d wanted coffee, I’d have pulled it out of your ass myself.”

  Salazar came from behind her desk and waved Charles forward. “This is Cody Branch, our fearless leader and the man spear-heading the airport development. Cody, this is our man Charles. Hell of a first week for him.”

  Branch twisted the lower half of his face into a rictus resembling a grin. He wrapped both paws around Charles’ and pulled him into a moist, meaty handshake. Branch was wide in all directions, a charging rhinoceros.

  “Diana here’s been sucking your dick for the past twenty minutes. She thinks you’ll be able to get these Apaches out of our hair before sunset.”

  “Cody,” Salazar warned, “Charles isn’t quite used to your sense of humor yet.”

  Branch kept a hold on Charles, who felt he would be absorbed into the larger man’s body if he didn’t stand his ground.

  “Listen, Frank, you came highly recommended. Highly. You’re here to put out the fires, and these redskins are dancing with a leaky can of gasoline.”

  Charles’ head spun. Did he call him Frank? There were two ways to deal with egos like this: set them back on their heels, or cower and hope they grew tired of smacking you around.

  “Hell, I’m trying,” Charles said. “Everything’s happened so fast, but their story won’t hold up. That’s obvious.”

  “Good news,” Salazar said.

  Branch released his grip, stepped back into Salazar’s office and settled onto the couch, looking every bit the emperor on expensive leather.

  Charles cleared his throat. “I think you called me Frank. Name’s Charles, but that’s okay.”

  “If these Apaches aren’t serious then what the hell do they want?”

  Branch and Salazar looked to Charles as if he had all the answers.

  “I didn’t have a lot of time with them today. Laying the ground work, introductions and so on.”

  Branch’s jaw was set and his eyebrows lowered. “Ground work? Frankie, this stoppage has, to date, cost me about twenty million dollars. No time for ground work.”

  “Well, San Miguel are okay with us starting back up, but the Apaches are a new wrinkle.”

  Branch looked at Salazar and cocked a thumb towards Charles. “Does your boy always do that? Tell you the obvious? Report on the wetness of water?”

  Charles ran a hand through his hair. He thought he had done a good job on the site. He could not let Branch mess with him.

  “It’s a stunt,” Salazar said. “They’re raising awareness on Native issues, or they’ll ask for federal recognition. They cannot really think that Geronimo was buried in the mountains outside of Albuquerque.”

  Branch sneered at Charles. “But how much to make them go away? Did you, or did you not, get a dollar amount?”

  Charles felt the room slide under his feet. Maybe he should have stayed in Bethesda, at his mother’s bank, asking customers if they wanted their money deposited into checking or savings.

  “It wasn’t the right time . . .”

  “Sí or no?” Branch said in loud, mangled Spanish.

  “No. But I met them, I met their lawyer, a big caveman kind of guy. They’re coming in tomorrow or the next day. I tried to pin them down on a time but they blew me off.”

  “Of course,” Branch said. “They’re stringing this out. Make us sweat. I’m telling you, Diana, they’re going to want money, they’re going to want all the god-blessed money in all the god-fucked world.”

  “What about the reporters?” Salazar asked. “You told the press we were working with the tribes? You assured everyone we were in control?”

  Charles felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was probably Addie.

  “I did. I did all of that. They filmed the Apaches, then they interviewed a few construction guys who . . .”

  “You’re allergic to simple answers,” Branch said. “Am I going to see your smiling mug on the news tonight?”

  “They didn’t seem interested in filming me.”

  “You weren’t asking them to the prom, son. Diana, this guy doesn’t have the nerves for this.”

  Salazar sat back, looking like she agreed.

  “Wait,” Charles said. “Wait one goddamned second. The press wasn’t out there to talk to me or anyone connected to the airport . . . not even you. You could be building a hospital for paralyzed vets and not a reporter in the world would care. Don’t you get it? This Geronimo story is going to be national, international, in an hour. It was a circus. But I got their lawyer’s name and I set up a meeting, that’s pretty damn good. And my name is not Frank.”

  Charles exhaled through his nose twice in a row. The sound loud and almost obscene in the small room.

  Branch laughed from deep in his chest, and Salazar cracked a small grin. Charles pulled his mouth back into a quick smile.

  “Well, Diana, your boy here can get it up when he needs to, huh?” Branch turned to Charles. “I’ve sunk vast wealth into this project and I need to know, right now, this second, if you have the guts to get us back on track.”

  “I do.”

  Branch held up a palm. “Wait. Not so fast. There are forces at play here that will swallow you if you let them.”

  “Cody,” Salazar interrupted. “Let’s keep some perspective. Charles doesn’t need to . . .”

  “The only perspective I need is my cost turning into a profit, and don’t act like you’re any different, Diana.”

  Charles hooked one hand around the back of his neck. “This doesn’t sound like an airport anymore.”

  “Oh Frankie, you do stumble into the truth sometimes, don’t you?”

  Salazar leaned forward. “Cody, there’s no . . .”

  “We’re not building an airport,” Branch said. “We’re building a casino.”

  Salazar stood up, walked behind Charles and closed her office door.

  “We didn’t need to go there yet, and you know it. Charles, sit down before you fall down.”

  Charles blinked a few times and tried to clear his head. “A land development bond was posted by the county.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it towards Branch. “Santa Fe voted for an airport. San Miguel agreed to an airport.”

  Branch waved his hands in front of him. “We’re going to build an airport, too. But it’ll be smaller than originally planned, and at the same time we’ll be pouring some extra asphalt, that’s all.”

  Charles rubbed his forehead. He had sat in on this meeting before. A boss had told him too much before, and it had cost him everything.

  “You lied to the voters.”

  “No, no we did not,” Salazar said.

  “No way,” Branch said. “Most of the casino will be built with private funds.”

  Charles groaned. “After the county has paid to run utilities out to the middle of nowhere, expanded the h
ighway and has done everything that will make the casino possible.”

  Branch swung off the couch and was by Charles’ side in an instant. He crouched down, looked Charles in the eye and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Son, I am going to make an unholy amount of money, and there will be plenty to go around for those who believe in this project. You can see why I’m anxious to get building again.”

  “We were going to tell you,” Salazar said. “Bring you fully onboard, months from now, after you’d established yourself.” She looked at Branch. “Seems we’ve sped up the schedule.”

  Branch fiercely held Charles’ gaze, but betrayed no anger. Charles could not look away.

  “Let’s work on one of those simple answers,” Branch said. “Do you believe in this project?”

  Charles felt himself nodding before he realized it was happening.

  “I do.”

  “Are you willing to invest yourself? Truly commit your time?”

  “I am.”

  Branch smiled and cuffed a hand on the back of Charles’ neck. The contact felt strong, reassuring. In Delaware, Hunt was sitting in prison because of a single meeting. Other men with Charles’ same experiences had parlayed their careers into high-dollar consultant work and think-tank salaries. For years, Charles’ prize kept slipping through his greased-up fingers, but now he had it. No, Cody Branch had it, but Charles was going to claim his fair share.

  NINE

  GABE STAYED ON THAT STREET corner for an hour; turning his pockets inside out, convinced that if he looked in his vest pocket, or in his shirt pocket, or his hip pocket, again and again, then the money would reveal itself.

  The accident had barely touched them. Micah scraped his elbow, Gabe maybe strained his calf a little, but that was nothing. The old man would have told him to forget it, say one prayer, give God his bit and move on. But Gabe could not shake the fear that had a grip on his stomach and he had stopped talking to God years ago.

  Back home, the fear blossomed into panic. He roamed from empty room to empty room. He imagined every scenario: the wheels crushing Micah. His head banging hard against the curb after Gabe pushed him off. Or the truck reversing, pinning them on top of each other. That was the worst one: Gabe knowing he was crushing his son, while the muffler burned his face and he twitched his arms under the truck.