Buddy waited till he'd hit the Johnston town line before pulling off the highway, thinking he'd do some business to go with his tank of gas. He whizzed past a few small houses and sheds, finally noticed an old pitted metal sign off in the distance, and pointed the rented Olds at Art Harris's Gas & Repair.
"Fill it with super, please," he croaked to the attendant, his voice hoarse from a morning of smoking and disuse. He patted his shirt pocket reflexively, felt nothing but business cards. "Oh, and cigarettes. You sell cigarettes?"
"No, sir. But if you're heading into town, they'll be easy enough to find."
Buddy grinned a grin that was all out of proportion to that bit of information. "I'll be fine," he said. "Say, you wouldn't know of a good hotel in town, would you?"
"Hotel? Not really . . . but you might want to stop by the historical society. The lady who runs it, Sally Wyman, she's the closest thing to a visitor's bureau. Uh, what brings you to town?"
"The election," said Buddy. "I'm with UAE, and I'm here to spread the word about SouthWestWorld. I hope you'll consider voting for the initiative."
"UAE, huh," said the attendant, topping off the tank. "I can't say I'm too sure how I feel about it." But he looked skeptical.
"Well, I'd just like to let the folks here know we want to work with them. If there's anything I can do, you let me know." He reached for a card, pressed it into the attendant's hand with some bills, waved, and sped off. Kid's probably too young to even vote, he thought. A cold drink and a smoke, that was the thing.
Buddy Monroe was UAE's Chief Community Liaison, a title he'd held for a month, since its previous holder had undergone a triple bypass; before that, he'd been a deputy. This entailed lining up locations for movie shoots, attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and, occasionally, damage control after a celebrity arrest (he actually got a kick out of those moments after bail had been posted, rushing past the photographers, dumping the well-known brawler or junkie or nymphomaniac in the back seat of the waiting car and telling them, under his breath: I just saved your spoiled little ass). His task in Johnston was different. His task in Johnston was to make sure the initiative authorizing the construction of the park passed, and a task that big was one for the chief. It was only since his promotion, ironically, that the trip had become necessary; the mayor of the town, facing re-election, had decided to "let the people decide." Now Buddy was charged with making sure they decided right. If he failed? If he failed, UAE would have to revert to its second choice, and that wasn't acceptable back in LA. If he failed, he might not want to bother going back to LA.
The historical society was downtown, just down the block from City Hall, and he decided to get his accommodations squared away first. Sally Wyman (the name sounded as old-fashioned to him as "Betsy Ross"; he was mildly surprised when she turned out to be 50ish instead of 250ish) was indeed the closest thing the town had to a visitor's bureau. He couldn't stand visitor's bureaus. He fidgeted in his seat while Sally pored through handwritten lists and old Rolodexes, and finally had to get up and explore the constellation of junk strewn around the office: old documents scrolled up and packed into tubes; gelatin-print photographs of the first ranchers, creased and frayed; a cardboard box packed full to bursting with ancient mining tools. He reached in and extracted a pick, felt its weight with surprise, and waved it through the air.
"Circa 1870," said Sally, without looking up. "And careful with it, unless you've been planning on elective surgery."
"Ah." Buddy let the pick clatter down. "So what did you turn up?"
"There's one possibility." Sally flipped through pages. "There's a couple, Tom and Edna Campbell, who own a large ranch just north of town--only one of its size around here. They've retired, the ranch is run by an outside concern, but they're still in the main house, and they've been known to take lodgers. There's just one thing to keep in mind--"
"Of course," said Buddy, fiddling with the lamp attachment to an old helmet. "And that would be?"
"Tom Campbell misses being an active rancher terribly, and he's getting on in years. So there are times when he thinks he's still--would you please leave the equipment alone?--still running it."
"Sorry." Buddy tossed the helmet aside, watched it miss the carton and roll across the floor. "Look, Ms. Wyman, no offense, but that sounds like it might be a little . . . uncomfortable. Isn't there any other place to stay?"
"You can always head south toward Prescott; you'll hit a Motel 6 or something like that once you get near town. But that's miles away."
"Ah, well," he sighed, longing for a cigarette again. "Can I have Mr. Campbell's number?" Sally nodded, searched around for something to write on, and copied the number from the Rolodex.
Buddy didn't want to leave there with just a phone number, though, if he could help it. "So," he ventured, "if I were wanting to get in touch with active ranchers. . . ."
"I really couldn't help you, Mr. Monroe."
"Oh, I'm not asking you to do my work for me, no, no. It's just that"--he tried to time the eye contact--"you seem to be the person in the know."
"I'm just afraid I couldn't help you," she said, shaking her head.
"Well, I'd just like to let the folks here know we want to work with them. If there's anything I can do, you let me know." He fumbled around in his pocket. "Say, did I already give you my--"
"Yes," said Sally. She handed him back the card, with the Campbells' phone number scrawled across its back. "And forgive me for saying this, Mr. Monroe, but I've never hoped so hard for someone's business to fail."
Buddy shrugged and pocketed the card. "Well, that goes with the territory," he said, plastering on a no-hard-feelings smile, but the truth was his feelings were hurt. Hell, a goodwill ambassador needed a little goodwill of his own to keep going.
But there was none to be had that day. He arrived at City Hall to find the mayor MIA and his assistant distinctly uncooperative. He asked where he could find the planning board; "that's handled by a citizen's group," was the answer; he asked when they met; "pretty much whenever they want to," was the answer; he asked if he could leave his card; "sure," was the answer, delivered in a monotone. Maybe the only way to meet the officials was to ambush them.
He walked the streets of downtown--both of them--stopping passersby and asking if they knew about the park, the initiative, if they'd made up their minds; most people listened politely and accepted his card, but he got nothing more positive than "maybe," and more than a few wave-offs. In the library, the Pay 'n' Save, the Old Tyme Tavern, he borrowed a book, bought some aspirin, drank a Bud, trying to chat up the locals and getting nowhere. He left the Old Tyme after his beer, wanting nothing more than to find this old coot rancher's, crawl under the covers, and call it a day.
He got about half a mile before the engine died on him. "Not happening, not happening," he murmured, but it was. He tried restarting a few times and accomplished nothing except nearly flooding the engine. He checked the gas gauge, checked the oil, checked the radiator; everything looked fine. All there was left to do was put on the flashers and wait.
At last, a pair of headlights sprang up over the nearest rise, and Buddy was able to flag down a passing pickup. The driver turned out to be the kid from Art's, who nodded hello and asked what the trouble was.
"The trouble is, I don't know what the trouble is," said Buddy. "Can you take a look?"
"Kinda tough in this light," said the kid. "But I'll try." He went back to the truck for a flashlight and waved the beam all around the Olds, starting with the engine and working back. Finally, he stooped down to fiddle with the tailpipe. There was a rattling sound, a muffled "uh-huh," then he straightened up and walked over to Buddy.
"I think I found the, uh, trouble," he said, shining the beam on an object in his other hand and fighting back a grin. Buddy looked closely, then felt himself turn red, more with embarrassment than with anger: it was a banana.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll bet that's it."
Buddy sat there with the motor idling for at least five minutes after the kid had gone, listening vacantly to the engine cutting through the warm night air, staring out into the darkness. At length, he pulled back onto the road and soon came up on a restaurant, a little roadside place with a plate-glass front and counter-and-booth service. "Mike's Cafe," he said to himself, reading the sign as he approached on foot. "I bet it was either that or 'Eats.'" As he was entering, a man in a business suit came hurrying out, grim-faced. "Best of luck, fella," the man said, leaving Buddy to scratch his head: it didn't look that bad. Inside, though, he saw heads snap up, and drew withering stares as he passed. He fought the urge to turn and leave--it was too late for that--crossed the room, plunked himself down on a stool, and eyed the counterman, a thick-set guy with gray hair and a leathery tan.
"What the hell did I do?" he asked, plaintively.
Mike stared back across the counter at him. "That would depend on who you are," he said.
"I'm Buddy Monroe." He dipped into his pocket, wearily, past even feigning enthusiasm, and proffered a card. "UAE."
"Oh, yeah," said Mike, his expression softening just a little. "I heard the advance man was in town. Listen, we've got to talk."
"Talk? About what?"
"I'll be happy to explain. Why don't we grab a back booth." He waved Buddy over toward the corner, poured two mugs of coffee, and sat down at the table with a frown.
"You're handling this all wrong," he told Buddy.
"Wait a minute," said Buddy. "How do you know how I'm handling things? And who are you anyway?"
"Fair question. I am the best ally you're going to find in this town. My name's Mike. As in the Mike on the sign out there. I've owned the place for close to thirty years, I've lived here all my life." He narrowed his eyes, focusing in on Buddy's. "I know all about this town."
"Look, Mike," said Buddy, frustrated, "I'm not claiming to be an insider. But I have done my homework. I know about the decline of mining and ranching here, I know about the population drain. And I know that what we're offering could help. I'm not some kind of snake-oil salesman, and frankly, I don't know why I'm being treated like one."
"Because you're acting like one." He saw Buddy getting ready to protest, held up a hand to ask that he hear him out. "All right, maybe not that bad. But you keep talking down to people, they're going to lump you in with worse. You see that guy who was leaving as you came in? He's a middleman--a real estate speculator. They're all over the place, although I've got to say most of them aren't stupid enough to walk into gathering places. They prefer picking people off one by one, preying on their fears. I don't know anyone with a parcel of land who hasn't gotten at least one call or letter, telling them to cash in while they have the chance. And it's early yet. What's it going to be like as this thing moves forward?"
"Look, I'm sorry if the vultures are circling, but that's just a fact of life. There's a lot at risk here, and speculation thrives on risk."
"Jesus, Buddy, don't be so cavalier. The least you can do is dissociate yourself from them."
"But why should I have to deny an association that doesn't even exist?"
"Because if people think it exists, then it might as well."
Buddy took this all in, trying to separate what Mike was saying from what he himself was feeling, then sighed and nodded slowly. "So what do I do now?" he asked.
"Well, you can start by getting acquainted. Go to public hearings, rallies--for that matter, football games, church dinners--and pay attention; don't just go by your stack of market research. Hold some events of your own; I'm sure you've got the budget for it. Have some real conversations with people. Try doing things their way, just to see what it's like."
"Doing things their way."
"Right. After all, it's their town." He took a sip of coffee. "And you can try working with me. It's my town too."
After dinner, Buddy wound his way up to the Campbell place, a sprawling two-story structure near the front gate of the ranch. He pulled around the side of the house, as Edna had instructed him over the phone, and knocked at what appeared to be a service entrance. A light went on behind the windows, the door opened slowly, and Buddy found himself face to face with Tom, wizened and white-haired, outfitted for the occasion in buckskins, chaps, and ten-gallon hat.
"Back from the rodeo, eh kid?" he asked. "How'd you do?"
Buddy just smiled. "I got thrown today," he said. "But I'll get back on tomorrow."