"Sherman – he was the sculptor – started calling me Calliope, after the Greek muse of epic poetry. He said that I inspired men to art and madness. I liked the way it sounded so I took it as my real name. My mom even calls me Calliope now."
Sam had brought thousands of sales interviews back into control when the client tried to wander, he wouldn't let this girl sidetrack him. "Calliope, who was the Indian -"
"You know, the Indians used to change their names as they grew up and their personalities changed or when they did certain things, like Walks Across the Desert and stuff like that. Did you know that?"
"No I didn't," Sam lied. "But I really need to know -"
"Oh, there's my car!"
Sam slowed and pulled the Mercedes in behind the Z. "Calliope, before you go -"
"We can't have sex tonight," she said. "I have some things to do, but I can cook you dinner tomorrow if you want."
Sam turned to her, his mouth hanging open. She was smiling at him, waiting for his answer with her eyes wide, as if she'd just been surprised. He realized that every time he had looked at her she'd worn that same expression of wonderment, and each time it had thrown him. Dammit, he wouldn't be distracted. She was sharp, but he was sharper. He was in control here.
"Okay," he said.
"Terrific. I live at seventeen and a half Anapamu Street – that's upstairs. Whatever you do, don't go to the downstairs door. Six o'clock, okay?" Without waiting for his answer, she was out of the car and away.
Sam rolled down the window and shouted after her. "My name is Sam."
She looked back at him and smiled, then got into the Datsun and fired it up. Sam watched the little sports car tilt with the torque of the engine as she revved it. She burned off the back tires, filling the air with squeals and blue smoke as she pulled away.
Chapter 9 – Quitting Now Greatly
Reduces the Chance of Visions Crow
Country – 1967
It was well before dawn and no lights burned in the houses and shops of Crow Agency as Pokey piloted his old truck through town, a sleepy-eyed Samson wobbling on the seat next to him.
"How far is it to the fasting place?" Samson asked.
"About two hours, but only fifty or so miles as the Crow drives. Get it, as the Crow drives?" Pokey grinned at Samson and took a swig from a pint bottle of whiskey. He and Harlan had talked and drunk all night after Samson's sweat. Now he was using the road like a buttered harlot – he was all over the place while trying to stay in the middle – and scaring Samson, whose head whacked the window when Pokey got too much shoulder and had to yank the truck's retreads back onto the asphalt.
"Could we slow down, Pokey?"
"We're not going that fast."
Samson peeked at the speedometer, which registered zero, as did all the broken gauges in the truck. Pokey caught Samson looking and grinned again.
"I ain't in any danger at all, you know. I seen my death in a medicine dream. I get shot, and it ain't nowhere near this old truck. Nope, I'm plumb safe in this truck, no matter what I do."
"What about me?" Samson asked.
"Don't know? What's your death dream?"
"I didn't have one."
Pokey looked down at Samson with a worried expression. "You didn't?"
"Nope," Samson said with a gulp.
"Well then, if I wreck you could be plumb fucked." He began to weave more radically, leaning hard into Samson as the truck slipped off the shoulder again. "Oh, shit! These tires are bald too! Don't worry, son, I'll dance for your ghost at the Sun Dance!"
"Pokey, stop it!" Samson had begun to giggle as his uncle leaned into him.
"Quick, go to sleep fast, and dream of dying on top of a pretty woman, Samson. It's your only chance."
"Pokey!" Samson was doubled over with laughter now as Pokey fishtailed the truck back and forth in the road while pumping the brakes and the clutch, causing Samson's head to jerk around like a rag doll's.
Pokey shouted, "Blacken your face, Samson Hunts Alone, this is a good day to die." Then he slammed on the brakes
Sam had brought thousands of sales interviews back into control when the client tried to wander, he wouldn't let this girl sidetrack him. "Calliope, who was the Indian -"
"You know, the Indians used to change their names as they grew up and their personalities changed or when they did certain things, like Walks Across the Desert and stuff like that. Did you know that?"
"No I didn't," Sam lied. "But I really need to know -"
"Oh, there's my car!"
Sam slowed and pulled the Mercedes in behind the Z. "Calliope, before you go -"
"We can't have sex tonight," she said. "I have some things to do, but I can cook you dinner tomorrow if you want."
Sam turned to her, his mouth hanging open. She was smiling at him, waiting for his answer with her eyes wide, as if she'd just been surprised. He realized that every time he had looked at her she'd worn that same expression of wonderment, and each time it had thrown him. Dammit, he wouldn't be distracted. She was sharp, but he was sharper. He was in control here.
"Okay," he said.
"Terrific. I live at seventeen and a half Anapamu Street – that's upstairs. Whatever you do, don't go to the downstairs door. Six o'clock, okay?" Without waiting for his answer, she was out of the car and away.
Sam rolled down the window and shouted after her. "My name is Sam."
She looked back at him and smiled, then got into the Datsun and fired it up. Sam watched the little sports car tilt with the torque of the engine as she revved it. She burned off the back tires, filling the air with squeals and blue smoke as she pulled away.
Chapter 9 – Quitting Now Greatly
Reduces the Chance of Visions Crow
Country – 1967
It was well before dawn and no lights burned in the houses and shops of Crow Agency as Pokey piloted his old truck through town, a sleepy-eyed Samson wobbling on the seat next to him.
"How far is it to the fasting place?" Samson asked.
"About two hours, but only fifty or so miles as the Crow drives. Get it, as the Crow drives?" Pokey grinned at Samson and took a swig from a pint bottle of whiskey. He and Harlan had talked and drunk all night after Samson's sweat. Now he was using the road like a buttered harlot – he was all over the place while trying to stay in the middle – and scaring Samson, whose head whacked the window when Pokey got too much shoulder and had to yank the truck's retreads back onto the asphalt.
"Could we slow down, Pokey?"
"We're not going that fast."
Samson peeked at the speedometer, which registered zero, as did all the broken gauges in the truck. Pokey caught Samson looking and grinned again.
"I ain't in any danger at all, you know. I seen my death in a medicine dream. I get shot, and it ain't nowhere near this old truck. Nope, I'm plumb safe in this truck, no matter what I do."
"What about me?" Samson asked.
"Don't know? What's your death dream?"
"I didn't have one."
Pokey looked down at Samson with a worried expression. "You didn't?"
"Nope," Samson said with a gulp.
"Well then, if I wreck you could be plumb fucked." He began to weave more radically, leaning hard into Samson as the truck slipped off the shoulder again. "Oh, shit! These tires are bald too! Don't worry, son, I'll dance for your ghost at the Sun Dance!"
"Pokey, stop it!" Samson had begun to giggle as his uncle leaned into him.
"Quick, go to sleep fast, and dream of dying on top of a pretty woman, Samson. It's your only chance."
"Pokey!" Samson was doubled over with laughter now as Pokey fishtailed the truck back and forth in the road while pumping the brakes and the clutch, causing Samson's head to jerk around like a rag doll's.
Pokey shouted, "Blacken your face, Samson Hunts Alone, this is a good day to die." Then he slammed on the brakes
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