Spinning Dixie by Eric Dezenhall Page A

added, “Mickey’ll be happy once you’re safe at that place.”
    â€œThat place” was a refuge near Medford, New Jersey, that Mickey had named, in a fit of biblical pique, Masada. I had never been there, but Mickey told me years ago—even before we left the country when I was thirteen—that he “had” the place.
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    We pulled into the dirt path of Masada shortly before midnight. It took ten minutes to drive up the path before I saw the torches burning outside of the cabins. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, it would have been funny watching Marv’s head bobble as the Caddy rumbled over the muddy hills.
    At the top of the hill, two men on horseback with shotguns waited. One of them held his hand out. Marv stopped the car, rolled down his window, and barked, “We got the kid.” The Kid. Like Billy The. We were waved on.
    There were about a half-dozen stark wooden cabins with porches. They were built simply and were practically identical. Armed shadows slid across the earth. When the men spoke, puffs of breath escaped and vanished into the moonlight. Everyone appeared to be distorted because of the way the wind and light from torches caught their figures. A quarter horse was bobbing its head frantically by a stone well. The only things that were missing were gallows and a saloon.
    On the porch of the smallest cabin, a tiny shadow stood in waiting, shivering. Deedee ran toward me, her red hair appearing to be burning from the reflection of the torches. She hugged me hard, stepping on my feet with alligator boots. She was wearing a sweatsuit with her boots, indicating that they had left the Golden Prospect in a hurry. My peripheral vision picked up a few other men on horses and a dozen or so on foot with shotguns. I recognized none of them, but knew they weren’t my familiar Italians.
    â€œWelcome to our farshtunkiner Gunsmoke .” Farshtunkiner meant “smelly” in Yiddish. “Your grandfather and his cowboy friends, shooting with guns. I could strangle every one of them.”
    â€œI’m okay, Deedee.”
    â€œ Okay you are not!” she shouted, glaring at Mickey, who had his hand on the shoulder of a long-haired man I had never seen before. If I had not just been poisoned by Claudine Polk, I would have sworn that Mickey was talking to a hippie. The long-haired man soon slipped into the night. Mickey’s silhouette against the cabin gave off the aura of a floating hobbit. As he drew closer, he appeared smaller, but his shadow danced large in the torchlight.
    â€œGrown men playing cowboys and Indians,” Deedee said. “That poor Susie Bruno. Did you see the TV yet? “Ange’s sitting in the front of the car with his mouth open and blood all over the windshield. Like he’s shocked. You play with guns, this is what happens. What’s to be shocked?”
    â€œDeedee, it’s not like he opened his mouth because he was shocked—”
    â€œIf somebody shot your grandfather, I’d tell him not to look so shocked.”
    Mickey grabbed my face. At first I thought he was dressed entirely in white, but it was khaki. The torches deepened the crevasses of his tanned face and accentuated the cottony whiteness of his hair.
    â€œSo,” Deedee said, “Welcome your grandson to Gunsmoke .”
    â€œShush a minute, Miss Kitty,” Mickey barked back, setting down a suitcase. “Like I’m happy about this? We should tie a yellow ribbon around every tree in the Pine Barrens. We’re hostages. My crew’s in play.”
    â€œDo you know who did this, Pop?” I asked. The goal of my inquiry was to get the discussion over with, not learn anything.
    â€œIf I knew, Jonah, I wouldn’t be here. When I know, I stay home. When I don’t know, I hide out.”
    â€œLike Jesse James,” Deedee added gratuitously.
    We stepped into the sparsely decorated cabin. There were two