Page 3 of The B!tch is Bad

Holy fuck. That guy with diarrhea of the mouth would be in my face all the time.

I’d driven to Pure and Easy from San Jose, so I’d never been east of the gorgeous town. Lytton was right. We soared around spire after spire of luscious pink sandstone formations. The silty layers of ruby and carmine sand were banded with ivory and wintry white, compressed over eons. Around each corner creamy quaking aspens sprouted, taller and taller until they intermingled with conifers and spiky agave.

Some corners gave way to expansive views, and I breathed deeply of the trees and sand. Strange how it calmed me. I began to enjoy that no barrier existed between me and the land. Lytton had loaned me his “lid,” his helmet. I longed to take it off. To be as one with the nature, as the local hippie admirers of Shirley MacLaine would say. Birds I identified only as jays, larks, or orioles flitted across my vision. I hadn’t done much nature walking around San Jose. I’d have to correct that deficiency.

The first glimpses of Mormon Lake were disappointing. It seemed mostly dry, and it wasn’t summer until next week. The arid lakebed was coated with tiny yellow flowers, and around a few bends I spotted elk. Lots of elk. That would make an excellent main course for an impressive dinner, if I ever had time to hunt.

Lytton parked by a lodge that spiraled out from its center, like a star. Each point held a couple of cabins with their own decks facing the forest or dry lake. Panes of towering glass would give the lakeside guests a gorgeous view of the animals and ponds of butter yellow blooms. I’d heard of bud and breakfast lodges. Before marijuana was even legalized in Arizona, the ole lady of another Boner had created this lodge. Her foresight had been smart, as the lodge now seemed fully booked.

“Man,” I said, taking off the lid and palming my polished head. I’d have to get a black leather jacket just for these rides. “I think I prefer BMW and Honda bikes. Not as loud. Less repairs.”

“Man,” repeated Lytton, “don’t let any of my brothers hear you say that.”

“Why is Wildstar here?”

Lytton forked his fingers through his plush, shiny black hair. Being bald was so much easier and even looked genteel—or ferocious. “I think he’s looking up the pass-arounds, chicks who hang around our club hoping to score. He’s quite the ladies’ man, and spends a lot of time partying. Leaves the day-to-day biz to his workers, the wine blenders, interns.”

“So he’s kind of breaking from family tradition with more than a name change.”

“Yeah, you could definitely say that. But he’s a good man to know in Seeker Valley. He’s probably at the back bar.”

We walked through the core of the star lodge, the lobby. The scent of crushed pine needles imbued my nostrils, melding with a hot tub lavender smell. Couples walked with either the satisfied, smug air of the fully massaged, or the dazed appearance of the thoroughly stoned. Lytton leaned an elbow on the front counter with a confidential air. He seemed to know the woman behind the desk well.

“Pippa. You seen Sean Wildstar? This here is Creed Trucks, new owner of Pictures of Lily winery.”

Pippa glowed with an innocent aura, although I’d find out she had more secrets than a teen’s diary. Standing, she shook my hand over the counter. “Mr. Trucks! I absolutely adore your Pinot. And the Tiny Dancer wine is one of my all-time favorites. We serve it here.”

Lytton gestured at me. “He wants to rename it ‘Sensation.’”

Pippa shrugged. “Well. It is a sensation. Yes, let me call in Sean. He’s by the lake in the smoking section.” She primly pressed a button and intoned, “Sean Wildstar. Sean Wildstar. Please report to the lobby immediately.”

The goofy atmosphere became enhanced when a biker with a permanent grin entered the lobby, carrying what seemed to be a painting on canvas, mounted on a wooden frame and covered with brown paper. His backpatch marked him as a fully-fledged member of the Bare Bones. Lytton and I glanced at each other, but Pippa clapped her hands.

“Ooo! Is this the DeStory painting, Wolf?”

Wolf set it down under a blank wall specially prepared for this new artwork. “Sure is. Shall we save it for a grand unveiling when Santiago Slayer gets here?”

I knitted my eyebrows at Lytton. Seriously? Santiago Slayer? This section of Arizona proved to be as ragged and disorderly as some of the more avant garde businesses in Silicon Valley.

A suave, cheerful guy with a trim Van Dyke beard sauntered in, a glassy-eyed emcee of a game show handing out couches. “No, no,” proclaimed Sean Wildstar with a sweep of his hand. “Let’s unveil it now. Wolf, go get a hammer and nails. Let’s hang it about two feet off the ground so we’re at eye level with this beauty.”

Wolf seemed to have enough implements on his person already, what with belt loops holding a taser, pepper spray, binoculars, bottled water, Swiss army knife, and something that looked like a dildo. But he clanged down the hall, hands held away from his sides, while I greeted Mr. Wildstar.

“Good man,” Wildstar called me. “We’ll be working closely together on several aspects of the harvest. We can invite critics to vertical tastings, how does that sound? Offer samples of every vintage. In early fall the rows of grapevines are chock full of tech tycoons like you—rock stars, actors, rappers, TV guys—”

Lytton butted in. “They’re wine club members who get up early to help pick grapes. Bankers, doctors—”

I sliced the air with my hand. “They don’t leave the picking to the professional immigrants?”

Wildstar stuck out his lower lip. “Not at harvest time, man. These peeps join in! They want to feel part of the whole cycle of life. Our stuff is carried in the best restaurants and stores in New York and San Francisco. I admit though, I usually split to go sky diving. I have too many activities and interests to stand still.”

Pippa emerged from behind her counter. Hands on hips, she studied the brown paper painting. “I want to see this thing. I hope it’s nice if I’m going to be staring at it all day long.”

Wildstar said, “This babe is supposed to be luminous. DeStory is a photorealist, capturing only the best models, like a photograph.”

“Let’s do it,” said Pippa. Once she made the initial tear in the brown paper, Wildstar reached to help with the other side. The second the model’s head was revealed, I knew something highly unusual was up. Both Pippa and Wildstar froze, jaws slack. Lytton folded his arms and surveyed the painting with acumen. Wolf had returned with the hammer and nails, and even he stared at the image as though it was a distant nebula.

I was maybe the biggest goon. The model gazing at the artist over her bare shoulder was a smoke show. Posing against an oily, sooty background, she had this distinctive look that set her apart from every other modern woman. Her round eyes smoldered with mourning for something, maybe a painful past, although she couldn’t have been over twenty. Those magnetic eyes invited you to examine her like a therapist, to get to the bottom of her psyche.