Chapter 9

"What's happening, man?" Ron Green asked, and Marcia wished she could melt into the ground.

The man on the front stoop of the dilapidated farmhouse eyed Ron, sweating in his baggy suit, for a long moment. Then he turned his attention to Marcia, noting her camera. He took a sip from the can of beer in his Big, knobby-knuckled hand.

"What are you, the CIA?"

Ron laughed. "Hell, no. We're from the Banner. I'm doing a story on hippies."

The man was tall and thin. He was dressed in a dashiki, from which the colors had almost entirely faded, tattered jeans, and a homemade necklace of unusual design. Marcia had sensed something familiar about him at first, but she had come to the conclusion that it was his correspondence to a type that made him seem familiar: with his drooping mustache, furrowed face, and stringy hair, he could easily have filled the role of a consumptive old gun fighter in a western film. She guessed that he was about her age, but he looked as if he'd led a rougher life.

"I ain't seen any," he said, with just a suggestion of a smile.

"Well." Ron seemed at a loss. He scanned the littered yard and made an abortive gesture at the former school bus, brightly decorated with metal-flake designs, that dominated the scene. "I mean, what do you do for a living?"

"I make jewelry. Maybe you'd like to buy some, huh?"

Ron ignored the question. "And you're living here with a bunch of other people, right, like in a commune?"

"Got to scrape up the rent somehow."

"Well, that's what I'm talking about," Ron said, showing a touch of exasperation. "A lot of people like you have moved in lately, and I wondered why. What's the big attraction?"

Marcia expected that they would be kicked off the property shortly. She had focused her camera by estimate, and now, without raising it to her eye, she took a shot of the man on the stoop. He noted the clunk of the shutter and looked at her with amusement.

"You want a beer?" he asked her, and she shook her head. "You would," he stated to Ron; then, raising his voice, "Alice! Bring a couple beers."

"Yeah, that would be all right," Ron said. "Kind of hot, isn't it?"

The man studied the tree tops across the road as if giving serious consideration to the question. A very well-developed blonde girl of fifteen or so who looked as if she had just crawled out of bed, shuffled out with two cans of beer. Marcia got her picture, too.

"This your old lady?" Ron asked.

"This is my daughter. Alice, this gentleman wants to make your father famous."

"How do you do?" Ron said.

Alice gave him a blank look and turned back into the house, letting the torn screen door slam behind her.

Ron popped the tab of his can and drank thirstily. "How many people you got living here?" he finally asked.

"It varies."

Marcia believed that Ron's method wasn't going to lead anywhere, so she interrupted. "I wonder if I could get some pictures of you with the jewelry you've designed, Mr.-?"

"Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton. Call me Alex."

She was unable to suppress a nervous giggle. He smiled at her, not unkindly. "You want to see my driver's license?"

"No, I-it surprised me, that's all. I'm Marcia Creighton. This is Ron Green."

He nodded, unwinding himself from the stoop. He towered over Ron. "Come on inside," he said, leading the way.

Marcia followed after Ron, unlimbering the electronic flash from her bag. She hoped Ron would take her cue and get Hamilton to talk about his work. It seemed the only way they could gain any information. Otherwise, he would just continue to spar with Ron and make fun of his questions.

The interior of the house suggested more a campsite than a home. The sparse, threadbare furniture that had probably been included in the rental was outnumbered by assorted packs, sleeping bags, and miscellaneous luggage. Numerous beer and soft-drink cans, fast-food cartons, and overflowing ashtrays lay on or near the coffee table in the living room.

"I hope you'll excuse the condition of the house," Hamilton said with grave politeness, noting Marcia's automatic survey. "We weren't expecting company."

"Where is everybody?" Ron asked.

"They come and go."

Marcia kept her mouth shut. Ron's ineptitude made her want to scream, and Hamilton's sarcastic apology-typing her, as it did as a suburban, middle-class housewife-had stung. She fought the impulse to turn and walk out to the car. She had started the day off badly, that was the real problem.

She'd awakened on the couch, with Lucy crowding her off it. Melody had verified her guess that she'd taken the dog for a walk last night, but Marcia hadn't heard them return. Ken hadn't returned at all. She made an effort to forget the disorders of her private life.

Hamilton led them into the dining room, which was surprisingly uncluttered. On a mahogany table in the center of the room lay an array of crude, barbaric jewelry. Hamilton didn't believe in prettiness. Wood and iron and leather predominated as his basic materials. Nora Curtis would have liked his work.

"How did you get started doing this stuff?" Ron asked.

Hamilton shrugged. "I learned it from the Indians, out on the Rosebud Reservation."

Marcia was jolted. Hamilton-was pulling Ron's leg, because the work bore no resemblance to any American Indian crafts she'd ever seen; and the Sioux didn't make trinkets for tourists. But why had he chosen the name of a reservation not far from the commune where she had once lived? She studied his face hard, trying to pin down the elusive hint of familiarity she thought she had seen. She couldn't. She was flustered when his eyes met hers.

Trying to cover her confusion, she picked up a piece from the table. It was a spectacularly ugly thing, a thick cylinder of coarse leather attached to an iron chain.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A bull-pizzle," Hamilton said.

"What-oh!" She put it down hastily.

"Huh?" Ron asked.

"The penis of a bull," Hamilton explained.

Ron laughed. "Christ. Who'd wear a thing like that?"

"You'd be surprised. Among the Delaware Indians, who lived where this house now stands, a stone phallus was a common ornament. It had religious significance for them. The early colonists, of course, were quite put off by that sort of thing. They saw the natives not only as heathens, but as downright devil-worshippers, and that made their extermination a Christian duty."

Hamilton had momentarily sounded like an anthropology professor lecturing a backward student, and Marcia realized that he had been duping both of them with his slow-witted act. Maybe he hadn't been making an idle wisecrack when he'd said he'd learned his craft from the Indians; she was, after all, no expert on primitive art.

Ron didn't seem impressed. "You sell much of this stuff?" he asked.

"I make a living."

Hamilton had apparently tired of his flirtation with responsive answers, and Marcia ignored the two of them as she gave the jewelry a closer examination. One piece intrigued her, although she couldn't say exactly why. It was composed of simple triangles of polished black stone, each about the size and weight of a quarter.

"You like that?" Hamilton asked.

She hesitated, made wary by her gaffe.

"You can have it," he said, before she could think of an appropriate reply.

"Why, thanks, that's kind of you. Maybe I could buy something from you, for my daughter-"

"One for her, too," he said, smiling, producing a necklace that seemed identical to the one she held.

She didn't know what to say. Hamilton seemed as poor as a rat, and she had intended the purchase as an act of charity. She glanced at Ron Green in the vain hope that he might do or say something to ease her embarrassment, but he seemed merely annoyed that he wasn't getting any presents.

"Does it have any ... particular significance?" she asked, still wary.

Ron snickered at her discomfiture, but Hamilton overlooked it.

"Everything has some significance," Hamilton said. "Or none, depending on how you look at it."

She wasn't satisfied with the answer, but she decided not to pursue the question. She put on one of the heck-laces and went to the window to inspect the other in a better light.

The window gave her a view of the wide yard, backed by outbuildings that were in even greater disrepair than the house itself. She saw Alice, who was combing the long, glossy black hair of a goat. This must be the commune that Alvin Walker, the dairy farmer, had spoken about. He had remarked that people who took such extravagantly good care of a goat couldn't have mutilated his cattle.

A horrible thought struck her, and she interrupted Ron's limping interview. "Where did you get the material for that phallic necklace?" she blurted.

"A slaughterhouse," Hamilton answered easily. "Where else?"

He could field her questions as deftly as Ron's. But what had she expected-that he would turn white and confess? She didn't believe his casual answer. Finding that item in an area where cattle were being mutilated was too great a coincidence. In addition, everything about Alexander Hamilton was as implausible as his name. He was too old, too sophisticated, to be merely an itinerant maker of trinkets. She began to suspect that he was being so hospitable only because he really had something to hide. An innocent person would have taken offense at Ron Green's approach and sent them packing long ago.

She kept her suspicions to herself, but took some pictures of Hamilton with his work.

"Could we go out into the back yard? I'd like to get a shot of your daughter with that goat," Marcia suggested, at last.

"Goat?" Ron was bewildered.

"She's a pet, really," Hamilton said, taking them to the back door. "Alice was allergic to cow's milk, when she was a baby. The goat has been a member of the family ever since."

As they walked across the yard, Marcia could believe him. She had seldom seen an animal more clearly pampered. The blonde girl appeared to be talking to it as she lovingly brushed its radiant coat. Alice's own hair, Marcia reflected, could have benefited greatly from half as much attention. The goat wore a necklace that seemed to be Hamilton's work, but more elaborate in design and skillful in execution than anything she had seen inside. She could believe that it was, as it appeared to be, made of gold.

"Look at the goat," Marcia directed Alice, when the girl persisted in staring sullenly at the camera. "And try to smile."

"I'm a mess," Alice protested, quite accurately.

Hamilton laughed. "That's just what they want, honey. Pictures of the dirty hippies. Wouldn't it look better for your paper if we took the goat into the living room?"

Marcia hesitated, because that was precisely the kind of picture Higgins would have wanted. Before she could sort out her feelings and answer the question, Ron Green unexpectedly blew up.

"Look, buddy, I've had just about enough of your goddamned sarcastic bullshit. If you don't want to talk to us, fine, just say so. But I gave you plenty of opportunity to explain your lifestyle, to convince me and the people who read my paper that you're not a bunch of weirdos and dopefiends, and all I get for my trouble is a lot of sarcastic crap. Let's get the hell out of here, Marcia."

"Drop in again, anytime," Hamilton called after them, still laughing. "If you want a story, why don't you ask your mayor to explain his lifestyle? Or the president of your bank? Or your photographer?"

"Wise-ass son of a bitch," Ron snarled as he slammed the door of his car.

Marcia was annoyed with herself for having followed Ron so docilely. She didn't agree with Ron, not entirely, and Hamilton's parting shot had struck home, filling her with guilt and embarrassment. She was ashamed of herself for coming here as a representative of the establishment press, ashamed of her own lifestyle-even though Hamilton couldn't have known anything about it. The fact that she was still in possession of the two necklaces made her feel even more guilty. She didn't look back as Ron stomped on the accelerator of his battered old car and took them off like fleeing bank robbers.

"How did you like that bastard?" he asked, after they had driven awhile in uncomfortable silence.

"I thought you were a little bit rough on him. After all, he did invite us into his house-"

"Yeah, he must've thought we were more fun than television. Did you ever try milking a he-goat?"