The Author

By J. Rickley Dumm

Except for a 1962 primrose Cadillac convertible, disgraced and discredited Pulitzer Prize winning author, Antonio Delgado, has virtually lost everything, and on the edge of losing himself.
He suffers bereavement and pain, strife and turmoil, misery and defeat in the depths of hopelessness from which he, himself, created.
His wife is

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Feb 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999544037

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

one

Southern California desert, 1889.

It was still and quiet, the air thin and arid, the desert floor sunbaked, and as bleak and barren as a planet far, far away. Sand and sagebrush, bones and pebbles, scattered rocks and fossilized sticks; wormwood as far as any eye could ever see. If anything or anyone lived on this God forsaken land it couldn’t be human.

It wasn’t!

From under a large rock and a patch of brush, a prairie dog emerged and sat for a moment on its hindquarters; its nose twitched in its own rhythmic cadence, its eyes searched with hope — as if there was actually food in the hell-hot spot it called home. The prairie dog dropped to its fours, scampering about then stopped, abruptly, scratching the surface of a heated, hardened parcel of sand and quickly scrummed a teeny critter of some kind and feasted while its nose and eyes remained active in pursuit of another morsel.

It wasn’t to be!

The hardened, cracked desert floor began to lightly tremble; grains of loose sand bounced. The prairie dog froze for an instant, its brain knowing, however it did, that something familiar came its way, uncommon, larger and heavier than it. The quaking evolved to a rumble beneath its tiny paws and it dashed back to its rock and brushwood dwelling.

The one-ton iron wheels of a Southern Pacific Overland locomotive thundered and rolled over the tracks, its cowcatcher traveling inches over the rails! Indeed, this train was a billion times larger and heavier than that prairie dog.

Simultaneously, equally thundering horses hooves urgently beat the ground, crushing anything in their paths, though there wasn’t much but sand and grit.

Two tandem horses each powered four heavy-duty wagons over the earth with deliberate intent. They hastily came forward at maximum pace angling for the six-car train from the rear, two each on either side of the railroad tracks. Tugging one particular wagon, the horses possessed a distinct brand: Jll. The driver of this wagon wore a scarlet red cloth mask and he had bright, engaging blue eyes that had a purpose as he gazed through the eyeholes.

Accompanying the wagons were several riders on horseback. In all, including the wagon drivers, there were 18 men, and each of them, likewise, wore loose cloth masks tied behind their heads and secured beneath their wind-swept hats. Distinctive among this band of men was all wagon drivers wore scarlet red masks, as did eight of the riders. Six of the riders wore plain, neutral cloth coverings.

The Southern Pacific Overland train rallied forward, seemingly unstoppable. Directly behind the locomotive and coal car was a passenger car carrying a dozen men and women inside, and behind them, two mail cars and a caboose.

Like the horses, the drivers and riders had no fear; their resolve had been set days in advance, and like the horses, the men’s eyes were wide with eagerness.

One of the horseback riders wearing a scarlet red mask had broken off earlier, galloping at breakneck speed as he approached from the side. He soon transferred onto the rear of the passenger car and unhitched it from the first mail car. The front half of the train separated, the mail cars and caboose slowed as the locomotive powered forward.

The wagons and riders began to gain on their target immediately and it wasn’t long before the doors of the mail cars slid open! Standing in the path of the train robbers, protecting whatever was inside those cars, were four men in each mail car: Two soldiers and two Pinkerton guards with guns and rifles at the ready. Of course, that was no surprise to the onrushing, gun-blazing train robbers.

A flurry of bullets smashed the glass of the windows and filled the doorways of the cars like locusts. The Pinkertons, in their dark suits and derby hats, were overwhelmed as were the soldiers. A couple of the riders in the scarlet red masks were shot off their horses and one wagon driver was hit. All but one of the Pinkerton guards fell and two of the soldiers, though only wounded, were rendered helpless as the six riders wearing the plain masks and two of the scarlet red riders boarded the slowly rolling remnants of the once and former six car train to somewhere.

On board both mail cars was what the train robbers came for: Eight Wells Fargo & Company trunks. One trunk in each of the cars was opened by a shotgun blast to their padlocks and, as expected, the contents revealed gleaming gold ingots packed to the brim, and a Wells Fargo insignia uniformly embedded at one end of each bar. The ingots were twelve inches long and three inches wide and pyramided to a one-and-a-half inch flat top; they each must have weighed twenty pounds.

The blue eyed wagon driver, the leader of this bunch, called out to the men to quicken their pace. Each driver, save the one who was wounded, and another man assisted those on board the mail cars, loading of the extremely heavy trunks down flat wood planks, maneuvering and dragging each trunk with rope and elbow grease, onto the wagon beds while three riders rounded up the horses and riders that had been shot or wounded.

Two trunks per wagon were loaded. Three of the scarlet red masked riders assisted the two wounded soldiers and the injured Pinkerton guard from the cars, taking them a good distance away from the three cars while the others still on board the mail cars lighted long fuses on sticks of dynamite.

The drivers whipped their horses, turning and began rolling out. The riders mounted their steeds and headed away in the same direction from whence they’d come.

Gaining some fashion of speed with the extremely heavy loads, the tandem horses pulled and strained as their hooves beat the hot, sandy earth like drums.

Soon, behind the fleeing drivers and horseback riders, and before the eyes of the three wounded, unsuccessful protectors of the gold, the two mail cars, and half the caboose, were blown to smithereens! Pieces of lumber, iron nuts and bolts, and twisted steel rose and twirled into the dry desert air amid smoke and fire, raining down onto the desert floor. The wounded men rolled onto their stomachs, covering their heads with their arms.

The wagon drivers encouraged their tandem pullers with their reins, shouting and hollering. The horses responded, unconditionally, struggling with every step, their heads bobbing up-and-down, their eyes excitedly wild, their mouths open, nostrils flaring, wet with phlegm!

• • •

An old carousel horse’s head, eyes wide, mouth open and its nostril flared, moved upward-then-down-and-up, continuously, on an old European-style merry-go-round. Irritating harpsichord music seeped from speakers situated somewhere on the colorful, six-foot diameter, cylindrical drum that drove the apparatus. On the platform of the carousel there were elegant, flamboyant benches, some facing one another, single chairs, and of course a myriad of carousel horses in various bright colors that were thickly painted to a very high gloss, and in a multitude of designs that conveyed a mix of pleasant-to-unfriendly images, from cute and normal to wide, fiery eyes, open mouths, and splayed nostrils.

On one of the more pleasant-looking carousel horses, riding together, were 14-year-old Dalton Kavanaugh IV and his five-year-old cousin, Tiffany Addison. Neither appeared particularly enthusiastic about riding the merry-go-round as if they’d jockeyed and lapped upon it a thousand times before. Sitting nearby on another more agitated-looking horse was Tiffany’s older brother, nine-year-old Corey.

Dalton rested his chin on Tiffany’s head, protectively holding her aboard as the carousel looped on its axis.

Rancho Mirage, California. The Present.

two

Orange County, California.

A primrose 1962 vintage Cadillac convertible wound its way through a picturesque cemetery. There were many trees that shaded the resting places of those departed, some who had gone home too soon, gone before their time. The primrose Caddy with its top up, slowly came to a stop and a man got out with a single pink rose in hand and came forward into the serene community of deceased loved ones.

Antonio Tony Delgado approached and gently laid the rose onto the base of a headstone on which was the name, Judith Simmons Delgado, beloved wife and mother, and the dates of her lifetime, she one of the loved ones home too soon.

Delgado knelt down, his thoughts unto himself about his beloved. He was an attractive early forties man, had a rugged, earthy quality about him and, at that moment, memories of his wife raced through his mind, the absence pouring through his sad eyes — the pain, the loss, and the love.

I haven’t seen or talked to Rache in a while. He confessed, softly. It’s how it is now. He stayed in silence for another brief time then stood, placed a couple of fingers to his lips and laid them atop the headstone. See you soon.

He turned and slowly walked away without much vitality. There probably wasn’t a great deal of understanding, or shall it be said, perception, into his failing identity except for his personal journey in a living landscape of loss, choices, and germinating intentions kept within. What was next for him? Antonio Delgado seemed a tragic figure but wasn’t a completely broken man; just fractured and cracked, and at the moment, breakable.

The Orange County Register was established in 1905, and was now located in Anaheim, California, on Lewis Street. The OC Register was a three-time Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper, and the county’s most trusted source of local and national news and information.

In a particular windowless section of the building, Obituaries, Delgado sat in a cubicle on the edge of a scattered maze of other cubicles. He was commiserating with a grieving couple, a husband and wife in their early thirties who had just recently lost a loved one. Though cordial and understanding of their loss, Delgado seemed detached as the grieving wife dabbed her misty eyes with a tissue.

Is there anything else we need to include? The husband asked as he held his wife’s hand.

It’s beautiful, sir. Delgado warmly responded. Is there anything else you two would like to add or furnish? A photo perhaps?

The wife immediately shook her head. It was a quick and certain answer.

I understand . . . Your notice will appear Friday after the holiday as requested.

As was Delgado’s incessant working nature, and current mental state, his cheap metal desk was nearly a shambles of paperwork, a few folders, some used and recently purchased scratch-out lottery tickets, a PC and keyboard, and a dictionary. Standing out amid the mess was a 5X7 framed family photo of his deceased wife, Judy, and their teenage daughter, Rachel, during a happier time while on vacation in Hawai’i.

The husband assisted his wife from her chair, and they all stood.

Your family, Mr. Delgado? The husband asked, gesturing at the photograph.

Delgado paused, briefly. It was. My wife passed away about two years ago.

The tune of death played in the cubicle for an instant.

Oh . . . I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t . . .

Not at all, sir.

Thank you, Mr. Delgado. The wife said, managing a forced grin.

Yes, thank you. The husband shook his hand.

Sure . . . Bye now. It was all Delgado could offer even knowing their devastating loss.

The couple left and together, arm-in-arm, slowly walked through the maze of cubicles and the cacophony of phones and chatter to the elevators. Antonio Delgado watched after them, his own memories stirring and colliding with theirs. He sat back down, looking at the photograph before sliding the recently purchased scratch-out lottery tickets over and grabbing a loose nickel that was there only for that reason. He scratched. No luck.

What was new?

He discarded them in the wastebasket.

Of course, you’re going to share your good fortune with me. Came a voice behind him.

Cheryl Neagle, looking a bit weary herself stood in the opening. She was Delgado’s supervisor, a contemporary and an old friend.

Don’t count on it. He turned and smirked in reply.

Referencing the husband and wife, Cheryl asked, Were they your last ones today?

Hope so. Drunk driver hit their little girl . . . What’s up?

Jesus! What a happy place. Cheryl exhaled, feeling awful for the young couple’s senseless loss, taking a few steps into the cubicle and sat down. Manny’s going back on active duty.

Delgado was a mite surprised. I thought he put in for release and retirement.

Shit, Tony, you know Manny, he just doesn’t want to let those he left over there down. He swears this is his last tour.

Delgado nodded but knew there was more to this telling. And?

Aside from her fatigue she was now in an apologetic state, hesitant. This’s Toby’s last year of high school so . . . he and I are going to move in with my folks. She was feeling like shit! There’s a young couple who want to rent, so . . . well, I’ve got to pack and clean right away, so . . .

Naturally, Delgado saw her discomfort and struggle. Cheryl . . . I understand, don’t fret. You guys have been great to me. You’re a helluva friend, you always have been.

Going on twenty years.

Delgado nodded, glancing at the family photo. "Where’s it go, huh? ‘Time’s fun when you’re having flies’ a friend of mine once turned it. I’ll clear out this afternoon; shouldn’t take but five minutes."

Cheryl was genuinely upset about this and consoling at the same time. What’s the expression — one door closes, another one opens?

And don’t let the doorknob . . . Delgado quipped, not finishing the adage.

Cheryl stood. Listen, why don’t you take a few days, she offered, now through the holiday; in fact, make it Tuesday; Mondays always suck, right? Julia can do obits for you. She stepped back to the opening, and turned back. Oh, I took the liberty of contacting a former colleague — he has a room for rent and the price is right. He’s intrigued it’s you; he’d love to trade stories.

Yeah. So many have.

There was a knowing moment of silence between them until:

I didn’t mean anything by . . . Cheryl tried to apologize again but Delgado stopped her.

I know you didn’t. He gave her a grateful smile. I appreciate it. I’ll get the number when I’m back, Cheryl.

Cheryl started away and turned back again, the guilt dripping from her expression and deportment. Do you have someplace to go? I mean, you know you’re welcome at my folks’ for Thanksgiving dinner.

I’m good, kiddo.

Cheryl felt compelled and came to him, and they embraced as old, dear friends do. She held him tight for several seconds and Delgado appreciated the gesture and the warmth. They parted.

Tony . . . have you thought about seeing Rachel again? How long has it been?

He shrugged. Long time.

You have her number, you know where she lives and works; she’s just down the road.

Delgado was blank, a powerless, deserted gaze. That thought had never left him though he didn’t seem determined.

A few minutes later, Delgado rode down in the OC Register’s freight elevator. It was how he usually left the building; he could avoid any journalists and curious-seekers that might suggest a friendly lunch or dinner so they could later go home or meet with others and brag and boast — or sworn they’d ridiculed — that they knew and had spent time with Antonio Delgado in deep conversation about his infamous exploits.

Outside, the sun was twenty degrees low on the far western horizon when he exited the building at the rear of the newspaper. He beat a path toward the parking lot then his eyes caught the sight of a sleeping homeless man bundled and huddled against a neighboring building, his shopping cart loaded down with all the belongings he had in the world. It was probably more than Delgado had to collect later at Cheryl’s, and it was a sobering vision to Tony. ‘There but for the Grace of God . . . ’ he thought, yet somewhere inside him he felt close to this man’s plight. Delgado continued on then stopped and pulled a $20.00 bill from his pocket and went over to the homeless chap.

Sir? . . . Hey, my friend.

The man’s eyes wearily opened; he was startled at first, grabbing a piece of his shopping cart.

No, no, it’s okay. Delgado assured him. Here, he put the bill in the man’s hand, get something to eat, maybe some juice or milk; no booze.

That homeless man was near shock! Twenty dollars was probably more than he’d seem at once for a long, long time. Perhaps somewhere inside him he was grateful but there was little shown. Perhaps he didn’t know how.

It’s okay . . . Stay warm. Delgado conveyed a slight nod and a tight grin and left him.

He continued into the parking area, heading for a familiar ride, his classic 1962 primrose Cadillac convertible. Before getting in, Delgado glanced back at the homeless gent. The man waved his thanks and gratefulness. If not better off, he was a bit more gladdened.

Whoever Antonio Delgado was, whatever he was, he felt good for the first time in a long while, and grateful his primrose Caddy was no shopping cart.

three

Coachella Valley, Thanksgiving Thursday.

An expressionless Antonio Delgado drove is vintage primrose Caddy convertible, top down, along the Interstate 10 toward Palm Springs, California, a historical and ecological wonder as proclaimed by desert historians.

Some historians believed that the name Coachella was fabricated, yet still others contended that was questionable. The debate remained, however, as to the origin of the Valley’s name as many maps held the area as Conchilla, a Spanish word for ‘seashell.’

Seashell?

Truly! The valley was once a portion of an immense inland sea, and fossilized mollusk shells could still be seen and found in those out-of-the-way areas of the valley and in the foothills of the surrounding mountains. Local lore saw the alteration for Conchilla to Coachella as a gaffe made by mapmakers in the employ of the Southern Pacific Railroad’s surveyors, and thus, chose to call it Coachella, a misspelled name, rather than the old-style Conchilla. Be that as it may, it was referred to and established ‘Coachella’ thereafter.

This was a land long possessed and inhabited by the Cahuilla Indians who arrived in this territory, now called Southern California, some 2000-to-2500 years ago, a land that ranged from what is now known as the San Bernardino basin, the San Jacinto Mountains, and of course, Coachella