The old museum is dark on the next afternoon when I’m working and Oliver shows up again. The old coaches give off the scent of disintegrating leather and dusty wood, and these coaches pulled here and there along with ox carts and buggies make the museum look like a crazy intersection from the past. A wall of yokes surmount windows with parade dioramas. I like looking in at those dioramas sometimes when I can’t stand writing anymore.
“What’s that beauty over there?” asks a man as he comes in with his son. He points to a glossy black coach.
“That’s Maximillian and Charlotte’s coach. Everybody likes that one,” I explain wearily.
I try to return to my writing, the Jose V. Piro story, while the boy hollers in the museum.
Chet sticks his head in. “Vig, the old timer is insisting he wants to come in.”
“Let him in,” I say, “It’s okay.”
“Howdy old timer,” I pump the old man’s filthy hand in a hearty manner.
“Can I take a seat?” Oliver plops down before I can answer.
“Sure, sure. I was interested in your lost gold mine stories last time you were here.”
“Oh, were ya? You didn’t seem interested.”
“I was. I was.”
“Well, most of the old cowboys in Arizona dreamed of being miners and finding a rich vein.”
He tells me he’s been around Arizona for a long time and that is something. He didn’t get let out of some insane asylum in Jersey, and I suppose he could be an old miner who knows all these things about lost mines.
“I’ll bet you made a lot of money in Arizona.” That was the way. Get him to talk about his money. Flatter him, too.
“Oh, no. No, no, Vig, is it? Isn’t Vig, your name?”
“Yeah. Short for Viglietti, my last name.”
“Well, Vig, I was not successful in my lifetime. Not in love nor money. I do wish I’d followed a few leads when I was young, though. Those might have led me somewhere fine. In the money side of the issue. Never had no love interest that panned out, either. I regret that too.”
“What leads were those of the non-romantic type?”
“Well, I had a few things told to me when I was young, but I ignored them, thinking I were smarter. Those were my opportunities. Knocking.”
“And now you think they would have been worth something? Do you mean investments?”
“No. I wouldn’t call them investment, exactly.”
Old cagey coot, poopy pants dude. He has something to hide! He has something important that he knows. Damn, fucking hell. That old coot knows something that might be worth a fortune. At least he thinks it could be. Is he crazy? Or crazy like a fox? Why tell me at all? Does he need someone young to help him? The old guy is second-guessing himself about something he’d heard a long time earlier. I can figure that much from the way he’s talking. Now, the old man has to get it outta him and tell a younger man. Sure, that makes sense. End of his life and he wants to make sure he completes things he ought to have done. Put an end to his story, so to speak.
“Well, maybe someday I’ll up and tell you. Who knows?” Oliver says.
What the fuck? He’s a sneaky old bastard, there’s no doubt. Goddamn him. “Who knows?” I say that back casually enough.
“Gonna go around the museum now, if it’s all right with you,” Oliver announces.
“Sure, be my guest. Sorry about the loud kid.”
“Ah, that’s okay. I like loud kids.”
I could strangle the old stink bomb. What does he know? What’s it worth? Gotta get it out of him. Only thing to do is butter him up.