Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (latest books to read txt) 📗

“Good,” said Maggie. “We came home through Venice.” She was smiling, and Cal wondered if she was going to blab.

Eddie had mixed Old Fashioneds instead of Manhattans because Nelly liked the sweeter taste, and they’d brought them to the table. “Wanted to see the wells, huh? Might as well get to know them. All that oil will be yours someday.”

“If there’s any left,” said Cal.

Frowning, Eddie stared at the boy. “Long time before those wells run dry.”

“I’d like the beach better without them,” said Lizzie. “They’re ugly.”

“Maybe so, little one,” said Eddie, “but that car you run around in wouldn’t go far without them. And don’t forget Uncle Willie’s new church. That’s going to cost a bundle.” He looked at Lizzie. “See all the good things we can do with oil.”

“You hadn’t mentioned building a church for Willie,” said Nelly.

“You’re the first to know.”

“Can we afford it?”

Eddie laughed. “Not much we can’t afford anymore.”

The Roscomare Road house was close to the apex of the Bel Air hills, a sprawling single level rancho that looked west over hills and canyons toward the ocean between Santa Monica and Malibu. Eddie owned five acres, which reached to the bottom of the canyon, and he’d fenced it off to keep the critters away. When wire fencing didn’t work he replaced it with chain link, which was better but not by much. The critters had been there before the place called Bel Air and had no intention of relocating. Raccoons and skunks were a nuisance but not as much as coyotes, which came up looking for any cats foolish enough to go prowling.

“Dad said Henry Callender was going to pay for the new church, calls it a temple,” said Cal, digging into a beef enchilada.

They were five at table for enchiladas and side dishes ordered from Castillo’s on Wilshire by Lupe, the housekeeper/cook. They all liked Mexican food, which was growing more popular as newcomers from the East overcame their prejudices. Willie sometimes joined them Thursdays, but phoned earlier to say he had too much to do. The success of the Church of the New Gospel had enabled him to move from the former grocery off Wilshire into a larger, former Lutheran church, on Beverly Boulevard.

“Who is Henry Callender?” asked Nelly.

Cal shot a look at his uncle, surprised he’d never mentioned Callender. “The man who found the oil, who showed Uncle Eddie where to drill.”

“That’s not the way it was,” snapped Eddie.

“Dad said you two are going fifty-fifty, that Callender was going to use his money to finance the temple.”

Annoyed, Eddie went to the sideboard to refresh his drink. “Henry Callender doesn’t have enough money to buy himself a new suit of clothes.”

“Eddie,” said Nelly, “who is he? I’ve never heard that name before.”

“One of Willie’s crazy Soldiers, that’s all. Said there might be oil on the Abbot Kinney land. I drilled and hit. End of story.”

Cal was staring at his uncle, trying to square the two stories. “He tells Dad he’s going to build a temple with his oil profits and you say he’s broke. I don’t get it.”

“He’s goofy,” said Eddie, louder now. “Obviously you never met him. A goofy old miner tetched from being out in the sun too long.” He glanced at his wife. “Damn good enchiladas, Nell. You need your drink freshened while I’m up?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Speaking of the oil business,” said Eddie, trying to change the subject, “Cal—you decided yet what you’re going to study at USC?”

Cal gazed past his uncle, out the window and down toward the canyon. “Not sure yet.”

“Business administration, that’s the thing. They’ve opened a new business school down there. Asked me to give a few lectures.”

“I didn’t know that, honey,” said Nelly.

“What they really want is money. I told them to ask at the chamber. They’ll have someone. What do you think, Cal—about business school, I mean.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s a place for you in the company when you’re ready. But you gotta know numbers to run a business. I was running your grandma’s ranch long before she died. Learned everything I needed to set up down here.”

“A place for me in which company?”

Eddie laughed. “Any one you want.”

Cal knew of at least four: real estate, oil, construction, and bootlegging. He wasn’t supposed to know about the fourth, but knew from Nelly, who told him everything. The cases in the garage that said “toxic,” were toxic all right. Every kind of liquor, mostly from Canada, was being landed at Tijuana and Rosarito and smuggled up the coast on what was called the “Bootleg Highway.” Tecate, east of Tijuana, had built a distillery turning out 175 proof gin, with little of it going to the Mexicans, who preferred tequila.

“Uncle Eddie,” said Cal, uncomfortable, “do you owe Henry Callender money?”

Eddie stared hard at his nephew, a boy who wedded the dark good looks of the Mull men to the sandy hair and sunny disposition of his dead mother. Of course, he’d welcomed him into the family: Nelly and the girls loved him, and Willie wasn’t much of a father. But he’d begun to annoy his uncle, spending too much time with the girls, influencing them in ways he shouldn’t. The sooner he went off to college, the better. Why had he taken them to Venice without a word to anyone, brought Lizzie home criticizing the oil fields? Something strange about the boy. Scarlet fever? He still wore signs of it on his face. Once at dinner they’d heard a scratching at the screen and looked up to see four eyes staring in. Nelly screamed, and Eddie was ready to go for his .22. Cal stood up, strode out through the kitchen and they saw him pick up two raccoons as if they were puppies, not wild critters with teeth and claws and maybe rabies. Dropped them back in the canyon and came back with a story about how the poor things were lost. Crazy.

“Of course, he’s entitled to something, and I’m taking care of it. Now can