The Wild Girl: The Notebooks of Ned Giles, 1932 Page 5

  “A lot of good that did me,” I said. “I got fired over your little prank.”

  “I know you did, Giles,” Tolley said. “You took the fall for me. Isn’t that what you gangsters from Chicago say? And it was damned decent of you, too. Believe me, Father would fire me as his son if he possibly could. You know he can hardly wait for another war to break out so he can ship me off to fight for democracy. ‘That’ll make a man out of you, Tolbert!’ he likes to say. Or get me killed, which to Father would still be preferable to having a fairy for a son. Chasing wild Apaches, for God sakes! Have you ever heard of anything more absurd? But tell me, Giles, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to apply for a job on the expedition.”

  “Splendid!” Tolley said. “What a wonderful coincidence that our paths should cross again. This gives me the opportunity to repay you for the trouble I’ve caused.” He turned to the desk clerk, snapping his fingers officiously. “Put Mr. Giles on my bill, Mr. Browning. And get a bellhop down here to take his bags up to my suite.”

  “Very well, sir,” Mr. Browning said.

  “Where are your bags, old sport?” Tolley asked me.

  “Look, I appreciate the offer, Tolley,” I said. “But you don’t owe me anything. I’ll sleep in my car. I’m used to it. Thanks anyway.”

  “Nonsense!” Tolley said. “I won’t hear another word about it. I’ve got a spare room in my suite, and it’s all yours, Giles. And don’t worry, I won’t bother you, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, you’re not my type at all.”

  “That’s good, Tolley,” I said. “Because I like girls.”

  Tolley Phillips laughed his high, whinnying laugh. “Well, of course you do, Giles. I know that. It’s probably why I don’t find you more attractive.”

  The desk clerk put a registration form down on the counter in front of me. Having been privy to enough private conversations at the club, and no slouch myself in the discretion department, I appreciated the man’s complete mastery of the poker face; not so much as an eyebrow twitched to suggest that he had heard a single word of what Tolley had just said. “Here you are, sir,” he said to me, “if you’ll just fill this out and sign at the bottom.”

  “You’ve arrived at a most propitious moment, Giles,” Tolley said. “They’re having a town meeting tonight in which the mayor of this charming little burg is going to lay out the details of the Great Apache Expedition. We’ll go together. We’ll see what we can do about getting you hired on. What do you say, Mr. Browning, will they be able to find a position for my young friend here?”

  “I could not say, sir,” Mr. Browning answered coolly. “However, there does appear to be a great deal of competition for a limited number of positions. And those are mostly going to the locals.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll just see about that,” Tolley said. “The name Tolbert Phillips carries a bit of weight around here, you know. Why, were it not for my family, there would be no train service to this hellhole. Now, Giles, I insist that you go on up to the room and get yourself cleaned up. Then meet me back down here in the bar.” Tolley winked and looked around conspiratorially. “I have a little something that will liven up our lemonade.”

  And so I installed myself in Tolley Phillips’s suite. I took a hot shower, changed clothes, and met him downstairs in the bar. The place was noisy, crowded with recently arrived volunteers for the expedition; a certain excited, festive atmosphere prevailed. Tolley ordered lemonades for us into which he surreptitiously poured from a pint bottle of tequila. “Picked this up across the border,” he said, flashing the bottle at me. “Ever had a margarita, Giles?”

  Though I’ve spent time with my college buddies in some of Chicago’s speakeasies, drinking contraband whiskey and sundry homemade rotgut concoctions, I’d never tasted tequila before. Tolley raised his glass. “I have a hunch we’re going to become the best of friends, old sport,” he said. “And, of course, I mean that in a strictly platonic way. Here’s to our adventure in old Mexico.”

  We clicked glasses and took a drink. “That’s not bad,” I admitted.

  “Not bad? You’re damn right it’s not bad,” Tolley said. “Now, I’ve been giving some serious thought to your situation, Giles. And I’ve decided that we should get you signed on for the expedition as my valet. Each of the volunteers is allowed to bring one servant with him.”

  “Your valet? Gee, I don’t know about that, Tolley. I don’t have much experience in that area. What does a valet do, exactly?”

  “Oh, don’t be put off by the term, old sport,” Tolley said. “It’s just a matter of semantics. You know I had my own valet growing up. He would lay out my clothes every morning, and help me to dress. It was the first inkling I had that I liked the touch of a man.”

  “I’m definitely not going to dress you, Tolley,” I said. “Let’s get that clear right up front.”

  Tolley laughed again. “Of course you aren’t, Giles,” he said. “Wouldn’t ask you to. Quite capable of dressing myself. Perhaps we’ll call you my assistant, then, rather than my valet. Does that sound better to you?”

  “Not that much, really.”

  “You can be my man Friday, so to speak,” Tolley said. “Part secretary, part valet, part groom—”

  “Part groom?”

  “Yes, the expedition committee encouraged volunteers to bring their own mounts with them,” Tolley explained. “And so Father sent along three of his prize polo ponies for me to ride into Mexico. But I’m afraid that I had to dismiss my groom in St. Louis. Fellow had a bit of a drinking problem. Do you have any experience with horses, Giles?”

  “Hardly any,” I said. “Just the little I learned about them on the ranch. I grew up in Chicago, Tolley. I’m definitely not qualified to be the groom for your polo ponies. In fact, the job as your assistant is beginning to sound less and less appealing.”

  “I treat my people very well,” said Tolley, mildly offended. “And if I may say so, Giles, you’re hardly in a position to be particular. You do want to get on the expedition, don’t you?”

  “I’d do just about anything to get on,” I admitted. “I’m just not sure that I want to be one of your people. I was really hoping to get hired on as a photographer.”

  “Oh, please, Giles,” Tolley said mockingly. “Why on earth would they hire you as a photographer? Don’t you think they’ll have a professional covering such an important event? They’re hardly going to give the job to someone who barely shaves yet.”

  “Well then, I’ll offer to carry the photographer’s camera,” I said.

  I left Tolley in the bar at the Gadsden and went early to the town hall. Workers were still setting up chairs and arranging the podium and speaker’s table. I had brought my camera and tripod so that I might at least look the part. But I saw that another photographer was already in the process of setting up his equipment.

  I went over to introduce myself. The man was an overweight, messy fellow with disheveled clothes and uncombed hair. He had a big belly hanging over his belt, and an unlit cigar butt clenched between his teeth.

  “Pleased to meet you, kid,” he said, holding out a hand, fingers thick as Milwaukee bratwursts. “Wade Jackson, award-winning shutterbug for the Douglas Daily Dispatch. Who you shooting for?”

  “I’m just a freelancer, sir,” I said. “I was hoping to get hired on with the expedition. But I guess you’ve already filled the position.”

  Jackson stared at me incredulously, then bellowed a loud, delighted laugh. He pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipped it open, struck it into flame, and held it up to his cigar butt, squinting his eyes and puffing until the butt glowed a bright, even orange. He exhaled an exuberant blast of cigar smoke and raised his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, God, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but thank you.” Then to me he said: “What the fuck kind of artsy-fartsy camera is that, anyway, kid?”

  “It’s a Deardorff,” I said, confused. “Eight-by-ten view camera.”

  “Yeah, yeah,
I know what it is,” the big man said. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking why you have a camera like that?”

  “I like the large format,” I said.

  “He likes the large format!” he said mockingly. “That the only piece you have, kid?”

  “Yes, sir, is there something wrong with it?”

  “It’s a great camera for portraits and art photography,” Jackson said with a disparaging emphasis, “when you have all the time in the world to set up and focus. But it’s not exactly a spontaneous camera. What’s it weigh with the tripod and plate holders, anyway, forty, fifty pounds?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Look, kid, don’t you know that no press photographer in America shoots an eight-by-ten? I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll loan you one of my Speed Graphics. Better yet, I’ll loan you my new Leica. Ever shot one before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Light and fast, it’ll be perfect up there.”

  Now I was more confused than ever. “I’m not sure I understand, sir. Up where?”

  “In the Sierra Madre,” he said impatiently. “Where the fuck do you think?”

  “But I thought you just said you were the staff photographer for the local paper?” I asked. “Aren’t you covering the expedition yourself?”

  Wade Jackson opened his arms and turned his palms up. “Kid, take a good look at me,” he said. “Do I look like the kind of fella who wants to chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre? More to the point, do I look like the kind of guy who could chase Apaches on horseback in the fucking Sierra Madre, even if he wanted to?”

  Well, no, as a matter of fact, he didn’t, but I didn’t want to be impolite about it, so I just answered: “I don’t really know, sir.”

  “Cut the sir shit, kid,” he said. “Call me Big Wade. Don’t be so goddamn polite. Look, the mayor and my dumb-ass editor are insisting that I go along on this preposterous fucking expedition. They need photographs. I tell them I can’t do it, I’ll die up there; it’s what, nine-, ten-thousand-feet elevation? I can barely breathe at sea level.” Jackson took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at it sadly. “Too many of these damn things,” he said. “But do they give a shit about the fragile state of my health? They do not. They say, tough shit, get yourself in shape, Big Wade, you’re going. And now here you are, kid, dropping into my life like an angel sent from heaven—a fresh-faced, dewy-eyed, eager, ambitious, and possibly even talented young man, though that is somewhat beside the point. It’s almost too good to be true.”

  “You mean I got the job?” I asked. “Just like that?”

  “Not quite yet, kid,” Big Wade admitted. “I have a little finagling to do. I’ll have to introduce you to my editor for starters. And then I’ll have to make it look like this was his idea. Fortunately, he’s one of the dumbest human beings on the planet, so that shouldn’t be too hard. How old are you, anyway, kid, twelve?”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “Okay, for our purposes you’re twenty. You just look young for your age. I don’t suppose you have any experience at all, do you?”

  “Well, for the past couple of years I’ve belonged to an amateur camera club back in Chicago,” I said. “Last year I won the prize for—”

  Big Wade raised his hand. “Say no more, kid,” he said. “Drop that part from your résumé right now. You think anyone’s going to be impressed by the fact that you won a photo contest against a bunch of little old ladies with Brownies? What else you got?”

  “I worked for two weeks as a gofer for the staff photographer at the Omaha Daily Star,” I said. “They laid the guy off I was working for, so I got laid off, too.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” Big Wade said. “I can work with that. What was the guy’s name?”

  “Jerry Mackey.”

  “Mackey, Mackey, okay,” Big Wade said. “Can you write?”

  “Write?” I asked.

  “Yeah, can you write?” Big Wade repeated impatiently. “See, they like me because I take pictures and write. Two for the price of one. In case you haven’t seen it yet, kid, the Douglas Daily Dispatch is not exactly The New York Times. And it’s not like they have a budget for a big staff of photographers and print reporters.”

  “Yes, I can write,” I said. “I keep notebooks.”

  “Uh-huh, notebooks, well, that’ll just have to do,” Big Wade said. “Tell you what, kid, after I introduce you to my editor, you keep your mouth shut, let me do the talking, okay? You just follow my lead.” He raised a fat finger in the air. “And, kid, don’t ever mention the fuckin’ camera club again. You’re a professional now.”

  “Sure, okay, Big Wade.”

  By now a few people had begun to arrive in the hall and the committee members were taking their place at the table, chatting easily among themselves. Big Wade identified them for me and got me situated in the prime spot up front, setting up his own camera nearby.

  “The chubby, cherubic-looking guy on the left is Mayor A. G. Cargill,” Big Wade said as four men entered the meeting room together. “The handsome, fair-haired Spaniard next to him is Fernando Huerta, the father of the kidnapped boy. The wiry, mean-looking fella behind them, walks like he’s got a rifle barrel stuck up his ass, that’s Chief of Police Leslie Gatlin. And the federale with the mustache and the medals, looks like Valentino? That’s Colonel Hermenegildo Carrillo, the commanding officer of the expedition.”

  “You think they’ll really be able to rescue the boy, Big Wade?” I asked.

  Jackson cut me a look that seemed to say I was the second dumbest human being on the planet. “You do understand that this whole thing is just a giant booster scheme, don’t you, kid?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what that means,” I said.

  “It means that everyone on the committee is a member of the Greater Douglas Area Chamber of Commerce,” Jackson explained. “Señor Huerta came here looking for help in finding his son, and so the mayor and his chamber cooked up the Great Apache Expedition. But the truth is they’re much more interested in promoting the town of Douglas than they are in finding the boy. Who is mostly being used as a shill. The area has been pretty hard hit by the Depression, especially since the copper mine closed down last year. The chamber is hoping to attract some big money from other parts of the country, men who can afford to invest in mining concerns, ranch land, that kind of thing. So you see the expedition is really just an elaborate excuse to take a bunch of rich guys hunting and fishing in the Sierra Madre. And maybe if they’re really lucky, they’ll get to take a potshot or two at a real Apache Indian.”

  A man carrying a reporter’s notebook walked briskly into the meeting hall. “Okay, kid, get ready,” Jackson said, waving the man over. “We’re on.”

  “Hey, Bill, I got someone here I want you to meet,” Big Wade said to the man as he approached us. “Ned, this is Bill Curry, distinguished editor in chief of the Douglas Daily Dispatch. Bill, Ned Giles. Ned apprenticed under an old friend of mine, Jerry Mackey at the Omaha Daily Star. Now he’s stringing for the Chicago Tribune.”

  Bill Curry shook my hand. “You look mighty young to be working for a big-city newspaper, son,” he said.

  “Precocious is the word, Bill,” Big Wade said. “The kid’s got talent. Listen, I just found out that Ned was in the country. So I got in touch with him, asked him if he’d be willing to come down here, maybe cover for me for a few weeks while I head into Mexico with the expedition. You may not know how indispensable I am, but you’re going to need someone to fill my shoes. Kid can write his ass off, too, writes all his own copy for the Trib. Of course, he hasn’t said yes yet. But he hasn’t said no, either. And we’d be damn lucky to have him, big-city reporter and all. It would sure make me feel better about being away all that time.”

  Bill Curry laughed. “Why in the hell would a precocious young photojournalist who’s stringing for the Chicago Tribune want to fill in on our pissant little newspaper?” he asked me.

  I’ve never been
a very good liar but I looked steadily at the man. “Well, sir, Big Wade helped get me my first job in the business,” I said. “And I feel like I owe him.” I believed that while a little premature, maybe this wasn’t entirely a lie.

  “And you could work for us,” Bill Curry asked, “at the same time that you’re shooting for the Chicago Tribune?”

  “Yes, sir, I don’t see why not,” I said. “I’m not on staff there yet. I’m only a freelancer.” Also not entirely false. “I guess I can work for anyone I want.”

  Curry seemed to consider this for a moment. “Wouldn’t you rather go to Mexico, young man, than fill in on the day desk in Douglas?”

  “Why, yes, sir, of course, I would,” I said. “But I understood that Big Wade was going with the expedition.”

  “Oh hell, Big Wade doesn’t want to go anyway,” Curry said. “He’s been trying to get out of this assignment from the beginning.” And to Wade he said: “Jackson, do you honestly think I’m going to let this young man cover the local school-board meetings while I send a fat, old, broken-down boozehound like you to cover the story of a lifetime?”

  Although this had been the desired result of his plan all along, Big Wade seemed genuinely deflated by his editor’s words, “Ah, no, Bill,” he said softly, “I didn’t really think that.”

  “Jesus Christ, this is terrific,” Curry said, “just what we’ve been hoping for. National exposure for the Great Apache Expedition. And it couldn’t have happened at a better time. I’m going to tell the mayor about it right now. He might want to announce tonight that we have a reporter here covering the expedition for the Chicago Tribune. We’ll talk later, young man. A great pleasure to have met you.”

  Wade Jackson watched as his editor in chief bustled off to the speakers’ table with this news for the mayor. He shook his head thoughtfully. “There, see how easy that was, kid?” he said in a subdued voice. “Now Curry thinks the whole thing was his idea … like I said, one of the dumbest fuckin’ human beings on the planet.”

  Mayor A. G. Cargill was a cheerful-looking, roly-poly fellow with a round pink face like a baby’s. He had a small mouth that seemed to be permanently pursed into an ingratiating smile. Now he worked the speakers’ table, laughing and conferring confidentially with the men seated there, patting them on the back, whispering intimately in their ears, making a show of oily sympathy to Señor Huerta. The mayor was the consummate politician. Finally he took his place at the podium in the center of the table, rapped the gavel smartly, and waited for the crowd to settle.