A Different Blue(58)

restaurant in the old part of town, established in the 1930's when Hoover Dam was being built.

Boulder City was a master-planned, company town, completely built by the US government to house

dam workers after the Great Depression. It still had most of the original structures, along with

a neat hotel, not far from Bev's, that had been built in those early days. Boulder City was a

strange mix of big city cast-offs and Old West traditions that make most people scratch their

heads. It isn't very far from Las Vegas – but gambling is illegal. It holds the appeal of a

small-town community that Vegas can't boast.

I had known Beverly, the owner of the cafe, since my days with Jimmy. She had a small gift shop

in the cafe that was filled with southwestern art, paintings, pottery, cactuses, and various

antiques. She had taken Jimmy's work on commission, and Jimmy had always seemed to like her.

Jimmy had kept my existence pretty low-key, but Beverly had been kind to him and kind to me. He

had trusted her, and it was one of the places where we let down our guard a little. I had eaten

in the big red leather booths many times.

A few years back, when I was old enough to drive and get around on my own, I approached Beverley

for a job. She was a woman on the heavy side of pleasantly plump, with red hair and a welcoming

way. Her laugh was as big as her bosom, which was pretty impressive, and she was as popular with

her customers as her milkshakes and double cheeseburgers with jalepenos were. She hadn't

recognized me until I'd told her my name. Then her jaw had dropped and she had come out from

behind the cash register and hugged me tightly. It had been the most genuine expression of

concern anyone had shown me since . . . since, well . . . ever.

“What ever happened to you two, Blue? Jimmy left me with five carvings, and I sold them all,

but he never came back. I had people wanting his work, asking for it. At first I was puzzled,

wondering if I'd done something. But I had money for him. Surely he would have come back for his

money. And then I got worried. It's been at least five years, hasn't it?”

[page]“Six,” I corrected her.

Beverly hired me that very day, and I had worked for her ever since. She had never said anything

about my appearance or my taste in men. If she thought my makeup was a little thick or my

uniform a little tight, she also never said. I worked hard, and I was dependable, and she let me

be. She even gave me the money from the sale of Jimmy's sculptures six years before.

“That's after I took twenty percent, plus six years worth of interest,” she had said matter-

of-factly. “And if you've got any more of his carvings, I'll take 'em.”

It was five hundred dollars. I had used it to buy tools and secure the storage unit behind the

apartment. And I had started carving in earnest. No more dabbling as I had done since Jimmy

died. I attacked the art with a ferocity I didn't know I was capable of. Some of my carvings

were hideous. Some weren't. And I got better. I parted with a couple of Jimmy's carvings, and

finished the ones that he hadn't had the chance to complete. I then sold them all with his name

– my name too, Echohawk - and when it was all said and done, I had made another $500. With

that, and a year's worth of savings, I bought my little pick-up truck. It was very beat up, and

it had 100,000 miles on it. But it ran and it gave me the wheels I needed to expand my wood