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  THOMAS MCGUANE’S

  NOBODY’S ANGEL

  “McGuane deals eloquently with grief, lust, jealousy, old age, loyalty, small towns, horse breeding and sex. A remarkable read.”

  – PLAYBOY

  “There is a precision and understated irony to McGuane’s prose that at times recalls Hemingway, but the best of his writing contains a wild energy and dark humor that is utterly unique.”

  – SAN DIEGO UNION

  “McGuane may fairly claim to be the best writer about the American West alive today.”

  – THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS

  “This book indicates the growing maturity and power of a unique voice among younger American novelists…. astonishing grace and economy.”

  – THE DENVER POST

  BOOKS BY THOMAS MCGUANE

  The Sporting Club

  The Bushwhacked Piano

  Ninety-Two in the Shade

  Panama

  An Outside Chance

  Nobody’s Angel

  First Vintage Books Edition, November 1986

  Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1981 by Thomas McGuane

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published by Random House, Inc., New York, in 1982.

  A small portion of this work appeared in the Spring 1980 edition of Triquarterly, and the May 1979 edition of Rocky Mountain Magazine.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

  Warner Bros. Music: Two lines of lyric from “Jack Daniels If You Please” by David Allen Coe. © 1978 by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McGuane, Thomas.

  Nobody’s angel.

  Reprint. Originally published: New York: Random House, 1982.

  (Vintage contemporaries)

  I. Title.

  PS3563.A3114N6 1986 813′.54 86-13885

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82201-7

  Author photograph© 1984 by Paul Dix

  v3.1

  This book is for my beloved Laurie,

  still there when the storm passed

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  About the Author

  “I love hell. I can’t wait to get back.”

  —MALCOLM LOWRY

  1

  YOU WOULD HAVE TO CARE ABOUT THE COUNTRY. NOBODY had been here long enough and the Indians had been very thoroughly kicked out. It would take a shovel to find they’d ever been here. In the grasslands that looked so whorled, so cowlicked from overhead, were the ranches. And some of these ranches were run by men who thought like farmers and who usually had wives twice their size. The others were run by men who thought like cowboys and whose wives, more often than not, were their own size or smaller, sometimes quite tiny. The farmer-operators were good mechanics and packed the protein off the land. The cowboys had maybe a truck and some saddle horses; and statistics indicate that they had an unhealthy dependence on whiskey. They were not necessarily violent nor necessarily uneducated. Their women didn’t talk in the tiny baby voices of the farmer-operator wives nor in the beautician rasp of the town wives. The cowboys might have gotten here last week or just after the Civil War, and they seemed to believe in what they were doing; though they were often very lazy white men.

  The town in the middle of this place was called Deadrock, a modest place of ten thousand souls, originally named for an unresolved battle between the Army and the Assiniboin—Deadlock—but renamed Deadrock out of some sad and irresolute boosterism meant to cure an early-day depression. To many people Deadrock was exactly the right name; and in any case it stuck. It was soon to be a major postcard.

  Patrick Fitzpatrick lived on a ranch thirty-one miles outside of town. He was a forth-generation cowboy outsider, an educated man, a whiskey addict and until recently a professional soldier. He was thirty-six years old. He was in good shape; needed some crown work but that was about it.

  2

  THE YARD LIGHT ERECT UPON ITS WOOD STANCHION THREW down a yellow faltering glow infinitely chromatic falling through the China willow to the ground pounded up against the house by the unrepentantly useless horses. Patrick Fitzpatrick glided under the low branches on his mare as the band circled into the corral for salt and grain and water and the morning’s inspection for cracked hooves, lameness, splints, bowed tendons, lice, warbles, wire cuts, ulcerated eyes, wolf teeth, spavin, gravel, founder and worms.

  Near the light’s edge the dogs watched him pass: Cole Younger, yellow, on his back, all four legs dangling, let his eyelids fall open upside down; Alba, black, in the sub-shadow of mountain ash, ready to run; Zip T. Crow, brindle, jaw alight on parallel front legs, considered starting a stampede with his hyena voice. Thinking finally of the consequences, he fell to dreaming as the last horse, a yearling running at an angle, jog-trotted into the corral to drink in the creek alongside the other shadowy horses deployed as regularly as a picket line. Zip T. Crow slunk over behind some relic of a walking cultivator and dropped into its confused shadows like a shy insurrectionist. This was the day to ride up to the airplane.

  3

  IN VERY EARLY SPRING BEFORE THE CREEKS FLOODED, BEFORE the first bridges washed away and the big river turned dark, before the snow was gone from the rugged shadows and the drowned livestock tumbled up in the brushy banks, Patrick found the airplane with his binoculars—a single ripped glimmer of fuselage visible a matter of hours before the next flurry concealed it for another month but not before Patrick had memorized the deep-blue ultramontane declivity at the top of the fearsome mountain and begun speculating if in May he could get a horse through the last ten thousand yards of deadfall and look into the pilot’s eyes. Patrick was the son of a dead pilot.

  Then in May Patrick walked up the endless sloping nose and saw the pilot quite clearly. He climbed past him to the copilot’s seat and found fractured portions of granite, parts of the mountain that had poured like grapeshot through the fuselage clear into the tail section, leaving the copilot in innumerable pieces, those pieces gusseted in olive nylon, and the skin of the aircraft blood-sprayed as in a cult massacre. Farther aft in the tapering shape where the beating spring sun shone on the skin of the plane and where viscera trai
led off in straps, fastening and instruments, it stank. Arms raised in uniform, the pilot seemed the image of a man in receipt of a fatal sacrament. The oxygen hose was torn away, and beyond the nautiloid effigy, Patrick could see his mare grazing on the alpine slope. Unable to differentiate flesh and electronics, he was avoiding the long-held notion that his father had died like a comet, igniting in the atmosphere, an archangelic semaphore more dignified than death itself. For Patrick, a year had begun. The inside of the plane showed him that life doesn’t just always drag on.

  4

  PATRICK LEFT THE SIDEWALK THROUGH THE DOOR BETWEEN the two angled windows. It was cold, but when he hung his coat inside and glanced onto the street, it looked like summer. Purest optics. There was a stock truck parked at the hotel with two saddled horses in back facing opposite directions. Many saddle horses spend the day parked in front of a bar, heads hung in sleep. Can’t get good help anymore, Patrick thought. Even if you could, who wants to tell people what to do?

  Two steps up at the poker table was an old man with a diamond willow cane pushing chips onto the green felt. There was a belton setter at his feet, two strangers and a girl dealing cards. Not strangers, but he couldn’t remember their names.

  “Afternoon, Patrick,” said the old man, whose name was Carson. That was his first name.

  One stranger said, “Hello, Captain”—Patrick had been in the Army—and the other said, “How’s the man?” Classmates with forgotten faces. But Patrick was rather graceful under these conditions, and by the time he’d gone through the room, the setter was asleep again, the players were smiling and the girl dealing was reading his name off the back of his belt.

  The bar was nearly empty, populated solely by that handful of citizens who can drink in the face of sun blazing through the windows. Patrick ordered his whiskey, knocked it back and reconnoitered. Whiskey, he thought, head upstairs and do some good.

  He called, “Thanks so much!” to the bar girl, put down his money and left. It was hard to leave a place where God was at bay.

  He walked all the way to the foot of Main, straight toward the mountain range, crossed the little bridge over the clear overflow ditch and went into a prefabricated home without knocking. The windows were covered with shades, and once his eyes accustomed themselves to the poor light, he could see the prostitutes on the couch watching an intelligent interview show, the kind in which Mr. Interlocutor is plainly on amphetamines, while his subjects move in grotesque slow motion. They were dealing with the fetus’s right to life. On the panel were four abortionists, five anti-abortionists and a livid nun with the temper of an aging welterweight.

  “Hello, girls.”

  “Hello, Patrick.”

  “No game on?”

  “College basketball. We’re watching this fetus deal.”

  “Anybody make a profit?”

  “Loretta did.”

  Loretta, a vital brunette with tangled hair and a strong, clean body, beamed. She said, “Trout fishermen. Doctors, I think. One had a penlight. He said he always checked for lesions. I said clap. He said among other things. I said four- to ten-day incubation. He says which book are you reading. I said I don’t read books, I watch TV. So he gets in there with this penlight. I could’ve swatted him.”

  “Free checkup,” said Patrick. “Look at the good side of things.”

  “Who’s winning?” Loretta asked. She came from Deadrock, looked like a nice farm girl.

  Deirdre, from Great Falls, always literal, said, “The fetus.” This nun was packing the mail.

  Patrick asked if they were betting. They said no. He said that as he was a Catholic, he would kick in the set if the fetus lost.

  “There’s a Catholic,” said Tana as the camera isolated the apoplectic nun shouting the word “Sacred!”

  “I’ve seen better ones,” said Patrick.

  “Well, there’s one, is all,” she said doggedly.

  Andrea, the young, bright blond, was from the High Line. She said, “I was with this rancher on his place. He wanted to go again. All the lights went out. I said that’s Rural Electrification for you. He said that’s Montana Power. I said well, I can’t see nothin. He said it’s hydroelectric. It comes off the grid, out of Columbia Falls. So I said what’s the deal? Do we go again? He said not if I can’t see. And just then, like God was on my side, the power came back on and I doubled down for fifty bucks. Thank you, Montana Power! Thank you, Columbia Falls!”

  “Jesus,” Patrick said. “That nun is going to blow her stack.” He was staring at the screen.

  “She’s no help to the fetus team,” said Loretta. The moderator kept saying, “Sister! Sister!” but nothing could slow her tirade, which continued to feature the word “Sacred!” repeated at very high volume.

  “I’m glad I don’t have any money on this one,” said Patrick. Andrea got up and went to the kitchen to make iced tea. Loretta, from Deadrock, had gone to grammar school with Patrick, had been a medical secretary, then been not quite happy with that and tried prostitution, a respected job in Montana because of its long utility during the settlement of that region. Loretta’s rural good looks made her prosper, particularly among visiting sportsmen.

  Deirdre, from Great Falls, said, “That nun could use some eye shadow.” Deirdre was best with closing-time stumblebums. Patrick asked Loretta if he could have a word with her privately.

  The two went into the kitchen as Patrick fought back a little tingle. Loretta hiked herself up on the counter and Patrick sat in a ladder-back chair. There were coffee cans on a low shelf, each labeled with one of the girls’ names; and in front of every can was a kitchen timer. The cans held each night’s earnings and the clocks foiled dawdling or inappropriate enthusiasm.

  “Loretta,” said Patrick. “You’re prettier than you were at homecoming.” Only an officer. She’d actually gone downhill.

  “I’ve got a better life now. When did you get back?”

  “Not too long ago. In the winter.”

  “You home to stay?”

  “Trying to be. It’ll depend on what I can get going. We’re still running pairs and I’ve got a few outside horses to break, if I can remember how. I guess my grandfather has just had to pick up whoever he could. So a lot of things have kind of gone downhill.”

  “He had that one Indian for quite a while. Supposed to have been a good hand.”

  “What Indian?”

  “He was, you know, a friend of Mary’s, the way I had it.” Mary was Patrick’s sister.

  “Well, Mary is why I’m here.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “No trouble. I just can’t find her. I mean, I thought you might know.”

  “She got out of this work a long time ago, Pat. The Indian is the best way to find her I know. He was supposed to be real different. Used to shark pool at the Corral, just take everybody’s money and never say a word. You know, an Indian.”

  “Well, I’m not going to go hunt her down or anything. But if you see her, tell her I’m home.”

  “I sure will.”

  “Boy, you look good, Loretta.”

  “More!” She put on her “It Girl” smile and spun on her toes.

  Patrick walked over to the can labeled “Loretta,” wound the clock in front of it and turned it loose real slow.

  “Gives me a vicarious thrill,” he said. She waved as he went out the door into the sunlight that bounced from the high walls of granite around the town.

  5

  PATRICK WAS TICKING OFF OBLIGATIONS. HE WALKED BACK outside under the heartless blue sky. He was searching for his grandfather, who had left the ranch early that morning. Patrick feared a binge. But as he had just left the Army and was not yet used to being home, he was rather like someone out of stir, trying to establish a pattern in a new world. For example, this morning after feeding the horses, he had thought very seriously about moving to Madrid. He had learned Spanish at the Monterey language school, but the Army made him a tank captain in Germany. Nonetheless, he often
daydreamed of an ancient walk-up in Castile with a stone kitchen, a cook he could afford and a stream of interesting characters who could understand that what had begun as scholarship had precipitated him into cold-war mongery, not a desire to drive a bulletproof dump truck on the East German line. Patrick had read widely, could break horses and did not, as yet, live in Spain. In any case, he would never reveal his love for the tank. He was tall, single, had lost his father and looked after a grandfather who now drank too much. Patrick drank a little too much. His father had been a test pilot for Boeing. His mother remarried in California. Lately, Patrick was having trouble answering letters, especially the prying ones from the family about the finances of the ranch, which were precarious; and with each arrival of the mail it had become a real Mexican standoff between hiring a secretary and embarking for Castile.

  Angled on the corner of Big Horn and Main was the Part-Time Bar, where Patrick went to have a George Dickel and water as a way of staking the place out for his grandfather. The Part-Time was an old-timers’ favorite. The homemade soup there took a little of the edge off the binges and sustained anyone hungry in search of company. This hunger struck at all hours.