Derek rode his Vespa through the flat streets of Chicago's Northern suburbs. Led Zeppelin provided a soundtrack to his journey, by way of his Sony Walkman. "Kashmir," "Ramble On," "Misty Mountain Hop" and "Battle of Evermore" helped transform lakefront Chicago into the exotic mystical landscapes of Bilbo's Middle-Earth or Conan's Hyborea.
Derek imagined his Vespa was a warhorse charging away the miles beneath him. He passed Northwestern University's Dyche football stadium, which his imagination transformed into a coliseum of fantastical gladiatorial combat. He circled around Wilmette's east Indian-inspired Ba'hai Temple, its beautiful but exotic architecture resembling some magical palace haunted by Stygian sorcery. He ducked out of sight of a plane flying overhead, pretending that it was a roaring dragon. Tree-lined parks became foreboding forests of Arthurian legend. And Lake Michigan's beaches were the bloody battlefields of Viking sagas.
As Derek travelled further north, suburban homes turned into suburban estates. Mansions were separated from the street by acres of verdant and well-manicured lawns. The air was perfumed with the scent of a thousand blossoming flowers: roses, gardenias and lavender. The size of these estates was camouflaged by landscapes of obscuring bushes, hedges and hills, almost as if their owners were embarrassed to display their excessive wealth. But one mansion was an ostentatious exception. Southern plantation architecture set it apart from the Tudor-style neighbors, as did the white-washed split rail fence that offered a view of grazing horses, tennis courts and distant barns.
Derek cut his Vespa's engine and coasted up to the split-rail fence. He swung off the motor scooter and cautiously approached the fence, clicking his tongue in encouragement to the stately bay, brown and chestnut horses that relaxed in the long grass. Curious, they eyed Derek, and then approached. Derek reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a handful of sugar cubes, feeding one each to the half-dozen horses, stroking them on their foreheads as they enjoyed the treats.
The biggest, a long-legged dun with black socks, approached last, hesitant and skittish. "Don't be scared," Derek encouraged, "I have something for you." The big dun, its muscular lines obviously bred for speed, eventually overcame its shyness and plucked the sugar cube out of Derek's palm with its giant teeth. Derek stroked its haunch, admiring a shining black stripe across its back and noticing scabs on its flank. Derek tried to gently touch one, but the big dun jumped back in alarm.
"That's okay, boy," Derek said, holding his hands up in apology. "Just wanted to see how bad it was." The horse stood back and eyed Derek with distrust. "Guess it's pretty bad then," Derek concluded, half to himself and half to the big dun.
Derek backed off cautiously and wheeled his Vespa away. He didn't start the little motor until he was sure it wouldn't spook the big dun, and then he drove along the fence until it parted to reveal a long gravel drive. The horses followed to the edge of the fence and watched Derek as he drove up to the mansion's colonnade. He frowned at a pair of black lawn jockeys flanking the edge of the drive but tried to hide his distaste as he swung off the Vespa and onto the brick portico. Derek self-consciously patted his head to make sure his hair was still in place, took a deep breath, and then rang the bell.
A uniformed African American maid answered the door. "You must be Derek," she commented.
"Yes ma'am," Derek replied, holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you."
The maid self-consciously shook Derek's hand and then turned to lead him through the mansion. "Mr. Bartlett is waiting for you on the back porch.
As he followed her through the wood-paneled halls, Derek took note of the photographs lining the walls. One showed Mr. Bartlett smiling in front of a gushing Texas geyser, his face black with slick crude oil but his teeth pearly white. Another showed Bartlett haloed by stadium lights as he awarded a trophy to a bull rider. A third showed Bartlett riding the range, looking out over a herd of cattle toward the rising–or setting, it was impossible to tell–sun. Derek finally emerged onto the back porch, which overlooked the vast estate. Mr. leaned against the porch rail, drink in one hand, stogie in the other. He was half English gentleman, half cowboy, with riding boots and polo pants topped off with a ten-gallon hat. "You must be Derek Hamilton," he greeted with a big grin. His voice dripped with an Oklahoma drawl.
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