LOBO GOODEARTH WAS normally a serious man, a six-foot-eight-inch pillar of environmental righteousness who lacked all but a blue ox to become a living legend. As it was, tall and fierce, a Jerry Garcia lookalike grown to unearthly proportions, he struck fear into the hearts of developers everywhere--and not only because of his appearance. For, armed with a biology Ph.D. from one coast and a law degree from another, Lobo could not only tell you where the last members of the nearest endangered species were hiding, but also sue your Florsheims out from under you if you got in his way.
Normally serious, yes, but today Goodearth was smiling. He'd been eating a tofu-and-cucumber sandwich over the latest issue of Wild Earth when the news trickled from the mouth of a pretty talking-head that Jimbob Gemstone had met the great demographic adjuster in the sky.
Jimbob never did scare easily. And when the millionaire mogul decided he wanted to build the Sonoran Desert's biggest indoor shopping center, complete with an interdenominational church that could seat 20,000 fearful faithful atop prime ferruginous pygmy owl territory, he didn't once tremble at the thought of facing down Lobo. "That old boy is smart, and he's big, all right," Jimbob once remarked, airing his views on the world for the benefit of Becky Duckrump's Sunday-morning viewers, Republicans and shut-ins to the bitter last. "But he's only one man, and he's only got one law degree. I can get me a couple of dozen lawyers mowing my lawn if I want 'em to."
Jimbob had his reasons for wanting the saguaro-studded property, and for keeping it attached to Tucson, out of the clutches of the ever-expanding next-door metropolis of Dogpatch.
He had his reasons for wanting to see every last ferruginous pygmy owl in the world dead, too.
Jimbob had a curious theory for every occasion, but the one he'd formulated in the matter of Glaucidium brasilianum cactorum was stranger than most. It went something like this: pygmy owls, as their name implies, are small. Yet they capture the attention and affection of thousands of well-meaning citizens, who make an awful fuss about protecting the little guys.
Small. Yet potent. These words meant something to Jimbob.
The owls, Jimbob reasoned, had something he didn't. Wings, for one. But also one of those little bitty molecules that maybe made them a little more capable than most other critters. And if they weren't particularly successful at standing up to bulldozers on account of the size differential, maybe those who ran the bulldozers could benefit from the conquered species' DNA.
People'll drink ginseng and gincko and gecko and gunk, Jimbob thought. Why not the extract of certain pygmy owl glands? Maybe chased with some pure desert spring water to cut the bitterness. Maybe with a fancy label that said "Eau d'hibou" or some such thing. Or maybe with a picture of an owl driving a backhoe, just in case anyone missed the point. However it was labeled, Jimbob was certain that the elixir would make Viagra seem like Kool-Aid.
Goodearth smiled to think of Jimbob's outlandish theories. But he smiled for only a minute. Gemstone was a buffoon, but a dangerous one. And now pygmy owls were disappearing at an alarming rate; far faster than their hunters, with thanks, no doubt, to some directive from Jimbob's downtown office that even the great man's death could not countermand.
Goodearth struggled to remember a Sunday-school lesson from long ago. Something about God's liking sinners better than the saved, if only because sinners presented him with greater opportunities for professional development.
Well, he thought, I've committed my share of sins over the years. So God must love me a whole bunch.
And now, just to keep God sharp, he was about to commit another one...a farewell act of defiance against Jimbob Gemstone, his archenemy in life, still his nemesis in death.
Taking a last bite of sandwich, Lobo grabbed his pickax and headed downtown.
