My parents were never married. I didn’t know it until I was almost eighteen. My mother confessed to me one night when she was upset with my father for not coming home for over a month. He, like Price, didn’t care much for cell phones. He rarely carried one. However, as my mother explained to him one night while in an argument, he always had access to a phone and he knew our telephone number.
On that occasion, she assumed he was dead or in jail. Sadly, neither proved true. I spent many of my nights wishing he be arrested and thrown in prison. Not because of who he was or what he was involved in, but for how he treated my mother and me.
For as long as I could recall, our finances were like a roller coaster. During the peaks, there were months that it seemed we were never going to have to worry again. The bills were paid, we had plenty of food, and my clothes were new and comparable to everyone else’s in school. Then, there were the valleys. No electricity. The water shut off for days—or even a week—before we could manage to scrape enough money together to pay the bill.
My father prohibited my mother from having a job. In his mind, he was the family’s provider. Fed up with our financial difficulties, when I was old enough to work I did just that. I worked two part-time jobs after school and on the weekends, swearing we’d never have problems with paying the utilities again.
My issues with my father weren’t because of how infrequently he was home or that he was drunk more than he was sober. I didn’t care on each occasion that he was accused of murder, or when I was sure that he was guilty of the crime. When they made a television show about him, claiming that he’d killed dozens of his rivals, I was appalled but I wasn’t shocked. Strangely, the television show’s revelations didn’t cause me to detest him.
His incessant lying and unreliability did.
My mother and I knew what he did. Everyone did. Nevertheless, he lied about it. He lied about everything else, too. He’d swear he’d be home for the weekend, and we’d often make plans. Rarely did he show. For him to be gone four or five days at a time was common. A week of absence didn’t raise an eyebrow.
The one thing we could always count on was that whenever he chose to return, he’d lie to us about his whereabouts.
Consequently, I learned to detest lairs.
Price cleared his throat. “I keep coming up with the same thing about my mom.”
I opened my eyes, not realizing I’d nearly fallen asleep. “What’s that?”
“Baking cookies. She loved to bake. She loved sweets, too. She said she ate them when she was happy, sad, or tired. Seemed like she was always eating something sweet.”
“Happy, sad, or tired. That’s funny. Did she eat lots of candy?”
“Candy?” He gave me the crazy eye. “No. She ate home-baked sweets. Cake. Cookies. Brownies. Donuts. If you could buy it in a store, she baked it. Hers were better than anything you could buy.”
His eyes took on a new light. His facial expressions, posture, and the tone of his voice were all different when he spoke of her.
Seeing the changes in him caused me to smile. “That’s awesome.”
He glanced toward the kitchen. “She was a great cook.”
It was almost as if he could see her there, cooking his favorite meal. His gaze hung there for a moment. A light sigh escaped him, and he looked away.
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“He couldn’t cook shit.” He laughed a dry laugh. “Fry an egg, maybe. He cooked a pretty good burger.”
He gazed blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as if scanning his memory for something to tell me about his father. A glimpse at the man who was labeled a bank robber, but was also a father, a husband, and an awful egg cook.
“My best memory of him is this. There was this time, back when I was about seven or eight…” He rolled to his side. “My dad was cleaning his gun and I walked into the back room.” He gestured to the other side of the house with his hand. “Over by the laundry room. The door was closed, but it wasn’t latched. He went back there quite a bit. It wasn’t off-limits or anything, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in there. He had a small safe in there and he kept several guns in it. Well, he looked up and said, ‘Come in here. I want to show you something.’ So, did as he asked, and went in there. Hell, I was scared he was going to ground me.”
“Did you get grounded a lot? I bet you did.”
“Probably about as much as most boys my age. Couple of times a year. Mostly for disobeying something he’d said. Not for grades, or anything like that. What about you?”
“I’ve never been grounded.”
He gave me a quick once-over. “Figures.”
I hadn’t been grounded because my mother was a pushover and my father didn’t care. “Keep going,” I said. “Sorry.”
“So, he showed me the gun, the mechanics of it, and explained how the importance of the safety and how it worked. He explained that it would kill whatever what shot with it, and then went on to tell me what he called the golden rule of guns.” He sat up and rubbed his thighs while gazing at the ceiling. After a moment, his gaze met mine. “‘If you ever point a gun at something, be prepared to shoot it,’ he said. ‘Not ready to shoot it, but prepared.’ Then, he looked at me and asked if I wanted to know the difference. I said I did. ‘Ready,’ he said. ‘Is being physically ready.’ He unloaded the gun, showed me it was unloaded, and pointed it toward the window. ‘Prepared, is being mentally ready. When a man pulls the trigger of a gun, he has to be prepared to deal with the aftermath for the rest of his days on earth.’ He looked at me and said, ‘You know that rabbit we see from time to time, out by the edge of the back yard?’ I said I did. He said, ‘Well, one day you might think you want to shoot it. Before you do, ask yourself if you’re prepared.’ He looked at me with these cold, serious eyes. ‘Ask yourself if you want to live the rest of your days knowing you’ll never see it again. That you’re the one who took it from its place on earth. That you’re the one, for that fleeting moment, that considered himself God. And if the answer to the questions you’ve asked yourself is yes, then take that shot. Not before. Do you understand?’ I said, ‘yes, sir.’ Because I did. I’ll always remember that discussion. It’s probably one of my fondest memories of him. Kind of weird, because that conversation haunts me, too.” He shook his head. “Almost didn’t want to tell you about it.”
It was a good story and a good lesson, for sure. “Why not?” I asked.
“Because,” he said. Sooner or later you’d ask why it haunted me.”
He was right. “Well, let’s get it over with,” I said. “Why does it haunt you?”
His eyes narrowed a little. “What do you know…what do you think you know about how my parents died?”
I couldn’t believe he’d asked. I swallowed a ball of nervous apprehension. “Do you want me to tell you what I’ve heard?”
“Sure.”
“I’m not saying any of it’s true.”
“I understand.” He wrung his hands together. “It’s just what you’ve heard.”
“Right.”
His brows raised. “I’d like to hear it.”
I decided to keep it short. “You and your mom and dad were in the car, and the police shot up the car and killed your parents.”
He straightened his posture. “Any other details?”
“You were shot once or twice.”
His face took on a serious look. “Why’d the police shoot the car?”
I felt like he was luring me into a trap. It was important that he understand the stories weren’t mine. They floated around Marana like a fog that never lifted. Price’s father, like Price, was a local legend. Like it or not, people talked about them. There were still marks in the concrete walls of the diner where the stray bullets ricocheted off the walls. They hadn’t repaired them for a reason. I found it surprising they hadn’t placed a bronze plaque there, declaring it as the last stand of Mister McNealy, the bank robber.
“You want to know what they said?” I asked.
“Not what I believe, because I don’t believe any of it. My dad was a piece of shit and a criminal, but I didn’t always believe what people told me.”
His tone softened. “Just tell me what you heard.”
I felt a little more at ease. “That your…that your parents had robbed…they had just robbed the bank. They got in a shootout with the police.”
“What if I told you my father didn’t even have a gun?”
I was astonished. I leaned forward. “He didn’t?”
He shook his head. “No. He sure didn’t. Neither did my mother, if you’re wondering.”
“Neither of them?”
“Nope.”
“But. Why did the cops—”
“My father had a tattoo on his forearm of a knife and a bird’s wing. The banker thought he recognized it from a previous robbery when he was at another bank a few years back. When my parents got up to leave, he pressed the silent alarm and then called the police. Gave the cops a description of their car. We were sitting in the car singing when they came screeching around the corner. The rest became local history.” His gaze fell to the floor. “Lies, but history.”
“Oh my God.” I covered my mouth with my hands. “That’s awful.”
He looked up. “Worst thing about it? Well maybe not the worst, but it’s close. We went there so they could open a savings account for me. I was a natural at math when I was four or five. Hell, I was reading my dad’s westerns when I was six. They wanted me to go to college, and he said he was going to make sure I got there. I stayed in the car to listen to the song that was playing. Lovely Rita, by the Beatles. Haven’t listened to the Beatles since. Can’t fucking stand ‘em.”
I hated that I’d lived my life thinking otherwise. I wanted to go tell everyone in Marana the truth. Explain that everything they though they knew was a lie. An awful, terrible lie.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Worst thing is this. One of the cops tossed a gun in the car. Planted it. I watched him. I was covered in blood. Hell, they thought I was dead, at first. At the time, I didn’t really understand why he did it. I was eight. Almost nine. Wasn’t dumb by any means, but I trusted cops. While I was in the hospital, I told my aunt what happened. She knew they weren’t robbing the bank, but she didn’t know the whole truth.”
“What did she do?”
“Filed a report. Tried to file a lawsuit. They swore the gun was my father’s.” He tilted his head toward the back room. “His were in that safe. Hell, they’re still in there today. Cops set his ass up, so they didn’t look like cold-blooded murderers.”
I felt terrible for Price. It saddened me to no end that the general public believed what the police said, and that there was no opportunity for him to tell the truth.
“I don’t even…” My voice trailed off to nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I sat and stared at him with unfocused eyes, trying to decide what it would be like if the same thing happened to me.
“Started the MC not too long after high school,” he said. “Figured if the cops were going to label me the son of an outlaw biker, I’d give ‘em something to talk about.”
“But your dad wasn’t—”
He coughed out a laugh. “Oh, he was an outlaw. An outlaw and a biker. Make no mistake about it. But he didn’t rob that bank and he wasn’t armed when they shot him.”
I wagged my finger at the couch. “Is there room on that thing for two?”
“Never tried it.”
I stood. “Is that an invitation?”
“Close as you’re going to get to one.”
I nestled beside him and rested my head on his chest. While In a Silent Way played for the third and maybe even a fourth time, we both nodded off to sleep. When the album finished playing, I woke up.
I glanced at Price. He was wide awake. “How long have you been awake?”
He kissed me. “Four songs.”
I snuggled against him. “My mom liked to cook, but her resources were often limited. She loved to make casseroles. When I was old enough to cook myself, I swore I’d never cook one. I ate casserole leftovers until they were gone, and she’d cook another.”
“I don’t think I’ve eaten a casserole,” he said. “My mom would make scalloped potatoes. That’s about as close as she got to a casserole dish.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Where’s your mother now?” he asked.
“She moved to Boston right after I graduated college. I think she wanted to escape my father for a long time but stuck around for my sake. I wished she would have moved when I was in middle school or something and taken me with her. It would have saved a lot of grief for both of us.”
“Ever see her?”
“Not as much as I should, but I do go up there when I can.”
“What about your dad? You think you’ll ever see him again?”
I raised my head and faced him. “My dad is a lair. I can stand a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. If a man’s a liar, he can’t expect to have a healthy relationship with his wife, significant other, or kids. Personally, I don’t care what anyone says. If a person’s prone to lie, they’ll always lie.”
“No argument here,” he said.
“Good, because lying is one thing I won’t negotiate on,” I said. “One and done for me with that one.”
“Want to change the album?” he asked.
I did, but I didn’t want to get up. “No,” I said. “Let’s leave it.”
“We can listen to it until we’re sick of laying here, I guess.”
I smiled to myself and closed my eyes, wondering if the old console could last another fifty years.
22
Price
Having been placed in a rather awkward position, I needed to make a decision. I was reluctant to act solely on my personal beliefs. I owed it to myself, to Gray, and to the men to get at least one other opinion before deciding what to do. Praying I made it to my destination without being shot, I idled along the cactus-lined drive. I had no idea if I was doing the right thing, but my options were limited.
The V-shaped secluded stucco ranch was painted the color of clay and had a Spanish tile roof. At each end of the home, facing the drive, was a two-car garage. The front was fitted with eight large windows, all tinted to prevent the infiltration of the sun’s UV rays into the home’s living space. A circular drive of hand-crafted brick surrounded a rock garden that used a large saguaro as the focal point. It was more modern than anything else in the immediate area, and not at all what I expected.
I shut the engine off and coasted to a stop. Before I lifted my leg over the gas tank, the front door opened.
“Afternoon, Sir,” I said.
“You’re a couple weeks late.” He pushed his thumb against the brim of his straw cowboy hat, lifting it enough that I could see his eyes. “Nearly three, I think.”
I stepped off the bike and stretched my legs. “For what?”
“Dinner.” He opened the door completely and waved his hand toward the vast space behind him. “That hog’s long gone.”
I followed him as he shuffled into the living room. The rear of the home was fitted with as many windows as the front, all of which gave a spectacular view of the distant mountains.
He turned toward the massive kitchen behind him. “What’ll you have?”
“Excuse me?”
“To drink?” he asked.
“Water, thank you.”
He laughed. “I’m having single malt scotch. You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
The living room was a comfortable looking space. An earth tone couch and two matching loveseats faced the mountains. Four oversized chairs were on the other side of the room, situated between the windows. The walls were adorned with painted pictures of mountains, men on horses, and southwestern-themed art. On the far wall, opposite the kitchen’s direction, was a large built-in bookcase that was filled with books, photographs, and television.
“I’ll have the same,” I said.
He returned in a moment with two glasses of scotch. He handed me one and then faced the windows. “We gonna stand here and stare at that wall?” He sipped his whisky. “Or, are we gonna have a seat?” He looked at me. “Only got so many minutes of standing left in me, and I ain’t sure if I want to spend ‘em in this exact spot.”
I laughed. “We can sit.”
He took a seat on the sofa, and I sat on the loveseat beside him. He was dressed similarly to the day we met. Wearing a faded blue and white plaid pearl-snap long-sleeved shirt and faded jeans, he looked like he could have been teleported to the 1800’s and not been questioned about his wardrobe.
After a few sips of his whisky, he set the glass aside. “You gonna start talkin’, or am I?”
“I suppose I will.”
I felt out of place and didn’t really know where to start. I’d decided I had no other option than to go to an outsider. The list of outsiders I felt I could trust was sitting on my right. It should have been simple.
I felt like a traitor. “Gott a be honest,” I said. “Seems kind of strange being here. Talking to you.”
“Haven’t said a damned thing yet. Maybe that’s the problem.” He reached for his whisky. “Women problems, men problems, or you want to talk about your folks?”
“All three, actually,” I replied. “But not in that order.”
I needed to be convinced he was who he said he was before I confided in him regarding my personal life.
“You dad was one of a kind,” he said. “Man lived by a series of principles that all men should adhere to. If you can’t speak the truth, don’t speak. He told me that once, and it stuck. If a word ever came out of Earl’s mouth, it was the truth. Oftentimes he didn’t say anything, or he’d leave a handful of information out of a story he told, but he never lied.”
“He raised me the same way.”
“To be honest?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
My struggle with honesty was what brought me to Cactus Jack’s. I found it ironic that his conversation began with the subject.
Thug Page 18