Diego got up and walked down the hall. He found the bathroom door ajar and stepped inside. Sam Holiday stood before the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Sam was applying gel from a tube to a scabbed and festering F that had been carved into his stomach.
“Sorry,” Diego said. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.” He turned to leave but couldn’t take his eyes off the grisly wound, which was covered with an unsightly coating of pus.
“No, stay, I’m almost done,” Sam said, talking to Diego in the mirror. “Just a little doctoring before our big trip.” Sam gritted his teeth as he applied the last strip of gel.
Diego couldn’t wrench his gaze away from the swollen, infected flesh. “Jesus, Sam….”
Slipping into his T-shirt, Sam gave a grunt of pain, and then said, “I was taking out the trash. Four of them jumped me in the alley. Used a corkscrew. Yong and I decided we’d worn out our San Francisco welcome.”
“It must hurt like hell.”
Sam nodded. “It does.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Thanks.” He gave a wan smile and left.
Diego closed the door and tried to pee, but couldn’t.
***
Precisely at noon, Cutbirth climbed aboard and crawled into the driver’s seat. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge and cupboard, provided you don’t eat meat!” he announced. “I’m a vegetarian!” He started the engine—the old diesel coughed and wheezed before engaging in a loud clamor.“There’s bottled water in the fridge. Drink sparingly. In case you hadn’t heard, water is expensive.”
“In case we hadn’t heard,” Henry mocked, milking his goatee.
“I didn’t mention it before, Mr. Cutbirth, but we’ve got to stop in Fresno,” Sissy blurted out from her seat at the galley table. “We have one other passenger to pick up.”
Cutbirth turned full around in his cab seat and looked at Sissy. “Two bits of information to chew on, Hummingbird,” he said. “One, we will be going through Fresno. Two, we won’t be stopping.”
“No!” Sissy cried, shaking her head. “I promised this person we’d stop.” An awkward smile wobbled on her lips. “I probably should have mentioned it earlier.” She began chewing on a fingernail.
“Yeah, you probably should have,” Cutbirth said, shifting the motor home into gear and pulling away from the loading docks.
Diego looked out the living room window. The street freaks were moving toward the abandoned vehicles like hungry hyenas converging on their prey.
“Aren’t we going to wait for the other woman, Mr. Cutbirth?” Adriana asked over the noisy diesel engine. “The nanny? Rosie Montoya?”
“I gave the Mojado fair warning,” Cutbirth said over his shoulder. “I said we were leaving at noon, and it’s noon and we’re leaving.”
A compact car sped around the corner of the deserted Supercenter, tires squealing. Rosie Montoya screeched to a stop beside the slow-moving Winnebago. She hauled her bulky frame out of the car, a backpack draped over her shoulder. Cutbirth brought the motor home to a jolting halt and opened the door. With some difficulty, the plus-size Latino woman climbed the steps. She was out of breath. “My car quit outside of Manteca,” Rosie panted. “That damn fuel-cell indicator said I had—”
“Find a seat, Mojado, and zip it,” Cutbirth ordered.
Rosie plopped down beside Henry. “Sorry I’m late.”
Henry and his orange backpack scooted away from Rosie as if she were infected with a contagious disease. “Yes, I’m sure you are,” he said with disrespect.
The yellow Winnebago circled to the front of the abandoned Supercenter, and then pulled out of the empty parking lot and onto the Modesto city street heading south.
Diego leaned over and looked down the narrow hallway and out the back window of the master bedroom. A black Toyota Himalayan was cruising out of the deserted parking lot. It fell in behind the Winnebago. Diego had noticed the oversized pickup truck earlier parked at the opposite end of the deserted building, not far from where the street freaks had constructed their cardboard village.The woman driver wore a burr hairdo. The man seated next to her had a handlebar mustache. They were sporting aviator sunglasses. The rear window of the big pickup was inscribed with Asian letters.
Diego got up and walked unsteadily to the front of the motor home, and in Cutbirth’s good ear said, “I think we’re being followed.”
Cutbirth glanced at his rearview video monitor. The big pickup truck was so close it filled the 12-inch screen. “Relax, Ad Man, I see ’em.”
“Apparently, they’re not familiar with the concept of undercover,” Diego said, trying to make light of his discovery. The beat of his heart, however, told a different story—it was thumping wildly.
“Apparently not.” Cutbirth shifted his eyes back to the road ahead. “They’ve shadowed me ever since I left the city this morning.”
“Any idea who they are?”
“Yep.”
Cutbirth turned onto an Interstate 99 entrance ramp.
“Care to share that information?” Diego asked, spreading his legs and gripping the back of the cab seat. “Or will you fill me with more of your bullshit?”
“If I was to advance a theory, I’d say bounty hunters.”
Diego felt the banging of his heart, the words bounty hunters resonating in his head. “Excuse me for drawing conclusions, but you don’t seem too concerned.”
“I’m not.”
“Why are they following in plain sight?”
“They’re trying to rattle us.”
“Who are they?”
“The woman’s name is Uno something or other. I’ve seen her on TV. That bounty hunter reality show. She has a sawed-off shotgun she calls Big Bertha. Don’t recognize Mr. Mustache.”
Diego waited for Cutbirth to say something else. Something like: “It won’t be hard to lose them.” Or, “Once we’re down the road a ways, they’ll turn back.” But he said nothing, and Diego returned to his seat, confused and unnerved by Cutbirth’s ho-hum attitude.
Seated on the leather sofa, Yong had overheard the conversation. He told Cutbirth, “I saw the pickup earlier. Those are Korean letters called Hangul written on the back window. Translated, the letters say Tae Kwon Do.”
“Which means…?” Cutbirth asked, finding Yong in the old-fashioned rearview mirror mounted on the dash.
“The way of the foot and fist,” Yong said.
Cutbirth patted the bulge beneath his shirt pocket. “I have a remedy for both.” He uttered something vaguely resembling a chuckle. Diego thought it was probably the way a real Neanderthal might have chuckled.
8
The antique Winnebago and its cargo of eight aspiring rabbits continued south on California Interstate 99, the tortuous spikes of midday heat rising from the surface of the asphalt highway, Arnold Cutbirth at the wheel, his odd side-shield sunglasses in place. The black Toyota Himalayan had fallen back, but continued to track the motor home from a distance of no more than a quarter mile.
They had just passed through the outskirts of Merced when Sissy got up from the galley table and maneuvered up the aisle to the front of the motor home. She held her backpack by one strap.
“I’m telling you again, Mr. Cutbirth,” she said, her tone insistent. She placed a hand on his chair for balance. “We have to stop in Fresno. I went to a lot of trouble to make the proper arrangements.”
“Your so-called ‘proper arrangements’ don’t mean squat to me,” Cutbirth said evenly, glancing at his watch, “and we won’t be stopping in Fresno.”
“Listen to me. There’s a—”
“Are you deaf?” he fired back, finding her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Or maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. What part of ‘We’re not stopping’ don’t you understand?” He snapped his head around and glanced up at her, his eyes smoldering. “I don’t like having to repeat myself to some dizzy broad who thinks she was a hummingbird in some mythological former life.”
�
�I heard you the first time, Arnold,” Sissy taunted, setting her backpack on the floor. She unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. She thrust the money under Cutbirth’s nose. “Here’s another 40 grand,” she snarled. “Stop in Fresno and pick up this person, and the money’s yours. I don’t like having to repeat myself either!”
Everyone had stopped what they were doing and watched the tiff escalate. Seated at the galley table with Adriana, Diego was surprised by Sissy’s assertiveness. He had totally misjudged her. The person waiting in Fresno must be someone very special, he reasoned.
Cutbirth glanced at the wad of cash. “You think I can be bought? Are you implying that my values are so superficial that money would sway me?”
Sissy drove the word home. “Yes!”
“You’re right.” He looked at her with a sick grin. “I’m a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist. And, unlike my ancestors, I have not reconciled myself to extinction. I have places to go. People to see. Things to do.” He motioned at the black bag at his feet. “Stick the money in my gym bag, Hummingbird.”
“Then you’ll stop?”
“I’ll stop,” Cutbirth said, eyeing Sissy intensely, “but this new recruit will have to pass the sniff test.”
“What?”
“I want to know who the hell I’m driving to the Promised Land,” Cutbirth said. “How do I know this person isn’t a mole? You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a mole. And there will be a sniff test,” he confirmed. “Where do I stop?”
“Take Fresno Exit 135,” Sissy said, her frosty attitude thawing. “There’s a Denny’s on the access road. Stop there.” She knelt, unzipped the black bag, placed the wad of cash inside, and then zipped it closed. “If my math is right,” Sissy said, “you now have $320,000 in that black bag of yours.”
“Be in Fresno shortly,” Cutbirth reported.
Sissy returned to her seat in the galley, sliding in across from Diego and Adriana. Sissy looked at Adriana, clenched her teeth, and made a growling sound. “Men!”
“Some are better than others,” Adriana said, laying her hand on Diego’s arm.
A half-hour later, the old motor home turned off Interstate 99 onto Exit 135, traveled along the access road a short distance, and then pulled into Denny’s crowded parking lot. A large sign in the window proclaimed: ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT SPECIALS! Restaurant customers were coming and going like fussy worker bees. Cutbirth brought the vehicle to a stop and opened the door. Sissy bounced down the steps and went inside the restaurant.
A sign on the front door read: POTABLE WATER - $25 A GALLON – SEE RESTAURANT MANAGER.
“Cutbirth, I’d like to know why we’re heading south,” Henry said from the small sofa. He embraced his backpack as if it were a living thing to be cuddled. “The border, in case you didn’t know, is north. Or have you confused the Mexican Border with the 38th latitude?”
“I thought you good folks wanted to go to Mexico.” Cutbirth found Henry in the dashboard mirror. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
“Henry has raised an interesting point,” Diego said. Driving south simply didn’t make any sense. “Why would we be headed south?”
“Are you telling me you don’t want to go to Mexico?” Cutbirth turned and looked at Diego over his shoulder, a combative smirk on his caveman face. “Hey, I promised I’d get you losers across the border, but I didn’t say which border.” He slapped his knee and uttered a throaty laugh. “Besides, what’s not to like about Mexico? Beer is cheap. The bullfights are exciting. And beautiful señoritas are as plentiful as born-again Christians at a tent revival.” He glanced at Rosie Montoya. “Isn’t that right, Mojado? Aren’t señoritas as plentiful as ants at a picnic?”
“How should I know?” Rosie said in a holier-than-thou voice. “And I’m not a Mojado. Please quit calling me that. Why don’t you call the Sanchezs Mojado? They’re Latino.”
“Hmmm. Never really occurred to me,” Cutbirth said.
“Quit playing games, Cutbirth,” Yong complained. He and Sam were seated on the long leather sofa. “Our lives are in your hands. At least tell us where the hell we’re going. And another thing. What’s the story with those canoes?”
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” Cutbirth said in all seriousness. His eyes found Yong in his mirror. “Or haven’t you heard that?” His earnest demeanor gave way to a crafty, shit-eating grin.
“Cut the crap!” Yong retorted.
Cutbirth turned in his seat and looked at Yong. “If I told you where we were headed and you were interrogated by the National Police, you’d be singing like a New Guinea Bird of Paradise. They have very persuasive tools—tools like pliers and serrated blades. Yeah, you’d be singing all right, and then where would I be? Where would your partners in crime be? We’d be up the creek without the proverbial paddle. The less you know now, the better.”
“We’re headed toward San Diego, folks,” Henry announced in a loud voice, glancing at each of them. “There’s a detention center outside of San Diego at Pine Valley. Rabbits are held there before being transported to prison in Oklahoma.”
“You’re kidding,” Diego said.
“No, he’s not kidding,” Cutbirth said. He moved his head slightly so he could see Henry in his mirror. “What’s your point, Henry?”
“Maybe we’re going to Pine Valley. Maybe you plan on dumping us at the detention center and walking away with the reward money. Maybe you’re working both sides of the street, taking money from rabbits and reward money from the government. You wouldn’t be the first.”
Cutbirth jumped out of his cab seat, pulled a black pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his shirt, and started waving it around like a madman. “You’re right, Henry! All of you are headed to Pine Valley! Just keep your seats! I don’t want to have to shoot anyone!”
Stunned, they sat motionless, gaping.
“Jesus,” Diego muttered, his face pinched with anguish.
“Diego…?” Adriana said, a sudden hoarseness in her voice.
Her lips moving, Rosie closed her eyes and brought her hands together in prayer. Yong sat glaring at Cutbirth, his fists doubled. Sam leaned in closer to his friend and took his arm. Eyes wide, Henry milked his goatee.
Cutbirth continued to wave his pistol in the air for a few more seconds before throwing back his head with a shout of laughter. “Henry, your imagination is working overtime.” Cutbirth stuffed the pistol back into the shoulder holster and climbed back into his seat. “Give it a rest.”
“You’re insane, Cutbirth,” Henry reflected, exhaling a nervous breath. “You’re going to get us all killed.”
“You’re free to leave at any time,” Cutbirth said, turning in his seat and facing Henry. “There’s the door.” He gestured toward the door.
Henry sat thinking. “Will I get my money back?”
“Stupid question.”
“Half?”
Cutbirth uttered a dismissive groan. “When cows bark at the moon.”
“Your metaphors are always so entertaining,” Henry sneered.
“And I may have neglected to mention it earlier,” Cutbirth said, “but I also have a ‘no refund’ policy. Buyer’s remorse is your problem, not mine.”
“Then we’re not going to Pine Valley?” Sam asked, relief in his voice.
“Hey, the black man does speak!” Cutbirth declared, turning in his cab seat. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten us, Sam!”
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