The road is dirt now, and the truck throws up a cloud of dust the bikes’ headlights can’t penetrate. Antonia and Elijah hang back so they can breathe. Eventually they turn off the road, following the pickup down a driveway lined with spectral cottonwoods. The driveway ends at a Spanish-style hacienda with thick walls, covered verandas, and a tile roof. The Fiends park their bikes and kill the engines. The silence that replaces the roar is profound, broken only by a dog grousing in the distance.
The Mexican walks up the stairs to the porch and waits for Antonia and Elijah. They slap the dust off their jeans, stomp it off their boots, and join him. He opens a heavy wooden door onto an entry hall coated in honey-colored light. Old portraits look down on old furniture, a scene from another time, except for the canned laughter of a sitcom coming from somewhere upstairs.
The Mexican slides a panel aside and nods the Fiends into the room revealed, a library with leather armchairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a cold, dark fireplace. An oil lamp flickers on a wide desk at the far end of the chamber, behind which a shadowy figure waits.
“Welcome,” the shade says.
Antonia and Elijah approach the desk, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpets covering the tile floor. The man at the desk stands. “George Moore,” he says. “And you must be the Fiends I’ve heard tell about.” He shakes Elijah’s hand, kisses Antonia’s.
He’s tall and fat. Fat fingers, fat thighs, fat face. In age, he could be anywhere between forty and sixty. It’s hard to read with all the extra flesh. He’s wearing a rich man’s getup from a hundred years ago: waistcoat, watch chain, string tie. His hair is oiled, and his big bushy sideburns look like they’re straining to hold up his chins.
“I apologize for the gloom,” he says. “But I can’t abide electric light. I was born in 1806, and as far as I’m concerned, the world’s been going to hell since 1860.”
“We try to keep up with the times,” Antonia says.
“I heard,” Moore says. “You sounded like Judgment Day coming up the drive.”
“It does put the fear of God in you, doesn’t it?” Elijah says.
“Is that what this is all about?” Moore says with a contemptuous wave. “The motor scooters, the jackets, the attitude?”
“Doesn’t hurt to have people wary of you,” Antonia says.
Moore takes a skinny cigar from a carved wooden box on the desk and tilts the box toward Elijah. “Care to join me?”
“Never took it up,” Elijah says.
Moore starts to close the box. Before he can, Antonia darts out a hand and grabs a cigar. Moore raises his eyebrows but recovers quickly, striking a match and holding it out to her.
“Is smoking part of keeping up with the times?” he says.
“Oh, hell,” Antonia replies. “Ladies have been smoking as long as men have.”
“Not in my circle,” Moore says. “Not ladies.” Antonia makes a face but holds her tongue. Moore sees this and smiles. “Then again, I don’t know much about how things are these days,” he continues. “I haven’t left this ranch in a hundred years—haven’t had to.” He motions to two chairs in front of the desk. “Let’s relax, shall we?”
The three of them sit. Antonia is still perturbed.
“No lights, but you’ve got television,” Elijah says.
“A concession to my wife,” Moore says. “She claimed she was bored out here. Oh, George, I’m so bored.” He mimics her voice. “Now she stares at the damn thing so long and so hard, it’s a wonder she’s not blind.”
“Is she your cow too?” Antonia says.
“What a question,” Moore says.
“Just wondering how you get by. You said you never leave.”
“I feed off her, yes. I have an arrangement with her family. They’re aware of my needs and sympathetic to them. Lupita is my fifth Sanchez wife. The man who fetched you here, he’s a Sanchez too. They’ve been in Texas two hundred years and have worked for my family most of that time.”
“Must be nice having people who are so understanding,” Elijah says.
“I pay them well,” Moore says. “I wouldn’t be suited to the life most of our ilk live, always on the move, always on the hunt. I’d be worn out in no time. Luckily, I have the means for a more settled existence.”
A clock chimes softly on the mantel. Antonia blows a smoke ring at the ceiling. She’s tired of the chitchat. “Monsieur Beaumont told us you had a job that needed doing,” she says.
Moore shoots a glare at her, peeved at being hurried. “Perhaps the rules of interacting with hired help have changed too,” he says. “I was taught it was polite to engage in a bit of small talk before issuing my marching orders, in order to avoid appearing imperious.”
“You’re not talking to your ranch hands,” Antonia says. “Spit it out.”
Moore purses his lips, then turns slightly, enough so Antonia will notice, to address Elijah only. “I want you to kill a man for me,” he says.
“All right,” Elijah says.
“Not just any man. He’s one of us. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Not if the money’s right.”
“You’ll be amply compensated.”
“Where would we find him?”
“Right now he’s in Phoenix. The man I have tailing him says he’ll be there for another three days. Can you make it by then?”
“We can.”
“And have time to do the job?”
“That part doesn’t take long.”
“Why not have your man dust him?” Antonia says.
“He’s afraid of our kind,” Moore says. “Believes all those campfire tales.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a stack of money. “I’ll give you twenty-five thousand now,” he says, “and twenty-five when McMullin is dead.”
“That’s not enough,” Antonia says. “A rover’s harder to sneak up on than your average sonofabitch. And there’s the travel.”
“I wasn’t finished,” Moore says. He gestures to the man, Sanchez, who came for Antonia and Elijah at the roadhouse. He’s been standing at the door to the library but now leaves the room.
“What did this guy do to you?” Antonia asks Moore.
“That’s not your concern,” Moore says.
“Not usually,” Antonia says, “but this time, with you, I want to know. Tell me why you want him dusted or get someone else to do your dirty work.”
Moore looks to Elijah, who shrugs. He turns back to Antonia. “While a guest in this house, he seduced my previous wife, fucked and fed off her,” he says. “I’m a proud man. Too proud to let that kind of betrayal go unpunished. My wife, I staked out in the desert and let the sun and ants and coyotes have their way with her. McMullin escaped, though, and I’ve been hunting him for five years. Last week my man finally caught up to him.”
Sanchez comes back into the library. He approaches the desk, carrying a drawstring sack.
“Ahh, here we are,” Moore says. “I believe this and the money will be more than sufficient.”
Sanchez opens the sack. Antonia and Elijah peer inside. A naked baby wriggles at the bottom, a tiny brown baby girl. The Fiends exchange glances.
“When you bring my man in Phoenix proof you’ve killed McMullin, he’ll hand over the rest of the money and this little treat,” Moore says.
“Looks like we’re in business,” Elijah says.
The trouble starts when Real Deal notices a Confederate battle flag hanging on a wall of the roadhouse, up there with the beer signs and girlie pinups. He nudges Yuma.
“Don’t,” she says.
Ignoring her, Real Deal calls to the bartender, who’s been sitting sullenly with the other old man, the one in the ball cap, giving him and Yuma dirty looks. He probably doesn’t like seeing a curvy, freckled redhead cuddling a big black man. The bartender gets up, shuffles over, and opens the beer cooler, thinking they want another round.
“You ever hear of Baxter Springs?” Real Deal says.
“I don’t believe
so,” the bartender says. “Is it in Texas?”
“Kansas,” Real Deal says. “Baxter Springs, Kansas.”
“Don’t know it.”
“How about Quantrill’s Raiders? Heard of them?”
“Them, yes, I’ve heard of.”
“I bet you have,” Real Deal says. “Stories about how they gave the Federals hell. How they ambushed Jayhawkers and Red Legs and other nigger-lovers and shot ’em to pieces. I bet you think they were pretty goddamn great, real heroes.”
“Look, friend,” the bartender says. “I don’t know what you’re getting worked up about. That’s ancient history.”
Real Deal grabs the bartender’s forearm and presses it to the bar. “Ancient history?” he says.
The Bobs and Johnny Kickapoo look over, sensing trouble. Real Deal stares into the bartender’s eyes.
“October 6, 1863,” he says. “Me and my little brother, Henry, were teamstering, hauling the possessions of General James G. Blunt, who was transferring his command from Fort Scott to Fort Smith. We were being escorted by a unit of the 14th Kansas Cavalry and some men from the 3rd Wisconsin. Between the soldiers, us teamsters, and a few civilians, we were one hundred souls.
“Henry was eighteen. I was twenty. He looked so much like me, people thought we were twins. He was the best horseman I ever saw, even young as he was. All he had to do was think something, and a horse’d do it. He was Mama’s favorite. Mine too.”
Real Deal’s voice seizes. He takes a sip of beer.
“This ain’t worth it, baby,” Yuma says.
“We were on the Texas Road, the old Shawnee Trail, a quarter mile north of Fort Blair, where we were supposed to overnight,” Real Deal continues. “General Blunt called a halt. He had his regimental band with him, and he ordered them into their dress uniforms. He wanted to make an emperor’s entrance at the fort, put on a show.
“It was late in the afternoon. Me and Henry were laid up against a wagon, smoking and speculating how cold it was gonna get once the sun went down. All of a sudden a hundred Federal troops rode up on us. We first thought it was an escort from the fort, but something didn’t feel right, something about their hats, their beards, even the way they sat in their saddles.
“‘Those ain’t soldiers,’ Henry said. ‘They’re bushwhackers.’
“The general knew something was wrong too. He yelled for the troops to mount up, but it was too late. Quantrill and his cocksuckers charged, wearing stolen uniforms, howling like hellcats, and slinging shot. Behind that first wave came even more raiders. Some of the soldiers put up a fight, but most broke and ran, and Quantrill’s wolves set about chasing them down. Me and Henry, unarmed and scared shitless, ducked under the wagon.
“‘What’s our play?’ Henry said. ‘Stay or go?’
“Some of the teamsters were trying to get away, hauling ass across the prairie. The wagon we were hiding under joined the stampede, leaving me and Henry with no cover. There was nothing for it but to scatter with the rest of the chickens.
“I’ve been roaming this earth for 133 years. I’ve forgotten cities I once knew, the faces of women I’ve loved, the names of men I’ve despised. But I remember that day like a slap still stinging my cheek. Running through the tall grass and it trying to trip me. The puffs of smoke and the smell of powder. The gunshots and the screams. And I remember seeing a yellow butterfly and a sea of blue flowers and thinking, This is too pretty a place to die.”
Real Deal pauses again, again swamped by the past.
“Let’s go outside and smoke a fatty,” Yuma says.
“We’re talking ancient history,” Real Deal says. “Don’t make me lose my place.” The bartender tries to ease out of his grip. Real Deal clamps down and continues. “We ran up one gully and down another, and it looked like we might be getting away until we came upon the general’s band. They’d tried to escape, but their wagon lost a wheel. The bushwhackers had caught up to them, had them kneeling in the dirt, ten men and a little Negro drummer boy. You ever heard a man beg for his life? It’s pitiful, something to give even the meanest motherfucker pause. Not those Rebs, though. They shot every one of the poor bastards, whooping and hollering like it was squirrels or cats.
“Henry couldn’t bear it. He jumped up and ran, and they chased him down. They shot him twice in the back and a bunch after he fell, and it was like they’d killed me too. I lay there like one more dead man and watched the Rebs pile the corpses onto the band’s wagon and put a torch to it.
“Someone started screaming, someone alive in the pyre, the drummer boy. He untangled himself from the other bodies and crawled out of the fire. Flaming from head to toe, he dragged himself on his belly like a glowworm, leaving a trail of burning grass. The bushwhackers wagered on how far he’d get and pissed on him to put him out when he finally dropped.
“I laid there all night, hollow as an old cow carcass, while the Rebs drank themselves to sleep. They packed up at daybreak and rode off, and sometime later a scout from the fort out looking for survivors found me.”
Real Deal releases the bartender, sits back, and strokes his goatee.
“Eighty-two good men were massacred that afternoon, slaughtered without mercy by four hundred piece-of-shit Reb bushwhackers,” he says.
He points at the Confederate flag.
“Take that fucking thing down.”
“This is my place,” the bartender says.
In a dark flash Real Deal pulls his pearl-handled switchblade and sticks the point of it under the bartender’s chin.
“Take it down, or I’ll drain you dry,” he says.
Pedro comes in from outside. He’s big for a Mexican. His mom used to tell him he was part mountain and part tree. He’s got a thick, black horseshoe mustache that hangs six inches off his chin. “Antonia and Elijah are back,” he says. “Time to go.”
Nobody moves. All eyes are on Real Deal and the bartender, the tension in the room like a finger tightening on a trigger.
“I said let’s roll!” Pedro roars, trying to break the spell. “Samuel!”
Samuel is Real Deal’s true name. Hearing it makes him blink. He takes his knife from the bartender’s throat, goes over to the flag, and yanks it off the wall. Neither of the old men say anything as the Fiends walk out the door, Real Deal carrying the flag. Yuma’s the last to leave. She tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and says, “Ain’t you lucky.”
Out in the parking lot, Real Deal uses a siphon hose to pull enough gas from his bike’s tank to soak the flag. He tosses a match. Flames claw at the stars, and the flag burns to nothing as the Fiends clatter off into the night.
5
JESSE CAN’T SLEEP. EVERY TIME HE DOZES OFF, A JOLT SHOOTS through him, zapping him back to wakefulness. He gives up after an hour, crawls out of bed and sits at the little table in front of the motel room’s curtained window. He thinks about putting on the television but doesn’t want to disturb Edgar, who’s snoring away on the other bed.
Abby is curled beside Edgar, protective as a good dog, yellow eyes blazing in her coal-black head. Edgar turned the cat twenty years ago behind Jesse’s back. Jesse hates the damn thing and she knows it, hissing whenever he gets near and swiping at him, claws out, if he makes to touch her. He’d have gotten rid of her a long time ago if she didn’t calm Edgar. Petting her brings Edgar out of his worst tantrums and brightens him when he’s at his bluest. So Jesse puts up with the hissing and the scratching, the foul-smelling food and even fouler shit box.
He picks up Edgar’s deck of cards, intending to play Klondike. A slash of sunlight that’s pushed between the curtains cuts the table in half. He stares at the beam while he shuffles, tracks the dust motes schooling in it like fish in a lustrous sea. Then, as if in a trance, he puts down the cards and slides his index finger into the light.
The pain is sudden and intense. He grits his teeth against it. A wisp of smoke rises from a knuckle, the flesh blackens and chars, a blister swells. He pulls the finger back, and as soon as it�
��s out of the sun, the burn begins to heal. A few seconds later he can’t even tell where the damage was. Enough, he thinks, but can’t stop, is never able to. He thrusts his finger into the beam again, again it starts to cook, and again he pulls it back as he’s about to scream. He repeats the ritual until he’s finally worn out enough to sleep.
He asks the desk clerk what’s going on in town. He and Edgar have passed through Phoenix countless times, and he’s sick of the same old pool halls and miniature golf courses but doesn’t feel like spending another night in front of the television.
“You can still catch the game at Municipal Stadium,” the clerk says.
Jesse’s wary of taking Edgar anywhere there’s a crowd. He never knows how he’ll react to the noise and confusion. But sitting outside, drinking cold beer sure sounds like a nice way to pass the evening. He asks Edgar what he thinks, and his response—bouncing with excitement—convinces him to take the chance.
“If you start making monkeys, I’ll drag you out so fast your head’ll spin,” he warns his brother.
“You’re the boss,” Edgar replies.
They drive to the stadium and settle into a couple of cheap seats. It’s the bottom of the fourth inning. The stadium lights shine down as bright as the sun on the green grass and red dirt of the field, transforming it into an oasis that defies both the darkness and the desert.
The players’ uniforms gleam, music throbs in the warm air, and wherever Jesse turns he sees happy faces. He allows himself the briefest fantasy that he’s safe among these people, but the reality is, if they knew he and Edgar were rovers, they’d tear them to pieces.
Edgar’s thoughts are nowhere near as bleak. He’s enjoying the game even though he barely understands what’s going on. Jesse’s explained the rules to him a hundred times, but they never stick. Instead, he looks to other spectators for cues, cheering when they cheer, stomping and chanting, “Let’s go, Giants, let’s go,” when they stomp and chant.
Rovers Page 3