Dreamspinner Press Year Nine Greatest Hits

by Michael Murphy

  The corners of Jimmy’s lips quirked. “You look plenty old enough to decide what to do with your virtue.”

  “What’s left of it,” Adam muttered. But it seemed as if the interchange was good-natured, because he clapped Shane on the shoulder. “Lunch Sunday? We ain’t seen you in a while. Pokey can pick you up.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Adam said to Jimmy. Then, with an honest-to-God little tip of his hat, he walked to the counter.

  Shane’s face had flushed slightly. “I’m really sorry, man. My dad’s old-school. Once he adjusted to me being gay—which took a while—he decided to police my dating life. Which, as you pointed out, I’m way too old for. Oh, and I can’t believe I never even introduced myself. Shane Little.”

  Oh fuck. He was queer, and he was adorable. Jimmy gritted his teeth under his smile. “You already know my name. And it’s nice that he cares.”

  “He cares, Mom cares, Aunt Belinda cares. I can’t do anything around here without the entire town knowing right away. I’m really not that interesting, but I guess folks here find their entertainment where they can.”

  “Yeah. Small towns are like that.” Jimmy squinted at him. “Do the locals give you a hard time about being gay?”

  “Nah. Some used to, years ago. Until I beat the crap out a couple of them. I used to be stronger, and besides, Jesse—” A shadow briefly passed over his face. With a visible effort, he smiled. “So what are you going to do about your car? Hank’s got a pretty good shop and he won’t rip you off.”

  “Out of my budget. Besides, even if I had the money, it wouldn’t be worth it. I got more miles out of that Ford than I expected to, so that’s all right.”

  Now Shane looked concerned. “So what will you do?”

  “Hitch.”

  “To… where?”

  “Wherever someone will take me,” Jimmy replied.

  Their waitress appeared beside the table. “Anything else?” she asked Jimmy.

  He didn’t want to go just yet. But his belly was full, and any further conversation with Shane was probably going to frustrate him. Already Jimmy wanted to reach across the table and touch Shane’s hair, maybe run a finger across his scars. “Just the check. Thanks.”

  “Mine too,” Shane said, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. As soon as she took their plates away, he leaned forward. “You don’t have to go, do you? I mean, you’re not, um, on the run from the law, are you?”

  That made Jimmy laugh. “I’ve done some stupid shit, but never bad enough to make me a fugitive.”

  “If I google you, I won’t find you on the Ten Most Wanted list?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “So.” Shane traced his finger through a bit of spilled sugar on the tabletop, worrying at his lip and not meeting Jimmy’s gaze. He finally looked up again. “So you could stick around here for a while. If you had a place to stay and a job.”

  God damn it! You don’t hope. You don’t want. That only leads to destruction. But Jimmy felt himself nod. “I could. For a short time.”

  Grinning as if he’d won an argument, Shane leaned back in his chair. “So what are your job skills?”

  Now this at least was comfortable ground. “I can sweep a floor, pluck a chicken, mow a lawn, clear a trail, pick an apple, stock a shelf, and flip a burger. I’ve been a grocery bagger, a landscaper, a human sign, a—”

  “A human sign?” Shane asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Yep. Advertising a place that buys gold jewelry. I was supposed to dance to grab drivers’ attention, but I mostly just stood there. That gig only lasted a few days. And I’ve been a janitor, an orderly, a handyman, a street cleaner. Basically, if it requires only a little skill or training, I can do it.” And he wasn’t afraid of hard work. In fact, when he had a job, he put his all into it because he liked the way it cleared his mind of other things.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Ride?”

  “A horse.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad. Dad could probably use another ranch hand this time of year. The calves are here and we have—they have to move the cattle around a fair amount. To make sure the grazing is good.” There was something painful for him in these statements, but Jimmy couldn’t fathom what.

  “Sorry. Cowboy’s not on my résumé.”

  “Hmm.” Shane tapped the table and scrunched up his mouth. “Could you give me a couple of hours? I have an idea.”

  Jimmy had nothing but hours. But he kept his voice low and even. “Why do you care whether I stay or go?”

  Shane dropped his head. “You seem like a guy with a lot of interesting stories. And I told you. Entertainment’s hard to come by around here.”

  Maybe Shane was hoping for a little more—entertainment of the clothing-free sort, perhaps—but he didn’t say so, and Jimmy didn’t want to push. It was a nice enough novelty for someone to want a bit of his company. “I can wait a few hours,” Jimmy said.

  “Great!” Shane’s smile was brilliant. “The bar’s not open yet, but—”

  “I can walk around. I have all that french toast to work off.” And he’d been too sedentary for quite some time.

  “Okay, good. Um, I can hold your duffel for you over at the Snake. If you want.”

  “Afraid I’m gonna hitch that ride after all?”

  Shane’s cheeks colored a bit. “No. I just wanted to save you from having to drag it around.”

  “I’m used to dragging it around. But thanks. I guess it would be nice to have a lighter load for a time.” He didn’t add that if he really wanted to go, he wouldn’t hesitate to abandon the bag. He’d miss his boots and the unfinished book, but he’d survived bigger losses.

  Impossibly, Shane’s smile brightened two notches. “Good. Come around to the Snake early this afternoon, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  But he absolutely would not hope.

  Chapter Six

  THE WEATHER was fine, Jimmy’s stomach was full, and it was the perfect time for a long walk. He followed Shane to the inn, both of them walking slowly on account of Shane’s limp, and Shane took the bag from him when they reached the door. “See you in a while,” Jimmy said. He strolled away, thinking how strange—and unexpectedly pleasant—it was to have someone waiting for him to return. He immediately distracted himself from the thought.

  The shops on Main Street had opened, but he didn’t feel like browsing. Shopkeepers tended to track him carefully, even when he looked more or less reputable. Instead he turned down a narrow street between buildings and began to climb the hill. The little houses looked slightly worn but well loved. They had colorful flowerbeds in front, decorative flags in the lawns, wind chimes hanging on the porches. Someone had painted one cottage an awful shade of lavender, but Jimmy liked even that house.

  After a few blocks, the houses grew farther apart and, with their surrounding gardens, looked more like small farms. Chickens clucked at him from the roadside, and a huge orange cat wandered over and demanded to be petted; Jimmy obliged. He liked cats, although he’d never had one.

  The road narrowed. Now the houses were newer but still modest, with stables and barns behind them. Horses watched him pass, reminding him of Shane’s question. He could picture Shane in a saddle. But that thought led to mental images of a very different kind of riding, which Jimmy tried to censor. Not the time or place.

  The cemetery lay at the crest of the hill, surrounded by a low metal fence. A large hand-painted sign at the entrance read NO HORSES BEYOND THIS POINT. He chuckled at that—until he pictured Shane riding again. Swearing under his breath, Jimmy entered the cemetery.

  It was surprisingly large, but then maybe that made sense if they’d been burying people there for over a century and a half. Several towering trees would provide good shade on hot summer days, asphalt walkways divided the cemetery into neat oblongs, and a small water tower hulked in a corner. Aside from a few graves to
pped by weeping angels and oversized crosses, the headstones were mostly small. As Jimmy wandered among them, he noted that the dates varied widely. A child who died in the 1860s was buried next to a woman who’d passed away in 2007.

  A good bunch of the graves dated to the 1850s. Maybe some of them contained the victims of Rattlesnake Murray’s temper. He found Rattlesnake’s grave—he’d died in 1902 at the age of eighty-six—and several other Murrays as well. Quite a few Littles had found their final resting place in the Rattlesnake cemetery, but if any members of the Reynolds family lay there, Jimmy didn’t see them.

  Some of the inscriptions were so worn and lichen-covered that they were illegible. A few stones had cracked, but someone had made sure they stood upright. And on many of the newest graves, mourners had placed plastic flowers, fanciful glass garden stakes, multicolored ribbons, and flags. One larger gravesite, for a man who’d died ten years earlier, was decorated with various San Francisco 49ers memorabilia, including a garden bench with plastic seat cushions and a covered cooler now faded by the sun. It was as if the man’s family expected him to start tailgating at any minute.

  Tom wouldn’t have a grave, Jimmy thought. Not even a tiny one.

  Jimmy didn’t loiter by the children’s graves. Too much lingering sorrow. He paused by the men who’d been killed in wars. So many wars, from the Civil War all the way to Afghanistan. The town of Rattlesnake had paid a blood price for every major American conflict.

  When he was in his teens, Jimmy had toyed with the idea of joining the military. It might have been a good option for someone like him. He might have made something of himself. But that had been even before “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” and by his eighteenth birthday, Jimmy had been busted a couple of times for selling himself. Even if he had tried to play straight for the Army recruiter, he’d been pretty certain the military wouldn’t let him in.

  He came to the grave of a man who had died in 1873 at age forty-eight, just a few years older than Jimmy was now. The man had been born in Sweden, according to the headstone. Other graves in the cemetery belonged to natives of Germany, Italy, Ireland, England, France, Wales, and Chile. Jimmy stood there for a long time, trying to imagine what it would have been like to cross the ocean by boat, perhaps cross the continent in a wagon, and end your days in a little mining town in the California foothills. Maybe some of these people had no families back home, no ties to keep them there. He wondered if they’d been happy in Rattlesnake.

  Next to the Swedish guy, someone named S.M. Fontana was buried. The white marble headstone didn’t hint at Fontana’s full name, gender, or origin. Just a birth date in December 1824 and a death almost exactly ninety years later. And a single word in small capital letters: REST. Jimmy decided that S.M. was male. He’d had some menial job back east and had come to California to seek his fortune. But he’d never struck gold, and he’d spent so much time working hard at whatever jobs he could land that he’d never found a wife, never started a family. He labored until he was too worn out to do any more, and then someone had used S.M.’s life savings to buy him a grave plot and a nice headstone, on which they’d inscribed some final advice.

  It would have been a good epitaph for Tom as well.

  Once he’d finished exploring the cemetery, Jimmy wandered for a couple of hours. Outside of the town proper, he found ranches, a couple of rocky vineyards, and stands of trees. Birds he couldn’t identify flew overhead or watched him from fence posts and tree limbs. Once he crossed paths with three black-tailed deer, none of which seemed especially alarmed by him. He watched them descend a small gully and browse among the brush there. He came upon a long-abandoned house, its siding a weathered gray and its roof sagging badly. No other houses were nearby, yet it wasn’t far from Main Street. He could shelter there for a night or two if necessary.

  Well past noon, his thirst finally drove him back to Rattlesnake and the inn. He wasn’t optimistic about Shane finding him a job. And even if Shane had been lucky, Jimmy probably wouldn’t accept. He had no reason to stick around here. No reason but Shane, and that wasn’t good enough. Jimmy could just grab his duffel, maybe hand over the letter, and head for the highway.

  When Jimmy entered the building, Shane was standing with his aunt Belinda at the desk. “Hi!” Shane said, smiling widely. “Have you been exploring the many charms of our fair city?”

  “I’ve had a ramble. Visited the cemetery.”

  Shane flinched slightly before turning to his aunt. “This is the guy I was telling you about. Jimmy Dorsett. Jimmy, this is Belinda Copeland.”

  “Good to meet you,” Jimmy said. Belinda nodded, her eyes narrowed in assessment. For what purpose, he didn’t know. He stood straight and tried to look reputable.

  “Here’s what I was thinking,” Shane said, addressing Jimmy more than his aunt. “Things in this old heap are constantly breaking or needing work. You know, stuck window here, new paint there. I can handle a little of it, but I’m mostly a bartender. And most of it I just… can’t.” That shadow crossed his eyes again. Definitely a story there.

  Belinda’s expression softened, and she patted Shane’s shoulder as she said to Jimmy, “My son-in-law Terry is nominally our handyman, but—”

  “I call him Next Tuesday Terry,” Shane interrupted. “’Cause he always says he’ll get around to things next Tuesday.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Busy being a pain in the ass. And he doesn’t do that great a job even when he does show up. Have you taken a look at the mirror he hung in the ladies’ bathroom? It’s crooked.”

  Belinda looked slightly pained. She turned to Jimmy. “Do you have experience in general repairs?”

  “Sure. I’m not licensed to do any fancy plumbing or electrical work, but I can fix most things. Unless they have engines. I’m not that good with cars.”

  “Do you have tools?”

  He shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  Shane said, “Belinda, Uncle Emilio’s tools are still down in the basement. Jimmy could borrow them.”

  She didn’t look especially pleased with the idea, but she didn’t say no. Instead she stared at Jimmy the way she might stare at a horse she was thinking to buy—a horse with bad teeth and a history of kicking.

  With a roll of his eyes and an impatient huff, Shane stepped closer. “So you could keep things in good shape around the inn, which will keep you fairly busy already. But you can also help out when we get shipments. I can’t lift anything too heavy. And there are always a lot of little chores to do, like keeping the planting boxes out front looking nice or helping with seasonal decorations. Once a month we have live music at the bar. You can help with the setup. How does that sound?”

  Trying to ignore the hope in Shane’s puppy-dog eyes, Jimmy smiled slightly. “Sounds like I can manage it.”

  Shane turned his eager gaze to Belinda, who hadn’t yet cracked a smile. “I can’t afford to pay very much,” she began.

  Shane interrupted. “But we have a room for you. It’s small and the view stinks. And it doesn’t have a private bath. No kitchen, either, but I think we have a dorm-sized fridge somewhere. And Mae’s is right across the street.”

  Jimmy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. It all sounded so cozy and perfect. Far too good to be true.

  “Two hundred dollars a week,” said Belinda sternly. “And the room. No maid service, but you can have clean linens once a week and clean towels daily. I cannot provide insurance coverage for you. I expect you to be available around the clock, but we can negotiate some time off.” She narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely no drugs, no drunkenness, and no behavior that would disturb the guests.”

  “I’m pretty quiet, ma’am. And sober.”

  She clearly wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but he couldn’t blame her.

  Shane licked his lips nervously. “So can he have the job, Aunt Belinda?”

  After a long pause, she gave a regal nod. “On a probationary basis.”

  Nobody had asked
Jimmy whether he actually wanted the job. Apparently they assumed he’d take anything offered. And they weren’t far from the truth. But he rubbed his neck. “It sounds like a good gig. But I’m not planning to stay for long. I’m just—”

  “Passing through. We know.” Shane grinned like a schoolboy, looking momentarily years younger. “Try us out. Maybe we’ll grow on you.”

  So although two of the three parties involved weren’t entirely enthusiastic about the arrangement, it seemed that Jimmy had a job and a place to stay.

  THE FIRST-FLOOR room wasn’t bad. It was small, as Shane had said, but not cramped. The furniture was either well-preserved antiques or well-done reproductions, but not overly fussy. Jimmy could have lived without the green striped wallpaper, but nobody had asked him to play interior decorator. The room contained a double bed, an armoire hiding drawers and a flat-screen TV, a pair of nightstands, and a small desk with a chair. There was also a closet and, near the door, a tiny sink with a mirror above. The narrow single window looked across a small air shaft to an unremarkable brick wall.

  “We only rent this room out when everything else is booked,” Shane explained. He stood in the doorway, watching Jimmy take a look around. “It’s pretty quiet, at least. And the mattress is good. Belinda replaced all of them just a few months ago.”

  “It’s a nice room,” Jimmy said. And it was. Very clean too, with a highly polished wooden floor and gleaming brass fixtures.

  “You share the toilet and shower with three other rooms, but you’re the closest. I guess it’s kind of inconvenient to pull on clothes if you have to pee in the middle of the night.” The corner of his mouth rose. “Or maybe you’re a pajamas kind of guy.”

  Jimmy snorted. “I haven’t owned pajamas since… well, I can’t remember.” When he was a kid, he slept in underwear and maybe a T-shirt when the weather was warm, and added more layers if it was cold.