As they dropped in elevation, the air temperature rose. Lonnie tested it by laying the back of his hand against the windshield. It was still desert here but completely unlike their home in Cane Beds. They rode together in silence with the stereo off and Byron hunched over the wheel, his jaw clenching and releasing without pattern. When Lonnie reached for the radio knob, Byron slapped his hand without looking.
“It’s a long time to have zero music,” Lonnie said.
“I need quiet. I’m thinking,” Byron answered.
“About what?”
Byron turned his head and glowered at him. Lonnie got nervous and pointed to the road ahead of them, which was curving. When the rumble strip buzzed, Byron turned his attention back to the road without speaking. After a spell, he said, “I’m thinking about what that girl’s gonna say.”
“She didn’t know what we were doing.”
“But she’ll probably say something, right? You know, since she works for the Feds.”
“Nobody will find us because we’re not there anymore.”
They both squinted as the sun broke through the mouth of the canyon and they shot out into the open desert. The light was blinding on the open plain, which ran unobstructed to the dark hulking mountains at the horizon. Byron pulled a pair of cheap orange-and-black sunglasses from the visor. Lonnie lowered his visor and tested the heat again.
“At least we got the maps, and you put them in something for protection,” Lonnie said, reaching his hand back to knock on a cardboard tube sitting in the gun rack. “And they work. I mean, we found a couple pots without really trying. That’s something. Plus the money we’re gonna get from this guy. I’m just worried about what happened to that old man.”
“Yep, the maps worked. That’s what I was trying to figure out.” Byron shook his head. Three birds followed each other through the air in front of the truck and disappeared through the raised arms of a Joshua tree. “What happened to the old guy is why we need more money now. We’re gonna have to lay low. We’d be okay if we were just trading this stuff for cash, because it was supposed to be break and enter, take the maps, steal some other household things, couple of pots, a rug, get out, and nobody knows nothing. Now there’s a dead guy and we didn’t negotiate for that. How long you think it’s gonna be before somebody figures out none of it is what it looks like?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks?” Lonnie said.
“You really don’t get it? What that guy had us do was just to slow them down. Once they start doing the science on us, we’re screwed.”
“DNA?” Lonnie asked.
“DNA, chemistry, microscopes, you name it. They’re going to figure it out, so if you quit talking to me for a minute, maybe I can think.”
“So, no radio, then?”
Byron hit the brakes and yanked the truck over to the side of the road. A minivan behind them blared its horn and swerved around the truck. Byron gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, snorting and sucking air through his nose like a bull.
“You want me to get out and walk?” Lonnie asked.
“Walk to where?” Byron yelled back.
“I don’t know, you pulled over, just like Mom.”
“You realize we’re not playing a video game, right? You know there’s no reset button on this thing.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Braining that guy is pretty much the definition of stupid.”
“I know it. But saying the word ‘stupid’ doesn’t help.”
“Jail is full of morons, Lonnie. Overflowing with them.”
“Doing something stupid is not the same thing as being stupid. Remember, I said if they put you back in jail I’d be alone again. Dad’s gone. So is Mom. So. I had to do something. If we got caught, okay. Then maybe I could just go back there with you.”
Byron looked across the interstate at the abandoned two-story house and the cluster of mobile homes that squatted behind it. “Alone is better than that place, little brother.” He rolled down the window, spat once, then rolled the window back up.
“I take it back, then,” Lonnie said.
“Well, you can’t.”
“Not what I did, just what I meant by it.” Lonnie turned toward the window. “Maybe jail is a good place for you.”
Byron checked his mirror. He waited for a semi to pass, then he lurched back onto the road. After they got up to eighty, Lonnie reached for the radio. Byron didn’t stop him. They drove that way, listening to classic rock, for another fifteen minutes, then they exited the freeway on the south end of town and parked in the CasaBlanca Casino, where they were supposed to meet the guy who would take the maps and pay them off.
“We’re early,” Lonnie said.
“Early is on time.” Byron fished a small spearmint tin out of his pocket and twisted off the lid. He leaned over and opened the glove box and took out a banged-up empty ballpoint pen barrel.
“Oh, man,” Lonnie said. “Do you have to?”
“Don’t want to hear it.”
“Meth makes you crazy.”
Byron stuck the pen down into the tin and snorted quickly, rubbing the side of his nose with a knuckle. He did it again on the other side, stuck the empty pen into his shirt pocket, and closed up the tin. “Let’s do it,” Byron said, sniffing rapidly.
“He ain’t gonna be here for, like, an hour.”
“Early bird gets the worm.”
“Maybe.” Lonnie said. “But the second mouse gets the cheese.”
Byron laughed, then let it decay to a frown. Lonnie knew his brother was starting to feel okay, but he also knew that feeling would change into something horrible.
“Second mouse. That’s a good one,” Byron said.
“It’s not me. Some guy had it on a T-shirt,” Lonnie said.
They got out of the truck and looked around. Byron carried the cardboard tube with the maps. Lonnie walked along, with his hands in his front pockets. There was no sidewalk, so they headed through the heat toward the front doors. As they drew closer, they heard the patter of a waterfall that marked the end of the covered valet parking zone. The whole area was blooming with bright red flowers and surrounded by dwarf palm trees. A dry wind blew through the brittle fronds. Lonnie reached over and pulled off some flower petals to see if they were real. He cupped them in his hand and sniffed. They smelled like his mother’s perfume.
They went in through the sliding doors and were accosted by the clamor. Instantly, they were hit with the smell of cigarettes and air conditioning, and they were overwhelmed by the sheer number of slot machines, each one playing its own repetitive melody that gathered into a flapping, clicking, boinging sonic wave. Lonnie thought it sounded like a gigantic toy orchestra tuning in a great, infinite loop, but he kept that idea to himself because his brother wouldn’t understand it.
Byron stopped, sizing up the room. Almost everyone there was stone-faced with small plastic buckets of coins. The real gambling was farther in, where nobody would be distracted by people coming and going. Lonnie started to look around. “Hey,” Byron said. “We need to pick the right place.”
“Didn’t you tell him where to meet us?”
“I said in the bar. He doesn’t get to decide the details. I set this part up.”
“Han Solo would choose there.” Lonnie pointed to a corner with a round table and a booth against the wall.
“That’s a good pick,” Byron said, and he followed his brother but sped past him so he could sit in the corner. “You get the chair.”
They sat, and Byron arranged the cardboard tube so it could be seen at a distance. He set his truck keys on the table with a clunk, the heavy brass skull keychain lying on its side, the twin ruby eyes glinting. A pair of fake palm trees curved through the stale air overhead, and their table gave them a panorama of the entry. “This’ll be good,” Byron said, nodding over and over in a way that started looking crazy. A minute or so later, a waitress in a tight black skirt and pantyhose stopped at their table and set down a cou
ple of coasters. Her name tag said CJ, HOMETOWN NASHVILLE.
“How about a shot of Lord Calvert?” Byron said, both hands curled into fists on the table.
“No Calvert, but we’ve got Jim Beam,” she said. “Will that work?”
Byron’s face fell. “Fine,” he said, spitting the f.
“How about you?” she said, turning to Lonnie.
“Beer is all.”
“Oh, honey, don’t make me run through the list.”
“Hamm’s, I guess,” Lonnie said.
“How about a Coors? It’s on tap.”
“It’s not my favorite, but okay. And some cheese fries—chili cheese fries.”
“Y’all are so metal,” she said.
After she left, Byron leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I don’t need you crapping your pants from all that grease.”
“I’m starving. What good is being here early if we just have to sit here dealing with a skipped breakfast.”
“Being hungry keeps you sharp.”
“Agree to disagree,” Lonnie said.
The drinks came. One shot glass. One beer. Napkins. Lonnie filled one cheek with air, passed it over to the other. Byron bit his nails, took out a pocketknife, cut his cuticles with the scissors. A group of people in the same color jackets moved through the space, heads pointed in every direction. Walls staying in one place. Lights just sitting there. People twitching at the slots, moving like broken machines. Chili cheese fries. Hot, salty, soft. Byron didn’t want any. Pushed the plate away when Lonnie offered it. A person stood behind someone at the slot machine. She set a hand on his shoulder. Jackpot. Coins spilled into the bucket but it was too much and overflowed. The rest went into an empty glass. She went away and came back, handed him a drink, took the coin glass. Their waitress appeared, waved her hand. Byron sat up and handed her his shot glass. She came back with a beer, set it down, took the empty glass, plate, napkins. A group of girlfriends moved across the room. The one in the middle pulled up her shirt for a photo. Lonnie pointed. The girls vanished. Lonnie looked again. The space suddenly filled with friends with white beach towels draped around their necks. In the distance a guy was checking in at the front desk with fat arms, a mullet, and a spray tan. A guy in a silver suit walked past, sizing him up, a small box of chips under one arm and a highball glass in the other. Some guy kicked a slot machine. His stool went over. Nobody seemed to notice. One waitress (not theirs) started yelling at another waitress (also not theirs). She just stood there and took it. Byron’s jaw muscles flexed, and he took hold of the tip of his ponytail and tickled it across his cheeks.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Byron said. He moved the tip of his ponytail over to his lips.
“You should quit playing with your hair if you want this guy to think you’re somebody to worry about,” Lonnie said, then he looked down for his fries and realized the plate had already been taken.
“It’s soothing,” Byron said.
“Also, not tough.”
“Am I supposed to skip my self-care?”
“Maybe you wouldn’t need so much self-care if you weren’t always gearing yourself up.”
“Really?” Byron said. “You’re going to lay that on me?”
Lonnie shrugged.
“I should have done this by myself,” Byron said.
“How will we know it’s him?” Lonnie asked, trying to change the subject.
“He said he’ll know us.”
“And you don’t think that’s weird?” Lonnie said. “What if this guy is the cops?”
“Would the cops have told us how to clean up your mess?”
Lonnie thought about it, but before he could answer, Byron did it for him. “One thing—I always know when it’s the cops.”
“Must have picked that up in prison,” Lonnie said.
Byron leapt across the table and grabbed his brother by the shirt. “Enough,” he said. “No more talking. We’re gonna do our business, then we’re out of here.” When people looked over, Byron let go and sat back. After a few seconds, things returned to normal.
Lonnie pointed out all the people. “Maybe our kind of business needs a private place.”
“We do this in private, and he’ll kneel us down and put a bullet in the back of our skulls. I picked this spot on purpose. It’s strategic.”
There was a crash, and the Ashdowns turned. A guy with sculpted sideburns and his cap on backward lurched through the crowd. Two casino bulls were behind him. They grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him out the front doors, knocking his cap to the ground. One of the bulls stopped and picked up the cap, carried it to the door, and threw it after the man, who didn’t even pick it up. He just stood there, screaming, flipping them off with both hands.
“That’s me on the inside,” Lonnie said.
“What?” Byron said.
Lonnie checked for the missing plate again. “Never mind,” he said.
The waitress appeared. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
But before either of them could answer, a man in a silver suit handed the waitress two twenties and said, “They’re all done.” The man was neither small nor large, and his face was tan, like a hide. His chin was lowered, and he stared out from the tops of his eyes. The fabric of his suit caught the lights of the room and made him look like someone who ought to be on stage. He set a Walmart sack on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down without saying hello, interlacing his fingers to make a single, giant fist.
“You must be Byron and Lonnie,” he said.
“Maybe,” Byron said.
The man opened his hands and said, “Well, I’m Nick Scissors.”
“What’s in the bag?” Byron asked.
“A surprise,” Scissors said. “For the both of you.”
“From Walmart? Nice,” Byron scoffed.
“You go to war with the big-box retailer you have, not the one you wish you had,” Scissors said, leaning forward. “A news item in your local paper confirms that you two followed my instructions. I had my doubts, but I stand corrected. Consider this a bonus.” He patted the bag and smiled.
“You mean, like employees of the month?” Lonnie asked.
“Something like that. You have the maps?”
Byron pointed to the tube.
“Well, that’s just a tube, isn’t it?” Scissors said.
“They’re in there. You can check,” Byron said. “Besides, that’s how you told me to do it.”
Scissors kept his eyes on Byron. “I want you to look around this room, up at the ceiling. Start at one o’clock. Don’t move your head, just the eyes.” Byron looked. “Okay, now three, seven, nine, and eleven. I realize you can’t see your seven.”
“Cameras?” Lonnie asked.
“This location was not a stupid choice, Mr. Ashdown,” Scissors said. “The anonymity of this carnival, and the panopticon surrounding us makes certain everyone minds their p’s and q’s.”
“What does panopticon mean?” Byron said.
“It means, we’re not going to roll out this transaction in plain sight, but . . . an exchange will take place,” Scissors said.
“It’s simpler than you’re saying. You give us the money. I leave the maps sitting right here.” Byron said, gesturing to the tube with a nod. “We take off, then you stick around for a while.”
Scissors reached into the side pocket of his suit coat and held out his hand. He relaxed his grip slightly; a brass skull dropped and spun on its chain.
“Hey, wait,” Byron said, a look of panic streaking across his face.
“You’ll leave when I decide you can go,” Scissors said.
“When did you—” Byron said.
“Trade secrets, friend. A magician never tells you how the trick is done. Feel around on the floor,” Scissors directed.
Byron moved his boots from side to side and he kicked a small package. “What’s that?” he said.
“There are two envelopes, one for each of you. I took the liberty o
f dividing your fee up front . . . in the interest of family harmony.”
Lonnie smiled and gave a tiny fist pump. Byron glared at his brother. Lonnie lifted his eyebrows and said, “What? I trust you.” When Byron looked back at Scissors, he was holding the cardboard tube.
“Hold on a minute,” Byron said.
Scissors stood and slipped the tube almost invisibly inside his jacket. “Open your bag,” he said.
Lonnie grabbed the bag and ripped it open. Inside was a pair of blue swim trunks covered in red, green, and orange popsicles. He lifted it out and held it up. There was a second pair inside and a small key card folder from the casino.
“I’m going to have you two stay here for a couple of weeks, let things cool down. You’ve got a room, paid through the end of the month. Two king beds. And there’s a prepaid credit card in there too, with five hundred on it. For incidentals.”
“That’s cool,” Lonnie said. “But what about my job back in—”
“Shut it,” Byron said.
“Consider this a time to reinvent yourselves. Sit by the pool. Read a book. Binge-watch something. Stare at the walls. But don’t go home. I’m serious about this.” Scissors then turned and walked through the slot machines. A man in the row got a jackpot, and his machine lit up. A second later, Scissors was gone. A huge grin came across Byron’s face, and Lonnie thought his brother had gone crazy.
___
Sophia spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in a conference room, doing paperwork and finishing up the last of her PowerPoint presentation on the ethics of preservation and the problem of restoration. To clear her head before the program, she dashed to the shuttle stop and hopped on a bus right as it was leaving. It was packed with people in a way that was familiar to her as someone from the East Coast who was still somewhat uncomfortable in the openness of this western landscape.
There were no seats, so she took hold of an overhead bar and listened to the bits and pieces of conversation: a jambalaya of Japanese, Korean, Italian, French, German, Polish, and a little English, but not much. Because of her research on the impact of archeological sites under different jurisdictions, she constantly thought about the numbers of people who came here. The National Park Service was one agency among many in the United States, which was one of many governments around the world trying to manage the erosion of history. Her interest came from a course on the history of UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. It was an organization that seemed amazing from one perspective, but over the course of those fifteen weeks it had been unpacked and reformed into a complex colonial force that left her unsure if there were any good institutions at all anymore. It was one thing to study theories in the classroom and something else entirely to watch power and money in action.
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