The Juliet

by Laura Ellen Scott

  “Yeah. Send me the OSHA pamphlet on that. Anyway, thank you. If you hadn’t caught me I’d probably have a cracked head.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. Not you’re welcome. It was as if English was his second language, emotionally. He was certainly better at moving than talking, and that was easy to forget. The fussy man in the apron seemed to have so little in common with the hard-sculpted demigod who could run 135 miles to Mt. Whitney in temps as high as 130 degrees. But the night before, when Willie slipped on the steamy kitchen tile and bounced off the rail of the old Hobart, Scottie was there to catch her.

  Now the look on his face showed that he was remembering the accident fondly. “That was all, Gone With The Wind there for a moment,” he said. “Are you not hungry?”

  “I guess my appetite is off,” she said. “I’m pretty tired, too.” In fact Willie was very hungry. She would kill for a plate of onion rings, but what she was contending with now was a tangle of rubbery cheese and loops of green things occasionally interrupted by chunks of mushroom. She planned to ransack the cupboards as soon as Scottie left. It was a solid bet that there were some Froot Loops or Cocoa Crispies somewhere in this trailer.

  Scottie asked, “How do you like your eggs, then?”

  “I like these.”

  “No you don’t.” Suddenly the question of eggs was one of intimate potential, and Scottie decided to put that right out there. “I’d like to know. In case I get to cook for you again. Which I would very much like to do.”

  There was no way out of this. “I like my eggs plain. Scrambled dry. Every time I bite into a mushroom I can’t help thinking I’m eating a baby mouse head, and it makes me gag.”

  “I see. So you are a vegetarian who can’t stand vegetables.”

  “I’m a vegetarian from Hardy, West Virginia. That means a lot of pizza and French fries.”

  Scottie closed the lid on the omelet and pulled it away from her. “I saw some graham crackers on top of the refrigerator. You should eat.” He retrieved the box for her, which she accepted gratefully. “Last night, you were starting to tell me about all those cereal crates you found.”

  Willie nodded. “There were map pieces in stacks. From the old contest. And then in the back where the bedroom is, all these unopened boxes of Nuggetz. Dozens, in shipping boxes as if they just fell off the Sysco truck. Dexon was even using one as a nightstand.”

  “Makes you wonder what that stuff is really made of, if not even the rats got to it after all this time.”

  “And the walls. He was tearing the place apart. It’s a bottle house, did you know that?” Willie was breaking the graham crackers apart, carefully along the seams. “This is a stupid thing to ask, Scottie, but can I trust you?”

  “Absolutely, but can you not call me Rhys once in a while?”

  “That would be confusing,” she said. “What I mean is, you can handle a lot of shit, right?”

  “What is it?”

  “Wait here.” Willie got up and went to the bunkroom where she’d left her clothes in a wad under the bed. Not even twenty-four hours had passed since they’d found Rigg Dexon, and she felt worse and worse every second that went by; she wasn’t cut out for a life of secrets. She wasn’t even cut out for a day of them. When she came back, she dropped the white sack on the table and pushed it across to Scottie.

  She said, “This is one of Carter’s bags. I found it on the sofa in The Mystery House. I think Carter’s a dealer.”

  Scottie looked inside the sack and cursed. “Willie, you needed to leave this at Dexon’s.”

  “You don’t get it. What if I’ve been shuttling drugs back and forth across the Valley?”

  He sat back, and Willie watched the warmth he felt for her drain away. “You never looked in the bags?”

  “No. And no one will ever believe me.”

  “Few are likely to give you the benefit of the doubt,” he said. “There’s a slight difference.”

  She knew what he meant. Willie Judy was weird. The Weasel-Girl. Not really a part of the community, except now she owned The Mystery House, and The Mystery House was a part of history. The story swallowed its own tail: she worked for Carter, Carter gave the drugs to Dexon, Dexon gave her his house…on and on it went.

  Her chest was tight and her bruise was on fire. “There’s something else, Scottie. Dexon left a note.”

  “Please, don’t tell me you took that, too.”

  “I didn’t, but I read it. It said, No More Pain, and it was signed with a bunch of Xs and Os.”

  “So not just an overdose,” Scottie breathed.

  “No.” Willie bowed her head, forgetting that every time she closed her eyes she saw Dexon lying on that cracked linoleum floor. “Why would he do something like that? Why give me a house and then commit suicide inside it?”

  “I think you have the order wrong. You give things away once you have decided you no longer need them.” Some of Scottie’s tenderness returned. “Dexon was impulsive. He adored you as long as you were in the same room with him. I’ve met people like that before. They’re very exciting, but they leave messes behind.”

  That sounded about right. Dexon was a force. His disposition was exactly the opposite of hers, and yet they were both on their own. She left messes behind, too, especially when she tried to clean up after herself.

  Big messes.

  “Scottie,” she said. “I need to get the bag back to Carter.”

  JOSHUA TREE

  Chapter 6

  March 22, 2005: Beatty, NV

  The road was narrow, winding around steep hills with no guardrails. And it was two-way traffic, commonly traveled by massive delivery trucks that would suddenly appear from around tight corners to cross over the centerline. As Scottie drove them to Beatty in his rattle-worn green pickup, he tried to cheer Willie up by telling her the story about his first visit to the desert and his run-in with a man he called “Old Teeth.” He described the man’s strange green belt buckle and how it glowed in the headlights of Tony’s car.

  Carter’s paper bag was on the floor mat between her feet. “So was that The Juliet?” she asked. She meant Old Teeth’s belt buckle.

  “Tony thought so. I wasn’t even aware of The Juliet back then.”

  Hot already, Willie shook out of her sweatshirt jacket, and underneath she wore a blue beater undershirt she bought in the boy’s section of a discount store. The wide gray strap of her sports bra showed a little, and she caught Scottie peeking at that. He wore long shorts with pockets, and his hairy knees bounced like they always did, from the energy he could never fully discharge.

  Willie asked, “What happened to those women? Miranda and the others.”

  Scottie didn’t know, except for Larissa. “I made my flight, just barely. That was back when you could make a last minute run through the airport without security knocking you down. I returned to the states a year later, and by then Tony and Larissa were married. Then they had a kid, a girl. And right after that they divorced.”

  “Tony never talks about his daughter.”

  “Eh,” Scottie said, pulling the wheel as they mounted a spiral turn towards an invisible destination. “He thinks the girl looks a little like me.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re not good with jokes, but that’s okay. I have a lot of negative capability.”

  When they finally reached the gravel lot of Carter’s Supply, it was empty except for an old silver Chevy. The sign on the door was flipped to CLOSED.

  “Looks like Carter cleared his schedule for us.”

  They crossed the lot to the pitted glass door and Willie knocked and called out for Carter. There was no answer, and when she pushed, the door opened easily, swinging inward to the dirty foyer that smelled of grease and coins.

  “Carter,” Willie called again, leaning in.

  Scottie stepped up behind her. “Feels empty. Let’
s get out of here.”

  “It’s not. It goes on, and he lives in the back. It’s disgusting.” Willie led the way past the cash station, through the grimy door behind it, and into the room where they kept the small stock in boxes piled up to the acoustic ceiling tiles. It opened on the side to the garage.

  “Carter?”

  No Carter.

  In the garage there was an old, red and brown paneled Matador in one of the bays, but it wasn’t elevated. Underneath, a pair of jean-clad legs stuck out from the side, and Willie flashed back to her childhood in Hardy. It was ridiculous, some form of PTSD that made her expect to see corpses wherever she went.

  “Carter.”

  Carter rolled out on the creeper, nice and slow as if he’d been waiting to make an unsettling entrance. Tucked by his side was the rabbit gun. Carter was covered in a sheen of ashy sweat, but he looked ready for anything. Edgy.

  Willie realized too late that, while she had told Carter she was coming over, she forgot to mention she was bringing a companion.

  Carter said, “Who the fuck is that?” He hopped up, gun in hand, holding it around the barrel as if he’d be just as happy using it as a bat as shooting it. The creeper rolled away and bounced off a workbench.

  “Relax. This is my friend,” Willie said. “Here, I brought the bag.” Willie held out the sack. Somewhere deep in the bowels of Carter’s Auto and Supply the television was on, making sounds like distant birds.

  Carter’s eyes were wet and red-rimmed, contrasted against his dirty tan face. He looked crazy. He was crazy. His grip slid back onto the stock, and he raised the gun. Pointed it at Scottie. Said, “You’re that runner?”

  Scottie nodded. “Rhys Nash.”

  Carter look confused. Even insulted. “Re-snash yourself, mother fucker.” Then he lowered his aim and fired.

  The shot was deafening inside the brick walls of the garage. A piece of the cinderblock exploded in a little cloud behind Scottie, providing the illusion that he’d been narrowly missed when in fact he’d been narrowly hit. Willie fell from the noise, arms over her head like a monkey, only to find herself on top of a writhing Scottie.

  Carter had shot away a small chunk of the man’s thigh.

  Willie shouted, “You asshole,” but she couldn’t hear herself very well.

  Carter was in shock. It looked like he’d been high all day, fantasizing and acting out a number of scenarios, but nothing like this.

  Scottie struggled to sit up, his hands pushing down on his bleeding thigh. He gritted his teeth and jerked his head towards a nearby rack where there was a roll of blue shop rags bearing the label WYP-ALL. Willie grabbed it and tore off sheets to smother the wound. There was no time to worry about what sort of post-industrial trash and recycling chemicals went into the roll.

  Scottie let out a roar.

  Carter put his gun down in a corner, out of sight. He was embarrassed and suddenly sober.

  Willie said, “Why the hell did you shoot him?”

  “It was only in the leg.”

  “Look at him, dumbass. He’s nothing but leg.”

  Scottie was panting now. “For God’s sake stop.” He pushed Willie away, off the wound, taking over the job himself.

  “Are you sure?” Willie’s hands and forearms were covered in blood, and when she shifted, her knees left clean circular voids inside bloody haloes on the floor.

  “Even pressure,” Scottie said.

  “That’s what I was doing.”

  Willie crawled backwards, watching the blood. “It’s slowing, right?”

  Carter shuffled over to get a better look and said, “I can find something for the pain, dude.”

  Scottie grunted again, showing his teeth.

  “That’s a no thank you,” said Willie as she jabbed Carter in the knee.

  “Jesus! I said I was sorry.”

  “No you didn’t.” Willie pulled more shop rags off the roll and started to wipe her arms down. “You really are an asshole.”

  “Stop calling me names.”

  “Both of you…” But Scottie didn’t finish his thought. He fainted instead.

  * * *

  In the parking lot at Beatty Medical Center, Tony noticed two competing news vans parked in priority locations, and as he passed through reception he spotted the press hawks: two rumpled guys staring into their cold coffee and stale bagel sandwiches. They spotted him too, so he moved a little faster. They blinked and half stood while trying to figure out why Tony Jackpot was strolling through Beatty Med like he owned the place.

  Tony’s boot steps echoed in the reception area. He liked that, but attention came at a cost.

  The news guys were there for Dexon. A cause of death hadn’t been announced yet. Tony assumed the center had been swarming with press a day ago, and these losers were the last ones remaining. Nothing else to do but wait. Tony moved quickly, pushing through doors he shouldn’t. Those loser reporters were like zombies detecting movement in their environment, and Tony was meat on the hoof.

  A mere two strides into the restricted zone—a dazzle of bright light and technology—and he was intercepted by a dark-haired nurse whose badge read “L. Collins.” She hooked his arm and swung him around, do se do. He was glad to see her.

  They kissed each other’s cheeks too hard. Anyone could see they were exes not exed enough. She was middle-aged, fit and tan, but wore a little too much makeup for a nurse.

  Tony lingered, his face close to her neck. “Hey Larry, a nurse should smell clean, not expensive.”

  “You can’t be back here. Not today.” Larissa pulled Tony out of foot traffic and into a cubicle where another nurse was parked in front of a computer screen.

  “Hey, Mr. Turner.” The nurse only barely looked up from her work.

  “Hey Pammy. I guess you’re all on high alert because of the cowboy.”

  Larissa’s frown confirmed she’d had it with all the attention. “What do you need, Tony?”

  “Scottie got himself into a scrape. There was a woman involved.”

  “A woman? You know Scottie isn’t one of your casino rat friends. You should make him come in.” Larissa’s dark lined eyes narrowed. “This woman. She was the skinny one who found Dexon?”

  Tony nodded. “The old dude fell for her, some kind of love at first sight deal. Gave her his house and then, well, you know.”

  She did. Larissa closed her eyes for a moment. Pammy stopped typing and pretended to be confounded by the various notations in a patient’s digital file. Larissa moved quickly to assemble a sterile bag full of alcohol, gauze, wound gel, and a disposable surgical stapler. Her movements and choices were routine by now. She said, “I’m going to lose my job one of these days.”

  Pammy nodded in agreement. She started humming that song and bobbing her head.

  “You ever been to The Mystery House, Pammy?”

  The nurse’s reply was deadpan. “I ain’t no hippie.”

  “Of course not.” When Larissa finished, she shoved the bag forward at Tony. “You know the deputy on scene, he was messed up pretty bad.”

  Tony didn’t bother to inspect the contents. Larry was the expert, and he was just the technician. “What do you mean?”

  “Looks like he made the same mistake as Scottie’s girlfriend.”

  “Mistake?”

  Larissa lowered her voice. “That poor man wasn’t dead. Yet. The deputy checked Dexon’s vitals, called it the same way she did, except he made it official. The guys on the wagon took their time to collect the body, and it wasn’t until they were halfway here when one of the techs sees a boot jerk. Just once. That was the heart attack. That was when Dexon died.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  Tony pushed back his hat and rubbed his forehead. “He could have been revived?”

  Larissa shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “This is going to kill Willie.”

  “Trained pros though
t he was dead. Besides, the whole truth might never come out. It wouldn’t be a problem if the man wasn’t famous,” Larissa said. “Nobody looks good here, Tony.”

  “You do, babe.”

  The compliment bounced right off her. “Good luck, Doctor Jackpot. Watch out for the reporters, and keep your trap shut about Dexon.”

  “Will do.”

  “And,” said Larissa, half shouting as Tony slipped through the double doors, “If you’re in a traveling mood, you might want to pop into the Sunoco. Our baby got a job at the register.” A parting shot, aimed right at his back. Dawn was nearly twenty. She was supposed to be in college, and there were too many reasons why she wasn’t.

  Tony waved, his head pointed towards the exit, making sure Larissa had no way of telling whether the mark had been hit.

  * * *

  When he arrived at the garage, Tony wouldn’t look at Willie or Carter. By way of greeting, he said, “Fewer details I know the better.” He went to work on Scottie right where he lay on the stained concrete floor, head cradled on a filthy lumbar pillow.

  The bullet had gouged a trough across Scottie’s thigh, leaving something like a cattle brand, but it wasn’t so deep that it involved muscle.

  Scottie was conscious again and suffering. The main problem was that the wound traversed already too-tight skin. There was no slack and every slight movement caused it to tear open a little more. Scottie couldn’t move or be moved until the wound was dressed properly.

  Tony said, “Hell of a bargain. Maximum pain for minimum damage. You should have let this dope give you some dope.”

  Scottie responded with a one size fits all expression of discomfort.

  Tony sorted through the kit Larissa had assembled and got to work. The blood-soaked WYP-ALL rags flew through the air as Tony peeled them away, and they landed in a loose nest on the floor behind him. When he was through, the fix looked like pro work, the bandage blazing white—the only clean thing in the entire complex of Carter’s Auto and Supply.