Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  “Uh-huh. And say what to him?”

  “I’d be happy to bounce his head off the curb. How ’bout I say that?”

  “Hey, he helped us, didn’t he?” Crystal showed her shark teeth again. Her twisted version of a smile. “Look how well we get along now, sweetie. And it’s an easy eighty grand.”

  Hollister shook his head. Insanity. It was all crazy. Helped us? The stuntman bounty-hunter and his psychotic sidekick wife? How did he get here?

  “Yeah, Ozzie and Harriet, that’s us.”

  “Get in the car, Hollister. Just shut up and let’s go. You’re a pathetic old man, you know that?”

  Hollister rubbed his temples. “And you’re still no spring chicken.” He took another drink of the Coke.

  Crystal raised a fist, and he flinched. She laughed and headed for the door, receipt still in hand. “And leave the Coke. That stuff’ll kill ya.”

  He downed the remainder and followed. “Not soon enough.”

  The trip to the Valley took an hour and ten, and the traffic did nothing to help Hollister’s aching head. Thankfully, Crystal kept quiet, marking time by staring out the window. Every once in a while, she cackled her abrasive laugh at nothing in particular. Who knew what went on in the woman’s head? Hollister definitely didn’t, and didn’t want to.

  R and S Coins proved unimpressive from the outside. It occupied the end unit of a graffiti-covered, stucco strip mall—one of a thousand like it in the San Fernando Valley. Mariachi music blared through the open door of a burrito joint adjoining the coin shop. The smell of grilling meat made Hollister’s stomach growl. The deli meat and cheese hadn’t done much for him.

  Crystal looked up at the plastic R and S COINS sign above the place. Or, rather, R and S COI since the N and S were both bashed in.

  “What a dump,” she said.

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Crisscrossed bars covered the plate-glass window. A neon OPEN sign hung dark. Great, all that way and the place was closed. Hollister tried the glass door anyway. It opened, surprising him. A cowbell on the handle thunked as they entered. Hollister expected the usual cool blast of California air-conditioning but was met instead with thick, muggy heat. Glass cases covered by about a decade’s worth of dust lined the walls, each one filled with coins of every size and shape. A cobweb-draped ceiling fan hung above.

  “What the …?” Crystal said, coming in behind Hollister. “It’s like a sauna in here. Your AC broke or something?” This last statement she directed toward a slight man perched on a stool behind a book-piled glass counter. He wore a balled turtleneck sweater—the Irish Fisherman kind—and a Dodgers baseball cap.

  The man blinked at her, his eyes buggy like something off the nature channel. “No, why?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Crystal said.

  Hollister approached the counter, pulling the estimate from the pocket of his jeans. “What’s the R and S stand for?”

  “Ronald and Sylvia.” Another blink.

  The little man wore a gold, plastic name tag. Hollister had to squint to read it. It said MATT.

  “So, Matt, you a Dodgers fan?” he asked.

  “My name’s Ronald. Ronald and Sylvia. Remember?”

  “Huh,” Hollister grunted, then laid the estimate in front of the man. “You write this?”

  Ronald scratched his cheek. “You guys cops? You don’t look like cops.”

  “Private investigator,” Hollister said.

  “I’m a cop,” Crystal added.

  “You don’t look like a cop,” Ronald said.

  “She’s not a cop,” Hollister said.

  Crystal shrugged and wrote H + C in the dust on a glass case. “I’d be a good one if I was, though.”

  “Could you please just answer the question?” Hollister said, trying to keep things on point.

  “See, I don’t have to answer since you’re not cops. Estimates are private.”

  Crystal approached the counter. “Since we’re not cops, how ’bout I pick you up by your size-six Hush Puppies and drop you through this glass?”

  The man blinked, then looked at Hollister. “Would she do that?”

  Hollister’s eye began to twitch. “Yeah. She’d definitely do that, Ronald.”

  The man took the paper and studied it. “Yeah, I wrote it. Hard to forget this one.”

  “Yeah? Why is that?” Hollister said.

  “First of all, the girl that brought the coin in was strange. A knockout, Marilyn Monroe-type, but strange. Talked like she was in an old movie or something.”

  “Keep going,” Hollister prodded.

  “The coin, though. The Dos Escudos. That was the thing, man, I wish she’d have sold it.”

  “She kept it?” Crystal said.

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t part with it. I would’ve given her top dollar too. More than she could get on Ebay or anywhere else.”

  The little man hesitated. Crystal cracked her knuckles, and the bug eyes blinked several times. “See, it was an Escudos. Valuable enough as is. Gold, you know? They’re around, but this one wasn’t your standard find. It was special,” he said.

  Hollister leaned forward, hands on the glass counter. “Special in what way?”

  “Altered on one side. I knew the coin. I mean that particular coin. Stories have circulated about them for years.”

  “Them?” Hollister said.

  “Yeah. Two of them. The Dos Escudos. They’re really eight escudos coins, but they say dos—two—’cause they’re a pair. They work together. One’s a cipher and the other one’s a key to decode it. They’re supposed to lead to some big treasure. Gold or something—nobody actually knows what. There was a rumor one of the coins had been found years ago.” He pointed to the estimate. “I never believed it, but I’m sure the girl’s was one of them.”

  “But it’s no good without the other coin,” Hollister said. “At least, as far as the treasure’s concerned, right? Why’d you want to buy it so bad?”

  The bug eyes darted toward Crystal. “The thing is, I saw on the Internet—hot news for collectors … Some guys found the other coin. They published it on an archeology forum. Weird that the escudos would turn up at the same time, huh? So both of them are out there now.”

  “Both? Key and cipher? You tell the girl this?” Hollister said.

  “Yeah. I figured what’s the point in keeping it secret? She didn’t want to sell anyway.”

  “Where’s the other coin? Where was it found?”

  “Paradise, Arizona. It’s in a museum there. At an old mission.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks.” Hollister scooped up the estimate and headed for the door.

  “Thanks for supporting local law enforcement, Matt,” Crystal said.

  “Go Dodgers,” he replied.

  “I never heard of Paradise, Arizona,” Crystal said, once they were back outside.

  “I heard of Paradise Jones, though. And something tells me that it ain’t no coincidence. I’m getting a burrito.”

  “Those things’ll kill ya.”

  “Keeping my fingers crossed. One can only hope.”

  “Get it to go then. It’s a long way to Arizona. We can drive through the night.”

  “Whatever.”

  Crystal shark-grinned him. “And I’m driving.”

  The tick in Hollister’s eye moved down to his cheek.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The African Queen and Yesterday’s Special

  The air conditioner on top of the old Airstream rattled and shook like a high school kid’s hand-me-down pickup truck. On the flat screen, Katharine Hepburn dumped bottles of booze over the side of the African Queen while Bogey snored chainsaws. Doc gave them an occasional glance as he lay on his leather couch, enjoying the breeze from the AC. He’d had to completely disassemble the couch to get it through the undersized trailer door, but the effort had been worth it. Most nights he even slept there. He tossed a baseball up for the hundredth time and caught it just before it hit his face.

  H
e tossed the ball again.

  Trevor struck him out today. Doc’s homer had brought him up from Phoenix for another go.

  Not that Doc considered himself invincible. And sure, the kid was a heck of a pitcher, but the thing rankled and multiplied his restlessness times a thousand. Doc had taped his knee, braced up, and pushed himself through a six-mile run after the game, but it hadn’t helped.

  What was he doing? Paco was right, there had to be more to life out there somewhere.

  Bogey held his aching head while Katharine, prim, proper, and perfect in the African heat, continued to dump his hooch into the river.

  Doc picked up the Spanish coin and rubbed his thumb across it.

  Gato Negro. What do you open? What were those brothers trying to hide? The answer, lost in the misty recesses of time, taunted him. He’d never know. The whole thing would simply go down as a dusty story about a four-hundred-fifty—maybe sixty—foot home run and some old bones.

  The coin had value. At least fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, from what information he could gather on the Internet. Maybe a lot more, but he had no desire to sell it. Things weren’t that bad. At least not yet. Besides, it really belonged in Jake’s museum.

  Doc’s old rotary dial phone rattled out its fire-alarm ring. A quick visual hunt showed the phone cord terminating under a couch pillow on the floor. He ignored it.

  Bogey started gathering his wits and the phone stopped ringing.

  Doc’s cell lit up. Gregorian chant. Jake’s ring tone.

  “What’s up, oh holy one?” Doc said.

  “You at home? I never know which phone to call. Why do you keep both?” Jake said.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Because we had this landline number forever, man. Mom and Dad had it.”

  “Yeah. Let me guess. You’re on the couch. Old movie. Feeling sorry for yourself.” Jake’s slight cowboy drawl always comforted Doc.

  “Yes, yes, and no.”

  “Liar. He struck you out, get over it. What are you doing tonight?”

  A click of the remote ended Katharine’s righteous rant. “Found a copy of Vertigo.Hanging with Hitchcock.”

  “DVD?”

  “VCR.”

  “At the Jesus is Coming Soon Thrift Store? ”

  “Yup.”

  Jake sighed. “I bought you a DVD player for Christmas.”

  “And I love it.”

  “It’s still in the box, right?”

  “But the box is now by the TV. We’re making progress.”

  “You eaten?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll eat again. Nothing going in the kingdom of God tonight?”

  “Meet me out front. We’ll go to Shorty’s,” Jake said.

  “Can’t argue with a priest.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  The line went dead.

  Like the mission, Shorty’s Café and Restaurant faced the town square and the massive oak tree that stood in its center. Pictures lined the café’s walls showing the place much the same fifty and even a hundred years ago as it was today. In 1998, the National Registry of Historic Places officially listed Shorty’s as an Arizona landmark.

  None of that mattered to Doc. Shorty’s was simply his second home. It’d been in the Morales family for generations, and he’d grown up there.

  The bell above the door rang as the brothers entered. Mostly empty. Still too early for the dinner crowd. Doc took a booth by the window while Jake grabbed a chess set from behind the counter.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Katie Morales poked her head through. “Mijos, you here to eat?”

  Doc waved. “Hey, Aunt Katie. If you’re cooking, we’re here to eat. Where’s Uncle Lou?”

  “He ran to the store. We’re out of milk. I’ll make you the special. Tacos Guadalajara.” Katie’s head disappeared.

  Jake dropped his cowboy hat onto the seat next to him and let out a soft grunt. “Wasn’t that the special yesterday?”

  “Don’t complain. Price is right.”

  “True.”

  The kitchen door swung again. Honey Hicks emerged and came toward them, navigating empty tables. She tucked a loose strand of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. An order pad protruded from the pocket of her sunshine-yellow uniform, but she didn’t pull it out. “Hey, Doc. Hey, Jake. Don’t want the counter?”

  Jake indicated the chess set with a nod. “No, thanks. Need the space.”

  Honey nodded. “You want something to drink?”

  Jake ordered a Dos Equis, Doc, a grapefruit juice. Honey returned with the drinks thirty seconds later.

  “How’s your grandma, Honey?” Jake asked.

  “Fine. Over at the bingo hall tonight. Woman never fades.”

  “Good for her.”

  As Honey sauntered off, Jake laid out the board with a lopsided grin. “I think it’s my night, little brother.”

  “Could be. You did beat me that one time when I was in fourth grade and had that high fever.”

  “Keep talking. Pride cometh before a fall. I’ve been studying moves.”

  “I like playing with you. I always know you won’t cheat. Catholic guilt and all that.”

  “Maybe that’s my problem.”

  “Nah. You just need to learn to look ahead. Read people. That’s why baseball’s such a great game. It’s like chess on grass and dirt.”

  “So you always say.” They played for a few minutes before Jake picked the conversation back up. “Speaking of looking ahead, what are you gonna do, Doc? Live in that trailer the rest of your life? You’re too smart for that.”

  “And here it comes, the stern yet loving priestly advice. Can we have a night that we just play chess, please? Check.”

  “Check? That was only six or seven moves.”

  “Six. What can I say? You’re distracted with worry over my future. Pay attention.”

  Jake studied the board, then sighed and made his move. “How do you do that? You’re the only one who beats me.”

  “Checkmate.”

  “Do you actually have to say it?”

  “Trevor struck me out today. Toss me a bone.”

  The kitchen door banged, and Honey appeared with the food. “Tacos for the Morales boys. Game over already?”

  Doc grinned. “Want to know who won?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Jake said.

  “Plates are hot. Doc won. Doc always wins. You guys never change,” Honey said. Jake slid the board aside as Honey set down the plates.

  “How hot?” Doc asked.

  Honey crossed her arms. “Go ahead then.”

  Doc touched the plate. His hand jerked back of its own volition. “Yeah. Really hot.”

  Honey shook her head and headed back to the kitchen. “Shout if you need anything.”

  Jake forked some refried beans and blew on them to cool them down. “You been doing that since you were a kid, you know that? Hot means hot.”

  Doc leaned back in the booth. “Is it weird? You and Honey?”

  “Why would it be weird?”

  “You know. You were together for so long. Now you’re a priest. It must be weird.”

  “Things change, Doc.”

  “Yeah, but why a priest? Why not a pastor, like Paco? Pastors can get married, have a family. I never thought you bought into the whole liturgy and Eucharist thing.”

  “We each walk our own path. I have to walk mine. And now who’s giving the advice?”

  “I guess. I thought you’d marry Honey and give me a yard full of nieces and nephews. Everybody did.”

  “Like I said …”

  “Yeah. Things change. But I notice Honey never calls you Father Jake.”

  “Can we please change the subject?” Jake said.

  Doc wiped guacamole from his face with a napkin. “Back to my wasted life?”

  “What else? I’m getting worried about you. Taking a breather is one thing, but you just checked out. It’s been too long.”

  Across the street, shadows gathered beneath the big oak. Lights be
gan to come on. The bell above the door rang, and a family came in. Ranchers by the look of them—Mom, Dad, and four kids.

  “Listen, Doc,” Jake said around a forkful of beans. “God gives us things. Talents. Gifts that we’re supposed to use.” He swallowed. “Need to use. You’re one of the most gifted people I’ve ever known. And I don’t just say that because you’re my brother. Problem is, you’ve left all those gifts sitting in a box like that DVD player. It’s time to live. You need to see that.”

  “About that DVD player, you know you can watch movies on the computer now? Stream them right to the TV?”

  “C’mon, Doc.”

  Doc kept his eyes on the window. “I opened the box, man. I had my shot. It was God’s idea to bench me, not mine.”

  “We all know you’re a great ballplayer, Doc. C’mon, though. There’s more to life. Calling baseball your only gift is like opening a pair of pajamas from Aunt Katie on Christmas Eve, then skipping Christmas morning altogether. Baseball’s baseball, but you’ve got a whole world in front of you.”

  “So what should I do? Become a priest? Like you?”

  Jake frowned. “Give me a break.”

  Doc shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. It worked for you. Except when you see Honey.”

  “Service to the church isn’t a place to hide, Doc. It’s not like that. It’s a calling. You can’t run from baseball to the priesthood. Besides, we’re talking about years, and that’s just to get started.”

  “I can’t be called?”

  Jake put his fork down. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying, don’t make knee-jerk decisions that will affect the rest of your life.”

  Doc shot a glance at the kitchen door. “Didn’t you?”

  Jake hesitated. “No … I didn’t.”

  “Three years, Jake. I’ve been back here for three years, man. Living in Dad’s old trailer. Maybe it’s not a knee-jerk decision. Maybe it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I don’t see it, Doc. I don’t want to discourage you. I really don’t. But I know you.”

  “You sure you’re not trying to discourage me from making a mistake because you think you made one?”

  “Leave it alone now, Doc.”

  Neither spoke for a while. Food gone, Honey brought coffee. The café started to rattle with activity as the dinner crowd trickled in. Tables filled. Laughter and conversation shoved the evening quiet out the door. Honey handled all of it with practiced ease, everywhere at once.