by Storm, Buck
“Or maybe she’s just running after we trashed her motel. She’s got to be freaking out.”
“But she didn’t take off right away. They had her hidden someplace. Probably in the mission. Why not just stay there? Nah, they figured something out. They know. They’re going after whatever the Spanish guys hid.”
“My sweetie’s so smart for an old man.” Crystal talked around a mouth full of apple. Juice dripped off her chin. She made no effort to wipe it.
“Give me a break.”
“So now we grab her, beat the secret out of her, and drop her off at dear old dad’s. We get the rest of our eighty grand and the gold.”
“First of all, we don’t hurt her. Second, the guy at the coin shop didn’t know if there even was any gold. Nobody does. It might be nothing. But if she knows anything about it, she’ll tell us. She’ll be too scared not to.”
“What do’ya think’s taking her so long, anyway? Did she drown?”
Hollister shrugged. “I can’t see anything with this stupid truck in the way.”
“Well, I’m sick’a waiting. I’m gonna go see.”
Crystal shoved her remaining two apples in the waistband of her workout pants. Hollister sighed, made a mental note not to take one of them if she offered, and followed her out. Once through the door and past the big pickup, he saw what he’d started to half expect.
The Olds was gone.
“Hey, old man!” Crystal called.
Hollister moved around the building as fast as the pain in his leg would let him.
Crystal stood by the open door to the women’s restroom holding a green, plastic flying saucer. She tossed it to him. “Welcome to Roswell, moron.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Have a Willie Nice Day
Paradise leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes—a weak attempt at calm. Shadow and light played through her lids as telephone poles cut the rays of the sun in regular, perfect intervals. She cracked an eye and glanced at the speedometer. The needle pushed a hundred as the Olds hurtled down a desert back road, Doc’s knuckles white on the wheel.
“You’re sure it was them?” Paradise said over the whine of the tires.
“I have a feeling. Anyway, I’m not taking any chances.”
“I almost jumped out of my skin when you pounded on the door of that restroom.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t understand. How could they find us? I didn’t see anyone follow us when we left Paradise. I looked for headlights behind us. The road was empty.”
“I don’t know. But, however they did it, they might do it again. We’ll stay on back roads as much as we can. It’ll take longer, but I think it’s worth it.”
Paradise looked behind them. “You can probably slow down now, Mario Andretti. There’s no one back there.”
Doc’s foot eased off the gas pedal, and the speedometer dropped to a reasonable seventy-five. The desert spread out in every direction, blanketed by a deep, ocean blue. Doc pushed on for several miles. Eventually the asphalt turned to gravel, and he slowed to fifty. The GPS showed nothing. It didn’t even show a road, just brown space. Paradise pulled the Rand McNally from the glove compartment. No highway, byway, trail or footpath seemed to match their location, no matter how hard she scrutinized or which direction she turned the page.
“You have any idea where we are?” she said finally.
“Southern New Mexico?”
“Is that a question?”
“The way I figure it, we just keep moving east. Eventually, we’ll have to hit a road that’ll drop into Texas.”
“How do you know which way is east?”
Doc pointed to the sun.
“You’re kidding,” Paradise said.
“It’s been working for thousands of years.”
Paradise leaned her head back again. Paradise Jones. Guided by the sun. Gravel road. New Mexico—probably. Southwest United States. Planet Earth. Universe …
On the dash, Truck Stop Jesus smiled. “What do you want, Paradise?”
Good question.
What was she doing here? Everything she’d ever dreamed of waited in Los Angeles. She was on the way to becoming a star. Yet here she was, bouncing along a dirt road in the middle of who-knows-where with a broken ballplayer.
The unbroken rumble of gravel beneath the tires made her eyes grow heavy. Would she take it back if she could? Dumping Burt’s Porsche? Maybe. This had seemed an adventure at first, but on further inspection, adventures might be better enjoyed in a dark movie theater with popcorn and Milk Duds than having to actually live them out in real time.
She squinted an eye at Jesus. “Why do you ask what I want? You’re supposed to be the one with all the answers.”
Jesus jerked a thumb at Doc. “Okay, how about him?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s good for you.”
“He’s sweet. So? You know what’s waiting for me in LA. I just need to get back and get my name cleared. Doc’s not the tag-along-on-the-red-carpet type.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? You decided to come with him.”
“How about you? Are you happy? To be out of the truck stop?”
“No, Paradise, you can’t change the subject.”
“What was the question again?”
Jesus laughed. “I said, you’re here, aren’t you? You decided to come with him.”
“That’s not really a question.”
“Okay, let me rephrase it. Paradise, didn’t you decide to come?”
“Nope. Not by choice. Unless it was Burt’s.”
“Mm-hmm. We’ll see. You’re curious, and you know it.”
“What’s we’ll see supposed to mean?”
“What if Doc loves you? What then?”
“Loves me? He’s known me five minutes. He might have a schoolboy crush, but he doesn’t love me. I’m Lana Turner to him. Or Audrey. You heard him. Real love has your back. And why do you have to ask all these questions?”
“He’s driving you through the desert just to keep you out of Burt’s paws. That seems like having your back to me.”
“You know what? I’m having a conversation with a piece of plastic. What’s wrong with me? Besides, Doc’s after the answer to the coins, whatever that is. That’s why he’s here. Not for me.”
“You know better than that.”
“Speaking of treasure, Mr. All Knowing, is there one?”
“Of course! There’s always a treasure. But it might not be the one you think.”
“You know what? I don’t care about it anyway. I know what I want. Like I told you, to get the part, to be famous. Can you help with that?”
“Be famous to me. Be famous to him.”
The Olds came to a stop, and she opened eyes heavy from sleep. They were at an intersection, a four-way stop. The western sky burned, blazing yellows and reds brighter than she’d ever seen. Just outside the passenger window, a whitewashed, adobe shrine to some saint glowed in the sideways sunlight, casting an endless shadow behind it. A bent Mexican woman sat on a bench in front of it, clutching a rosary and mumbling prayers.
“Where are we?” Paradise asked.
“Smack dab in the middle of where we are. You really slept. At least, we hit pavement a while back. That’s a good sign.” Doc pointed across the road. Kitty-corner to the shrine stood a long, low building. The sign above it read Manhattan Bar. “I say we grab a bite to eat. What do you think?”
“There? At a bar?”
“Take a look around. Not exactly a lot of options. This is the first sign of life I’ve seen in two hundred miles.”
“You think they have food?”
Doc swung the Olds into the dirt parking lot in front of the place. “Only one way to find out. People have to eat, even in the desert.”
“What if that couple shows up? The bounty hunters.”
“No one followed us. I made sure of it. They’re probably still looking for us in Las Cruces. Let’s grab a bite, g
et some gas, then head for Texas. We can find a motel across the border and make a long push for Brownsville tomorrow.” Doc gave Truck Stop Jesus a wobble. “What do you think, amigo?”
Thumbs up.
“So now you don’t have anything to say?” Paradise said.
“What?” Doc said.
“Nothing. I was talking to Jesus.”
“Really? Huh.”
“Long story, sailor. Let’s find some food.”
Three other vehicles sat in the dirt lot in front of the Manhattan Bar. A newish Dodge pickup with a lumber rack on top, a school-bus yellow El Camino, and a low-slung Harley Davidson motorcycle. The whine of country pedal steel spilled loneliness through the building’s open front door. Long plastic strips hung in the opening, most likely an effort to repel insects. Coolness laced the evening air. A rust-pocked van crunched to a dusty stop next to them, and a heavy, bearded man climbed out, pulling a guitar case across from the passenger seat after him. His black leather vest, covered with biker club patches, hung loose over a dirty T-shirt.
Paradise eyed the man. “Do you think this is safe?”
“I thought you were from the big, tough city.” Doc smiled. “It’s fine. I grew up in places like this. C’mon.”
At the door, Doc pulled the plastic strips aside and Paradise stepped through the entrance. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The building’s interior presented much larger than it appeared from the parking lot. A long bar stretched the entire length of the back of the room. Neon beer signs and glassy-eyed deer heads peppered the wall above it. One enterprising taxidermist had gone so far as to stuff the back half of one of the animals and mount a sign underneath—The Other Side of the Wall.To the left, a stage stood sentinel over a well-used wooden dance floor. The biker from the van stood talking to another man who tinkered with a drum kit. The bass drum proclaimed The Rio Kings in large, hand-painted block.
Doc took Paradise’s arm and guided her to a table. His hand lingered a little longer than necessary, and she leaned away. No use giving the poor guy the wrong idea.
“I need to use the restroom,” Paradise said.
Doc nodded.
The washroom was small but clean, and she found herself staying longer than she needed. It wasn’t like there was a line waiting to get in, and she wanted a few minutes to herself. She fixed her hair twice and reapplied her makeup. Her stomach made a noise. Hiding from Burt, the ultimate weight loss program. She should write a book—go on Oprah.
Doc stood up from the table as she returned. “No waitress around. I’ll go see if there’s someone here to take our order. Be right back.”
“You better hurry, sailor, before I eat your arm.”
He disappeared around the bar and through a pair of bat-wing doors that presumably led to a kitchen.
The man at the drum set began to tap the snare and tune it with a silver key while the bearded biker eyed Paradise, looking her up and down. She averted her eyes, then realized she still wore her swing ensemble. She must look a sight in a place like this. Heavy footsteps approached, and the biker cleared his throat. Paradise looked up, clenching her fists in her lap and feeling blood pound in her temples. The man towered over her, his gray beard streaked reddish brown. He smiled, and Paradise was surprised to see he had straight, white teeth.
He indicated her outfit with a purple-nailed forefinger. “You like swing music?”
The last thing she expected to hear.
Air eased back into her lungs. “It’s Paulette Goddard. Second Chorus. 1940. Did you smash your finger?”
“Yeah. Wrench slipped, and I hit it good. My name’s Hap. I’m part of The Rio Kings, the band playing tonight.”
“Hap as in short for Happy?”
Hap shrugged. “If you want. Anyway, we’ll try to get a couple swing numbers in. Just for you, Paulette Goddard 1940. What do you say?”
Before she could answer, he turned and sauntered back toward the stage. Paradise thought about calling after him to say she wouldn’t be there long enough to hear the band but was interrupted by Doc’s return. A woman followed him with a couple of menus, her face hard and brown as the New Mexico desert beneath a short shock of snow-white hair. She wore Levis and a T-shirt with a caricature of Willie Nelson on the front, and the slogan Have a Willie Nice Day.
“Sorry, hon. I should’ve been out here.” The woman pointed a finger in the direction she and Doc had come. “Leaky sink. Your boyfriend had to track me down. Afraid all he found was my legs. The rest of me was shoved under the cabinet. I’m all present and accounted for now, though.”
Paradise raised an eyebrow. “Where are you from?”
The woman’s leathery skin crinkled with a million lines. “Yeah, everybody asks. Big Apple—Upper West Side. I never shook the accent. Welcome to the Manhattan. I’m Doris.”
“I’m Paradise. And he’s not my boyfriend. We’re just traveling together.”
Doris’ smile didn’t dim. “Okay. Whatever you kids call it these days. Look over the menus and order anything you want as long as it’s chili, ’cause that’s all I got right now. You want anything to drink?”
Paradise ordered a Coke. Doc asked for ice water.
“And a couple bowls of chili,” Doc added.
“Excellent choice, travelers.” With a spin, Doris headed for the kitchen.
“You don’t drink?” Doc said.
“All the time, when I’m thirsty.”
“Alcohol, I mean.”
“Take a joke, Doc.” Paradise thought of Burt and Eve and shook her head. “No, I don’t. How about you?”
“Nah. I was always too focused on being an athlete.”
“My mom, Eve, and Burt, they drink … a lot. Burt was drinking that night he came after me. He reeked of it. If I close my eyes, I can still smell him, and it makes me feel sick. When I left there, Eve was passed out on the couch. Good old Eve. My friends used to call her the martini mom.”
“I’m sorry. At least your stepdad can’t hurt you here.”
“So that’s why I don’t drink.” Paradise pointed toward the stage. “That biker over there? His name’s Hap. He plays swing music. Can you imagine?”
“Paradise. Listen to me. I mean it—I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“See? That’s just it. That’s the problem.”
“What’s just what?”
“You—how you do that. Say those things.”
“What things?”
“You’re not, you know.”
“Will you take a breath, please? I’m not what?”
“My boyfriend. You’re not my boyfriend. I’m going back to LA as soon as I can. By myself—no ballplayers allowed. I have a life there. You understand that, right?”
Doris appeared with the Coke and ice water. “Be right back with the chili. Hope you like it hot. This is pepper central.”
When she was gone, Doc shrugged and said, “Saved by the chili. I’m not going to pretend this is all nothing, if that’s what you want. Or that I don’t feel something.”
“It’s not me you like, Doc. It’s the idea of me. I’m an act. A costume. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what I am.”
“Wrong. It’s you. I see the girl behind the curtain. I’m not a kid.”
“You can’t know. Not this fast.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with fast? Who makes the rules about how fast or slow a person should feel something?”
“I don’t know. But somebody should.”
“You feel it too.”
“I feel hungry, that’s what I feel.”
“You feel it.”
“You’re an impossible person to talk to, do you know that?”
“Nah, I just know what I want.”
“I’m not some challenge, buddy. I’m not a baseball game. I’m not a Green Monster.”
“You’re Paradise Jones.”
Doris returned and slid two huge bowls of chili onto the table, along with a plate of bread and a couple
of salads. “Okay, I lied. We have salad, too. Hope you like Italian dressing. If you don’t, we also have Italian. Eat your vegetables. Enjoy. If you need anything, yell or yank one of my legs. I’ll be in back under the sink.”
“Thanks, Doris,” Doc said.
“You bet,” Doris said over her shoulder as she trotted away, boot heels clopping on the floor.
Doc sipped his water. “Back to the subject at hand. Why can’t I know how I feel this fast?”
“Do you like swing music?”
“Why can’t I know?”
“Ugh … I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“About swing music?”
“Doc …”
Doc picked up his spoon with a half-smile.
Why couldn’t the guy be pimple-faced and fat? It was exasperating.
“Okay, let’s not talk about it,” he said.
Paradise’s stomach growled as the rich smell of chili wafted up. She blew on a spoonful to cool it.
“But I knew the second you walked into Shorty’s,” Doc said.
“We’re not talking about it, remember?”
“Yeah. But I knew.”
She smiled. “Shut up, Doc.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Rio Kings
Wide open country, particularly the independent American Southwest, plays its cards close to the vest. It can, and often does, hold a deceptively large amount of people scattered across its plains and tucked into its crevasses and canyons without advertising the fact. By the time Paradise finished her salad, the Manhattan Bar had filled to about half capacity. By the time she sopped up the last bit of chili in her bowl with a piece of soft sourdough and leaned back with a contented sigh, the place was as full as her stomach felt.
The Rio Kings tuned up on stage. They were a mixed lot. Hap stood talking with a drummer in a white tank top and cowboy hat. Several Mexican men with nylon-stringed guitars of every conceivable size stood on one side of the stage. On the other, an elderly African-American gentleman in a pin-striped suit and dirty tennis shoes slouched over an upright piano, poking one key repeatedly. Next to him stood a full horn section made up of more Mexican men and one blonde woman—the blonde woman squeezed like soft cheese into a floral-print evening dress that threatened to rip a seam.