by Storm, Buck
“What kind of music do these guys play?” Paradise asked as Doris cleared the dishes from the table.
“The Rio Kings?” Doris watched them for a beat or two. “Yeah, hard to tell by the look of ’em, isn’t it? I’m not sure how to answer that. A mariachi-country-rockish sort of thing, I guess. Anyway, everyone likes it. They pack the place, and they play for beer and tips. Price is right, and they make me money. Works for everyone. ”
The band kicked off. A sombrero-wearing horn player set his trumpet on the piano and took the vocal mic. As he rolled into a ramped up version of Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places,” bar patrons headed for the dance floor. Garth was followed by Bonnie Raitt’s “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About,” lead vocals ala soft cheese floral-print. Bonnie passed the baton to a mariachi version of U2’s “Lemon.”
“Want to dance?” Doc shouted over the blare of horns.
“We should really get going.”
Doc nodded, but neither of them stood to leave. Doris brought another Coke for Paradise and coffee for Doc. Paradise watched the band, but could feel Doc’s eyes on her.
“Stop it, Doc.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
His eyes glinted, black in the dim light of the bar and contrasting his blond hair. Handsome. Handsomeness paired with annoying persistence. Which is exactly the problem with broken ballplayers.
The music dropped in intensity. Biker Hap stepped up to the vocal mic as he strummed the first few riffs of the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses.”
“I like this song. C’mon, let’s dance,” Doc said.
“No, thank you.”
“It’s just a dance. One.”
“No, thank you.”
“What if I promise to keep daylight between us? Like in junior high?”
“No, thank you.”
“Look, I snuck you out of town in the middle of the night, rescued you from bounty hunters, and found the best chili you’ve ever tasted. The least you could do is dance with me.”
Paradise sighed. “All right. But if I look like I’m enjoying myself, I’m not. I’m an actress. I know how to fake it.”
“Got it.”
Doc led her to the packed dance floor. His arm, hard and muscular, slipped around her waist. His big right hand took her small left. Butterflies danced inside her, and she forced herself to focus. Think about something else. Anything but how good his arm feels. She looked at the stage. The big biker sang with his eyes shut.
“What do you want, Paradise?” he sang.
The words hit her. Pure Mick Jagger-esque.
She pressed her face against Doc’s chest and whispered. “Here we go again … To be loved, that’s all. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. How many ways do I have to say it?”
“What?” Doc said.
“Nothing.”
“You sure?” Doc said.
“Shut up, Doc.” She felt his heart beat against her cheek.
“To be loved? You’re sure? Because you look pretty loved to me …” Mick faded back, and Truck Stop Jesus’ voice replaced him.
“I’m going to make a movie. I’m going to be a movie star. Everyone will know me. Everyone will love me,” Paradise mouthed, taking care not to let Doc hear.
“Wild, wild horses, could not drag me away … Whatever you say, Paradise, but I love you already … So does he … Wild, wild horses, we’ll ride them someday…”
She looked up into Doc’s face.
“You look peaceful,” he said. “That’s new.”
“Acting,” she said. “Remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
The Stones ended, but Hap kept the mic. “This one goes out to Paulette Goddard, Second Chorus, 1940.”
The mariachi horn section leaped into a very passable version of “Don’t Be That Way” by the Benny Goodman Orchestra, and Paradise felt an actual, genuine laugh break her lips. When was the last time that had happened?
“I guess we’re dancing again,” she said.
Momentary concern touched Doc’s face. “What if I don’t know how to dance to this?”
“It’s easy. I’ll show you. You’ve seen the movies. Think Hal Takier in Twice Blessed.”
By the end of the song, Doc had actually started to get the hang of a few basic moves.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think Gene Kelly would smack you. Quit stepping on my feet.”
The Rio Kings seamlessly transitioned into Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” and then, “Straighten Up and Fly Right.”
“They know a lot of swing,” Paradise said. “I’m getting tired.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“And you’re getting worse. Pay attention.”
“Give me a break. You’re the one who wanted to do this, so stop whining.”
“Whining? I’m going to have to ice my toes.”
The song ended, and Paradise started for the table. Doc caught her hand. “You giving up?”
She smiled at him. “I think you’ve had all the swing lessons you can handle for one night, sailor. Too much to retain all at once. I don’t want to hurt your brain any more than I already have. Or my feet, come to think of it.”
“One more dance. C’mon, I promise I’ll do better.”
The band kicked in again with a ripping version of “Stompin’ at the Savoy.”
“All right. One more. But that’s it. My toes can’t take it.”
“One. And I promise to be careful.”
Doc grabbed her hand and swung her out onto the floor. A move that surprised her.
And he didn’t stop there. For the next five minutes, he tossed her around the worn wooden boards with some of the best swing moves she’d ever seen. When the song ended, they stood facing each other, both breathless.
“What was that, sailor? You are Gene Kelly,” she said.
“I wanted to surprise you. Maybe you’re not the only actor around.”
“The way my toes are aching from before, you should win an Academy Award. Where did a broken ballplayer learn to dance like that?”
Smile lines creased the corners of Doc’s eyes. “Aunt Katie. She used to torture me with it. Jake too. We still take her dancing once in a while. At least, as much as my knee lets me.”
“Aunt Katie’s some teacher. I’m stunned.”
“It’s getting late. We really should get on the road.”
“I suppose so.”
Hap ambled up and flashed his even, white teeth. “How’d we do, Doc? That was a heck of a show, brother.”
“Perfect, Hap. Thanks, man.”
The big man laughed and patted Doc on the back, then headed toward the bar.
“How do you know Hap?” Paradise said, arching an eyebrow.
“Talked to him while you were in the bathroom. We hit it off.”
“When I was in the bathroom? You asked him to play swing?”
“I wanted to dance with you. Surprise you, you know?”
Onstage, floral print dress sang the first few lines of “Angel of Montgomery.” Doc made a move to leave, but Paradise caught his hand.
“Hey, sailor. How about one more?”
He studied her. “You sure? It’s a slow one.”
“You better start dancing before I change my mind.”
Doc put his arm around her, and she pushed Los Angeles and Burt and movies out of her head. One dance. What can it hurt?
Okay, two dances.
Maybe three …
By the time the last Rio King packed away his guitar, Paradise’s face was sore from smiling, and her legs were tired. She couldn’t remember having had so much fun in her life. She and Doc hadn’t left the dance floor nor had they switched partners. Doc’s arm was still around her as they moved toward the door. She moved away.
C’mon, Paradise. What had she been thinking? Simple—she hadn’t.
“You okay?” he said.
She hesitated. “Lo
ok, Doc. I had fun, okay? But so you know, nothing’s changed. I still don’t want you to get the wrong idea about anything. If there were a way for me to go back to Los Angeles right this second, I’d do it. We’re on the lam, right? It was a moment, that’s all. Do you understand?”
“Hey, I didn’t propose marriage. We danced. Relax.”
Doris called to them from the bar. “Hey! You two. It’s late, and there’s nowhere for you to land for a few hundred miles. Why don’t you stay here tonight? I have rooms in the back. We proudly offer full-service accommodations for the weary traveler.”
“That actually sounds good to me,” Doc said to Paradise. “I’m exhausted. What do you say we stay here and hit it early tomorrow? You can stick a chair under the door to keep me out.”
Weariness pressed, and Paradise nodded. “Don’t think I won’t, sailor. All right, let’s stay. I’m tired, too.”
Doris hadn’t lied. The rooms were clean and perfectly done up. Paradise chose the one without deer antlers mounted on the paneled wall.
“Shampoo, soap and clean towels in the bathroom,” Doris said. “I’m just down at the end in the last room if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Doris,” Paradise said.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” The leathery woman exited. Through the open door, Paradise heard her say, “Go Yankees.” Out in the night, Doc laughed. Paradise stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk that fronted the rooms. Doc sat on a plastic lawn chair next to his own door, gazing out toward the ink black of the desert.
“Hey, Doc. I had fun tonight. Really. Thank you.”
“On the lam, doll,” Doc said. “Makes for exciting times.”
“Yeah. On the lam. How do they do it, do you think?”
Doc leaned his head back against the brick. His eyes smiled. “Okay, I’ll bite. How does who do what?”
“Them.” Paradise pointed toward the Manhattan. “All of them. How do they live out here? What do they do? There’s nothing here.”
“There’s everything here. And you just said it. They live. That’s what people do. Not everybody lives in the tomorrow. Not everybody is waiting for their dreams to come true to be happy. These people—what you saw tonight—they just are. They find joy in the here and now. You could do that too if you wanted. You were happy tonight. I bet happier than you’ve been in a long time.”
“Why do you talk like that? Do you just automatically say everything that goes through your brain? Put everything out there?”
“Not how they do it in LA?”
“I don’t think that’s how anybody does it anywhere.”
“You and I … what’s happening. It’s too important to do any other way.”
Paradise tried to read his face, but the darkness prevented it. “But Doris. She’s from New York! Have you ever been there? Look at the darkness out there. The quiet. How does she stand it after Times Square?”
“I guess she’s writing her story. Just like me. Just like you. Right here, right now. In the moment.” Doc stood. “Good night, Paradise Jones. I enjoyed our dance. And not only the one on the dance floor.”
“Okay, sailor. See you tomorrow.”
Doc looked at her for a long moment. Then he turned to his room and closed the door softly behind him.
Paradise sighed. “Yeah, good night, Doc Morales. Thanks for the dance.”
Long after the lights were off and the deep desert night offered nothing but silence and ghosts, Doc’s words played through her mind. Was she writing her story? Or waiting … always waiting for the day when she would finally feel whole? Finally feel loved? As her eyes got heavy, she imagined she could feel Doc’s heart beat through the motel wall like it beat against her cheek as they danced to the rhythm of The Rio Kings.
The desert spoke to her through the open window. What do you want, Paradise?
“I want to dance.”
So dance …
“I’m going to be famous.”
Be famous to me. Be famous to him … Dance.
Hours later, a short while before dawn, gravel crunched beneath tires in the lot outside, although no headlights touched the window. Something pulled the edge of her sleepy awareness. Some thought in a passing dream that she should be frightened.
But then she dreamed of The Rio Kings.
Doc’s strong arm circled her waist, and she danced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Indians in the Hills
Doc opened his eyes with the daylight. How long since he had slept that hard? His mind went immediately to the night before.
He loved her. No question. And she felt something for him as well. He’d seen it in her eyes. Her face. Felt it in her body. He’d never stop her from chasing her dreams, and maybe, just maybe, that meant at some point he’d have to let her go. But the fact remained, he loved Paradise Jones with everything in him.
She’d said it was the clothes he saw, the movie star thing. But it wasn’t. It was her smile. The laugh that never quite covered the sadness in her eyes. It was the way she jumped subjects every five seconds. It was the way she walked, the way she blew the stray hair out of her face as she danced. It was how she looked at the desert night, or the sign from the Venus Motel even though there was nothing there to see. It was simply Paradise Jones. She had been made for him, and him for her. Something had happened between them, and she had to see it, to recognize it for the gift that it was. He had to make her see.
Doc showered and brushed his teeth. He could hear no movement through the wall. He’d probably have to wake her. They’d need an early start, though even so, he doubted they’d make Brownsville before sometime tomorrow.
Lan, Paco had said. They were supposed to meet someone named Lan, who apparently had a way of getting them across the Mexican border without Paradise getting picked up by the authorities. None of it sounded promising—or legal for that matter—but Doc trusted Paco and he’d go anywhere if it meant five more minutes with Paradise. Mexican prison? Why not?
The smell of frying bacon drifted through the window. Doris must start things early at the Manhattan. Like many rural watering holes, along with being a bar, the Manhattan probably served as breakfast-and-lunch joint, post office, church, and general clearing house for local gossip. Some of that talk was probably about Paradise and him this morning. Fresh coffee added its aroma to the frying meat. Doc’s stomach growled. He knocked lightly on the wall and called to Paradise but received no response.
Deep sleeper.
He finished cleaning up and re-packed his few belongings. Carrying his duffle out to the Olds, he popped the trunk and tossed it inside.
No red suitcase. No surprise.
He knocked on Paradise’s door, but again received no response. He waited twenty seconds or so, then tried again. Nothing.
Worry began to rise. He tried the door and found it unlocked. It swung open under his touch. She wasn’t in the room. Her suitcase stood at the foot of the unmade bed, but no Paradise.
Doc exited the room and headed for the back door of the Manhattan, his pace quick.
She must be in the Manhattan.
Doris stood in front of a large commercial stove covered with about every breakfast food imaginable. She sported an apron that said Kiss the Cook.
“Morning, sunshine. You ready for some coffee?” she said, Brooklyn thick in her voice.
“You’re speaking my language. Is Paradise in the bar?”
Concern creased Doris’ brow. “Haven’t seen her. She’s not in her room?”
“No. Just her suitcase. Where could she have gone?”
“The car’s here? There isn’t anywhere to go. At least not on foot.”
A jolt of fear punched Doc, and a cold sweat broke. “I think something’s wrong. I have to find her.”
Doris set her spatula down. “Are you two in some sort of trouble? You need to tell me what’s going on, kid.”
“It’s a long story. But yeah, there are some people after Paradise. They’re not good people.”
“And you think these people took her?”
“Maybe. I have a feeling, yeah. It’s the only explanation.”
“Who are they?”
Doc clenched his fists, mind racing. His words of explanation tumbled out in a rush. About Burt’s come-on, the Porsche, and the twisted accusations. He finished with the bounty hunters.
“They must’ve taken her. Where else could she have gone? The thing is, I can’t figure out how they found us.”
“C’mon,” Doris said when he’d finished.
She led the way into the bar, which this morning looked more the country café than nightlife hot spot. Hap sat at a table with a few other bikers, as well as about half the mariachi horn section of The Rio Kings. This included the floral-printed female trombonist who, this morning, was more suitably attired to the area in Wrangler jeans and a faded, pearl-buttoned plaid blouse.
“The girl’s missing, Hap,” Doris said. “Doc thinks it might have been bounty hunters from LA.”
Hap raised a bushy eyebrow. “Paulette Goddard 1940?”
“Yeah,” Doc said, sharper than he’d intended. “Paradise.” He wanted to run, to chase after her, but had no idea where to start. Panic choked him.
“And these guys are bounty hunters?”
Doc nodded. “Kind of. A couple. A man and a woman. Paradise’s stepdad hired them to track her down. I’m pretty sure we saw them in Las Cruces. That’s why we came this way.”
Doris jumped in and quickly recounted Doc’s story.
Hap didn’t waste time. He turned to one of the bikers. “Jack, check that Olds Eighty-Eight. Find the tracker and bring it here. Doc, what were the hunters driving? Did you see?”
Tracker? “A Crown Victoria. Silver. California plates.”
“All right. Reverb, get on the phone and round up the guys. Tell them to saddle up and find that Crown Vic. If they took her sometime in the night, they’re probably still in New Mexico.” Hap kicked out a chair for Doc. “Now Doc, you sit down and have some breakfast. This is liable to be a long day.”