by Storm, Buck
“Where’s Paradise?”
“You mean Elizabeth? Had me a feelin’ that wasn’t her real name. Guess now that we’re cellmates, we got no more secrets, huh? Young miss is over with Mary Martha.” The old man’s craggy face clouded slightly.
“What is it, Cal? Is she safe?”
“Aw, it ain’t nothin’. I could just use a drink, is all. Dry as a powder house.”
“Listen to me, she’s in trouble. She didn’t do anything wrong, but it doesn’t matter. People are looking for her. We need to get to Brownsville as soon as possible. How can I get out of here?”
“Don’t reckon either of us is going nowhere for now. I’m afraid your travel plans been shut down for the immediate future.”
“What happened to my head?”
“Chevy Callaghan—ol’ King Jr.’s brother—happened to it. Caught you with a rock when you was turned around. Sheriff showed up right after, brought us here. Had the boys toss you in the patrol car for him.”
“Why me? Didn’t you tell him what happened?”
“This is Agua Loco, kid. We try never to confuse the story with facts. Good news is, once King Sr. gets back from that Houston stock show, I imagine he’ll straighten things out. Till then, we just got to make ourselves comfortable.”
The station’s front door opened, and a tall, thick man in a sheriff’s uniform ambled in. “Well then, Sleeping Beauty’s back from the dead.” He tossed Doc a bag of frozen corn through the bars. “Picked it up at the market. For the knot on your cabeza.”
Doc touched the bag gingerly to the back of his head. “You know the other guy started it, right?”
“Don’t matter who started it. Matters who made the complaint. In this case, it was King Jr. That means game over for you, amigo. You lose. You threw a punch at the wrong hombre. Not that I doubt he deserved it. Elwood has your car over at the garage, by the way. Gonna be a few days, he says.”
“And I get to spend them with you?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Cheaper than a motel, not that there is one. King Sr.’ll be back by then and Jr.’ll back off. You’ll be better off here. For your own protection and all.”
“You’re that afraid of the Callaghan family? You do whatever they say?”
“Listen, kid. You’re not from here, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Chalk it up to regional ignorance. What the Callaghans say, goes. Period. Mark it down in ink. It’s natural selection. Kind of a survival-of-the-fittest sort of deal. I’m Sheriff Rome, by the way.”
“Doc Morales.”
“Doc’s brother used to saddle bronc,” Cal said.
“You don’t say? He any good?” the sheriff said.
“He was. Now he’s a priest,” Doc replied.
“No joke? Caught religion, huh? Let me ask you, Doc,” Rome said, “where are you and … what was the young lady’s name again?”
Doc glanced at Cal. “Elizabeth.”
“Yeah, that was it. Where are you headed, anyway? How’d you wind up in Agua Loco?”
“Hey, Sheriff,” Cal interrupted before Doc could answer, “why don’t you round up the young miss and bring her here, too? You got an empty cell. Let these two lovebirds sing.”
“She ain’t in trouble. Got no cause to bring her in.”
“Be a decent thing, though. To let ’em be together. Protect her from King Jr.”
“King Jr. ain’t gonna bother her. Ain’t she with Mary Martha?”
“Uh huh.”
Rome blew off Cal with a wave and turned his eyes on Doc. “Anyway, like I was saying, where are you and the miss headed? You’re out here where the buses don’t run. You get lost or what?”
“Does that have anything to do with my charges?” Doc asked.
“Nope. Just curious.”
Doc closed his eyes. “In that case, my head hurts. Can we talk about this later?”
“Ain’t no law says you have to answer. I’ll be back in a little while to check on things. Y’all just stay where you are, all right?” Rome laughed at his own joke as he left, letting the station door swing shut behind him.
“Who’s after you? The law?” Cal asked once the sheriff was gone.
“Her stepdad tried to molest her. She hit him with a lamp, wrecked his car—a Porsche—and ran. He’s a big shot in LA, and he lied to the police about what happened. I don’t know where it stands legally at this point. Worst part is, he hired some bounty hunters to find her and bring her back. They’re not nice people.”
“You listen to me. You keep all that stuff under your hat, you hear? Rome, he comes across like a nice enough fella, but he’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Man’s well acquainted with the bottom of a deck, and if he thinks he can squeeze a nickel out of turnin’ you over, he’ll toss you to the sharks without thinkin’ twice.”
“Okay, I hear you. I just want to get out of here and down the road.”
“I’ll do what I can to help, but I think you already seen I don’t draw much water.”
“Thanks, Cal,” Doc said, then groaned as a fresh wave of pain swept through his head. “What’d the kid throw, a boulder?”
“Ah, just a little rock. Come to think of it, though, Chevy Callaghan does throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. Kid’s got a wing.”
“Feels like every bit of ninety. Do you think King Jr. will try to bother Paradise?”
“I don’t think so. Jr.’s mostly talk. All hat and no cattle, if you get my drift.”
“Why did you want the sheriff to bring Paradise here? You think they’ll harass your wife?”
Again a shadow brushed the old man’s eyes, and he hesitated a beat. “Naw, she’s fine. Lucifer himself wouldn’t cross Mary Martha.”
Doc closed his eyes again and dozed. He dreamed of Fenway Park—the Green Monster taunting him from left field. A giant pitcher hurled a rock at him the size of a grapefruit and Doc jerked back, dropping into the dirt in a desperate move of self-preservation. The crowd roared, and the pitcher laughed. Standing, Doc searched the stadium seats for Paradise, but she was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mary and Martha’s Barc-O-Lounger
Cal and Mary Martha’s trailer gave Paradise the impression it had been transported through time from 1971, complete with worn, avocado-green shag carpet, orange Formica countertops, and dark wood wall paneling. A velvet portrait of John Wayne hung above the couch where Paradise sat. A wooden bowl filled with potpourri sat on the coffee table.
Paradise realized she’d never been in a mobile home before.
In the movies, trailers were, for the most part, trashy places. If that was true in the real world, this one defied stereotype. Old, but neat as a pin. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Paradise glanced down at her green Elizabeth Taylor dress, creased and wrinkled from the night spent in the Olds. She didn’t even want to imagine the damage to her hair and makeup. How strange to feel underdressed in a mobile home.
She took a sip from the teacup warming her hand. Delicious. “This tea is wonderful. What kind is it?”
“Old family recipe—little of this and a little of that. Glad you like it. It’ll calm your nerves. You just relax now.”
The woman was right. As Paradise sipped, calm slowly but steadily began to talk her anxious heart off the ledge.
“Thank you for bringing me here. I don’t know what I would have done,” Paradise said.
“Nonsense. You would have done what women always do when our men are in trouble—figured it out. But I won’t lie, I’m happy for the company.”
Mary Martha spoke from behind the counter that separated the kitchen area from the living room. At least, Paradise supposed it usually functioned as a kitchen. At the moment, an incredible variety of herbs lined every inch of counter space. Bushels of drying plants hung from the ceiling and cabinets. The collection filled the trailer with a wild, earthy smell. Mary Martha moved through this natural abundance with purpose. Stripping stalks, crus
hing flowers between her fingers, and dropping the remnants into small plastic baggies.
At length, she removed her gingham apron and hung it on a hook. She poured a cup of tea of her own, then exited the kitchen. Mary Martha Sloan wasn’t a big woman or remarkable in appearance. Average, really. Her mouse-gray hair was tucked back into a bun. She wore a long cotton skirt and a denim blouse open at the collar, revealing a silver chain looped through a turquoise stone. Average, yet something about her spoke confidence. Complete control. She smiled, but her black eyes were sharp, missing nothing.
Paradise scooted back on the couch the tiniest bit. I think I’m in the presence of Mother Nature.
Mary Martha took a seat on a wooden rocker opposite. “Sorry. Not trying to ignore you. I have a show up in San Antonio next week. Behind on my bagging.”
“A show?”
“Yup. Trade show. Herbs are all the rage these days in the city. Most likely sell everything out on day one. Months of picking and drying and it goes just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“How did you learn to do that? Collect herbs? What to pick?”
Mary Martha sipped her tea. “My grandma on my papa’s side was Coahuiltecan Indian. She showed me all kinds of things. Comes in handy now. Seems like a long time ago. Another lifetime.”
“I never met my grandmother.”
“Wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Could’ve been good or bad, depending on the situation. I had one on my mama’s side I wish I never met, and that’s no joke.”
“I suppose that’s a good way to look at it.”
“One way, for sure. So, hon’, what’s your real name?”
The question came out of nowhere, and it caught Paradise off guard. It hadn’t felt right, lying to this woman. Still, what choice did she have? “But … I thought I told you.”
“You said your name was Elizabeth, yes. And mine’s Lady Bird Johnson. Don’t hold out on me, now. I ain’t a’gonna tell nobody. I’d just like to know who you are, that’s all. No agenda here. I ain’t gonna eat you.”
“Paradise Jones.” Relief flooded as soon as she said it. “I’m sorry I lied. It wasn’t right of me. You’ve been so nice.”
Mary Martha dismissed this with a wave. “We’ve all been known to bend the truth once in a while, Lord knows. Long as it’s just bendin’ and not breakin’, ain’t no harm. And you were scared, what with King Jr. drunker’n who-shot-John. I ain’t holding nothing against you.”
“Why do you have two first names?”
Mary Martha sipped her tea and gazed at Paradise with dark eyes. “You’re good at slipping in the subject change, ain’t you? No matter. You ever read the Good Book? You know, the Bible?”
“No. I don’t think so. I’ve seen movies about it. The Ten Commandments. And King of Kings by Cecil B. DeMille.”
“Uh huh. Ol’ Cecil did a bang-up job for a silent picture. Anyway, there’s a story ’bout a family in the Bible. Not sure Cecil touched on ’em in his telling of it. Two sisters and a brother. Lazarus, that was the brother’s name. He had him a story all his own as well, but that’s another deal. See, he up and died one day and the Holy Savior Jesus had to come and raise him up again. Pretty slick.”
“From the dead? And you believe in that?”
The old woman shrugged. “I don’t know, but shoot, girl, I’ve seen stranger things than that right here in South Texas. Ain’t no stretch. Now the sisters—they were named Mary and Martha. Sound familiar?”
“Not other than the fact that those are your names.”
“Trust me, it’s in there. Story goes, one day Jesus comes to visit. Don’t know if this was before or after Lazarus’ dance with the reaper, but that ain’t here nor there. Jesus drops in on a social call, and Martha gets impressed that the God of the universe is sitting on her Barc-O-Lounger, so she runs around busier than a funeral home fan in July making sure everything’s just so. But Mary, she just sits there at Jesus’ feet, listening to all the wise things he’s saying, which I imagine were quite a few. Now that upsets Martha to no end, so she asks Jesus, shouldn’t Mary get on the stick since Martha’s doing all the work? But Jesus says no, Mary’s fine where she is. Fact is—according to him—Mary’s doing just the right thing.”
“So your parents named you Mary because she did the right thing?”
“Nope, that was obligatory. Family name on my mother’s side. All the way back to Ireland. Can’t break tradition; you know how it is. But my papa, he was a preacher, poor sap, and he always felt bad for old Martha. Figured she was doing her best with what information she had to go on. He also figured Mary might have been a bit spoiled as a child, but he never mentioned it from the pulpit, so far as I can remember.”
“So he named you Martha because he was sympathetic?”
“Yup. He held to the old adage that idle hands was the devil’s playground; so here I am, Mary Martha.”
“Do you believe all that? The Bible stories?”
Mary Martha’s face was bland. “I believe and don’t believe in lots of things.”
“Does he talk to you? Jesus, I mean. Not your father.”
The black eyes narrowed slightly. “Why? Does he talk to you?”
“I didn’t lie about my name because I was scared of the man Doc punched.”
“Okay …”
“People are looking for me. People who aren’t nice.”
Mary Martha arched an eyebrow and sipped her tea as if considering. She set the cup down and studied Paradise with a shrewd gaze. “You in trouble with the law?”
Unease flitted, light as a bird. Had she said too much?
“I suppose. I’m not good at keeping secrets. Doc says we’re on the lam.”
Mary Martha leaned forward and patted Paradise’s leg with a boney hand. “Don’t you worry none. I’m a good judge of people. Always have been. My grandmother said it was a gift, but I think people are mostly obvious about things. When I look at you, I don’t see a troublemaker. I think you’re confused, don’t know what you want, but not a troublemaker.”
“Why do you think I’m confused? I’m not. I do know what I want, and there’s a good chance of it happening soon.”
Mary Martha’s dark eyes bored into her. “I asked you a question, and you changed the subject. Does God talk to you?”
Paradise stared into her teacup and became small. Paradise Jones. Crazy Water. Texas. America. Earth. Universe …
“So he does?” Mary Martha pressed.
“I think I’m losing my mind. He just asks questions. Or someone does. Or it’s all in my head. And when I give him an answer, it’s never good enough.”
“Like I said. You don’t know what you want.”
“But I do! I have a life. A career. This trip is just a detour. A short one, hopefully.”
Mary Martha laughed. “Some detour! This place is about as desolate as hell with everybody gone to lunch. Let me give you a little advice, darlin’. That voice you hear? You’re not crazy, just under stress. Ignore it. It’ll pass. God don’t usually come right out and talk to people.”
“But I thought you said you believed in him?”
“Did I say that? You finish that tea. I’m just gonna duck in the back and use the little girl’s room. Can I get you anything else? You comfortable?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Mary Martha gave Paradise’s leg another pat, then rose and disappeared into the recesses of the trailer. Silence hung heavy in the place, save for the dull hum of a swamp cooler fan on the other side of the exterior wall. Exhaustion crept through Paradise’s body, and her eyes drooped. She set her teacup on the coffee table next to the potpourri, laid her head back against the couch cushions, and allowed her eyes to close. Was Doc okay? Mary Martha had assured her that he and Cal were fine. Could she trust the old woman? It wasn’t like she had a choice. Helpless was the word that came to mind. From the back of the mobile home, she thought she heard a muffled voice, but couldn’t be sure. Mary Martha talking to herself? So
meone outside?
Or stress.
No matter. Sleep settled around her like a warm blanket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Maybe Just a Salad
Dulled by the thick layer of smog that hovered over the Los Angeles basin, lazy sunlight filtered through the plate-glass windows that made up the front wall of Auggie’s Gym.
“Uh huh,” Hollister said into his cell. In the mirror, he watched Crystal pump out arm curls with sixty-pound dumbbells. “Yeah, yeah. I got it. We’ll be there. No, just email the tickets, and I’ll print them off before we head for the airport. Yeah, goodbye.” He hit the end-call button with a beefy thumb, then rubbed his temples.
Crystal stopped pumping and dropped the dumbbells onto the rubber mat covering the gym floor. The sound rumbled through the building.
Auggie, the gym owner, yelled at her from across the room. “Hey! Crystal! I’ve told you a hundred times not to drop the weights! C’mon!”
Crystal threw a rated-R-for-language hand gesture in Auggie’s general direction, then looked at Hollister. “Who was on the phone, sweetie?”
Hollister squinted at her. She smelled like sweat and old socks. He considered lying, then caved to the inevitable. “Simmons.”
Crystal’s Mohawk lay sweat-plastered to her head. Today she’d skipped the obligatory tank top and wore loose basketball shorts and a black sports bra. Her skin shone with perspiration, and thick rivulets of it ran down her sides. Veins stood out on her pumped-up biceps. She eyed herself in the mirror and flexed. “What did he want?”
“Some old lady down in Texas called. Got his number from that missing-person website Simmons set up. Says they have his daughter down there and wants the reward money. Simmons wants us to fly down there and collect the girl. Tonight. Already bought tickets.”
A devilish light touched Crystal’s eyes. “The princess? And we get the rest of the eighty grand?”
“Yeah, we get the money.”