Truck Stop Jesus

by Storm, Buck

  The man’s droopy eyes watered. Tears, or remnants of last night’s tequila binge?

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It only seems to me you could be kinder to others, señor.”

  “Are you kidding me? Who are you, Barney?”

  “Who is Barney?”

  “A big purple … Ah, never mind.” Not worth the effort.

  The shower stopped.

  “Who you talking to, moron?” Crystal called.

  The Mexican’s eyes shifted toward the bathroom door.

  “Hey, Jack. No free show today, comprende?” Hollister said.

  “I wouldn’t tread on a lady’s honor,” the thin man replied.

  “Trust me, brother, she ain’t no lady, but the rule still stands.”

  “Moron! I said, who is it?” Crystal shouted again.

  “I don’t know! Some Mexican daisy Simmons sent.”

  “What does he want?”

  Hollister turned toward the bathroom door. “I don’t know!” Then turned back. “What do you want?”

  “First of all, my name is Sammy, not Jack. Dr. Simmons hired me to be your guide.”

  “Guide? Guide to where?” Hollister said.

  “And to bring you this.” Sammy pulled the bag off his shoulder, reached inside, and pulled out a pistol roughly the size of a refrigerator.

  Hollister took a step back. “What the …! What does that thing shoot, mortar rounds?”

  “It was my great grandfather’s—from the revolution. Dr. Simmons said you have need of a pistola, so I loan it to you. You’re welcome. Now, be polite and say thank you.”

  Hollister eyed the gun but didn’t take it. “Why does Simmons think I need a pistola?”

  Crystal emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body.

  Sammy bowed at the waist—very old school. “Hola, señora.”

  Crystal raised a tattooed brow. “You’re right. It is a Mexican daisy. What’s with the grenade launcher?”

  “Simmons thinks we need it. No idea why.”

  Crystal reached for the gun. “Cool. I like it. Let’s go shoot something. Maybe the daisy?”

  Hollister held it away from her. “Newsflash, Annie Oakley, here’s one thing that ain’t happening—you getting your mitts on this cannon. Might as well drop a nuke on the whole Yucatan Peninsula.”

  Hollister shot an eye back to the Mexican. “Where’s Simmons, anyway?”

  “He says we meet him at breakfast. He is waiting in the café.”

  Crystal moon-walked to the bathroom and emerged ten seconds later in the same tie dye tank and spandex workout shorts she’d worn before her shower.

  “Seriously?” Hollister said. “You’re not gonna change your clothes?”

  “If I want your opinion, moron, I’ll give it to you.”

  Apparently rain in the Yucatan stopped as quickly as it started. The world steamed in the fresh sun as Sammy led the way across a cracked concrete sidewalk that cut through a courtyard filled with bushes and low, hardy looking grass.

  “Holy! What the … ?” Hollister took a panicked leap backward, grabbing for the pistol he’d shoved down the waistband of his pants. A three-foot lizard ignored him from its perch on a small boulder. “Is that an alligator?”

  Sammy blinked his big, watery eyes. “Put the pistola away, señor. It’s just an iguana. A baby one, at that.”

  Hollister edged around the beast, keeping a wary eye. “You’re telling me they get bigger than that?”

  “Of course. Much bigger. Don’t worry, the snakes keep the population down.”

  “Snakes and alligators. I’m in hell,” Hollister mumbled.

  Sammy continued down the sidewalk without a backward glance.

  “What kind of Mexican name is Sammy, anyway?” Hollister said to the man’s back.

  Sammy didn’t turn. “What kind of gringo name is Hollister?”

  Crystal gave an appreciative grunt.

  “You got something to say, Crystal?” Hollister said.

  “The daisy’s got a point. Hollister is a stupid name.”

  Casa Vieja Cabra’s lobby, a separate structure from the rest of the hotel, sprawled with haphazard abandon in several directions. The café and bar sat open to the air, sending the aroma of coffee and bacon wafting from beneath a free-standing roof of posts, beams, and palm fronds.

  Burt Simmons, looking fresh in a cream-colored linen suit, Panama hat and glossy Italian loafers, reclined at one of the tables reading a newspaper. He folded it as the group approached and set it down next to a coffee mug. Sunglasses covered his eyes, hiding his expression. “You’re late. Sit down.”

  Crystal pulled out a chair to Burt’s left and Sammy to his right, leaving Hollister directly across from Simmons. His own dual reflection stared back at him from the doctor’s mirrored shades.

  “I see you’ve met Sammy,” Simmons said.

  “I find Mr. Finch very rude,” Sammy said.

  “You and the rest of the free world,” Burt said. “Forget it. You brought the gun?”

  “Sí, señor. He has it in his pants.”

  “Bueno,” Burt said, letting the word roll out slowly.

  Getting right into the spirit of things, Mexico style.

  Hollister pulled out the hog-leg and dropped it on the table with a loud thud, barrel pointing at Simmons. “What do we need this thing for? I don’t do guns.”

  Simmons scooted out of the line of fire. “Put that thing away, you idiot! Is it loaded?”

  “Sí, señor,” Sammy said. “It has been loaded since 1921.”

  “Nineteen twenty-one? You mean this gun hasn’t been fired in almost a hundred years?”

  The Mexican shrugged. “You wanted a pistola? This is the only pistola in Dia Perdido.”

  Simmons turned to Hollister, then Crystal with a can-you-believe-this-guy look—an actor in a made-for-television courtroom drama. “Isn’t this Mexico? Haven’t you heard of the Cartel? Whoever heard of a gun shortage south of the border?”

  Sammy offered Burt the watery-eyed stare and spoke with slow deliberation. “Sí, this is Mexico. Sí, this is Dia Perdido … And that is a pistola, yes? What more can I tell you?”

  Simmons threw up his hands. His eyes rolled skyward. “Lord, help me.”

  A waitress appeared with a large tray loaded with plates of eggs, bacon, beans and sliced papaya. She served them, dropped a basket of corn tortillas onto the middle of the table, then poured coffee all around.

  “Are these beans low-fat?” Crystal said.

  The woman gave Crystal a why-don’t-you-drop-dead glare, then arched an irritated eyebrow at Sammy, who shrugged.

  Simmons put a hand on the woman’s arm and offered a cap-toothed, Don Juan smile. “Hey, beautiful, I’m looking for someone to show me around town. You available?”

  Another arched brow. “Sorry, I don’t speak English,” the waitress said in un-accented English, then sauntered away, all hips and attitude. Simmons sipped his coffee and watched her go till she exited the patio café through a door to the main building. He gave a low whistle.

  “Talkative gal, ain’t she?” Hollister said.

  “She is my cousin,” Sammy said as if this constituted an explanation.

  Hollister’s stomach growled. He scooped a huge bite of beans and bacon into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then pointed his fork at Simmons. “You never said what the gun was for.”

  Simmons dropped his shades to the end of his nose with a manicured index finger and drilled Hollister from over the rims. “My daughter won’t be alone, and I’m sick of all this messing around. So, simply put, the pistol is to shoot the guy—or guys—that are with her. Dead men don’t make trouble. No fuss, no muss.”

  Hollister shook his head. “What do you think this is, some whacked-out 48 Hours mystery? Are you off your nut? We ain’t shooting nobody.”

  “I’m your therapist, Hollister. You’ve told me things. I know you haven’t been a choirboy. What’s the p
roblem?”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve never been locked away in a Mexican prison either. And besides, that stuff was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. You ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

  “Kill the kid that’s putting his filthy hands on what’s mine. He’s got it coming. Maybe I’ll even up your payday. We clear?” Simmons said.

  Hollister shook his head. “No deal.”

  Crystal slurped a bite of fruit from her plate, burped the word papaya, then picked at a dirty fingernail. “Don’t listen to the old man, doc … I’ll shoot ’em.”

  Simmons grinned. “Atta girl.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Problem with Walking on Water

  The thing about movies, as realistic as they could be in the modern days of computer-generated imagery and multi-million-dollar budgets—they were powerless to capture the true experience. Sitting in a comfortable theater, sure, you might see and hear an actor clinging to the wheel while the ocean raged—but what about the smell? What about the bucking deck beneath your feet? The salt water, wild on the wind, stinging your skin?

  Will it ever stop?

  Two full days now and not a break in the storm. Wet hair whipped Paradise’s face. She’d stared at the rolling horizon so long her eyes threatened to cross. The bright side? She’d learned to sip coffee from a to-go mug on the slamming deck of a ninety-foot ketch.

  Doc poked his head out of the salon door and shouted over the wind. “You ready to come in?”

  “Third time you’ve asked in the last ten minutes!”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m harnessed in! As long as the boat keeps floating, I’m fine.”

  “Then how about some company?”

  “Go to sleep, Doc! You have another hour before it’s your watch. My turn!”

  Doc gave a reluctant nod and dropped back down.

  Ten minutes later, he popped up again. “I’m taking over. Don’t argue. I know you’re tired.”

  She wanted to argue, but he was right; her muscles, rubbery with exhaustion, confirmed the fact. With reluctance, she shuffled over and let him take the helm. “Thanks.”

  He smiled. “Just get some rest.”

  Paradise climbed down the steps to the salon on wooden legs and collapsed onto a couch.

  Lan sat sipping coffee and fiddling with the knobs on the ship’s radar at the navigation station. “Great day for a sail, eh?”

  Paradise pushed hair from her face. “So you keep saying.”

  “You’re not letting a little weather dampen your enthusiasm for yachting, are you?”

  The Lazarus crested a wave and took a stomach-churning drop.

  “Is that what this is?”

  “It’s life, Miss Scarlett. You take the bad with the good.”

  “Don’t remind me about the movie. Arnie’s practically sitting in the corner sucking his thumb, he’s so worked up. So much for getting back to Texas.”

  “You were able to reach him? On the satellite phone?”

  “Yes. Everything’s still on schedule, providing I can get home.”

  “Well, girl, home is a funny word. Maybe somebody’s trying to tell you something.”

  Paradise pointed at the life vest stretched tight around Lan’s big frame to the point of exploding. “Don’t they make those in extra large?”

  “This is a double XL. Struck a nerve, did I? About somebody trying to tell you something?”

  Paradise rolled her eyes. “That’s the problem. Everybody’s trying to tell me something. Nobody ever stops telling me things. Are you joining the chorus?”

  “Want to know the real reason I left the business?”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear it anymore.”

  “Bottom line—I was lonely. Surrounded by a constant barrage of friends, agents, press, you name it. But lonely, nonetheless.”

  “Sometimes I feel tiny. Like a single atom lost in the universe. At least, that’s how I picture it.”

  “Yes, sort of. The thing is, my loneliness was not for people. It was for someone or something I’d never even met. Didn’t even know existed.”

  “And you found that something? That someone? Out here on the sea?”

  “I did. Thanks to our friend, Paco. See, I’d never really thought about God. And Jesus was just the joker on the cross the Catholics lost sleep over. None of that was for me. Then Paco hitched that ride out of New Orleans, and everything changed.”

  Paradise studied Lan’s craggy face. “What changed? Did he talk to you? Jesus?”

  “Tell you the truth, I think he’d been talking for a long time. I’d just gotten good at ignoring it.”

  “Then you really heard him?”

  “I did, in a way. And guess what? I wasn’t lonely anymore.”

  “What if he wants me to do something I don’t want to do?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do it?”

  Paradise leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I know I want to act, to be a star. And here it is right in front of me. I can’t ignore that.”

  “Why do you have to? Look, if you’re hearing the voice of the Creator of the Universe, he’s not telling you not to be you. He’s just saying, Come home, your Father misses you.”

  “I’ve never known a father like that.”

  “That’s the thing. He knows you.”

  “What about Doc?”

  Lan sipped his coffee and shrugged. “Doc’s no accident. But that’s your call. The man’s head over heels for you, obviously.”

  “Funny. I never think of Doc as a man.”

  Lightning crashed—a thousand flashbulbs outside the portholes.

  “I think you do. And I think that’s part of your little conundrum.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “Your feelings for Doc?”

  “No, the storm. It’s been two days, hasn’t it? It feels like a year.”

  Lan shoved the cup back into the holder. “I’m not sure. Easy figures the weather radar’s down. Storm doesn’t even show up. I’m messing with it now. See if I can’t figure it out. Might have been the lightning or something. Why don’t you go get some sleep? You look exhausted.”

  “I’m fine. But I could use the rest.”

  “All right. I’ll rouse you when it’s time again.”

  In her small cabin, she stripped out of her wet clothes and slid beneath the blankets. Had she ever been this tired? On the dresser, securely fastened with his Velcro strips, Truck Stop Jesus’ head bobbed like a bull rider on a rodeo bull.

  Inches away, the fury of the wind and waves buffeted the bulkhead of the ketch.

  Paradise cracked an eye and glanced at Jesus. “You’re still smiling.”

  “Why not? You brought me down here where it’s warm and dry. I think you’re starting to like me.”

  “I just didn’t want you to blow away and waste my five dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

  “You’d miss me.”

  “You heard, I suppose, what Lan said in there?”

  Truck Stop Jesus bobbled. “I did.”

  “Will I be small forever?”

  “Not if I can help it. Will you go to Mexico?”

  “I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose the movie.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. I asked you to go to Mexico. Don’t get off the subject. You don’t want to go to Mexico because you love Doc, and every minute you stay with him you come closer and closer to admitting it. You’re stubborn.”

  “How can you say I’m stubborn? I thought you were supposed to be kind … loving and all that.”

  “Love tells the truth. I knew another stubborn person once. I came to him—in a storm a lot like this.”

  “I saw the movie. Walking on the water, right? It always bothered me that your robe must have gotten wet.”

  “Not the most comfortable thing, I’ll admit. That Peter, he was stubborn like you. But he was good like you, too. I told him to get out of the boat, remember?�
��

  “Yes. And he did,” Paradise said.

  “He walked on the water for a while. Then he stumbled.”

  “And you caught him.”

  Jesus bobbled. “I did.”

  “You want me to get out of the boat, don’t you?”

  “I do. In Mexico.”

  “I can’t even get to Mexico. All I can do is wait for the storm to stop. That and try to keep my eyes open when Lan says it’s my watch.”

  Jesus’ permanent grin widened. “I’m the Calmer of the Storm, remember? And do you really think a breath of wind on a speck of a planet hanging in space is an issue for me? I imagine galaxies into existence just for the joy of it. Why don’t you come home, Paradise? I miss you.”

  Something broken and long forgotten stirred deep. A tiny vestige of belonging.

  Something to steal dreams. Something to be fought off. But …

  “What if I agree to go to Mexico? Just for a day or two?”

  “Are you saying you will?”

  “I don’t … Oh, all right. I’m saying I will.”

  Something changed she couldn’t immediately place. Then … yes. The sound. That was it. The shrill whistle of the wind through the rigging above, a constant aural companion for over forty-eight hours—so long that her ears had become numb to it—was gone.

  Silence deafened.

  “What happened?”

  Jesus shrugged his plastic shoulders. “Why don’t you go up and take a look?”

  Paradise dropped from the bunk, threw on dry clothes and scrambled to the Lazarus’ cockpit where Doc and Lan already stood.

  Only a happy tropical breeze touched the sails above. Long gentle rollers stretched out on the open ocean.

  The sun smiled. A gull offered a celebratory cry.

  Easy’s head popped up through a hatch, his eyes wide.

  Lan did a slow turn. “What happened? What in the world is going on?”

  Paradise dropped to a bench. “I told him I’d go.”

  “What? Told who?” Lan said.

  Paradise watched Doc for a long few seconds. His rain-soaked hair dripped and his body steamed in the sun. He had a five-day beard and a coffee stain running down the front of his T-shirt. So handsome he made her heart hurt.

  “Let’s go to Mexico, Doc,” she said.

  His smile lines went deep. “All right, beautiful. Let’s go to Mexico.”