Starvation Mountain

by Robert Gilberg

  “I don’t know, hon. Let’s hope the San Diego Sheriff and the SDPD get a handle on it before we get back. We need to stay in touch with them to see what’s happening.”

  “No cell phones, remember? We were cutting all the strings . . . .”

  “Well it was symbolic and all of that, but we live in a different time than Wyatt and Billy did. It’s a connected world now and we can’t avoid it. We’ll get new phones before we head back—but in the meantime, let’s forget about it and have fun.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Well . . . what else can we do?”

  “You’re right, James; let’s just have fun. I’m glad we’re doing this. It would be much worse if we were just sitting around back there, worrying about it.”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Jim said, becoming philosophical. “You know this used to be called the old Mother Road because it became the primary route that carried people from the east to the west coast. It wasn’t completely paved, end to end, until 1937. Before that, it was a hodgepodge of dirt, gravel, and paved sections. If you were driving before it was all paved, depending on the weather, it could take weeks to go from Chicago to Santa Monica.”

  “I’m loving this ride, James. But I’d have gone for the railroad back at that time. Jesus, what a long trip it had to be with the primitive motorcycles and cars back then.”

  “Yeah, but now it’s become a legend. It’s in our national DNA. Kerouac, the guys in the Corvette, and then Hopper and Fonda . . . .”

  “Is this a test? Am I supposed to say at this point: Oh yes, the novel, ‘On the Road,’ and the TV series with Milner and Maharis, ‘Route 66,’ and the hit movie of ’69, ‘Easy Rider’?” Penny said with a smirk, not really asking.

  Looking surprised, Jim replied, “Ha, that’s pretty good for someone ten years younger than me. I didn’t know you had that much Americana in you. I think you’re a keeper, Penny Lane. What about Steinbeck?”

  “Oh, you must mean, ‘Grapes of Wrath’? Read it in American Lit almost thirty years ago. Tom Joad and his family struggled with their old farm truck through here, going to California to pick fruit.”

  “Okay, you’re humoring me, now? Sorry, I can’t help myself, I love American history.”

  “I know, I can see that. I’ll stop teasing you. Please go on with my lesson for the day.”

  “Well . . . okay . . . as long as you are interested. I was just going to say this: The Mother Road brought easterners to the openness of the west, the dust bowl refugees from Oklahoma to the land of promise and milk and honey, and in a final touch of irony, became the route of writers and movie makers. It’s kind of sad: all blood, sweat, and tears for the early travelers who really needed to use it, and now it’s turned into this mythical, romantic thing that has no resemblance to its actual past. Now people fly here from everywhere to spend ten thousand dollars riding it on rented motorcycles with gourmet food and drinks waiting for them at the end of the day.”

  “Okay, oh philosophical one. I need dessert, another cup of coffee, and to kill at least another half hour before we saddle up again.”

  “Take your time. It isn’t too far to Flagstaff and a good motel where you can rest your back. Then on to Monument Valley tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait to ride through there.”

  A tourist motel, east Monument Valley, the following day

  “That was a great ride today. So much better than yesterday’s,” Penny said as she slipped into bed.

  “It was, wasn’t it? And the best is yet to come.”

  “You mean tomorrow?”

  “No, I mean tonight,” as he propped himself on his side and slid his arm across Penny’s breast, placing his hand on her bare shoulder. “What was wrong with yesterday’s ride?”

  “Well, I did like the part of the ride on that old two-lane blacktop highway through the pine forests as we climbed higher and finally got to Flagstaff. But the first part, after we crossed the river and followed old 66, was depressing.”

  “Depressing; why?”

  “All those little towns with all the closed-up businesses and tiny homes on dirt and gravel lots. What does anyone do out there? Where do they work, how do they make a living? What do they do other than watch satellite TV? God, it made me sad to think of people living in places like Peach Springs or Belmont with their populations of less than one thousand—and that’s rounded up. I saw kids playing in dirt lots! How could anyone bring children into that life? There’s nothing but an abandoned old highway, the railroad tracks, a gas station or two, no medical facilities, and who knows what the schools are like or where they are!”

  “Remember in the movie when Wyatt and Billie had the flat tire and stopped in at a family homestead? That was near Valentine. Did you see the population sign back there: thirty-six? Thirty-six people! No wonder that family seemed to grow everything they needed: they had to!” Jim said.

  “Well, I’m sure most people aren’t like that family—if they really existed outside the movie. I guess people drive that old highway every week to Flagstaff, or back to Needles whenever they need something. I don’t know how anyone could ever agree to marry a guy who wants to get married and live in a place like Seligman, Arizona; population 456—if I remember correctly. If I’d been raised there and hadn’t run away from home by the time I was sixteen, the first question out of my mouth to any guy would have been, ‘how soon and how far?’”

  “So, you’d like to talk a while tonight, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes, at least for a little while, hon. I’m not trying to put you off, but I want to remember the beautiful places we’ve been through today. I want to hold onto them a little longer. They are special for me because we were riding together.”

  He kissed her tenderly, “Okay, I’m with you. What did you like best?”

  “Remember when we stopped for gas at the same place they did in the movie, Sacred Mountain?”

  “Yes. That was after riding through the pine forests and going up into a mountain area. In the movie, ‘I Wasn’t Born to Follow’ by the Byrds was playing.”

  “If you say so . . . After we got gas, we rode along some huge, eroded old bluffs that paralleled the road for miles that then led us into high desert country. And then, at sunset, we rode into Monument Valley late in the afternoon. Remember the orange and purple and red colors bathing the entire desert? My God—Picasso couldn’t have painted a landscape like that!”

  “How could I forget? That’s where ‘The Weight’ was playing in the movie. One of my all-time favorite songs.”

  “I’ll take your word on that. I guess I don’t mark events or points in my life with music—like you do.”

  “Sorry, I know I’m guilty of doing that. Sometimes I wonder if I’d forget half my life if it wasn’t for the music that always seemed to be with me.”

  “That’s odd. I’ve never thought about music that way.”

  “It probably is odd. I’ve wondered about it, too, but decided it’s because I’ve spent so much time alone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When two people are together all the time, something gets squeezed out of each to make room for the other. A couple will remember things by events they experienced together. A single person will remember events through other associations; for me, it’s been music.”

  “That’s a sad thought. I’d hate to think I could kill some of the things in you that make you who you are.”

  “Don’t worry. I have plenty of space for you in my life. Now that I’ve retired, that space is huge—and you get it all.”

  “So now I’m replacing your job?” She teased. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t let that one go by,” she added when Jim’s face looked troubled.

  “What am I getting myself into with you?” Jim said, then smiling and knowing Penny would always look for the fun side of things. He loved it.

  Penny lay quietly, saying nothing as she absorbed what Jim had just said. No
one had ever said anything like that to her before, not even Bruce. Nuzzling her lips to his cheek, she whispered, “I told you in the van yesterday that you’d said the best thing that anyone ever could. I was wrong, this was even better.” She softly kissed his cheek.

  Jim rolled his head across the pillow so they were face to face, lips touching.

  “And then you said you loved me. Now it’s my turn; I love you, Jim Schmidt. And I’ve changed my mind; we can talk about today’s ride tomorrow—at breakfast . . . .”

  “Want to know the song that’s in my head now?”

  “Are you going to do this all the time? But I’m sorry, I said I didn’t want to squeeze who you are out of you . . . what is it?”

  “Van Morrison: ‘Queen of the Slipstream’: And I want to rock your Gypsy soul . . . .”

  “I can dig that. Rock me, dear . . . .” Penny whispered.

  Needles, California

  “What a hellhole! It’s ten at night and it’s still over ninety degrees. Why the fuck does anyone want to live in Needles?”

  “Rent’s cheap?”

  “Yeah, but what about all the electricity you’d have to burn tryin’ to stay cool? Has to cost a fortune to run air conditioners all the time.”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. What I care about is finding that cell phone and then her. We have to take care of Carlos’s business.”

  “Yeah, but do you really think they’re taking that notebook with them? Why would they have it out here?”

  “Who knows, maybe they have a safe place somewhere along the river.”

  “And another question is: do they know what the notebook is all about?”

  “You have too many questions, Tommy. Our job is to find them and get the notebook—or find out where it is—no matter what we have to do.”

  “What are we fuckin’ doin’? I’m getting tired of this business.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. And some of the things we have to do . . . .”

  Seventeen - Inspiration

  The tourist motel coffee shop, east Monument Valley

  “It wasn’t about the keys.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  “I was having trouble sleeping last night, and this mystery with Mack and Gary and whoever the others are bothered me. I think the men at the Ramona warehouse were looking for more than those keys. The keys may have meant nothing, otherwise they would have let us out of there without trying to trap us.”

  “Yeah, well, I think we already figured that out. So, do you think you know what they really were after?”

  “Maybe. When I was working from my condo, before Mack had the Ramona office ready, I had this pile of papers and a few notebooks Mack gave me to organize his hard money loan data. There was a thin notebook—a three-ring binder—of pages that looked like maps; color coded maps. Each page was in its own clear plastic protector. I didn’t have time to spend trying to figure out what they were, and they didn’t look like they had anything to do with the loans, so I put the notebook in a pile of miscellaneous paperwork on a side table next to my desk. I forgot all about the maps until last night.”

  “What made you think of the notebook? Do you think it relates to the cabin raid and the murder in Ramona?”

  “I don’t know. But let me tell you what I remember and see if you have any ideas.”

  “Okay, do you want to order more coffee first? Farmington, our next stop, is only two or three hours’ ride, so we don’t have to hurry.”

  “Yes, let’s take a little time with this.”

  With a fresh pot of coffee on the table, Penny continued, “I knew back then what the maps were, but they seemed insignificant. But here’s what hit me last night. They were zip code maps of San Diego County. No big thing, right? But each zip code area had a different color. There were only a few colors used for all the zip codes. Like, there were blue zips, yellow zips, red zips, and so on; maybe six or eight colors in total. It was as though the zip codes were each being assigned to one of the few colors as though they belonged to something—or someone.”

  “Hmmmm; assigned to someone . . . .”

  “Yes. And I also noticed there were letters—in pairs—hand printed in each of the zips. Like, for example: AR, or BM, or PS, like that. Like someone’s initials.”

  “Whoa! Like the zip code area belonged to someone? Like a sales territory?”

  “Yes. Like a sales area map.”

  “Holy cow! Do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “That they’re drug gang maps?”

  “Jesus, yes! What else do you remember?”

  “There were multiple versions of the maps, where each zip code might have a different color and initials for the same zip code from the previous map.”

  “Like a different map for each drug type? One map for marijuana, another for crack, another for methamphetamine, and another for speed; like that?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. The colors correspond to different gangs; red is for one gang, yellow is another, and so on.”

  “In other words, the gang that has grass in one zip code might not have it for crack because some other gang has it for that, and so on. And that’s why there are multiple maps.”

  “Yes, that’s what I think.”

  “So, the set of maps is the complete definition of who has what for the entire county. What do you think that would be worth?”

  “Dead people?”

  “Yes, dead people. Was there anything else?”

  “Yes, there were a few more pages at the back that I mostly ignored. But I do remember something about them, something that may tie everything together.”

  “What?”

  “A big list of names. Dozens of them. Each name indexed to a pair of letters. I’m making this up as an example, but AR would be indexed to Antonio Regino. Like that.”

  “Christ! So, the index may give the names of each dealer or contact person, for each drug for each zip code?”

  “I think so. And there was even one more for what I think was a reference list for the individual maps. It was a short list, done in a kind of crypto-scheme that designated each map. It was simple: what I believe was a map number indexed to a drug type. Map 1—and each map had a number in the lower right corner—was indexed to something identified as Gold. Maybe Columbia Gold marijuana, and map 2 could have been another type of marijuana, and so on. I couldn’t identify the drug for each code, but I bet your friend Daggett could.”

  “You must have spent the whole night thinking about this. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Enough. I might have spent an hour or two thinking it through, and then decided, I’m with the best guy I’ve ever known—think about him. So I went back to sleep.”

  “Was that when you put your arm around me?”

  “I didn’t know you were awake. Yes, I wanted to hold you.”

  “It felt really nice, Penny. You make my day, every day we spend together.”

  She lifted his hand off the table and kissed it, “No, you make my day every day we’re together.”

  “Okay, we need to decide if we should rent the room for another day, or get on our bikes and see more ‘Easy Rider’ territory,” Jim said, and laughed.

  “Let’s ride. We’ve got the rest of our lives to spend in bed, James dear.”

  “Agreed. And we need to think about what to do with this information. It might have something to do with Mack being in jail, and all the other shit that’s been happening.”

  “I know. I think we should have cell phones.”

  “We’re going to fix that. We’ll buy new ones at the first place we find selling them.”

  “Where do you think that’ll be, out in this remote area?”

  “Probably Farmington. Other than going back to Flagstaff, it’s the only city big enough within hundreds of miles.”

  “Yes, that’s likely true. But I may not need one, I might still have mine. We should call Fred back at Desert Truck and Van Rental to see if he found it
.”

  “Good idea. Let’s head out. We’ll be in Farmington by early afternoon.”

  Eighteen - Revelation

  “My cell phone is at the bottom of the Colorado River—back in California. You can deactivate that one and activate this new one using the same number and account. And as soon as you’ve finished that, I need to use it to make a call. We may need to buy another phone.”

  After five minutes of calls and entering codes in Jim’s new phone, the salesman handed it to him, saying, “All yours. You can make your call.”

  Jim called information to get the number for Desert Trucks and Vans and punched it into his new phone. “Hi Fred, this is Jim Schmidt. Penny and I dropped a white Dodge van with you three days ago and unloaded our motorcycles. Do you remember us?”

  “Yeah, sure. You and that sweetie of yours were heading east on the ‘Easy Rider’ route. How’s it going?”

  “Great, we’re having a very cool ride. Saw some wonderful scenery and beautiful places yesterday.”

  “Yeah, where are you now?”

  “We’re in a Farmington, buying new cell phones—which is why I called: Penny thinks she left her cell phone in the van. It’s in a marbled-green colored case and was plugged into the 12-volt outlet in the rear console. We’re wondering if you’ve found it.”

  “That’s strange, Jim. Two guys were in here early yesterday asking about a phone belonging to a Penny Lane. One of them said he’s Penny’s brother and lives right around here, and that she’d asked him to come in to check on it.”

  “Oh, fuck! That’s bullshit, Fred. What happened? What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I couldn’t help them. I said that I wouldn’t confirm whether it was here or not, and that even if it was here, I wouldn’t turn it over to them without hearing from the owner.”

  “That’s great. So, what happened then?”

  “They got kinda threatening and talked about how critical it was for them to know if the phone was here. I said, ‘Look, come back with the police or someone with the authority to talk about it, and I’d cooperate.’ Then they backed off a little and asked if I could give them any idea of where the person who owned the phone had gone, which was kind of crazy to ask after they’d told me Penny had asked them to check on her phone. Seems like they’d know where she is.”