by Bryan Dunn
“What the hell, boss? What the hell just happened?”
“I just saved your neck is what happened.”
“Jesus,” said Vinny, staring at the pool of blood around Fletcher’s head. “What are we gonna do now?”
“We’re not going to do anything,” said Frankie, walking over to Vinny. “Sheriff Templeton will take care of everything.”
“The sheriff?”
“That’s right, the sheriff. Now give me your hand.”
Vinny reluctantly held out his hand and watched as Frankie placed the Glock in his palm. “Okay, grip it like you just fired it.”
Vinny did what he was told, being sure to position his finger across the trigger.
“It was a simple case of self-defense. Fletcher came at you with the shotgun. He fired. He missed. The shot went wide. You had no choice but to protect yourself—and returned fire.”
“But, but… it was you,” Vinny protested.
“But what?” challenged Frankie.
Vinny stared at the Glock with a look of defeat. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
Frankie rolled Fletcher onto his back. “Hand me the shotgun.”
“What for?” Vinny said, a nervous edge to his voice. Maybe Frankie was about to kill him.
“Just fucking do it!”
“Yeah, sure boss.” Vinny retrieved the shotgun and handed it to Frankie, who gripped it with his handkerchief, wiped Vinny’s fingerprints off the barrel, and placed it on Fletcher’s chest, like he’d just fired it.
Suddenly there was a strange sound in the air. Like a high-pitched whistle, thought Vinny. The kind birddogs obey. He looked up, searching the sky.
But it wasn’t a dog whistle. It was wings stressed to the limit of their aerodynamic capabilities.
A macaw’s wings.
Darwin streaked down from above like a bullet shot at hell.
A moment later—feathers exploded in Vinny’s face, lava-red and fireball-orange. Claws tore at his skull, then Darwin flapped his wings to regain altitude and banked away, disappearing behind the lath house.
“Son of a bitch!” Vinny grabbed the top of his head. “I’m gonna kill that fucking bird!” Then he took off in the direction of the lath house.
Chapter 21
Frankie studied his handiwork and decided it was good enough. Then he realized his hands were covered with blood. Fletcher’s blood.
Shit.
He tried to clean them with his handkerchief—but there was too much blood, and his fingers were starting to stick together.
After a couple more wipes, he walked over to the reservoir. He was about to climb up and wash his hands, but stopped when he saw the tickle of water flowing from the drainpipe at the base of the pond.
Frankie crouched, studied the pipe, and then spun the wheel atop the valve. Seconds later, he had a steady stream of water to wash in.
After his hands were free from all traces of blood, he stood and called out to Vinny. “Vinny! Let’s roll.” Frankie bent to turn off the water, then thought to himself, Fuck it, and walked back to the SUV.
* * *
Vinny stood in the nursery doorway staring at the funny-looking plant that almost seemed to be moving. No, vibrating. Weird. He’d never seen anything like it.
He entered for a closer look, then froze when he heard Frankie calling him.
“Vinny!” Frankie’s impatient voice echoed across the compound.
“Shit,” mouthed Vinny. As he turned to go, he saw a flat of ten little pots, each with a clipping of the funny-looking plant.
He had to have one.
Vinny grabbed a pot and held it up to his eyes, studying the creeper’s leaves and razor-sharp thorns. Snakeskin, is what Vinny thought when he looked at the leaves. Cool.
Outside, Frankie dusted sand off one of his loafers, his foot propped on the Escalade’s bumper. Fucking desert, he thought to himself.
“Jesus!” Vinny said, approaching Frankie. “That’s a huge fucking bug!”
“What?” said Frankie, pulling his foot off the bumper, a confused look on his face.
“Look.” Vinny pointed to one of Frankie’s sleeves.
Frankie glanced down at his arm and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the four-inch-long grasshopper that was sizing up one of the faux bamboo shoots printed on his sleeve.
“Fuck me!” Frankie yelled, knocking the grasshopper off his shirt with a downward karate chop. “That’s the biggest fucking grasshopper I’ve ever seen!”
He raised a foot—and just as he was about to squash the grasshopper, it buzzed away, disappearing over the top of the reservoir. “Did you see the size of that thing?” said Frankie, still a little rattled.
“You should’ve seen your face, boss…” Vinny shook his head and laughed.
Frankie was about to tell him to go fuck himself when he noticed the small pot in Vinny’s hand. “What the hell is that?” he said, pointing at the creeper vine, erasing the smirk off Vinny’s face.
“It’s a souvenir,” Vinny said, raising the creeper. “I’m going to plant it—see if it grows. They look really cool when they’re big.”
“What the fuck do you know from plants?”
“I don’t know…” he mumbled. “They just look cool.”
“Jesus.” Frankie shook his head, stepped around the Escalade, and yanked open the door. “Come on, Martha Stewart, let’s go see the sheriff.”
Chapter 22
Sam was at the counter drinking coffee in Nguyen’s Place—a combination dry goods store and grill. It was the place you came to get your mail, or buy a box of nails, or have a cup of coffee and wedge of apple pie—or maybe catch up on the latest Furnace Valley gossip over a couple of beers.
It was early morning at Nguyen’s, and the whole place smelled of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and crispy waffles.
Other than Nguyen’s Place, downtown Furnace Valley consisted of a garage and two dozen weather-beaten buildings sprinkled along a dirt road, most of them only occupied in the wintertime. Since summer was almost here, the town was mostly empty now. Someone with a real sense of humor had lined the boardwalk with a series of hitching posts—as if a posse of cowboys might ride up any minute and stop for a shot of whiskey.
Out here, in the middle of the desert—a caravan of camels would be more likely.
Tommy Nguyen grabbed the coffeepot, leaned across the counter, topped off Sam’s cup and asked, “Hey Sam, how about some breakfast? Carla’s making her famous blueberry waffles this morning.”
“Blueberry waffles?” Sam took a sip of coffee. “Can’t say no to that.”
Tommy flashed a big smile. Everyone liked Tommy’s smile. Then he called back to the grill. “You hear that, Carla?”
“Yeah baby, I heard,” said Carla, coming out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. Carla was short and round, the polar opposite of Tommy’s willowy hundred and forty-five pounds. “You want bacon and eggs with that, Sam?”
“Tell you what, if Tommy helps load my irrigation line, I’ll take the whole caboodle, plus a glass of orange juice.”
“What do you think, baby?” said Carla, looking at Tommy. “You want to help him?” Carla adored Tommy. They met thirty years ago in Los Angeles, and they’d barely spent a day apart since.
“Of course I’ll help Sam!” answered Tommy in a clipped, excited voice. “I always help the customer.”
“Well then, bring it on, Carla,” Sam said with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
Tran “Tommy” Nguyen had fled Vietnam in the late seventies and had come to America as one of the boat people. After arriving, he made his way to California and quickly melted into Los Angeles’s Little Saigon.
Tommy Nguyen’s people were farmers. He’d been raised on the edge of a rice paddy. The need to be a part of the land was in his DNA. It was etched in his soul. Living in Los Angeles, he’d longed for the lush hills and exotic mist-filled valleys of his homeland.
So, whenever Tommy had a free week
end, he wandered inland, soaking up California’s wide-open spaces, and in particular its deserts. He was fascinated by them. So much of nothing. And yet they brought him a profound sense of peace, like a good dream. To Tommy, the desert was a place where a troubled past could be buried by the sand and wind and finally be forgotten.
Sam and Tommy were placing the last of the irrigation line in the back of Sam’s 4x4 pickup when a loud backfire caused both men to start and jerk their heads toward the street. A moment later they watched as Rufus Smoot’s battered Dodge Dart rolled up in front of Nguyen’s place and parked next to a shiny new Jeep Cherokee. There was another loud bang, then the engine stopped.
Rufus climbed out and looked at the steam billowing from the sedan’s hood. There was a sudden hissing sound, then a geyser exploded out of the Dart’s grill, spraying a sheet of scalding water across the right side of the Cherokee.
“Aww, come on! No! Rufus—you’re getting water all over my Jeep!” yelled Tommy, as he ran over to inspect the damage.
Rufus Smoot—self-proclaimed water witch and erstwhile prospector—scratched his rump, looped his thumbs through the straps of his Carhartt coveralls, and then shrugged apologetically at Nguyen.
After the thermal eruption had ceased, Tommy double-timed it to the back of the store, and—moments later emerged pushing a gas-powered washer, rolling it up next to his Jeep. “Shoot, Rufus, when you gonna fix that radiator?”
Rufus thought about that. He rubbed his neck, pursed his lips, then pointed to a redwood tub mounted on slanting stilts. “Same day you fix that water tower, Nguyen.”
“Sam!” Carla yelled, stepping onto the porch. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
Sam waved, then motioned he was coming. “Be right there, Carla.”
Carla turned to go inside, then saw Rufus scratching his rump and looking at the hood of his car. “Hey, Rufus… I got your bowl of chili and a chocolate sundae all ready to go.”
Breakfast! He’d almost forgotten, distracted by the car’s exploding radiator. Rufus was suddenly all business as he hitched up his coveralls and came trotting towards the grill.
“I’m going to have a go at them facilities first, ma’am,” said Rufus, as he slipped past Carla and entered the store.
“I swear Rufus, I think you come here more for the indoor plumbing than my home cooking.”
“I’m not one to ignore nature’s call,” Rufus said as he yanked open the restroom door.
“Or a soft roll of toilet paper,” laughed Tommy, stepping up to Carla.
Chapter 23
Sam and Rufus were seated at the counter in front of their steaming hot breakfasts. Sam pulled his plate closer and noticed the waffles were golden brown and crisp on the outside. Just the way he liked them. Heck, the way anyone with a lick of sense liked them.
Next to the waffles on another plate were two eggs over easy and four extra thick strips of bacon. Sam took the strips of bacon, arranged them across the top of the waffle, then slipped the two eggs on top of that.
The perfect monument to arterial plaque, he thought to himself, then chuckled.
To the right of his food was an eight-ounce dispenser filled with maple syrup. It had a stainless steel handle with one of those slide tops. Sam hadn’t seen it here before. Carla
must have ordered it out of that restaurant supply catalog she kept in the kitchen. Nice addition…
Sam lifted the syrup and clicked the slide in and out a couple of times. Neat. Then, doing his best Jackson Pollock imitation, he splashed syrup across the whole mess—being sure to coat the eggs and bacon as well. Some people never grow up.
Tough.
Rufus had already tucked into his food and was halfway through his chili, leaving the countertop littered with chopped onions like a hailstorm had just scudded through.
A short while later, Sam swept his last bite of waffle through a puddle of syrup and popped it in his mouth. He drained his coffee, then listened to the click click click of Rufus’s spoon as he scraped the last bits of chocolate ice cream off the bottom of the sundae dish.
Sam looked over, shook his head, and was about to say, Why not just pick the damn thing up and lick it clean, when the grill—and the entire town—filled with a loud roar.
It could only be one thing.
Sam and Rufus ran out the door and onto the porch with Tommy following, just in time to see a bright yellow biplane emerge from Eller’s Garage, taxi onto the road, then pivot on its tail wheel until its nose was pointed at the center of town.
“I can’t believe it!” yelled Sam above the engine noise. “Karl did it!”
“Son of a buck,” croaked Rufus. “Took him the better part of three years to get that old bird running.”
“Engine sounds good! Really nice…” Tommy said, flashing one of his megawatt smiles.
The biplane was a 1941 Boeing PT-17. It had a 220 horsepower radial engine and a two-person open cockpit. Most people knew them as the Stearman Crop-duster—the sturdy little planes familiar to anyone driving through California’s agricultural heartland, the Central Valley.
Boeing built ten thousand of them. A thousand are still thought to be in use—or at least airworthy. Karl Eller inherited the plane when he bought the garage. The last owner had dreamed of restoring it and spending the rest of his days hopping around the southwest in the nimble little two-seater.
Never happened. As it turned out, the previous owner’s remaining days were cut
short by a massive heart attack. But his dream had lived on in the form of Karl Eller—and two and half years later, the yellow bird had been restored to flight.
Karl ran the engine up, creating a cloud of dust that swirled around the elevators, then quickly let it coast back to an idle, not wanting to stress the rebuilt engine.
“Way to go, Karl!” Sam jumped off the porch and jogged toward the plane for a closer look.
“Yeah!” screamed Carla, hopping up and down.
Karl revved the engine again. Then he stood up in the cockpit and waved back to the group, not caring that his ball cap was ripped off his head by the sudden blast of prop wash. Not usually given to displays of emotion, Karl was grinning ear to ear. A kid in a candy store.
He dropped back into the cockpit, and—just as he was about to add power and taxi into town—the engine hiccupped and sputtered, then finally stopped altogether.
The town plunged into silence. Sam thought he’d suddenly gone deaf as he watched the Stearman’s prop make a final revolution and then stop. Tommy’s smile faded, and Rufus’s face fell.
Inside the cockpit, Karl was momentarily confused. What happened? A look crossed his face. He reached forward and tapped the gas gauge. The needle jumped, then fell back, indicating the tank was empty.
He’d run out of gas!
A pilot’s cardinal sin.
Karl laughed at himself for being so careless. He patted the dash and whispered, “That won’t happen again.”
Chapter 24
It had been almost an hour since she left the highway. Laura gripped the wheel, bounced over a rutted section of road, then had to add power as she wound up a steep, rocky hill—the final bit of elevation before the road leveled at the top of Furnace Mountain and then turned down towards the valley below.
She slipped the car around a horseshoe bend, crested the hill—and got her first good look at Furnace Valley and the handful of buildings that made up the town.
Directly ahead, the road widened into a turnout. It looked like a rest stop or an observation point. Laura slowed the car, then turned off the road and pulled into the rest stop, driving right up to where the land fell away and parking next to a giant saguaro that loomed over the turnout.
The cactus was huge—tall as a tree—and looked like the kind depicted in those Roadrunner cartoons. The top was shaped like a giant fork or trident, with the middle tine jutting fifty feet into the air.
She turned off the engine and let the dust settle as she marveled at the saguar
o through the windshield.
“Carnegia Gigantea,” she said out loud. One of the most impressive specimens she’d ever seen. And then she suddenly felt like a nerd again. Nothing she could do about it. It was in her DNA. Beecham’s the name, knowledge of the obscure is the game. What was that Huey Lewis song? “Hip to be Square.” Always made her smile.
It really was an impressive sight. But definitely not indigenous to the area. A saguaro cactus that tall had to have been planted over a hundred and fifty years ago!
Very cool! And thank you, Johnny Cactus-seed, wherever you are.
Laura climbed out of the car and shut the door, sending a fine layer of dust sheeting down the windshield. She stretched, glanced around—and then was suddenly aware of the blowtorch heat, the hot sun beating down on her arms and legs.
She thought about getting back in the car, but noticed a pencil-thin line of shade offered by the cactus. She moved to the shade, positioning herself so she was completely protected from the sun’s rays.
Laura looked out over the valley and was overcome by its stark beauty. An abstract canvas done in taupes and browns, prostrated beneath a flawless brushstroke of azure pigment. And so utterly silent, you could almost hear the heat.
Right on the back of that thought, a wave of self-doubt washed over her. What was she doing out here? What was she thinking?
This was a mistake.
This was never going to work.
It was hard enough reconnecting with friends after a couple of years. The person she’d come to see—her father—she hadn’t talked to in a lifetime. Or at least her lifetime.
It was hopeless. It was going to be awkward and horrible and embarrassing. Might as well just turn around and hug the cactus.
Chapter 25
Back at Nguyen’s Place, everyone had gathered at the grill to celebrate the resurrection of the old Stearman biplane and congratulate Karl on a job well done.