by Kim Fielding
Almost against his will, Jack found himself nodding. He’d seen that something too, first when he watched movies back in Omaha and more recently when he saw some of the actors in person. He’d been to parties attended by a lot of rich people, but you could always tell who the real stars were because everyone’s attention focused on them.
Sam nodded back at him. “I dunno where this thing comes from. I think the lucky sons of bitches are just born with it. And you either got it or you don’t. Benny Baxter’s got it. You don’t, Jacky.”
The words hit Jack as solidly as a blow, and he groaned. He flinched away when Sam tried to stroke his cheek.
Letting his hand drop to the side, Sam shook his head. “You’re a sweet kid and you’re easy on the eyes. I can give you bit parts, but you’re not gonna make a living off those. We could get you something at the studio instead, something off camera. But if you want my advice, capitalize on your looks while you got ’em. I got a friend, he’d be happy to set you up real nice as long as you’re real nice back to him. He’s asked me about you. He’s loaded—owns half the Caddy dealerships in the state.”
“I’m not a whore!”
Sam smiled. “Sure you are, kid. We all are. Nothing to be ashamed of—it’s just business. Give the people what they want and they’ll line your pockets with cash.”
Gritting his teeth tightly enough to hurt, Jack glared.
With a sound that might have been either disappointment or disgust, Sam turned away. He strode to the door and opened it. Without looking back, he said, “You want a job, give me a ring.” He walked out of the apartment, leaving the door open. A slight breeze wafted in and ruffled the little pile of money on the table.
Three
THE FORD shuddered, clanked, and emitted a cloud of smoke so black and thick that Jack could barely see where he was going. He managed to steer the car to the shoulder before it gave a death rattle and quit entirely.
“Fuck!” He slammed both palms onto the steering wheel, which improved neither the car nor his mood. He fumed for a few minutes before stepping outside.
Although the sun was low on the horizon, the temperatures were still scorching. His undershirt stuck to his skin, and his hair had wilted into a bedraggled mess. He waved the remaining smoke away and popped the hood but had no idea what he was looking at or what might be wrong. He’d never been good at mechanical things—another characteristic that deeply disappointed his father.
Jack leaned against the car and looked around. There was nothing much to see—dry ground with olive-green scrub, some rocky hills off in the distance. Christ, he’d had his fill of desert. When he was really young, his family used to drive to Grand Island a few times a year to visit his father’s parents. They had a farm just outside of town, a couple hundred acres of milo and corn that Jack’s uncles still planted every year. A creek ran through a corner of the property, and during one visit, Jack and Betty and a couple of cousins were splashing in the creek when a rainstorm hit—a real gullywasher. Everyone else ran for the house, but Jack remained, yelling with delight as he was soaked to the skin. The rain fell so heavily he could barely tell where it ended and the creek began. He whooped and hollered and splashed until his father came to get him, his face darker than any thunderhead. That night he cursed Jake for his careless, foolish ways and whipped him with his belt. The bruises lingered for days, but the memory of the joy he’d felt in that rainstorm remained for years.
Fuck, he could really use a good rainstorm now.
He was so lost in thought that he startled when a car pulled up behind him. He huffed in relief as he registered the black-and-white paint job.
The patrolman got out of his car slowly, pushing his hat back slightly on his head. He slammed the door with a boom and sauntered over. “Are you having troubles, sir?” he asked. He was handsome, tanned, and rugged-looking.
“Yeah. I think something blew up.”
The officer looked inside the engine compartment. “Go start her up for me.”
Jack trotted around to the driver’s seat and slid inside. The key was still in the ignition, so he simply pushed the starter button. The engine roared to life but immediately made horrible noises that sounded like metal running through a grinder. Jack shut it down even before the cop gestured with a downward motion.
“Well?” Jack asked when he returned to the officer’s side.
“Bad news, I’m afraid. You threw a rod.”
“How much do you figure it’ll cost to fix?”
“You’ll need a new engine, son. And I don’t think it’s worth dropping a new one into this heap.”
“Fuck. Um… sorry.” Jack blushed slightly.
But the cop only grinned. “It’s okay. I’ve heard the word before, once or twice. And this is an appropriate time to use it.” He glanced inside the car, no doubt taking in the suitcases and boxes. “Where you heading?”
“Nebraska.”
“So I take it you don’t know anyone in the area?”
“You’re the only person I know in the entire state of Arizona, Officer… uh….”
“Mike Broderick.” He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Tell you what. There’s a motel about ten miles east of here. If I give you a ride, do you have the money for a night’s stay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And is there someone you can call to come rescue you?”
This time, Jack paused before answering. “Um, yeah. I’ll think of something.”
“Good, then.” Officer Broderick looked into the Ford again. “I can help you move your things.”
Jack opened the passenger side door and started to reach for the nearest parcel. But then he stopped. “You know what? I think I’ll just take this one suitcase.” He walked around the back and popped the trunk, then lifted the luggage out. It was even older and more battered than the car, but at least it was still holding together.
“You sure, son? I can’t guarantee the safety of the rest of your belongings alongside the highway.”
“It’s… it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing important anyway.” Nothing but a bunch of clothing way too fancy for a Nebraska meatpacker.
Officer Broderick gave him a speculative look before shrugging. “Your funeral. Come on, then.”
“This is a nice car,” Jack said as Broderick pulled out onto the highway, although the model was older than he would have expected. A ’48 or ’49, maybe. “I never rode in a police car before.”
Broderick chuckled. “You must be living clean, then.”
Jack snorted. Then he pulled out his cigarettes, handed one to the cop, and stuck another in his own mouth. Broderick used the car’s cigarette lighter before giving it to Jack. The smoke trailed out the windows into the growing darkness.
“What’s in Nebraska, son?”
“Family.”
“And what are you leaving in California?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
The highway crested a small rise and distant lights came into view. As the car rolled nearer, Jack could make out a few small, low buildings and one that was larger and two-story. “What town is that?” he asked.
“Not really a town. There used to be a little mining settlement called Jasper a couple miles south in the hills, but it’s long gone. This is nothing but a stop for weary travelers who can’t quite make it to Flagstaff or Winslow.”
“I guess that’s me.”
A large metal sign announced the main attraction, the words outlined in bright neon: MOTEL. POOL. There was a gas station as well, and a café that looked as if it might still be open. Beyond that was a tiny market—dark and closed—and a few even tinier houses. Gravel crunched under the tires as Broderick slowed to a halt in front of the Jasper Motel.
Jack climbed out of the car, retrieved his suitcase from the backseat, and walked around to the driver’s side. “Thanks for the ride, Officer. I really appreciate it.”
Broderick shook his hand. “All part of the job, son. Now, you take care of yo
urself, you hear?”
“I will.”
But Broderick still clutched Jack’s hand, and his face had grown very serious. “I mean it. It can be a dangerous road when you don’t know your way.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Officer Broderick released Jack’s hand, patted the outside of the door a couple of times, and drove away.
THE ROOM cost five dollars a night and was on the second floor. If Jack looked out the window, he’d see past a walkway to the small pool. Nobody was swimming, but the older couple who ran the place told him it was permitted until nine—or ten, if he promised to be quiet. A few laps seemed like a good idea. He was grimy and his muscles were cramped.
But first he set his suitcase on the stand and took a quick look around. It wasn’t a bad room. Not much smaller than his apartment in LA, although with no kitchenette, and the place seemed clean. There were two narrow beds with green bedspreads, a cream-colored chair, and a little round table with a lamp. Two of the walls sported poorly done paintings of what he assumed was the Grand Canyon. A coin-operated television held a place of honor atop a scuffed dresser.
For a while, Jack stood in the middle of the room and contemplated just falling into bed. The hour wasn’t especially late, but he was… tired. God, he was so tired.
But he was also hungry, and he had a phone call to make.
He washed his hands and face, then changed into a clean undershirt and a plain white button-down. He combed his hair but didn’t bother with Brylcreem.
The motel managers had been full of helpful information: the Bluebird Café opened early and stayed open late; the pies were good but the french toast was better; and Lillian, the evening waitress, would cheerfully refill your coffee cup all night if you let her talk about her grandchildren. Jack felt well prepared as he set out across the parking lot in search of dinner.
The café was tiny. Two of the Formica tables were occupied, one by a middle-aged man in shirt and tie and the other by a young couple staring moonily at each other. Lillian was tall, thin, and gray-haired. She led Jack to a table near a window and handed him a menu. “What can I get you to drink, honey?”
“Coffee. And a big glass of milk, please.” He didn’t usually drink milk, but his stomach was feeling a little unsettled and the cool, smooth familiarity of it might help. When Lillian returned with his drinks, he ordered french toast with sausage. The motel people were right—the food was very tasty, and after Jack looked at two photos of pudgy babies, Lillian kept his coffee cup full and piping hot.
The other patrons left, but two men in their thirties came in. They were dressed casually but nicely. Jack watched the careful way they moved near each other, the way they leaned in close to speak across the table, and he decided they were a couple. He smiled at them, but they didn’t smile back.
Not too many cars passed by on the highway, and Lillian’s chatter with the cook was oddly muted. Jack felt as if he were floating somewhere uncharted and timeless, a pleasant sort of purgatory that smelled of syrup and grilled meat.
He smoked all his cigarettes and bought a fresh pack from Lillian. She gave him a book of matches too, sporting a cheery yellow cover with a bright blue cartoon bird singing on a branch.
He left her a five-dollar tip, which she tried to refuse. But he shook his head. “I bet those grandkids could use some new toys. Get them something nice.” She thanked him, but her eyes were troubled.
The evening air had cooled considerably, and he shivered a bit as he walked back to the motel. He’d skip the swimming after all, since he was too full anyway. Moths whirled and spun around a single bright bulb that illuminated the pay phone outside the lobby. Jack lifted the receiver.
“Operator. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to make a collect call.”
As he waited, he thought about lightning bugs. He and Betty used to run around the yard, collecting fireflies in jars. But he stopped when he was fourteen, after learning that the insects were blinking to attract mates. Who was he to stand in the way of love?
“Whatta ya want?” The familiar voice was gruff and slightly slurred. Sam had already been hitting the whiskey heavily.
“I’m… I need some help.”
“You ran through that cash already?”
“No, it’s not that. I’m… I’m stranded. My car broke down.”
“Call a goddamn taxi, kid.”
“I’m in Arizona, Sam. I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere. There aren’t any taxis.”
“What the hell are you doing in Arizona?”
Jack waited for a big truck to rumble by before he answered. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m stuck.”
“And whatta ya want me to do about it?”
“Come get me. Take me back to LA.”
On the other end of the line, ice rattled and glass clinked. “To do what? You want me to introduce you to my friend with the car dealerships?”
Jack had heard the phrase seeing red but had never actually experienced it—until now. The world flashed so bright for a moment that he almost thought a nuclear bomb had gone off. He fought to get his voice under control. “I’m going to come back and star in that picture you’re making. I’m going to play Hunter Reeves.”
“We talked about this, kid. Ain’t gonna happen. Stop fighting it—you’ll give yourself ulcers.”
“You’re going to give me that part, Sam. Because if you don’t, I’ll find Miller from Whisper or maybe that guy from Confidential, and I’ll tell him all about us. I’ll tell him exactly when you fucked me and where, and show him everything you bought me. I’ll give him the names of everyone who ever came to one of your parties. I’ll talk all about how Benny Baxter caught your attention.”
Sam was silent for a long time, and when he did speak, his tone was low. “You don’t want to do this, kid.”
“Yeah? Why not? What’ve I got to lose? I don’t have a career to ruin. I don’t have anything—” His voice broke and he had to stop.
More glass clinking, and Sam sighed. “We’ll talk about this in person. Phone’s no good for this shit. Where the fuck are you?”
“I don’t know. Jasper Motel, room 206. It’s about thirty miles east of Flagstaff.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Sam hung up.
Jack went upstairs, dug a bottle out of his suitcase, kicked off his shoes, and dropped a coin in the slot on the TV. Gunsmoke was on. James Arness’s chin was too prominent and he had puffy bags under his eyes. But when he swaggered down a dirt street with his holster slung low on his hips and his hat cocked at a slight angle, you couldn’t help but watch him. Couldn’t help but want to be him or have sex with him, or maybe both. The camera loved him.
By the time the national anthem played and the test pattern came on the screen, half the bottle was empty and Jack was passed out on top of the bedspread.
Four
JACK PICKED up the bottle and considered drinking his breakfast, but his stomach rebelled at the idea. He showered and shaved instead, dressed in clean clothes, and ventured into the glaring sunshine. A half-dozen people were splashing in the pool, while a few more lounged nearby. They were loud and cheerful: vacationers without a care in the world.
The Bluebird Café was crowded and noisy, and Lillian wasn’t on duty. Instead, Jack’s waitress was a girl about his age who flirted with him and accidentally brought him ham steak instead of sausage. His stomach settled once he’d filled it, but the rest of him remained in turmoil.
The market was open, so he bought a six-pack of beer. Then he went up to his room and waited for Sam’s familiar footsteps. Jack wished he could see the parking lot, but the angle was wrong. He wished he could go swimming, but then he might miss seeing Sam. So he moved restlessly between the bed and the chair. He watched television for a few minutes at a time, but the soaps depressed him, the news bored him, and Johnny Carson and Art Linkletter failed to amuse. He ended up leafing through the Gideon Bible, hoping that the familiarity of the passages
would calm him. But although he was reminded of the Sunday-morning smells of sweat and perfume, and although he could almost feel the scratchy collar of his church suit against his neck, he wasn’t soothed.
The fan in the window moved hot air around the room but didn’t cool anything. Jack’s skin itched.
Almost out of desperation, he lay on the rumpled bedspread, unfastened his pants, and began to stroke his soft cock. Usually he jerked off while imagining himself screwing movie stars, or sometimes he pictured fans so adoring that they dropped their trousers at a twitch of his finger and then begged the great Jack Dayton to give them a fucking they’d never forget.
Today, though, Jack’s thoughts turned elsewhere. A handsome face with a few days’ growth of whiskers, a head of dark curls, sad hazel eyes, a full mouth that quirked into a crooked smile. This fantasy man didn’t resemble anyone Jack had ever met, and yet Jack felt as though he knew him, memories of the fellow tantalizing him like a word on the tip of his tongue. The man was soft-spoken, and his equally soft hands skimmed over Jack’s body. He was on the short side, lean, with a nicely proportioned cock jutting proudly. Jack was perplexed as to why he imagined a tattoo of an octopus on the man’s chest. He had previously seen tattoos only on the arms of former sailors—World War II vets, most of them—and this guy didn’t look like a sailor. Also, why an octopus?
But the tattoo didn’t matter for long, not after its owner pressed lips and tongue to Jack’s body and Jack responded by bending him over the dresser and licking sweat from the knobs of his spine. Jack sank inside the man and felt the torso beneath him shudder, the man making guttural sounds of encouragement and ecstasy. Soon Jack was lost too, crying out at his own release.
A good orgasm usually relaxed him, but not this time. He washed up and rearranged his clothing, but he felt even more on edge. It was as if someone was waiting for him or he was late for an appointment. He felt as if someone was lingering in the room, just out of sight. Maybe the place was haunted.