by DaveKearns
Over the course of the summer, we pulled the engine and rebuilt it ourselves. I worked at an oil drilling rig construction site as a welder's assistant, making seventeen dollars an hour. Brick drove a front-loader on highway construction projects. We had money to burn, and we poured it into the car. We had the interior re-upholstered and a candy apple red paint job applied with five layers of clear coat. We had the pistons, connecting rods, and the crankshaft balanced so the engine could rev higher and be pushed harder. We were rewarded with a blindingly fast hot rod that looked like new. I let Brick drive it the first time we went cruising in the car. Brick buried the gas pedal at an intersection when the traffic light turned green. The engine screamed and we were pinned against the seats. The tires gave a tormented wail and the smell of burned rubber filled the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror at the billowing cloud of tire smoke. Brick backed off the gas and laughed.
"We gotta put a bigger engine in this thing," Brick laughed. "Weak."
Then fall semester came, and Brick and I hit the books. Brick began his second year of college but never finished it. He was bored sitting in class after class, taking notes to be regurgitated on a test just to get a score on a piece of paper. He was restless in school, and he was happier working with machinery. He got a full time job driving earth movers and bulldozers with a construction company. I had lengthy fights with Brick about how much better his future would be if he got a college degree. He wouldn't change his mind.
I remembered one evening when I was trying to study for an exam and the noise from the garage was driving me nuts. I went out to the garage and Brick was bent over the engine of the Ford, adjusting the carburetor jets with a thin-blade screwdriver. I could never manage to get the car tuned properly, even using a timing light. Brick could get everything running perfectly just by twisting the loosened distributor slowly and listening to the sound of the idling engine. Brick nodded to himself and tightened down the bolt which held the distributor in place, then jerked the throttle linkage with one thumb, flooding the four carburetor barrels with premium gasoline. The engine roared, torqueing the front of the car down.
"Do you mind?" I yelled to be heard over the motor. "I'm studying for an exam."
"I don't mind at all," he said. He closed the hood and got into the car. He backed it out of the garage, and as he shifted the transmission into drive I asked him where he was going.
"I got a date," he said. "Don't get eye strain from studying too hard."
Then he winked at me and drove off, without a care in the world.
Chapter Six
The guardhouse at the quarry was empty when Michelle slipped her magnetic card into the slot. The black and yellow arm rose to let our car pass. She pulled into the quarry parking lot and parked by the front door of the administration building. The building was a squat, one story box with square tinted windows and aluminum siding in the brown color of traditional adobe. We stepped out of the car into the blast furnace of the afternoon. The din of trucks and heavy machinery poured from the quarry. Michelle started for the building but I stayed where I was, shielding my eyes with my hand and scanning the parking lot looking for Brick's car.
I spotted the car at the far end of the lot, close to the entry of the huge corrugated metal building where mechanics worked on the trucks. The color of Brick’s car's paint was blunted by days of dust settling over it, but I recognized it just the same. Michelle had the door to the administration building open, waiting for me. I followed her inside and the door closed shut behind us, quieting the noise from the quarry.
I followed her down a long aisle of cubicles. Each had a gray steel desk, a two-drawer filing cabinet, and a swivel chair with casters on it. As we walked down the aisle, I glanced in the cubicles. Some had travel posters on the walls; others had calendars of beefy men in speedo swimsuits or of women showing lots of cleavage. One had several ivy plants making an attempt to overtake the desk surface. The cubicles reminded me of when I spent my days working at the bank as a loan officer. I wasn't interested in going back.
Michelle walked me down to Dean, one of the few employees with an office to himself. He had a cigar in his mouth again and was pecking at the keyboard of a computer terminal. He glanced up as we entered his office and grunted. Even sitting in his office chair, he was an imposing figure. His neck was thick, his hands were oversized, and his shirt and tie, while huge, seemed too small for his frame.
He waved us to the chairs in front of his desk. He was reading numbers from a computer printout and entering them into a spreadsheet on the terminal. The paneling on the walls had a dark wood grain, but it looked more like vinyl. Two bookshelves behind Dean's desk were stacked with computer printouts, bowling trophies, and a picture of Dean with his wife and son. His son was dressed in a football uniform. Dean's face beamed with pride in the picture. Michelle turned to me and put her hand on my arm.
"I need to get back," she said. "I have some things I need to take care of."
I nodded. "Okay," I said. "Thanks for the ride."
She smiled and got up to leave. I caught her hand and held it.
"Hey," I said. "I'd like to see what Cloudcroft is like in the daytime. Could I talk you into giving me a tour?"
She smiled. "Sure. Why don't you come up to the hotel tomorrow morning? Ask for me at the front desk."
"Great."
Dean didn’t take any notice when Michelle left. I leaned back in the chair, resting my head against the wall. Then I heard the upholstery creaking in Dean's chair, and I looked up.
Dean tapped his cigar on the ashtray.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Dean said. "I'm still taking care of last week's payroll."
"I'm not in a hurry," I said.
"I guess not, after what happened last night. Have you seen a newspaper today?"
"No."
"Your car made the front page. I guess the mechanic from the gas station who was driving it died on the way to the hospital."
I didn't say anything. I was thinking about the blood on the inside of the windshield of my car and the way Cal had screwed up his face when I asked him to drop the car off at my motel. I wondered if he had screwed his face up like that when he looked over and saw someone aiming a shotgun at him.
"The police had forensics people out here this morning going over the truck your brother wrecked. They said they're investigating Brick's death as a homicide now instead of an accident. Did you know that?"
"They damn well better be," I said. "But I'm surprised anyway. I told them last night I thought Brick's death and what happened to my car were connected and they acted like I was crazy. The autopsy must have shown it wasn't an accident after all."
Dean exhaled a cloud of smoke and stubbed out his cigar. "Well, one of the cops told me that they think Brick was involved in a fight even before he wrecked the truck. I'm sorry Del. I respect what you're going through. I lost my older brother to a heart attack not that long ago. But Brick could have just been in an altercation before he came on shift. The people who drive these trucks are pretty tough and they don’t always get along with each other. They’ll fight at the drop of a hat."
''That being the case," I said, "you shouldn't have any concern about the police taking a look at the wreck."
He sighed. "My concern is that it makes it seem to others like this is a dangerous place to work. It isn't. Your brother was an aggressive worker. That's fine. I like to see someone bust their ass at work. But it got away from him. He just pushed himself too hard on the overtime. That's all. You and the police go looking for trouble here and it makes the rest of us look bad."
"It’s in the police’s hands now, Dean. They’ll sort it out. You said something about Brick's insurance policy on the phone."
Dean lifted a manila folder from a stack on his desk, unfolded it, and laid the contents out on the desk in front of me. The form on top indicated that Brick's insurance was paid up and that I was listed as the sole beneficiary. The next paragraph said that the insurance company would p
ay within ten working days of completion of probate upon his estate.
Dean slipped another paper from the stack and laid it in front of me to sign. "Here's the story," Dean said. "One hundred twenty seven thousand dollars. Payable to you when your brother's estate completes probate. I just need for you to sign right here. This shows that you've been informed of the policy and understand that the payout occurs when the courts are through with his estate." Dean pushed the paper and a ball-point pen across the desk at me.
"How long do you think that will take?" I asked.
"Shit, I don't know. Couple months, I would guess. Did Brick have a will?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe longer, then."
I signed and dated the paper.
"Look," Dean said. "I know you don't want to hear it from me, but I felt real bad about what happened to Brick. If there's anything I can do to help, just ask. Seriously."
"Thanks," I said. I stood to leave, and Dean and I shook hands across the desk. I left the office and started back down the long aisle to the door to the office building. I could hear Dean typing on the keyboard again, filling numbers into one more report.
I went out to Brick's car, which was unlocked and hot as a kiln inside. I got in and dug Brick's keys from my pocket. I started it up and listened to the engine rumble at idle for a few seconds. I ran the electric windows down and backed out of the parking slot.
Once the black and yellow arm on the security gate went up, I rammed the gas pedal to the floor. I rocketed from the lot and onto the access road with the car barely under control. Brick hadn't forgotten how to tune the car.
Chapter Seven
The car’s interior had a musty smell even with the windows down and the desert blurring by at a hundred miles an hour. I could feel anger surging through me like it had when I caught Dillon Burns. The wind ripped through the open car, lifting sheets of yellowed newspapers and loose papers into a hurricane in the back seat. I eased off the gas and cruised along the quarry road, letting the engine idle.
The immigration patrol station was empty when I passed it, and the bus was gone too. I guessed that the border patrol must have bagged their limit and decided to shut the operation down for the day.
The car was running low on gas, but I couldn't bring myself to stop at the station that had towed my Camaro in. I noticed that the tow truck was parked out in front of the station. Life goes on, I thought. For most people.
I made it into town with the fuel needle on "E." I filled the tank and bought a city map at a Texaco station. I retrieved Brick's driver’s license from my wallet and matched the address against the map. It didn't take long to find Guerrero Street. The road seemed to be in about the same area as the restaurant that Michelle had taken me to the previous night.
The sun was setting as I pulled into the driveway to Brick's house. While I steeled myself to go inside, the street lights came on and a dog began barking down the block. Then it was quiet again. Some houses in Brick’s neighborhood had crushed lava rock for a yard, but Brick's lawn had thick grass. There were places where the grass was yellowing, but he had taken great care of it. The only planting in the front yard was a small crab apple tree that looked as if it had been recently planted.
The house was small, fronted by a large picture window with a one-car garage on the right. A sidewalk ran from the driveway to the front steps. The front porch was concrete, and a wood slat swing large enough for two people hung from the porch eaves with chains.
My legs felt leaden as I got out of the car and walked up the front steps. I stood on the front porch feeling more like a burglar than a relative. I shrugged off my nerves, slid the key into the front door lock and let myself in. I left the door open but latched the glass storm door.
The air conditioning was on, and it was cool inside. There was enough light coming in through the front door that I could see the living room furniture clearly: a yellow sofa against the left wall, a coffee table in front of the sofa. I flipped the light switch by the front door, and the light came on over the front porch. I tried the switch next to it, and one of the lamps in the living room came on. I had the absurd thought that now the neighbors would notice that someone was in the house.
An antique stereo console with a television set built-in was up against the right wall. A large aquarium hummed at the far end of the room, spilling greenish light onto the floor. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the living room. I walked through and turned on the overhead light in the kitchen. A door that I took for the entry to the garage was beside the refrigerator. I decided to check the garage after I'd seen the rest of the house. A hall led left from the living room. There were three doors along the hall with doors ajar. I flipped on the hall light.
The master bedroom door was in the left front corner of the house. The door was wide open, and I stood in the hall and stared at where my brother had slept. I wondered if Michelle had slept there too, but I pushed the image from my mind before it had a chance to settle in.
The bed was unmade, and the night stand had a handful of pocket change on it. The master bedroom opened onto the master bath through a plain white door. I hit the light switch and the bathroom lit up brightly, reflecting the light off of garish yellow paisley wallpaper. "Welcome to the sixties," I muttered.
The shower door was made of frosted glass for privacy. I opened it and saw that the shower tile had recently been scrubbed clean. A can of scouring powder and a dry sponge lay in one corner of the shower. I closed the door and it latched with a loud clank.
The other two bedrooms were nearly empty. One had a few boxes in it with college texts, apparently stuff that Brick hadn't unpacked since he had moved in. An ironing board was set up in the next room alongside a weight bench. It was much warmer in that room, where one of the two chest-high windows stood wide open. On the floor, the latch from the window lock lay by the wall. Someone had broken in.
I leaned out the window and could see the window screen lying on the ground beneath the window, resting on top of some paint cans. I closed the window and tried to lock it by jamming the broken latch between the rail and the frame. I finally managed to get the latch embedded deeply enough that the window wouldn't move.
"I think that’ll work," I said aloud. The floor in the room was white linoleum with gold flakes in it, and my words echoed off the hard surfaces in the room, sounding like I was bluffing.
The other bathroom was completely dark. I flipped the light switch, and a faint red bulb illuminated a bathroom window covered with black plastic, a photographic enlarger, developing trays, and a line with clothespins on it spanning the length of the tub at head level. The bathroom door wouldn’t open all the way.
I looked behind the door. A rugged canvas backpack hung from a brass hook. I pulled it off the hook and hefted it. I looked inside: just a plastic gallon bottle full of water.
I hung the backpack back on the hook and checked the cabinets. I found bottles of developer and fixer, a large electric timer, and sealed packets of unopened paper. Several beautiful and stark pictures of desert landscape were taped above the sink. In one, I recognized the San Andres Mountains and the smooth sweep of dunes at White Sands. The other was a picture of Michelle with white dunes behind her. In the picture, the wind was up and sand was streaming off the top of the dune behind her. Her hair was whipping in the wind, but her face was serene and unaffected.
I heard the sound of a car engine out front and felt a rush of adrenaline, thinking that the people who’d broken in might have come back. I switched off the red light and closed the bathroom door until it was only open an inch. I stood stock still, but my chest shook with my heartbeat.
Several minutes passed with no other sounds. Finally, I opened the door and went into the living room with my fists clenched. I peered through the drapes over the living room window and could see that a car had pulled into the neighbor's driveway across the street. I shook my head at my own fear.
I decided to take a look at the garag
e before I went back to the motel to get my belongings. My shoes made rubber scuffing sounds on the linoleum as I went through the kitchen and opened the door to the garage.
The interior of the garage was unfinished. An electric door opener hung from ceiling studs. The floor was oil-stained concrete polished by many years of use. The walls were bare wooden studs with tar paper exposed between them. Here and there, loops of white rope hung from studs. Tubes for fly fishing rods had been inserted through the some of the loops to keep the fragile poles out of harm's way. A workbench ran the length of the back of the garage. On the far end of the bench, a mechanic's vise was bolted down. Brick's tool chest sat beside the vise, open. The sockets were arranged according to size, and I recognized a torque wrench that we had bought when we were working on the Ford together. The tools were clean and well-organized, waiting to be used again.
To the right of the workbench there was a small lawnmower, a shovel, and a grass rake. The shovel still had some dirt stuck to the blade that I guessed had come from planting the crab apple tree in the front yard.