Counting to Infinity

by J. L. Abramo

  After a few more miles, Quinn noticed Steven eyeing him and turned toward his passenger. “Shit, your eye is starting to swell real good. Look in the mirror. Hell of a knot on your forehead, too.”

  When Steven didn’t check his bruises and kept his eyes glued to the road, Quinn added, “You said you wanted to catch ’em, right? You want me to slow down, just say so.”

  Steven finally gave in and put a hand on the dash. Quinn took his foot off the gas and the truck slowed. As they decelerated around the next turn, they came up behind a Greyhound bus. Quinn got close enough to where they were engulfed in its shadow.

  “Look familiar? We’ll wait until the next stop.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I go see if they’re on the bus.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean, how? I just walk on and take a look. But before I do, I need to ask you again, what was in the bag?”

  Quinn saw Steven hesitate. The kid wasn’t sure if he could trust him.

  “Look, I don’t want what’s in it. I told you I’d help you. I need to know what I’m gettin’ into though. You understand?”

  “Smoke.”

  “Smoke? You mean weed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I figured. How much?”

  “Three pounds.” When Steven said it, Quinn didn’t look surprised or impressed. He waited for a response.

  “Not too much then.”

  “It is to me. That’s all I had. It isn’t paid for and there’s people in the city waiting for it.”

  Quinn shrugged. “All right, all right.”

  They drafted the bus for about two miles before it pulled into a combination gas station, diner, and bus stop. The bus ground to a halt in a cloud of dust. It stood inert for a moment before it gave off a high wheeze of hydraulics as the front door opened. A few passengers disembarked. A mother with three young children, an elderly couple, and two young men. All of them appeared to be Hispanic.

  Quinn nodded at the two men. “Is that them?”

  Steven looked closely. “No. They were younger.”

  They waited another minute. No one else got off.

  Quinn said, “Gimme that piece.”

  “What?”

  “The gun. In the glove box. Let me have it; I’m going in to see if they’re on board.”

  Steven opened the box. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He passed it over.

  “How will you know it’s them?”

  “Easy. They’ll have your backpack.” Quinn opened the door and got out of the truck. He stuffed the gun in the small of his back, adjusted his jacket around it, and, without another word, walked toward the bus.

  Steven watched him go, sauntering over like he was just another passenger. He watched him board the bus.

  Inside the bus, Quinn walked down the aisle, looking from left to right. About two-thirds of the way back he saw two young Hispanic kids. The one closest to the window had a backpack clutched to his chest. They made eye contact. Quinn studied them for a moment, then winked. Both boys furrowed their brows. Quinn turned and walked off the bus.

  Steven watched Quinn walk back empty-handed, giving his shoulders a small shrug. Before he got back in the truck, Quinn pulled the .45 from behind his back and handed it across the seat to Steven, telling him to return it to the glove box. With a grunt, he climbed back behind the wheel.

  “They ain’t on there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. They’re probably still in Willits, laying low and waiting for the next bus back north.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Sorry, kid. I did what I could. Now what do you want to do?”

  Steven looked through the windshield at the bus. It was a good question. He had no idea. Without that backpack he was lost. No cell phone and no numbers to call anyone, he wasn’t sure how to reach anybody without his phone contacts. He wasn’t sure why this stranger had helped him. The man had a gun and a bottle of whiskey in the glove box of his truck, for Christ’s sake. Steven knew trusting someone like this might be a mistake. But, he didn’t want to get out of the truck either. Standing on the side of the highway, broke and alone, sounded even worse. Quinn didn’t seem that bad, really. He kind of reminded Steven of his older brother. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell you what,” Quinn said, “I’ll see that you get to the city. I’ve got to make a little stop, though. Keep me company, maybe you can give me a hand.”

  Far from home, pockets empty, no way of calling friends or family, Steven said, “Sure.”

  “All right, then. You ever been to wine country?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “No? Napa Valley here we come.”

  Chapter Two

  “So tell me more about the drug running business.”

  They’d been on the highway heading south for only a few miles. The few remaining redwoods had dissipated and the hillsides were lush with green grass punctuated with clumps of oak and poplar trees.

  Steven was looking at his contusions in the mirror behind the sun visor. He was caught off-guard by Quinn’s direct question. “Huh?”

  “Yeah, you know, the drug running business. You’re a mule on the green highway. I saw a segment on the news at the motel the other night. You little fuckers are the scourge of Northern California.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I’m only trying to put together a few bucks with a friend.”

  “Amateur, huh? In on the ground floor of the next big thing? That’s okay too, I guess. I didn’t figure I had Pablo Escobar here in the truck with me. I only thought you might teach me something I don’t know.”

  Steven didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to reply, not sure whether this guy was teasing or had turned on him.

  “I’m always interested in how people make a living. ’Specially up here. Don’t look like there’s shit for money and even less opportunity. Fuckin’ trailers and broke down pickups. Looks like one big, sad country song.” When the comment failed to elicit a response, Quinn said, “You know what I’m talking about. You’re from around here, right? Up north?”

  “How do you know where I’m from?”

  “Deductive reasoning, kid. You should try it some time. If you were a little more tuned-in on that bus you probably wouldn’t a gotten bopped on the head back there in Willits.”

  Steve looked up at his swollen forehead in the visor’s mirror.

  Quinn said, “You know, you staring at that big ol’ lump ain’t gonna make you feel any better. I wish I had something to give you, but I don’t. Why don’t you take a hit off that Jack in the glove box?”

  Steven shook his head ever so slightly. “I’m not much for whiskey.”

  “No? Then I will. Hand me that thing, will you?”

  Steven did and Quinn unscrewed the cap with his teeth once more, took a swallow, and handed the bottle back to Steven. “Go ahead. It’s medicinal. I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  Steven took a pull, winced at the burn, and placed the cap back on the bottle. Then he flipped the visor back up and steadied his gaze on the road.

  “Let me guess, hippie parents, never kept the hard stuff around but had no problem smoking dope in the living room every night. Seemed loving, but permissive, and ultimately didn’t give a shit?”

  Steven’s voice rasped from the alcohol. “More deductive reasoning?”

  Quinn laughed. “No, if you’re from up here, then it’s just playing the odds.”

  The road burned on south. The sparsely wooded areas had opened up and they drove through wide valleys. The green hills would only stay that way for a few months before they turned brown under the California sun. It was lush and cool and soon vineyards began to crop up, their vines young and sprouting, clinging to the acres of wire frame that stood in clean rows combed across the land.

  Quinn finally turned off the 101 and got on Highway 128, a smaller road where the vegetation first clung to the edges of the asphalt, then it too opened up to the rolling hills filled with grape
s. More and more grapes.

  “Where’re we heading?”

  “A friend of mine’s. He’s gonna lend us his car. A little more stylish than this thing.”

  Steven fell silent again and watched the pastoral view. The road was smooth but the slightest jostle made his injuries flare up and he found himself pushing his back into the seat to absorb the shock. Although the sun was shining through the windshield, he grew cold as his body worked to push blood to all his throbbing bruises.

  After a few more miles, just past the town of Calistoga, Quinn pulled the truck off the highway onto a smaller road. Their path remained paved, but gone were the painted lines on the sides or middle.

  “I thought you said we were going to Napa?”

  “Napa County. Not the town. Place we’re headin’ is a little farther up the road here. You all right? Hanging in? You gotta piss or anything?”

  Steven shook his head. He was hungry again, but, even if they had any food, his mouth hurt too much to eat. He wished he’d been able to finish the burger in Willits. He was thirsty too, but the only thing to drink in the truck was whiskey.

  “This’ll only take a few minutes. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  “And you’re still gonna take me to the city, right?”

  “You bet.”

  The road wound away from the valley and soon Quinn pulled the truck onto a long thin asphalt driveway. A white sign hung by the gate announcing Oulilette Vineyards. They passed a few workers tending the vines in the fields. Quinn rolled down his window and gave them a big open wave. They waved back.

  They rolled up the drive to a Spanish-style villa. It was wide and low, white stucco with red clay tiles and a broad cement staircase curving up to its large oak doors. It reminded Steven of one of those old California Missions.

  To the right of the house was a matching garage with four sets of double doors. Vehicles parked in front of every one. Most of them pickup trucks Steven assumed belonged to the workers. A couple of nice ones: a Mercedes, a BMW, some sort of sports car Steven didn’t recognize. To the left was a tower at least three stories high. It was positioned to look out over the fields. It, too, matched the house and garage.

  “Nice place, huh? Fucking pool in the back, hot tub, handball court and gym in the basement. This guy lives like a king.”

  “And he’s a friend of yours?”

  “A good friend.” Quinn let the truck roll to a stop and pulled the emergency brake. “Open the box and hand me that .45, would you?”

  Steven paused, looked at Quinn, trying to read him, wondering why he needed a gun to visit a friend—a good friend.

  “Sorry, kid, but as many miles as we’ve traveled, I’ve barely gotten to know you. I don’t leave guests in my truck with a loaded weapon. Bad etiquette.”

  Steven wasn’t sure he knew what “etiquette” was. He opened the glove box and handed over the weapon.

  Quinn said, “Help yourself to the whiskey, though. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Steven watched Quinn walk up to the large double oak front door and reach to the right to hit the bell. He heard the rich chime from where he sat. He could see the butt of the .45 sticking out of Quinn’s pants at the small of his back. After a moment, the door swung open and Quinn went inside. He sat in silence, a light breeze floating up from the fields. He turned his head to see the workers toiling out there. They were busy, far away now, and ignored the truck.

  ***

  “What brings you all the way out here?” the man said. He was portly and tanned from being out in the sun. He wore round spectacles and a white linen dress shirt.

  “You knew I’d be stopping by.”

  “No, I didn’t actually. I thought I was all done with Richard. I’ve steered clear of that bunch for years.”

  “Nice place you got here. You really bottle the shit or is this all for show?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I bottle. The product is excellent. May I offer you a taste?”

  “Of course. That’d be swell.”

  “Swell? Okay. Same old Quinn. Let me get you a glass.”

  The man walked toward the kitchen and Quinn followed. The kitchen was large and modern with an island in the middle that boasted eight burners and a grill. They were spotless and looked as though they’d never been used.

  “This is a vintage from a few years back. Right amount of sun. Right amount of rain. I was extremely lucky that year.” He reached up and took a crystal wine glass from a cupboard and set it on the counter in front of Quinn, then bent down and opened a large wine fridge built into the cupboard beside the dishwasher and selected a bottle.

  As the man bent over, Quinn reached across the counter and plucked a large carving knife from a magnetic knife block sitting beside the cutting board.

  The man straightened, turned, and saw Quinn with the knife.

  “What’s that for?”

  Without hesitation or explanation, Quinn reached forward and slashed the right side of the man’s neck. The man’s eyes lit up behind his glasses. He dropped the bottle to the kitchen floor where it bounced without breaking. Both his hands went toward his neck. Blood was pulsing out, spurting between the man’s fingers. He made a sound with his mouth that was really no sound at all.

  “What a mess,” Quinn said. “Let’s stop that heart from pumpin’ out all that blood.” Quinn thrust forward and stuck the knife into the man’s chest. As he pulled it back out, the man fell, first to his knees, then onto his back with his legs folded up underneath him.

  Quinn checked himself for blood and didn’t see any. He walked to the sink and grabbed a paper towel before turning on the faucet. Then, with some dish soap, he washed his hands and the knife. He dried his hands with the paper towel and let the knife clatter to the stainless steel basin. He tore off another paper towel and turned to walk out.

  There was a long coat rack nailed to the wall by the front door, and next to it was a pegged board with several sets of keys. Quinn studied the keys without touching them before he selected a set.

  With the towel, Quinn opened the front door and checked on Steven sitting in the truck. The boy sat with his head turned toward the fields. Quinn gave the doorbell a quick swipe and walked toward the truck.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  The sound of Quinn’s voice startled Steven. He turned and saw Quinn grinning at him through the open window, sunglasses back on.

  “You know how to drive, right? I forgot that I told someone I’d lend him the truck after I stopped by here and picked up the car. Tell you what, why don’t you follow me. I’m gonna head back into Calistoga and meet my friend at the golf course there. We can grab another bite and then be on our way. What’d you say?”

  Steven said, “Sounds good.”

  Quinn walked back to the row of cars parked in front of the garage. He walked slowly down the line as though he were picking one out. Finally he stopped at a brown BMW coupe, opened the door, and got in. Quinn warmed the engine for almost a minute before pulling back and parking beside the truck. He left it running, got out, and returned to the truck window.

  “Hey, what’re you doing? Let’s go. Slide over.” He tossed Steven the key. One ring with one key.

  Steven grabbed the steering wheel and used the leverage to pull himself across the seat and into the driver’s position. He started the truck just in time to watch Quinn head down the driveway to the main road.

  As they left, Quinn honked at the workers from the BMW and waved his arm out the window. The men in the field waved back.

  They drove in tandem back into Calistoga. Quinn led the way through town to the St. Helena Golf Course. It was a small course that curved around the Calistoga Speedway. On Grant Street an entrance led into a parking lot that sat adjacent to an RV park. Quinn pulled the BMW in and pointed to a parking spot for Steven.

  After Steven had parked, he rolled up the windows and ran over to the BMW. “What do I do with this?” he said, holding out the key.

 
“Hop in,” Quinn said. “I’m starving.”

  Steven climbed into the passenger seat and they pulled out.

  “The key?”

  “I just asked you what you wanted me to do with it.” Steven again held the key out in his palm.

  “Shit.” Quinn pulled over by the side of the entrance and said, “Be right back.”

  He took the key and jogged back to the truck.

  Inside, Quinn wiped everything he could find. Steering wheel, dashboard, radio. He emptied the ashtray into a plastic bag and took the bottle of Jack from the glove box. With a paper towel, he pulled forward the back rest and pulled out a heavy black doctor’s bag and set it on the gravel outside the truck. After that, he locked and shut the doors. He walked to either side and gave the door handles a wipe, too.

  When he was done, he tossed the plastic bag in a trash can near the entrance and trotted back to the BMW. Before he got in, he popped the trunk with the key fob and dropped in the leather doctor’s bag.

  “I saw a place up here on the left that looked okay.” Quinn pulled the car back into the street. “Ain’t much in a burg like this, but I usually have a good sixth sense when it comes to food.” He turned his head and smiled at Steven. “And a lot of other things.”

  Click here to learn more about American Static by Tom Pitts.

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