Alibi Creek (19 page)

41

J
IMMY
Z
EBROWSKI, PLEASE
.”

“You're talking to him.”

“Hello, Jimmy. My name is Lee Ann Walker,” she said, her voice breathy. “Walker's sister. I'm calling from the Des Moines airport. An emergency has come up in our family. Pat Merker gave me your number and said you can help me find Walker.”

A man asked for a pack of Marlborough Lights at the other end of the line.

“You don't know me, but we could meet,” she said. “I'll take a cab to wherever you suggest, and will pay you one thousand dollars for this information, if you agree not to tell Walker I'm here.”

“Cash?”

“Of course.”

A cash register closed. The man said, “See ya.”

“I've got business with him at noon tomorrow,” Jimmy said. “If you can hold off seeing him until after we're done, okay. I'll need the money up front.”

“That won't be a problem.”

“I get off at seven o'clock. Meet me at Farley's at seven-thirty. Any cabbie will know where it is.”

She ordered a quarter pounder and fries, settled herself at an empty gate rapidly filling with whining children
and crying babies, and called home. The answering machine picked up.

“It's Mom,” she said. “I took a plane and just arrived. Tomorrow is Grace's birthday. You might take her some eggs.”

At seven o'clock she hailed a cab. The snow had stopped and the main streets were being salted. The city must resemble San Francisco, Boston, or New York, with its streetlights, malls and theaters, art museums, and cinemas showing the top ten rated movies. Green neon letters advertised Farley's, a bar in an old downtown hotel.

From brass fixtures, dim, orange light warmed a cozy room with high-backed wooden booths and dark green walls. She ventured toward a barstool and scooted her suitcase close in, hoisted her rear onto the leather seat, and rested her feet on the long brass footrest. Eugene might have fancied bringing her to a place like this. She would have resisted. Sinners frequented bars and the virtuous attended church. If someone in Brand considered patronizing both, Art's clientele reduced them to the lowest level in no time. But in this elegant establishment, no one would punch their buddy in the face over an insult, unintentional or otherwise. The patrons wore clean clothes and polished shoes, and the bartender had on a black vest with gold buttons over an ironed shirt, a red bow tie propping his chin. She ordered a Coke and waited for a tap on the shoulder.

So, the Urbandale Holiday Inn Express, room 106. Lee Ann scribbled the address on a cocktail napkin.

“Yeah, Walker and Pat,” Jimmy said. “Quite the pair.”

“I take it you know them well.”

“Well enough to know they look alike but are mighty different. Walker's a lightweight con artist. Pat's a heavy-weight felon. Only reason Pat's serving time in minimum security is because of a minor misdemeanor. In his youth he served fourteen years for armed robbery. Shot a jewelry store clerk in both legs, crippled him for life.”

Lee Ann's palms itched and she rubbed them on her thighs. From her purse she took ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Jimmy. He finished his drink in one gulp, laid a ten next to her Coke and said something like “good deal,” or “good luck,” and “so long.” She placed another five on top of Jimmy's ten, hesitated, added three more dollars and asked the bartender to call a taxi.

The clerk at the Urbandale Holiday Inn gave her a room on the second floor overlooking the parking lot. A silver Honda was parked in front of 106. She placed her suitcase on the dresser, took out her toiletries, and splashed warm water on her face, drying off with white towels that wouldn't last a day at home, no matter how much bleach. She set out her comb and squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. In the mirror her hand went back and forth and up and down, spreading toothpaste over her teeth and gums, over and over, so tired, too tired to rinse, but she did. The heater was noisy and blew a draft around the room. Her sweater pulled off without a struggle. So many pillows. She tossed the extras aside. The decorator pillows on their bed at home had ended up teetering on an overloaded chair or tossed on the floor at night and were soon stored in the closet, and eventually donated to the thrift store. Lorraine Connely bought them for her guest room. Lee Ann's eyes closed and the journey's purpose faded to a remote notion.

She said, “Eugene.”

Eugene unhitching the horse trailer, Eugene pouring maple syrup over a stack of pancakes, Eugene hooking his belt buckle, zipping his jacket, teaching Dee how to shoot, nodding
okay
when Scott refused to handle a weapon, taking her hand in the evening and strolling down the rows of vegetables, snapping a green bean in two, half for her, half for him, picking a squash blossom and tucking it behind her ear. He'd be finished in the bathroom in a minute and collapse into the empty spot beside her and sigh, rest his arm over her waist. It would grow heavy as his breathing deepened and she would turn on her side. They would sleep with their legs touching.

42

SUNDAY OCTOBER 28, 2007

I
N THE MORNING SHE BREWED
coffee, showered, and put on a fresh pair of pants with a beige turtleneck and re-packed her suitcase. She straightened the covers, hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and pulled a chair next to the window. On TV, overly enthusiastic news anchors reported depressing events in between annoying commercials. She'd forgotten to bring food, but that was okay—she'd forgotten to be hungry. For three hours she sat, stood, peered between the drapes, and paced. At noon, she parted the curtains and remained stationed at the window.

Jimmy parked his truck beside the silver Honda in front of 106. He knocked twice.

Lee Ann grabbed her bag and purse and hurried down the outdoor staircase, past the three maroon doors and three windows of 100, 102, and 104. The temperature must have dropped below ten degrees. Her breath shot out of her mouth in gusts of steam which froze in tiny beads on her upper lip. Further down the sidewalk, a maid was layering fresh linens on her arm from a cart.

“Please, I've lost my card to room 106 and have forgotten my glasses. I'm late for an appointment. Can you let me in?”

A lamp hung over a round table, a plastic grocery bag stuffed with clothes, a black suitcase, and a six-pack of Bud huddled at its center—one in Walker's hand, of course.
Jimmy shot a glance at Walker and bolted outside, leaving him standing beside the table getting into his jacket.

“For Christ sake, Lannie, shut the door. It's freezing out there.”

She took two steps toward him. What a get-up. Shiny shirt, polyester pants, new belt, and dirty white running shoes. And a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap!

“Jimmy told you I was here,” she said.

“If you've come to take me home, forget it.” He raised his arms above his head and dropped them by his sides. “Lannie, Lannie, marching through life with God's guidelines stamped like a badge on your chest. Trouble with you is, you believe in something too strong. Then you got to defend it.”

“You believe in nothing, so think you can do anything.”

“And you hate me for it.”

That's right. He had it wrong, though, assuming himself to be the only target of her resentment. She kicked those polyester pants. For the rules. Again. For the guidelines. And he took it, like the eight-year-old brat in the bathroom when he'd stolen money from Mother's bureau. She stopped, out of breath. His eyes focused on the door, his fingers playing a tune on his thighs. The runt was thinking of running. If she had a lasso, she'd tighten it around his torso, drag him to the chair, shove him into it, and scream that she'd never let him out of her sight, or give up chasing him until justice was served.

She said, “Mother died.”

Any twitching on his part stopped.

“I'm not giving you your half of the ranch unless you return Owen's money. He deserves his rightful inheritance.”

His smirk had vanished.

“When?”

“Last Tuesday.”

He paced a circle, rubbing the back of his neck.

“The service is Wednesday. You are going to fly home with me and be there. You are going to give Owen the money. I will deed you the northern half of the Walker Ranch and if you ever step one foot on my half, I will shoot you.” She held up her cell phone. “I can call Lyle right now to inform the Iowa police where you are and have you apprehended.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes. Watching
An Affair to Remember.
Cary Grant. She seemed peaceful.”

“Tear jerker,” he said. “All those films…maybe she understood the words and actions, maybe not.”

She said,
“Seven Year Itch….Rear Window….On the Waterfront….Hud….Bridge on the River Kwai….Guess Who's Coming to Dinner…”

He added,
“Some Like it Hot….Lawrence of Arabia….From Here to Eternity….For Whom the Bell Tolls….True Grit….To Have and Have Not….
”

“That's enough,” she said.

A card on the dresser listed taxi services.

“Hopefully, we'll get to the airport early enough to catch a flight back today.”

“I've got a car,” he said.

“Not anymore.”

43

N
ABBED
. M
ERK THE
J
ERK TURNED
Pat the Rat. A thousand bucks amounted to a nice piece of change for Jimmy, but Pat wouldn't have accepted such a puny bribe with almost a half million coming his way in a matter of weeks. She'd got to Pat some other way and he'd swallowed whatever she'd doled out. Screw you, buddy.

These damned, overcast days had turned his mind around, anyway. That receptionist had said the swarms of black flies and mosquitoes around Lake Superior were worse than in Alaska and he'd heard Alaska mosquitoes were big as ice cubes. She said fishermen slathered mud all over their arms and faces against getting bit. She said Lake Superior was so vast it seemed like an ocean and that gales blew up out of nowhere. In fact, they called it an inland sea. She said in parts of northern Michigan houses had doors on the second floor that seemed to open to nowhere, but folks had to use them to get outside in the winter, the snow could get that deep.

If he could just exit this goddamn plane and set his feet on solid ground he might come up with a plan. He unscrewed the tiny bottle of scotch. Lee Ann sipped coffee, her foot resting on the black leather suitcase stashed under the seat in front of her. He offered her his bag of peanuts.

“Nuts for the nutty,” he said. She was anything but nutty.

He couldn't stretch his legs. A cramped body couldn't think. Clouds beneath a body didn't compute because the formula for daydreaming demanded lying face up looking into the great beyond, not being in it. Being propelled inside a speeding bullet at thirty-five thousand feet turned his stomach upside down. No sense talking to her. She'd made her mind up about things. He might slip away when they changed planes in Dallas, duck into the men's room, hang around there for a couple hours and take off on the next available flight to somewhere in Idaho, Montana, or Oregon. Did mosquitoes and black flies buzz around in those states?

He adjusted his seat as far back as it would go, which wasn't much, and downed the scotch in two gulps. They hardly used the northern half of the ranch. The valley narrowed quickly, as if cinched by a belt, and high mesas began their rise close to the creek. Mornings stayed darker longer and evenings arrived earlier. Bald eagles lived there. Willow thickets thrived on either side of the water, overtaking the grasses. From a source atop the east mesa, Widow Creek cut a route downward, carrying rocks that collected where it joined Alibi Creek. The combined flow spilled south where the land eventually leveled out, but even then, the area wasn't suitable for cattle. Dad had raised hogs there, once. There was a small, crude log cabin with a leaky roof, a good well, and a barn with more cracks than boards for walls. Across the north fence line the Rossmans had fixed up an old, rock house on thirty-five acres, then changed their minds and decided not to live there after all. Let's see. He might figure a way to get them to part with that piece of property. Hell, they lived in Albuquerque and only visited a few times a year. Had to rid the place of mice every time they showed up…the upkeep and taxes must be a burden…they might want a quick, easy way out…

In Dallas, Lee Ann marched toward their connecting flight at Gate 43. Walker tagged along at her heels, sniffing fast food, ignoring the bar on the left, eyes forward, away from the list of departing flights to places unknown. Children's voices and flight announcements faded. In his mind, hawks screeched and crows squabbled. Small ground animals—lizards, toads, gophers, squirrels, and snakes—called him back to Alibi Creek. And ants, army ants that built those graceful mounds he'd destroyed with his boot until Dad taught him to quit kicking and start looking. Over the years he'd discovered turquoise, coral, and stone beads in those piles of sand. Got bit more than a few times while poking around their houses, disturbing their work. One time he discovered two beads on the same hill.

The Albuquerque airport kiosks displayed chile products, New Mexican cookbooks, turquoise jewelry, Native American fetishes, weavings, and pottery. Folks waited for their flights on padded chairs from the 1950s. Walker's feet tread on tile floors laid like brick. He heard Spanish spoken.

“Come on, Lannie.” He ran ahead and faced her, walking backwards. “Here we are! Give me a smile.”

She continued straight toward him.

“Look,” he said. “I've agreed to give Owen the money. So help me, I'll never step foot on your property. I won't bug the boys, ever. I swear. And I will wait until after the ranch is legally divided to divorce Danielle, so she won't have any claim to your half. I promise, every square inch of your share will be protected.” Oh, she was done talking, he could see that. Maybe forever. For sure forever. He fell in step beside her. “I'm going to build me a one-room adobe house with a kitchen in the corner and a bathroom off to one side. I saw a picture of a house with a garden growing smack in the middle, lettuce and sunflowers and
tomatoes all packed together reaching for a skylight. I'm going to try that. The plants might attract bugs, but they've got sprays.” He cleared his throat. “Guess I'll pass on that. Just the thought's makin' me cough. But, there's other ideas for one-room living, like built-in storage under the bed and a table that folds out from the wall. See, when you're in the kitchen, the whole house is the kitchen, and when you're in bed, the whole house is the bedroom and when you're in the living room, the whole place is the living room. Get it?”

The three-hour drive from the airport took an extra hour at night, the half-moon creating crazy shadows between chamisa and Apache plume, fooling the eye into thinking coyotes, elk, and antelope were moving across the plains. He drank the rest of the six-pack and was half asleep when they drove past Highway 34 and on to Brand, arriving at Jo's at three a.m.

Referring to the suitcase on the back seat, she said, “I'll keep that. Find me at the courthouse tomorrow.”

He stood on the road holding the plastic bag of dirty laundry and blinked at her taillights disappearing down the hill. Shit. He snuck around the side of the house to Jo's bedroom and pressed his ear against the cold windowpane. At the front door, he raised his hand, but didn't knock. She wouldn't hesitate to pop a hole in an intruder's chest with the Sig Sauer .380 in her nightstand. He carried his laundry down the hill and traipsed along Main Street. A couple of strays followed at a safe distance and worked up enough courage to close the gap. He stopped and opened his palms.

“Ain't got nothin' for you.”

The only light in town shone from the courthouse entrance onto the gravel parking lot. They should've put the front door facing the street, like the state capitol building
in Des Moines. This was the courthouse, in the county seat, with a conference room for legislating, where file cabinets and computers in the clerk's office, treasurer's office, assessor's office, and Department of Motor Vehicles stored important facts and figures. The jail windows were black. He quickened his step to Art's trailer and climbed the creaking steps onto the flimsy porch. That little yapping mutt of Art's barked and the strays retreated back down the street.

A lamp turned on. Art cracked the door.

“Hey, man, it's Walker. Put your gun down and your pants on.”