Authors: Mary J. Williams
"Fit as a fiddle." Taking Colleen's hand, Dalton brushed her fingers with his lips. "What time do you get off work?"
"You honestly want to do this?" When Dalton nodded, Colleen abandoned the myriad of arguments swirling from one side of her brain to the other. In Midas, Sherry's birthday parties were as close as a person could get to a zoo—with the touch of a carnival fun house tossed in for good measure. An invitation was a hot ticket. Why shouldn't Dalton get a taste of what her mother's brand of crazy looked like?
"Give me a ring around four o'clock. I'll let you know if I'm going to be delayed."
"Will do." When Colleen hesitated, Dalton gave her a gentle push out the door. "Relax. I can't wait to meet your mother. And about that gift?"
"Try
Weaver's
down on Birch. Mom loves earrings. Think big and bold."
Colleen watched as the T-Bird turned at the intersection. Dalton and her mother? In the same room? It had disaster written all over it—in big neon lights. There was one consolation. Sherry was easily distracted by shiny things. And in Colleen's opinion, Dalton Shaw was the shiniest object she had ever met.
BUSY DIDN'T BEGIN to describe Colleen's morning. What had promised to be routine and uneventful, quickly turned into an unprecedented barrage of flat tires, blown gaskets, and one savagely ripped out carburetor.
Gary Newcomb was practically in tears when the tow truck dropped him and his brand new Ford Explorer off at the garage. Gary wanted Colleen's sympathy. All she could give him was her expertise and a bit of advice. Never cheat on a woman who knows what's what under the hood of his car. Especially when that woman is his wife.
"I didn't do anything I haven't done before," Gary whined, clutching the carburetor in his hand. "Why now? Why not the old Chevy I traded in last week? Hell, Colleen. How can I forgive a woman who could do such a thing?"
"You should be down on your knees begging Stacey's forgiveness. And be grateful this is all the damage she did."
Since Colleen had taught Stacey everything she knew about cars, if Gary's wife had been so inclined, she could have taken the Explorer's engine apart, holding each part for ransom. That's what Colleen suggested when Stacey called her around eight thirty. Now, two hours later, Colleen figured that Gary—and his new SUV—got off easy.
"But—" Gary sputtered.
Colleen had heard enough. Work was piling up. If Gary wanted a kick in the ass, she would be happy to oblige. If he wanted his truck fixed, he would have to get in line. "It will be a couple of hours. Maybe more. Leave the carburetor. Dole will call you when I'm done."
Five minutes later, an irate Dole waddled into the work area. His face was red—redder than usual.
"Gary Newcomb says you were rude to him. He's one of our best customers, Mac. I want you to apologize."
"And I want a villa in the south of France. Neither is likely. But I'll bet I get my wish first."
"You're too clever for your own good, Mac." Dole wiped at the sweat that poured down his face. More followed, making the effort a losing battle.
Colleen sighed. Lifting the newly patched tire, she leveraged it onto her old English teacher's Chrysler. Since Mrs. Black was one of the few people in Midas that Colleen looked on with affection, she wanted to send the retired teacher on her way as quickly as possible. Dole was not helping.
"If I were as clever as you claim, I wouldn't be working for you. But since I am," Colleen ratcheted the last lug nut into place. "Thank your goddamned lucky stars and leave me to it."
"One of these days—"
"What?" Colleen rounded on Dole, pointing the hydraulic wrench like a gun. "Go on," she urged when he took a step back. "One of these days…?"
Dole held up his hands. Perhaps Colleen couldn't shoot him, but he wasn't taking any chances. "Don't get your panties in a twist. And get back to work. The bodies in the waiting room are piling up."
"Here." Colleen tossed the wrench to Dole. He fumbled, but managed to hold on.
"Jesus, that fucker is hot," he muttered, fumbling, but awkwardly managing to maintain his grip.
No kidding
, Colleen thought. She had the tiny burn scars to prove it. "See those?" She pointed at the four tires lined up in a neat row.
Leery, Dole nodded.
"I know your father taught you the basics. I patched the flats. Make yourself useful and put them on the cars."
Colleen didn't wait around to see if Dole followed her orders. Taking a deep breath, she checked the board. Not bad. If she worked straight through lunch, she might get out of here by five. All things considered, she would take that.
For the first time since she walked into the garage, Colleen had a second to take a breath. With a sigh, she started the next job. Some joker had clipped a stop sign turning onto Main Street. How it happened, he wouldn't say, though Colleen suspected alcohol was involved. But nobody had been hurt, the only casualty his side-view mirror. Shaking her head, she picked up a screwdriver and got back to work.
Colleen hoped Dalton's day was going better than hers.
AFTER LEAVING COLLEEN, Dalton made the obligatory phone call to his sister. Voicemail. Again.
"I will call you one more time, Maggie. Three o'clock this afternoon. Answer or don't. It's up to you."
The truth was, it didn't matter. Dalton had no intention of paying her or her husband another dime. It was time to leave his past behind him. Sad as it was, that past included Maggie. They were never close, but she was the only blood relative he knew. Keeping that tie had always seemed important. Now? He didn't feel the emotions he would have expected. Not a bit of guilt. Not a tinge of sadness.
The only thing Dalton felt was relief.
Dalton stopped the car in front of an old rundown building. In the parking lot, amidst some scraggly weeds, sat two pickup trucks. One red. One black. Both were old models but looked to be in fairly good condition. He exited the T-Bird, his boots stirring up a swirl of dust.
The Thirsty Raven
. Dalton's memories had little to do with the front parking lot. Ask him about the back area—the place of his arrest—and he could still describe the way it looked that night in vivid, Technicolor detail. What he did remember from seven years ago was commenting to his bandmates that
The Thirsty Raven
looked as though it was held together by a few nails and a prayer. Not much had changed.
Dalton tried the front door. What would it hurt? To his surprise, the knob turned in his hand. His plan had been to take a look around, make his final peace, and be on his way. However, since he was here, and the place was open, he might as well go all the way.
The door squeaked—loud and long. Funny, Dalton could recall the sound clearly. The bar and seating area were small. Smaller than the pictures in his mind. He supposed most of the places the band had played in those early days would be the same. Like returning to a childhood home where everything seemed miniature compared to his recollections. After years of playing sold-out arenas and massive concert halls, Dalton's perspective was different.
As Dalton made his way across the room, he breathed in the scent of stale beer and industrial-strength cleaner. Now there was a smell he would never forget. Every small-town bar he had ever played carried the same unpleasant odor. Though the way his boots stuck to the floor, Dalton wondered why the fragrance left from the cleaner was so prevalent. From his estimation, the layer of spilled booze had been there for a long, long time. If anyone had mopped up in the last seven years, Dalton would be surprised.
"We don't start serving until eleven," a man behind the bar called out in a raspy, smoke-roughened voice. He wasn't a young man. Or particularly old—at least in Dalton's estimation. "If you need a drink that bad, pick up a bottle at the grocery store."
"I don't want a drink."
"Then what do you want at—" There was a pause while he looked at his watch. "Jesus. Is that the time? Andy? You in the office?"
"Yes!" Someone yelled through the open door to Dalton's left. "What do you want now?"
"What the hell am I doing here at this time of the morning?"
"We planned on going over the books for last month. Jesus, Willard. Your brain is like a goddamned sieve."
"Fuck you, Andy." Eyeing Dalton with an air of suspicion, Willard slapped his hand down on the top of the bar. "State your business."
"No business." Though he
was
enjoying the show unwittingly put on by Willard and Andy. "I'm just passing through."
"Through Midas, I get. Through
The Thirsty Raven
? Son, this ain't no tourist attraction. You won't find one of those until you hit Phoenix."
Dalton was stuck for a comeback. What could he say?
Seven years ago, I was arrested behind your bar. Mind if I take a look for old time's sake?
"Are you talking to yourself again, Willard?" The man who wandered out of the office looked to be around fifty. Short and thin, his dark hair had receded so far back it wasn't fair to call what he had left a hairline.
"No," Willard sneered, jabbing a thumb in Dalton's direction. "I'm talking to him. And don't ask me who he is. I haven't the slightest idea."
"I do." Andy took a few steps closer. "I'll be damned. It is. I heard you were in town, but I figured it was wild gossip. We get a lot of that. This is the last place I figured to ever see you again."
Willard peered over the bar. "Who the hell are you?"
Dalton was about to answer, but Andy beat him to it.
"This is Dalton Shaw, you old fool."
Willard didn't look impressed. "And who the hell is he when the lights come on?"
"You'll have to forgive my partner. There was a time when his mind was sharp as a tack. Time has dulled it considerably." Andy held out his hand. "I would say welcome back, but…"
"I'm as surprised as you are." Dalton looked around. "It hasn't changed much."
"Nope. Not much reason. Our customers don't come for the ambiance."
"Or the music?" Dalton asked.
"It's the truth." Andy shook his head. "Imagine,
The Ryder Hart Band
played here. It does give us a bit of distinction."
"One night," Willard said under his breath.
Andy rolled his eyes. "What's that, you old coot? If you have something to say, speak up."
"I said," Willard's grumble became something resembling a shout. "
The Ryder Hart Band
played here for one night. They were booked two. Left us high and dry. Not very professional if you ask me."
"Of all the—" Andy sent Dalton an apologetic look. "Willard, do us all a favor and read that newspaper clipping hanging behind the bar. The one that's been there for the past seven years."
Famous or infamous
? Dalton supposed the two went hand in hand. He was grateful that the rest of the world had long ago moved past his jailbird days. All they cared about were his music skills. The way he played the drum or the quality of his latest composition. In Midas—specifically at
The Thirsty Raven
—Dalton's notoriety was frozen in time. From the look of the framed item Willard perused, not only frozen but well documented.
"That was you?" Scratching his head, Willard looked Dalton up and down. "I remember somebody scrawnier. And shorter. You have a growth spurt?"
"No, sir," Dalton laughed. "Just older and filled out."
Suddenly, Dalton was glad for his impromptu visit. There was nothing malicious in Willard's words. The man was genuinely perplexed. He couldn't remember the last time his appearance elicited anything but frenzied excitement. If nothing else, his visit to Midas had reminded him that not everyone was impressed by fame—no matter how hard earned.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Looking at ease, Andy clapped him on the back. "You'll forgive me if I don't remember your poison of choice."
"Honestly? I would be a little creeped out if you did."
Andy chuckled. Willard seemed to find the poor attempt at a joke over-the-top hilarious.
"As I was saying," Andy said, drawing Dalton away from the bar and a braying Willard. "What would you like? On the house."
"Nothing. Thank you, Andy." Dalton felt awkward asking, but it
was
why he stopped. "Would you mind if I take a look out back?"
"You mean where…?" To Dalton's relief, Andy left it at that. "Sure. Take your time. But before you go, could I get your autograph?"
Andy scampered to his office, returning with a CD—the band's first. One signature and a few pictures later, Dalton hoped one of the shots of himself, Andy and Willard would replace the old newspaper clipping behind the bar. He was philosophical enough to understand that wasn't likely.
The Thirsty Raven
had one claim to fame. It wasn't much, but it was all they had. Plus a couple of freshly minted selfies of the owners and the infamous man himself.
Walking from the darkened bar to the glaringly bright parking lot was a shock—not just to Dalton's eyesight. Pulling out his sunglasses, he waited for his senses to adjust. Whatever he had expected. Anxiety. Anger. Regret. None of it appeared.
Though Dalton could see the farce play out, it was as though it happened to someone else. He wasn't that person anymore. He always said that given the chance to do it again, nothing would change. Yes, he would always defend himself if he believed himself in physical danger. But the rest? The blasé attitude about sleeping with a married woman? The hothead bristling with ambition and immaturity? The belief that he was invincible? That man no longer existed.
Something else Dalton realized as he relived the brief, but monumental chapter of his old life. He wouldn't be the man he was today if he hadn't lived through the mistakes. Unlike many of the inmates he had met, Dalton hadn't just survived. He flourished.