No one would be looking for me in a cherry Mustang. Once in Vegas, truckers headed for Salt Lake could take me across to Utah.
“Perfect.”
“So what’s a nice country boy like you doing out in the middle of nowhere?” she asked, as the vodka bottle clinked at her feet. “You sound like you’re fresh off the ranch.”
“Guess you might say I’m seeing the world.” I didn’t add that when my last wrangling job ended, I took a bus to LA with a buddy. Got in deeper than I reckoned, looking for some fast money. The coke shipment I was sent to deliver got stolen on the way. A couple of homeboys with guns left me in a vacant lot with a killer lump on my head. I was pretty sure the guys I was working for wouldn’t appreciate losing forty thousand. But I didn’t wait around to find out.
She looked over at me and her eyelids fluttered. “I’m a good judge of character. Sort of a sixth sense.”
We were on Route 40, a mile from Needles. The sooner we were away from cities, the better. In the wide-open spaces, you could see who was coming.
People were funny about drugs. Especially her age group. I took a silent breath and tried to sound casual. “I’ve worked on a few ranches. Thought California might be my style. The San Joaquin Valley has lots of farms. Fruit and nuts mainly. I was getting good at repairing equipment. Then the economy tanked. Back in Utah I can always get stock work. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s steady.”
“Leave a woman behind?” she asked.
“No, but I left a good horse. Nufflo’s running pasture at a friend’s.”
From the center of Needles, I took Route 95 north.
The desert flew by as we crossed into Nevada. I held the wheel loose and easy but ready for action. Like the reins on Nufflo. He was my bud. We’d seen some times together out on the range.
“What’s your dream, Gary? You’re a young man.”
I didn’t bother to correct her about my name. But what a funny question. No one had ever asked me that. And I had to think a bit before opening my yap.
“Oh, a few acres between Church Wells and Big Water outside Escalante. Not far from the Arizona border. Nothing special. A cabin and enough room for a horse.” I was through with big plans. Being greedy was plain stupid.
“Wells and water. Sounds like the desert all right. Bet there’s not a mosquito in miles.”
“In the canyons around the seeps or the potholes after a gully washer maybe. Watching the sun go down behind the Coxcomb is the prettiest sight in the world. Doesn’t cost nothing.”
“The Coxcomb. Very romantic names out west. Small dreams can be good dreams.”
She took off her dark glasses and looked at me, and I nearly drove off the road. Her eyes were like blue ice at the bottom of a glacier. They bore clean into me and out the back. One wheel hit the sand. The rear end twisted, but I held on.
“Sorry,” I said. Some women would have screamed. She was real calm.
“You’re looking at my eyes. Everyone does. They’re not contacts. Just Burns eyes.” They ran in her family. Clear back to Finland or somewhere. She was talking slower and slower. Like she was winding down.
“Mom had a border collie once with one eye blue, the other brown. Like he had two sides to him,” I said.
“Devil and angel.” We both started to laugh. “I’m a little of both too. And I won’t forget that I owe you.” Her head turned toward the window.
She was quiet for a few minutes. I didn’t have much else to say, so I drove in silence. Close enough for a signal now. I fiddled with the radio.
“So what kind of mu…”
But she was snoring. Her hat had come off. The black hair was a dye job, dark as a raven. Good skin though. Babied like the car. Deep blue eye shadow. Fragile lids. You could see where her makeup ended above her neck. Poor old bat. Where did she get off picking up a guy in the desert? Someone could take her for everything she had. Leave her out there and drive off. What the hell. Soon we’d be in Vegas. Maybe I’d get a meal and a few bucks. Even bus fare. She did say she owed me.
Phil Collins was singing “Another Day in Paradise.”
The highway stretched ahead, and the gas gauge was sinking. We weren’t far from Henderson. Watching the moon and reading casino billboards had been keeping me awake. The desert was prettier plain. I saw a rattler making its way across the highway and aimed for it. Looked like a stick, but I knew better. Big sucker. Seven feet at least. In the rear-view mirror, it whipped back and forth. Nobody home but still moving. Dead rattlers bite more people than live ones. I don’t blame them. It’s their nature.
“Score one for Mama,” I whispered.
I pulled over at the town limits. Just in time. I was getting sleepy. No sense in us getting into a wreck. Where did she want me to take her? I touched her arm gently. “Hey, wake up, ma’am.” The vodka fumes hit me, and she rolled toward the window. My stomach was emptier than a hollow gourd. About as loud too.
Her big leather purse was on the floor. I picked it up. Hairbrush. Compact. Woman stuff. A huge wad of bills, wrapped with an elastic, nestled in my hand. A fake roll? Leafing, I saw hundreds winking at me. “Wheew,” I whistled softly. My palm began to itch. Not enough for the ranch though. Why had I told her about it? Somewhere, a siren filled the air.
They’d pick me off like a lizard on a wall. I was no gambling man, but I’d play this hand straight up. I drove ahead. Neon lights announced motels. More expensive as the road reached the center of town with the big hotels. Gladys was still dead out. I had to make a decision.
The Wild West Motel was clean but not fancy. After paying with one of the hundreds, I asked for a quiet room at the back. I parked, then collected Gladys. She was light as a yearling. Her face looked trusting, peaceful. I placed her on one of the beds. Took off her shoes and scarf. Pulled a light blanket over her. She’d have a humdinger of a hangover the next morning—or maybe not.
Damn few women can finish nearly a whole bottle. It was a miracle she was still alive, but something told me she was used to this. I went back for what Mama called an overnight case. So’s she could freshen up in the morning. I let the dumbass dog out for a pee and a dump, then left the car windows down for him.
Back inside, I tested the other bed. Hard, but better than the car. Cheap
TV
, commercial carpet with a few scorches, a desk and chest of drawers. Never many lights. Guess people don’t want to see too clear in places like this. On the wall was a big ship with a hundred sails. I never wanted to go to sea. The desert was my ocean. Miles and miles and miles of space. One of my teachers said it was all water once. What a crazy idea.
The smell rising off me was almost as bad as the stale tobacco and mold in the air. I took a long, hot shower and gave myself a quick shave with the little soap. I checked my pockets for change and went down the hall to the machine. Wouldn’t be the first time I had a Snickers bar and bag of Fritos for dinner.
Back in the room, I pulled the drapes and stripped to my underwear. Then I lay down on the other double bed, finishing eating in record time. I fell asleep to the sound of Gladys burbling along with the swamp cooler. I was dreaming about my old cowpony Nufflo. Was he still watching for me?
Something woke me in the middle of the night.
C
ar tires screeched outside. A jet took off. Then an eighteen-wheeler’s motor gunned. A strong sun lit the corners of the drapes. I struggled to open my gritty eyes. Gladys was sitting in a lacy black slip on the only chair, blowing smoke rings. Three, four, five.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said.
If I hadn’t seen that empty bottle, I would’ve thought I’d dreamed it. The dog was sleeping on the floor, an ice bucket filled with water next to him.
“Morning, yourself.” I let a smile do the talking. Maybe she didn’t even remember what happened last night. “Coffee? Know I could do with some. Back in a flash.”
She nodded. Somehow she had fixed herself: hair, clothes and makeup. The old girl had powers.
“Know what? You’re a handy man.”
I pulled on my jeans and last clean shirt, then boots.
“There’s a restaurant down the way. Bunch of trucks outside last night. A good sign.”
“Usually is.” She was tapping ashes into a fake potted plant. “Just coffee for now. I take mine black. And strong.”
Fifteen minutes later, I brought back a couple of donuts with the large coffees. “Cinnamon. My favorite,” she said. “Aren’t you the mind reader?”
Her teeth were her own. Little, sharp and white.
I took a seat on the bed while she opened the cup, inhaling the aroma.
“Damn. I forgot. We need to get the car to a garage.”
“Arranged for that next door,” I said. “She’ll be ready tomorrow. New plugs, new points. Water pump’s on the fritz too. Special order from the junkyard. Save you a bit that way.”
“Well done then.” Gladys arched one eyebrow and crossed her legs. “I guess we’re loose on the town. Right time at the right place. You a gambling man?”
“No way. I got ten bucks and it’s gotta get me home.” I took out my wallet and showed her the lone bill.
“You could have had more. And you know it.”
She looked at me with those ice-diamond eyes again. I could feel them undressing me. Like they did in the dark last night. I might never walk straight again. Who knew that an old lady had that much energy?
“Let’s hit the quarter slots. More fun than profit. Then a big dinner’s in order. My treat. You don’t have anyplace you have to be, do you?”
I thought of the long road ahead. Back to work for me. It might take years to earn the money for that small ranch.
“I’m all yours.” I tossed her a wink. Her face brightened, and I wondered how far I could go.
Casinos know the bottom line. Only big spenders get free drinks. I hustled us a few beers. Gladys gambled down to her last quarter, then hit a jackpot that paid five hundred.
“Gotta know when to fold ’em,” she said, loading her stash into the plastic buckets. At the wicket she traded her coins for twenties. Outside, we blinked in the light. Night was better here. In the dark, it was all one big cozy bear den in the middle of nowhere, its own country with no clocks.
“Come on,” Gladys said, taking my arm. “I remember a good spot from the old days.”
At the Branding Iron Restaurant, we ordered up two T-bones, baked potatoes, salad bar. Pitcher of Bud.
“Beer is an honest drink,” she said. “Order wine in any of these places, the markup is three hundred percent.”
Gladys ate everything on her plate, even the green stuff. Must have had a metabolism like a jackrabbit. She took out her cigarillos.
“I didn’t forget last night,” she said. “That was a treat.”
“Not sure what you mean, ma’am,” I said, tucking the last piece of steak into my mouth. Mama lived long enough to teach me manners. “Pleasure’s all mine.”
“You know full well, cowboy. And stop it with the ma’ams. You’re making me feel old.” She finished the glass of beer and wiped her mouth carefully. “You got any real plans? Anything that can’t wait?”
I shrugged. She was getting at something. “I like working with my hands. Never get rich that way, but it’s enough.”
“Your hands are far from ordinary.” She sat back and worked her lips over a thought. “What skills do you have?”
“Little of everything. Carpentry. Electrical. Plumbing. When you work on a ranch, there’s always something needs fixing. I pay attention. Experience is way better than books.”
“Smart man.” She observed me like a prime steer. There was hunger in those cool eyes. Like dry ice smoldering. “I have a proposition.”
Gladys and her late husband George owned a hunting lodge a few hours north of Sault Ste. Marie in Northern Ontario. Several hundred acres with wilderness up the wazoo. They took tourists on bear and moose hunts at over two grand a week, meals and rooms included. He had passed with a heart attack five years ago.
“I’ll be honest with you, Rick. He was a lot older than me. The father I never had, and my best friend too. I miss him, but life goes on. It’s taken me a while to realize that. Everything’s gone to pot.”
“What do you mean?” She seemed to be doing all right. Car, clothes, cash.
“The climate’s rough in Canada. Much can go wrong in a few years. The maintenance is brutal.”
“What’s its name, your lodge?” I asked. Things were falling into place. Sounded as good as a big ranch.
“Call of the Wild. Americans are suckers for that stuff. Especially from the big eastern cities. Imagine charging folks to stay in the bush. Why, we just got electricity in. Before that it was lanterns and hand pumps.”
“Here they call ’em dude ranches,” I said with a nod. “Same difference.”
“Look…Rick,” she said. “We can do each other a favor. You need a job, right? I need a man.”
I didn’t answer. Pop always said, “Keep your mouth shut, no one knows you’re a fool. Open it, and they’re sure.”
“This is a business proposal. Not that I didn’t appreciate the…other service,” she said, patting my hand. “There’s plenty for both of us.”
“How long are we talking?”
“You’ll be home on the range before Christmas. Count on it. And your share will be a fair one.”
“What would that be? Just asking.” I spoke with respect because I didn’t want to blow my chances.
“Oh…four hundred a week, give or take. But that’s chicken feed. We’ll settle up the big money at the end.”
“Sounds okay then. So we’re all set?”
She folded her arms, tanned and wiry. Not like most sixty-year-old women.
“We need a way to get you over the border. There’s no time for an official work permit. And I don’t want my escort to look like a tramp. No offense.” Then she called the waiter over and ordered a raw sirloin to go for Bucky.
The first stop was a clothes store. Gladys flashed her Visa until it was smoking. Pants, shirts, jeans, jackets. I picked up a hundred-dollar Stetson, but she shook her head. “Too damn cold where you’re going. You’ll need something with ear flaps.”
I held up a jim-dandy pair of alligator boots. Everyone knew Tony Lama.
“Not this time, bub. Those high heels get stuck in muskeg, you’re a goner. Let’s go with some work boots.”