Where the Heart Is (30 page)

Novalee dipped a Q-tip into the mixture of potassium ferrocyanide, then began to move it in small, tight circles on a darkened area of the print, a shaded area in front of the horny toad’s eyes.

Suddenly, without Novalee realizing she was there, Dr. Putnam was at her shoulder. “You’ll know when it’s right,” she said softly.

“Your fingers will tell you.”

“But how . . . ”

“Some kind of magic that tells you it’s enough, just exactly enough to find what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

When Novalee wiped the Q-tip once more over the print, her fingers began to tingle and she pulled the swab away.

“You felt it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

As they watched, the shaded area continued to lighten and Novalee saw what she was looking for, a tiny arc of blood spurting from the eyes of the mighty horned lizard, Phrynosoma platyrhinos, and Novalee knew she had begun learning the secret of seeing into shadows.

WILLY JACK dropped another quarter in the jukebox, punched B7, then slid back onto the stool at the end of the bar. He settled an invisible guitar on his lap, then strummed a few warm-up chords while he waited for his song to begin. When it did, he closed his eyes, played along with the melody and sang harmony with Wayne Deane to “The Beat of a Heart,” which had climbed to number three on the charts.

“When you are without a friend

And got no company

The bartender, beefy and black, cut his eyes at Willy Jack. “Jesus Christ, man, don’t you know another song?”

“World has kicked you over and over You’re crying ‘Woe is me’

“You got something against Whitney Houston or Tina Turner?”

“Well, you’re not the Lone Ranger

This I know for sure

“I’m about sick of listening to that cowboy shit.”

“I wrote this god-damned song.” Willy Jack swung around to point at the jukebox, then had to fight to regain his balance.

“Yeah, I know! You told me already,” the bartender said, clearly as sick of the story as he was of the song. “You wrote it and someone named Freeny stole it and—”

“Finny! I told you it was Finny! But he didn’t steal it. Hell, he was dead. It was his mama. It was Claire Hudson.”

“Right. The mama did it.”

“You damned right, she did. And now, I ain’t got shit!”

The bartender nodded his head. “That’s about the way I see it.”

“Now Claire Hudson’s rich. Shorty Wayne’s rich. Wayne Deane’s rich. And Billy Shadow ain’t got shit.”

A woman with a nervous face leaned over to Willy Jack and said,

“Honey, let’s get outta here.” But when she tried to take his hand, the one holding the neck of his make-believe guitar, he shook her off.

“If you’re one who has lost everybody You may find just one more

Her name was Delphia, but Willy Jack couldn’t remember it. Sometimes he called her Della; sometimes it was Delilah. But mostly, he didn’t call her anything.

“No matter how lonely you are

There’s someone in this world who loves you When Willy Jack made it to the chorus, he let his head fall forward the way he had on stage so that his hair swung across his eyes.

“No matter how lonely you are

There’s someone in this world who loves you But he hadn’t spent much time on stage in the past two years. Not since Ruth Meyers had cut his throat.

After she’d called her Night River musicians back to Nashville, she’d canceled Willy Jack’s credit cards, she’d canceled his bookings—and she’d canceled his career. He couldn’t get a gig in a choir.

He’d made the round of lawyers, glad-handed men in dark suits who couldn’t wait to see justice prevail. They’d verified that “The Beat of a Heart” was a posthumous copyright filed by Claire Hudson while Willy Jack was in prison—the same prison where she worked as a librarian. And the lawyers verified that an Indian named John Turtle had been Willy Jack’s cellmate and a witness to the creation of the song. But the Indian had died, the librarian had disappeared and Willy Jack had run out of money.

So much for justice.

“When you’re tired of fighting

Feel like saying ‘I give’

Willy Jack had made his way back to Dallas, but Johnny Desoto wouldn’t touch him by then. Ruth Meyers had already poisoned that well.

So Willy Jack picked up a half-assed drummer in Oklahoma City and a fair piano player in Abilene, musicians as down and desperate as he was, and they’d headed west.

Billy Shadow and Sunset. A scruffy trio of dopers and drunks living out of a rusty VW van, picking up work in pistol-whipping bars that even Ruth Meyers wouldn’t bother to mess with. They never got paid much more than their bar tabs, just enough to score some meth or a gram of coke whenever they could.

“And if God really loves you

He’s not the only one

They were together for nearly a year before the drummer got busted up in a fight in Greasewood, Arizona, and lost the use of his left arm.

Then in Prescott, the piano player took off with a redhead named Rita, so by the time Willy Jack drifted into California, Billy Shadow was a solo act.

Two days after he crossed the state line, he went to jail in Barstow on a charge of public intoxication. He was there for nearly a week before he reached J. Paul, his cousin in Bakersfield, who wasn’t thrilled to hear from him, but sent the two hundred dollars for bail.

“You’ll discover a family you never had Before your life is done

Billy Shadow had spent the next year picking up gigs in the border towns . . . dives in Potrero and Plaster City where the owners charged him double for whore’s whiskey . . . bars in Jacumba and Campo where pushers sold him bad dope.

But he could still find a stage now and then. He could still draw an audience. He could still please a crowd. And if Billy Shadow knew anything about show business, it was that an artist had to have fans to make it to the top.

But that was going to be hard to do now because yesterday Willy Jack had made a big mistake. Yesterday, he had pawned Finny’s guitar, the Martin.

“When you think you can’t remember what it felt like

when you had a friend

You’ll have one again”

“Come on, Willy Jack. Let’s go,” Delphia said. “He’s not gonna show.”

“He’s gonna show! And the son of a bitch better have my money or I’ll stomp his ass.”

Willy Jack narrowed his eyes and tried for his Clint Eastwood glare. But he didn’t feel nearly as tough as he looked. He was beginning to get worried.

He’d hocked the Martin because a street hustler named Pink had offered him a deal he couldn’t pass up, a deal that would net Willy Jack nine hundred bucks.

what it felt like

when you had a friend

Pink had a friend who had to turn two pounds of smoke fast, but he couldn’t get out on the street to do business because someone Where the Heart Is

was after him. If he showed his face, he was liable to get it blown away, so he had to get out of town quick and he needed money.

Pink said his friend would sell the reefer to him for two hundred dollars if he could get the money now. And Pink had already lined up a buyer—a guy who’d pay two thousand dollars when he had the stuff in his hands.

But Pink was a hundred shy of what he needed and that’s where Willy Jack came in. For a hundred bucks, Willy Jack would get a return of a thousand, half the purchase price.

Of course, Willy Jack didn’t have a hundred and the only thing he had to raise the money on was the Martin.

“Well, how long are we gonna wait?” Delphia asked. “I’m getting hungry.”

When the song ended, Willy Jack motioned the bartender for another drink, picked up a quarter from a stack of change in front of him and turned toward the jukebox.

“Dammit!” Willy Jack kicked the dash of Delphia’s Pinto. “Goddammit!” He threw his head back against the seat and rubbed his eyes.

He had driven all night to get to Bakersfield, five hours on the highway and another two to find J. Paul’s house, and he’d been popping bennies for two days.

“Want me to talk to him?” Delphia asked.

“Now that’d be real smart, wouldn’t it. If he won’t give me the money, why the hell would he give it to you?”

“I just thought that . . . ”

“I’m the fucker’s cousin. I’m family, for God’s sake.”

“Well, maybe he told you the truth. Maybe he don’t have a hundred bucks.”

“Oh, he has it all right. Damned railroad paid him a fortune ’cause he got his thumb cut off. Just look at that place he’s living in.”

Delphia glanced at the townhouse, a two-story no-frills brick in a neighborhood going to seed. A miniature golf course across the street was boarded up and covered with graffiti.

“I guess family just don’t count for much no more,” Willy Jack said.

“But you said he helped you out once. Sent you money for bail.”

“Yeah, and he ain’t forgot it, neither. Threw that in my face, too. I had to stand there and listen to a damned sermon.”

“Well.” Delphia yawned. “What do you think we oughtta do?”

Willy Jack fished another benny from his pocket and pulled the tab on a warm can of Coors.

“Wanna go back to San Bernardino?” she asked.

“What the fuck am I gonna do in San Bernardino? Sit around with my thumb up my butt waiting for that bastard Pink to show up? Wait for him to hand me my goddamned money so I can get my guitar out of hock?”

“Maybe you could get another guitar. Maybe you could find something cheaper for now and—”

“How many times do I have to tell you this,” Willy Jack said, his patience running thin. “There ain’t another guitar. The Martin is the only guitar. Now do you understand that?”

“Okay. Okay!” Delphia started up the Pinto. “So what do you want to do?”

“Drive, Della. Just drive and let me think.”

He reached into the back, dug through the debris of fifty thousand miles and came up with what he was looking for, a half-full fifth of Beam’s 8 Star. He took a long hard pull at the bottle, then eased back in his seat and fixed his eyes on the road.

He needed to figure out what to do about the Martin, figure out some way to get it back. Because without it, he was nothing. He’d known that the first time he held it in his hands. Maybe, he thought, he’d just break into the pawn shop and take it. Or maybe he’d track down Pink. Beat him, kill him if he had to. But he knew that was crazy.

He knew that didn’t make any sense.

But making sense was not going to be easy. For the last forty-eight hours, Willy Jack had been gobbling bennies and eight balls, he’d dropped some acid and smoked some grass and he hadn’t slept a wink.

Give me your hand

He wasn’t surprised when he heard her voice. When he was fucked up, he could almost count on it.

It had started while he was still in prison, sometime after the Indian had restarted his heart. In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. Just her voice . . . always her voice.

Feel that?

But later, when he was with Night River, she started talking to him while he was asleep. He’d wake up with a pain in his heart that twisted and burned . . . but the voice wouldn’t go away.

Can’t you feel that . . . ?

He turned the bottle up, swallowed again and again until he felt the warmth of the whiskey spread through his chest and into his belly. The yellow line in the middle of the highway was beginning to blur, so he closed his eyes and tried once again to think about the Martin.

Can’t you feel that tiny little bomp . . . bomp . . . bomp?

“I don’t feel nothin’,” he said.

“What?” Delphia stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

They were quiet for the next few miles until Delphia pulled off the highway and the Pinto rattled to a stop outside a hardship cafe on the edge of town.

Willy Jack said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m beat. Let’s have some coffee, get something to eat.”

“Hell, we don’t have time.”

“Why not? What’s the big hurry?”

“I gotta get some money.”

“Where? Where you gonna come up with money?”

“Gotta go . . . gotta get my guitar.” His words were so slurred that Delphia had to guess at what he said.

“You need to get something in you besides that whiskey.”

“Now don’t you start . . .” Willy Jack tried to shake his fist in her face, but it floated up and hit the rearview mirror.

“Suit yourself.” Delphia slipped the keys out of the ignition, crawled out of the car and slammed the door.

Willy Jack fell over a curb and tore the knee out of his jeans. When he pulled himself up, he dug a piece of gravel out of the heel of his hand, then veered away from a complex of empty loading docks.

He’d walked more than a mile from the cafe where Delphia had parked the Pinto, wandering through a maze of deserted streets with boarded-up warehouses and weed-choked parking lots.

The sun was almost directly overhead when he crossed a viaduct and slid down a grassy hill into the train yard. The heat had softened the tar under his feet so that he felt like he was wading in molasses.

He saw a train backing down the rails across the yard, an engineer at the controls. He caught a glimpse of a brakeman perched on the back of an engine as it pulled slowly out of the yard. And he saw a teenage boy asleep inside a box car. But no one saw Willy Jack. No one saw him stumbling down the tracks, lurching from side to side.

When he fell against the tank car, he knocked some skin off his forehead, but he was able to stay on his feet.

“Shit,” he said as he swiped at a trickle of blood in his eyebrow.

He pushed away from the car and staggered back and that’s when he saw the letters swimming only inches away from his eyes. He had to squint to bring the words into focus.

“Union Pacific,” he said as clearly and distinctly as a sober man.

“Union Pacific.” And with the sounds of the words came pieces and parts of an old memory.

Willy Jack’s breath quickened as he reached up and traced the letters with his fingertips. Then he rested his head against the warm metal of the tank car and hoped, more than anything, that he wouldn’t cry.