by Rayne Lacko
Sure enough, Darren missed the Elephant Butte Lake turnoff. He cursed every form of profanity Carter had ever heard, then tacked on a few new ones. “We missed the turn? Now we’re never gonna shake ’em. It’s a straight shot to Cruces, no place to hide.”
“Shake what, Mr. Bartles?”
“I told you, don’t Mr. Bartles me, little man.” Darren glanced nervously at the rearview mirror. “Listen, I may have helped myself to a couple of tools at my last job site. Far as I can figure, they’re making plenty of money and can afford to replace them.” Bartles turned the brim of his ball cap to the back of his head, then brought it round front again. “But it seems they ain’t got nothing better to do than come after me. Over a handful of tools; don’t that beat all? The lake would’ve made a decent hideout, but you’ve gone and ruined that plan.”
Darren drank himself uneasy, swerving over the white line dividing the traffic as he polished off the bottle. Occasionally, Carter grabbed the steering wheel to straighten it.
“We got another hour to Las Cruces,” Darren slurred, “and I can’t get tagged with another DUI. My work depends on my having a truck and all.”
“DUI?” Carter asked, trying to place Las Cruces on the map in his mind. And where was Tucson in relation to it?
“Driving under the influence, stupid.” Darren held the near-empty bottle up to indicate exactly what influence he was under, then pulled to a stop on the shoulder. “It’s your turn to drive, little man,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You told me you had your license. You ain’t been lying?”
A chill ran up Carter’s body, like a shallow dive into a frigid lake. He might know a thing or two about engine repair, but the closest he’d come to driving was a few motorcycle lessons out front of his house. His mouth clamped shut. He could feel bulges stand out around his jaw where he gritted his teeth. Carter kept his eyes on the man, not daring to breathe or even blink. Darren opened the driver’s side door and hopped out, instructing him to slide behind the steering wheel.
Carter imagined himself peeling away, shooting back up the I-25 as fast as the truck could carry him. He tried to make sense of his feet, toeing around for the foot pedals. He put one foot on the accelerator and the other on the brake. It wasn’t rocket science. But Carter just couldn’t be sure.
Darren got himself into the passenger seat and punched Carter in the arm. “South, little man. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Carter looked at the controls again. Tentatively, he moved the lever out of Park, the way he would on a motorcycle. The truck began to inch forward over the loose gravel lining the shoulder of the road. He squeezed the steering wheel in both hands and pressed all the way down on the right pedal, holding it to the floor. The truck jerked forward, squealing, dust flying all around. He slammed the other pedal quick and hard. The truck pulled to a fast halt. Darren nearly hit the dashboard with his forehead.
“Take it easy, will you?” Darren swore at Carter. “You got one job, stupid. Drive, straight forward. Any fool can do that.”
Carter tried again, this time slow and easy. The truck picked up speed as he lowered his foot. He trailed an 18-wheeler in front of them, glints of sunlight ricocheting off the stainless-steel doors on its back end.
Darren tipped his hat brim lower to shield his eyes and rambled on, shooting the breeze about what he called “the greed of building contractors.” Carter kept his eyes on the road, choking the steering wheel in his fists. He couldn’t chat and drive at the same time.
Concentrating on holding the front wheel tight alongside the interstate’s white line, sweat broke out around his collar. Carter didn’t know who was chasing them, so every car, truck, van, and camper gaining from behind posed a threat. Many of the passing drivers startled him with a honk or an un-neighborly hand gesture, because Carter couldn’t seem to keep the accelerator to the speed limit. Driving was harder than it looked.
Chapter Sixteen
AN HOUR LATER, THE TRUCK RUMBLED INTO Las Cruces. Carter’s T-shirt was sweat-soaked. Both the bourbon and the gas tank had run dry. Carter spotted a fuel station and tried to pull off, but Darren wouldn’t hear tell of it. He had a particular station in mind, one with a tavern next door. Carter swore he couldn’t bear another mile in that truck.
The pickup sputtered and resisted. Carter slowed up, hoping it wouldn’t peter out on the side of the interstate. The only thing worse than being chased by heaven-knows-who would be getting marooned in nowhere land with Darren Bartles for a companion.
Sure enough, up ahead he spotted The Little Yucca Tavern, adjacent to a gas station. The Little Yucca had a tall wooden false front, its name in Old West-style lettering. The dull, sun-bleached paint, chipped and missing in several places, gave the building a century-old feel. Neon lights flashed the names of various brands of hard liquor in every window. It wasn’t much, but it was better than running for the hills and ending up dying of thirst or bit by a rattler. Carter pushed away the worry there’d be a whole mess of Darren Bartles types wasting the day in there. More than ever, he was counting on the kindness of strangers. He planned to make a break for it when Darren stepped out to refuel the truck.
Carter managed to jockey the pickup next to a gas pump. He cut the engine and pulled the keys. The truck’s rattle fell silent, but not the buzzing in his ears.
“You wait here.” Darren stepped out, holding a cordless drill like a pistol. “Don’t move or you’ll get it.”
Darren stumbled around the truck and opened the gas tank cover, but he was too muddled to coordinate the drill, the gas cap, the pump, and the nozzle. The drill fell to the concrete and Carter gulped a deep breath. Now or never. Grabbing his guitar and his backpack, he swung the door open and slid out in one fluid motion, sprinting for the tavern. He was halfway across the parking lot before it occurred to him it might be closed for business.
But Carter didn’t stop or slow; he ran for all he was worth, pitching Darren’s keys into a tangle of devil cholla cactus edging the gas station’s parking lot. Darren left the gas hose propped in his truck and took after him, cussing a blue streak. When Carter was almost to the tavern’s entrance, he clasped his guitar against his chest and slammed his body into the door. It was on saloon hinges and gave easily. Carter tumbled in, falling onto his side. The guitar case broke free of his grip when his shoulder hit the floor and skated across the broad wood floorboards into an iron footrail wrapping the length of the bar. Darren fell on top of him before he could make any sense of the place. “You ain’t going nowhere, little man.”
Carter tried to push the drunk man off his chest, but he was too powerful. The barkeep, an older gentleman who’d likely seen his share of fights, picked Darren up by his shirt. The gray-blond hairs on the barkeep’s rugged arm glinted in a band of light streaming from the window. His fist reared back, then executed an effortless punch to Darren’s gut. A knee thrust to Darren’s ribs followed quickly, then an elbow jab to the drunk’s nose. The barkeep caught Darren before he dropped to the floor and tossed him out of the tavern. If Carter had had second thoughts about taking a swing at Darren, he sure didn’t want to get in scrape with that barkeep.
Sprawled on the hard-packed dirt outside, Darren spat and moaned, clutching his side where the barkeep’s knee had been none too gentle. Carter kept his eyes glued to him, scared as a kitten in a dog pound that Darren would come barreling back into the tavern. The barkeep’s cowboy boots stood right next to Carter, nearly as tall as his shoulder. He didn’t dare make any sudden moves. Before Darren could catch his breath, a pickup truck with a home-builder’s logo pulled up next to him and two burly guys hopped out.
The barkeep’s hand thrust toward him and Carter ducked. “You all right, son?” The man motioned to take hold of his hand, and helped Carter rise to his feet.
Outside the tavern, Darren Bartles cursed up a storm. Carter nodded, said, “Yes, sir,” and dusted himself off.
“Care to tell me what that was all about?” he asked.
Pushing his hair from his eyes, Carter squinted in the dim light from the bare bulbs hanging in Mason jars from the rafters, his gaze sweeping every booth and table in the tavern. There wasn’t a soul in the place. He could swear he heard music, but he felt so dizzy he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
“What’s that sound?” Carter asked, confused.
“History,” grunted the barkeep. He’d already resumed polishing glasses behind the bar and pointed with a towel to an old man strumming a guitar on a dusty, unlit stage in the corner. Carter relaxed a bit, having some distance between them.
The sound was raw. It had a bit of an aura about it, like the static you hear between a vinyl record and the record player’s needle. The song was some kind of old-time rock ’n roll, maybe Roy Orbison or Bobby Darin; Carter couldn’t place it. But the old man played the song like it hurt him, and the only balm to soothe the pain was to play it through.
A highway patrol car wheeled past the window, lights flashing. Carter edged behind a wood post decorated with old six-shooters mounted on wood plaques where he wouldn’t be spotted. He held his breath, wondering whether Darren would point them in his direction. One thing was sure: He couldn’t make any sense of what he was doing all by his lonesome in a bar in New Mexico. He hoped the police didn’t come asking. He didn’t even want to think about what his mother would do if he got hauled back from New Mexico in a police car.
As he watched the construction guys introduce Darren to the cops, Carter could feel the barkeep’s eyes on him. He filled a tall glass with ice and Coke and placed it on the bar. “A cold drink fixes most things.”
Carter wanted that drink, and about ten more after it.
Chapter Seventeen
THE OLD MAN ON THE STAGE JUTTED HIS JAW in Darren’s direction. “We’ve seen him before,” he said with a voice made of velvet and gravel. “He’s about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.” Carter’s thoughts flitted to the useless Yamaha V Star among the ruins of his home.
Placing his guitar on a stand, the old gent picked up a hand-whittled cane leaning at the edge of the stage. He teetered down the stage’s short staircase and made his way over to the bar, slow and steady, like there was an expiration date on those old legs of his and it was drawing near. A life-size carved wood black bear wearing a bolo tie overshadowed the left side of the stage. A rusted 1930s truck bumper arched over a deserted drum kit. On the walls of the tavern hung out-of-date license plates and more than a dozen mounted sets of black-tipped steer horns. Carter’s guitar was still under the bar, but the tavern was otherwise empty.
When the old man got himself on a stool, the bartender slid a glass of lemonade toward him without a word.
“Let’s see what you’ve got in that guitar case, boy.” When Carter remained still as a cactus, he added, “My name’s Ledbetter. This is Mitch Keller, best bartender in the Southwest. We ain’t going to bite.”
Carter gave the two men a polite nod, but he’d had enough of making new acquaintances. They seemed nice enough, but so was Darren when he first met him. Hitch-hiking was plain stupid. Here he was, stuck in who knows where, and all he could think about was whether his mama weathered her surgery. There wasn’t a thing he could do to help her. Carter needed to get out of there, and fast.
But if he hoped to get his hands on his guitar, this was as good an opportunity as any. Even if Darren Bartles and the cops weren’t right outside, what was Carter going to do? If he busted out of The Little Yucca in a blaze of glory, he’d find himself penniless under the perpetual New Mexican sun, a few states right of his intended destination. He thanked Mitch the barkeep for the drink, then picked up his guitar case.
Carter set the case carefully on the long wood bar top, nicked, notched, and scarred in more places than smooth. He clicked open the latches and pulled out his father’s guitar. The subtle scent of it calmed him. With the strap over his shoulder and his hand wrapped around the cutaway, the instrument gave him a sense of conviction, like its unlucky streak might be waning. If he was put on this earth to find his purpose, in truth he hoped his father’s guitar could point him in the right direction.
“A left-handed Martin,” the man called Ledbetter said, letting out a whistle of appreciation. “Now here’s a man who knows what he needs to summon his own sound.”
Was it? He played left-handed because that’s the way his father taught him. It was a gimmick, a novelty to wow the crowd. Guess it worked.
“Just in time for auditions, too,” Ledbetter added.
Above the bar hung a carved-wood sign, about a foot long, reading, “Musicians Wanted.”
“How much do gigs pay, sir?” Carter asked. Maybe his luck was turning. “Judging by the size of this crowd, it’s safe to say they’re going to love me.”
Mitch didn’t crack a smile. “Won’t be an empty seat in the house tonight,” he grunted, “and none of ’em are interested in your jokes. Pass the audition, I’ll pay you fifty dollars to open for my headliners.”
Carter drained his Coke and stared up at the empty stage, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t be certain whether this was another kindness-of-strangers moment or if they were just messing with him.
“What you waiting for, son?” Ledbetter gestured to the empty stool on the stage with his lemonade. “Stage is yours. Let’s hear what you got.”
As Carter drew closer to the stage, he got a decent look at Ledbetter’s guitar, a vintage Pimentel. It had a red and green motif on the rosette, the decorative ring encircling the sound hole, and it boasted the scars of a life on stage, a life Carter had hoped to know.
He was no stranger to auditions. Carter wasn’t his daddy’s boy anymore, either. If they ever locked horns about anything, it was because Eddie always had to have his way, and Carter was expected to shut his mouth and do what he was told. But Eddie wasn’t shaking hands and making the deal that day. Carter could do things the way he saw fit.
Mitch’s deal would be perfect. If Carter played three or four shows, he’d probably earn enough money to buy a bus ticket straight to his dad’s.
“You got a better gig this evening?” Mitch asked from across the bar. Impatience was good, Carter recalled from his early training. A hungry audience appreciates a good performance.
Eddie said he knew the formula for becoming famous, and all Carter had to do was follow his direction. What Eddie didn’t have time nor patience for was feeling the music. Getting inside it, making it your own. That was the part Carter liked best.
He took a seat on the stool, hooking his running shoe over the post connecting the legs. He gripped his guitar’s neck in his fist and stroked the strings along the frets, warming them. “Just need a minute, sir.”
Carter looked down at his fingers. A thatch of hair fell in his eyes. He brushed it away, considering his first move. He figured these guys would rather hear some country music or rock ’n roll. But he couldn’t risk trying to pull off anything Ledbetter might play. He wouldn’t do it justice.
“Let’s hope the cat lets go of his tongue once it’s out of the bag,” Ledbetter chuckled to Mitch.
Carter closed his eyes and pinched the strings tight against the fretboard in a C chord. His eyes shot open and he checked himself. Garrett from Poly Virus had noticed how he was holding the Martin wrong, too far from his body. Carter corrected himself and strummed the chord again.
“Just because a kid has a guitar doesn’t make him a musician,” his father told him, “but technical skill will only get you so far.” Carter’s dad valued showmanship over everything. “It’s how a musician plays that matters,” he’d said. The ghost of E
ddie’s voice was in his ear, coaching him to beguile the audience, and not worry about whether he was any good or not.
This was his first audition, and he figured he wouldn’t get two chances. Carter closed his eyes again, silencing his father, and strummed a D minor followed by an E minor, dragging the vibration as long as he could, calling out to Kaia across the lonely desert, back up Interstate 25 to Albuquerque. He let the vibration of his chords tap on her grandparents’ front door. He imagined Kaia’s smile, the feel of her warm palm pressed into his hand as they pulled into the airport the day before.
He played the sounds of what he pictured in his mind, trying to form her shape, like drawing in the dark sky with a lit sparkler on the Fourth of July. It felt good. There were songs inside him, he reckoned, in the form of memories. He didn’t bother with showing off. He didn’t even open his eyes. Carter Danforth was making his own music.
Ideas for chord changes came fast and furious. He could see the finger patterns in his mind, what was required of him to bring around the sounds in his imagination to the ears of the two men across the room. It was exhilarating and his heart raced. Soon his strumming hand fluttered over the strings like a hummingbird.
But his wrist felt stiff and tight. The notes jumbled together, falling to the floorboards below his feet. He opened his eyes and looked up, searching the dusty bands of afternoon sunlight for the faces of the two men.
Mitch was restocking a bar fridge with bottles of beer, his back to the stage. Ledbetter’s seat was vacant. Carter glanced around the empty bar, looking for him. The door to the men’s room opened and Ledbetter ambled back to his seat, cane in hand.
“I could use some help in the kitchen,” Ledbetter suggested to Mitch.
