‘Home, sweet home,’ Sharpe said.
‘I thought you lived in your bus.’
‘That’s right.’ He slowed down, then steered off the pavement. As he rolled toward the gas station an old geezer near the pumps saw him coming and waved. Sharpe tooted the horn. A moment later a woman in a white dress came running out of the station’s office.
Sharpe drove past the pumps, then swung to the right and eased into an empty space that seemed to be precisely the size of the bus.
Looking over his shoulder, he said, ‘Welcome to Pits, pop six.’ Then he reached out and worked the chrome door handle. The bus’s main door wheezed open.
Pamela leaned forward, ready to stand.
But she stayed in her seat when the woman leaped into the doorway and bounded up the steps. Sharpe climbed out of the driver’s seat. The woman took a quick look at Pamela, then threw herself into Sharpe’s arms. They stood at the front of the bus, embracing each other. Sharpe seemed to be returning the hugs in a fairly perfunctory way – gently, but without much passion, as far as Pamela could tell.
He ought to be a little more enthusiastic, she thought, having a gal cling to him as if he were a long-lost lover who’d just returned from the wars.
While he did little more than stand there with his arms around her back, the woman moaned, kissed him over and over again on his mouth and cheeks and neck, ran her hands up and down his back, caressed his face and stroked his hair, all the while squirming and rubbing herself against him.
Finally she separated herself from Sharpe. Flushed and a little breathless, she straightened her dress and turned toward Pamela.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi.’
‘Sorry about that. I don’t usually . . . I haven’t seen him in a while.’
‘No problem.’
Sharpe still had an arm across the woman’s back. He squeezed her shoulder and said, ‘This here’s Lauren. Lauren, meet Pamela.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Lauren said.
‘Same here.’
Very nice to meet you, she thought.
Even though Sharpe had saved Pamela’s life and hadn’t abused her in any way, he was definitely strange. Being alone with him had kept her uneasy. So the very presence of Lauren was a relief.
And it was very good to find that Sharpe had a woman in his life.
Wasn’t after my bod after all. All that worry for nothing.
‘Welcome to Pits,’ Lauren said.
Pamela stood up as she approached. They shook hands. Lauren had a strong grip. She looked sturdy, but also delicate: tall and wide-shouldered, though extremely thin; thick hair the color of straw; amazing eyes of forest green. Her face, bony and hollow-cheeked, was saved from looking cadaverous by the tawny glow of her skin. Her complexion made her seem more like an athlete than a corpse.
Pamela guessed that Lauren was no older than thirty. And probably descended from hippies, by the looks of her granny dress. The white garment, short-sleeved, shapeless and loose, was buttoned up the front almost to her throat, and was so long that it reached down almost to her ankles. All she needs is a flower in her hair.
Stop that, Pamela told herself. She probably wears a dress like that because it’s nice and cool. Just the thing for dwelling in the middle of a desert. Same goes for her sandals. At least she’s not barefoot.
Fixing her deep green-eyed stare on Pamela’s face, Lauren said, ‘You’ve been through some tough times.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘Well, you’ll be fine, now.’ Lauren smiled. ‘You’ve been saved.’
Chapter Eleven
‘I’ll show you around,’ Lauren said, ‘and then—’
‘We better get some grub in her, first,’ Sharpe broke in. ‘Take her on over to the cafe, and I’ll be along by and by.’
Smiling, Lauren said, ‘Come along.’
Pamela followed her down the stairs at the front of the bus. When she stepped to the ground, pain shot up from her feet. She sucked in air, hissing.
‘Your feet?’ Lauren asked, frowning.
‘They’re a little beat up. But I’m fine.’
‘I know just the thing. Wait here.’ Lauren started to hurry away.
‘It’s fine,’ Pamela protested. ‘I don’t need anything.’
‘Yes, you do. This’ll be just the ticket.’ A moment later, Lauren disappeared around the corner of the gas-station office. Pamela, embarrassed, wanting to tell her not to bother with whatever she had in mind, limped after her.
And almost collided with the old geezer she’d seen earlier by the pumps.
As she stepped out of the bus’s shadow, he came around the corner.
She gasped and jerked to a halt.
‘Howdy do.’ He gave her a big grin. His gums were interrupted by a few brown, twisted teeth.
‘Hello,’ Pamela said.
My God, she thought. What is this guy? A few terms came quickly to mind. Old-timer. Prospector. Mule skinner. Desert rat. Snake rustler. Sand bandit. The only thing that looked worse than his dental situation was his cowboy hat.
The ancient, filthy hat sat crooked atop his head, its brim turned up in front. It might’ve been a good hat at about the time of the Alamo’s fall. In the years since, it had apparently been slashed, shot, stomped, kicked, burned . . . and drenched thousands of times with the old coot’s sweat – or worse. It was decorated with so many stains that Pamela couldn’t even guess at its original color. She imagined that the sorry old hat, if caught in a rainstorm, would likely have yellow runoff.
Not much of the old man’s face showed. Most of it was hidden behind his wild gray hair, his heavy eyebrows, his thick mustache and beard. But his eyes showed. They were squinty, with blue irises and bloodshot whites. His nose showed. It looked like a strawberry that had been kicked around on a dusty road. His lower lip was cracked and peeling.
The guy’s a walking ruin, Pamela thought. But she had to change her mind about his age. He wasn’t quite the old coot that she had supposed. Probably in his middle fifties. With the exception of his hat, his clothes looked reasonably clean. But heavy and hot. His plaid flannel shirt had long sleeves, and Pamela could see the neck of a faded red T-shirt that he was wearing underneath it. The shirts were tucked into his blue jeans. His belt had a big silver buckle. On his feet were a pair of scuffed and dusty black cowboy boots.
Giving Pamela an odd lopsided smile, he lifted the hat off his head. ‘Name’s Hank,’ he said. ‘Honorary mayor of Pits, chief guide, Man Friday, you name it and I’m it. Hank.’
‘I’m Pamela.’
‘Yer a dish.’ He winked.
‘Thanks.’
‘A real hot tuh-matuh.’
‘Well . . .’
Hank narrowed an eye. ‘Show you my pits?’
Trying to smile, she shook her head. ‘Not right now.’
‘It’s my job. Chief guide. How about the Dillinger Death Car? Wanna see her?’ He pointed at the rusted ruin of an ancient automobile near a far corner of the lot.
‘Is that it?’ Pamela asked.
‘Yessiree. Wanna see her?’
‘Maybe later.’
‘Don’t miss her.’
She couldn’t help but smile. ‘Is that really the Dillinger Death Car?’ It certainly looked like a vehicle that might’ve been around back in the 1930s.
‘You can see the bullet holes,’ Hank said, and winked. ‘The baby’s peppered with ’em.’
‘Are you trying to trick me?’
‘How d’ya mean, there?’
‘You’re talking about John Dillinger?’
‘None but.’
‘I don’t think he was in a car when he was killed.’
‘Ya don’t, huh?’
‘I think he was standing outside the Biograph Theater in Chicago.’
‘Haw!’ Hank reached out and clutched her shoulder. ‘Can’t fool you! Nosirree! You’re a smart cookie, yes, you are! I like you.’
‘Thanks.’
He leaned in close to her. As if sharing a dark secret, he said, ‘You got no idea how many plug-fuck ignoramuses come along here and believe every dang thing I tell ’em. No idea!’ He cackled. Then he stepped back, scowled, and nodded. ‘That ain’t no Dillinger Death Car. It’s the Jesse James Death Car!’
Surprised, Pamela found laughter bursting out of her. She was even more surprised to find herself reaching out and slapping Hank on his shoulder. A puff of dust rose off his shirt.
‘What’s your name?’ he demanded. Hadn’t she already told him?
‘Pamela.’
‘Pamela! Good for you!
‘Well, thanks.’
‘Ya gonna stay?’
She shrugged. ‘For a while, maybe.’
‘Good deal! I stayed. Aim to keep stayin’, too, till the day I go toes-up and then I’m gonna have ’em plant me over yonder on Boot Hill with the dogs and monkeys. Been here since seventy-two.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘You betcha!’
Lauren came riding around a far corner of the gas station office. She was on the front seat of a bicycle built for two.
‘Hank!’ she called out. ‘Have you been bothering the lady?’
He cackled. ‘Making a plug-fuck nuisance outta myself, and you know it.’
Lauren pedaled toward them, a big smile on her face. ‘Hank is an inveterate bushwhacker. We keep him around to scare the children off.’
‘Haw!’
‘Are you one of the “pop six”?’ Pamela asked him.
‘You better betcha, baby!’
‘Which are you?’
He winked. ‘Some folks take me for number two.’
‘You’re terrible!’
‘Ain’t I?’
Lauren stopped her bike just beyond Hank. She put her feet on the ground and held the bike steady by its front set of handlebars. ‘Climb on aboard, Pamela, and I’ll pedal you over to the cafe.’
‘Well . . . okay.’ She limped toward the bike’s second seat. ‘Nice to meet you, Hank.’
‘You know it!’
Laughing, she shook her head.
Hank stepped backward, out of the way. He leaned against the rear of the bus and watched her mount the bike.
‘Don’t be no stranger,’ he said.
‘See you around, Hank. Mayor Hank.’
He guffawed so loud she thought he’d up-’n-out of one of his lungs.
‘Ready?’ Lauren asked. ‘Here we go.’
They both pushed at the ground to get the bike rolling. Then they put their feet on the pedals and started to pump.
‘Beats walking,’ Pamela admitted. ‘I was afraid you might show up with a wheelchair or something.’
‘Nope.’
From behind them came a raspy, almost tuneless voice singing, ‘Mademoiselles got derrières, whoop-de-doo. Mademoiselles got—’
Cheerfully, Lauren called over her shoulder, ‘Put a lid on it, you raunchy old sidewinder!’
‘Pardonnez-moi!’ Hank yelled.
Lauren glanced back at Pamela, smiled, then faced forward. ‘He’s about as addled as they come,’ she said.
‘I sort of like him.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Is he really the mayor of Pits?’
‘He’s pretty much whoever he says he is, I guess.’
A dusty old pickup truck swung off the highway and rolled slowly across the dirt. It seemed to be heading for the cafe. Lauren raised an arm and waved. The driver tooted his horn. He stopped in the midst of fifteen or twenty other vehicles that were scattered about near the cafe: an odd assortment of cars, trucks, vans, and even a couple of motorcycles. Some looked fairly new and roadworthy, but quite a few didn’t seem to be in much better shape than the Dillinger/James Death Car.
Lauren dodged several as she and Pamela pedaled toward the cafe.
They glided very close to the remains of an old Pontiac. It had no windows. Pamela felt heat coming out of it. A smelly heat that made her think of melting rubber. On the dashboard was a plastic Jesus.
The plastic Jesus looked almost new.
Parked near the front entrance of the cafe was a Toyota Land Cruiser, its cargo space loaded with luggage.
They steered past it. Then Lauren swerved away from the cafe door, braked, and lowered her feet to the ground. She held the bike steady while Pamela dismounted. After that, she leaned it against a stucco wall.
The man from the pickup swung the door open for them. He looked like a younger version of Hank, but with better teeth, whiskers instead of a full beard, and a fairly presentable outfit – cowboy hat, plaid shirt, blue jeans and boots. Smiling, he lifted his hat.
‘Thank you,’ Pamela said as she entered.
‘Mah pleasure, ma’am. Howdy, Lauren.’
‘Howdy, Wes. This is Pamela. Sharpe just now brought her in.’
Wes followed them into the cafe. ‘Reckon yer a lucky gal,’ he told her. To Lauren he said, ‘She’s, what, the seventh?’
‘Yep.’
‘Sharpe’s got himself a long ways to go.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Pleasure to meet ya, Pamela.’
‘Nice to meet you, Wes.’
He sauntered toward the counter.
Pamela saw four other customers at the counter. A family with two kids sat at one of the booths, an elderly couple at another, and a group of four teenagers at a corner booth. There were several wooden tables scattered about the area between the booths and the L-shaped counter but they weren’t being used. ‘Would you like a booth?’ Lauren asked.
‘That’d be fine.’
Lauren led her to one at the front of the cafe. They slid in across from each other. The table between them had a green Formica top and looked clean. A couple of menus were propped up behind the napkin holder. Lauren took them and handed one to Pamela.
‘We’ve got good food here. Terry’s a whiz in the kitchen. Sharpe brought him in, and he stayed. Our vittles were mighty poor till he showed up.’
‘Has Sharpe brought in everybody?’
Smiling slightly, Lauren shook her head. ‘Terry’s the only one who’s stayed. He didn’t have anywhere better to go and found out he liked it here.’
‘Wes said something about me being the seventh.’
‘There were six before you.’
‘Six what?’
‘People Sharpe has saved since he started the mission.’
‘Saved?’
‘Like you.’ Lauren turned her head and smiled at the approaching waitress. ‘Nicki, I want you to meet Pamela. Sharpe saved her today.’
‘Hey, great!’ Nicki beamed. ‘He’s moving right along.’
‘I’ll be an old lady in a wheelchair,’ Lauren said.
‘No, you won’t!’ Nicki set down the water glasses and reached a hand toward Pamela. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she said as they shook.
Nicki looked as if she belonged in a ski lodge, not in a cafe in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Her blonde hair was arranged in a braided ponytail behind and a thick curtain of bangs in front. The bangs hung almost to her pale blue eyes. Her face had a Nordic look, in spite of its dark tan.
She wore a knit pullover shirt similar to the one that Pamela had taken from the dummy in the bus. Nicki’s was white, not lime green, and had her name in red stitches above her left breast. It appeared to be a few sizes larger than Pamela’s, too. Filled with mounds and curves and slopes.
Around Nicki’s waist was a blue apron with pockets for her order pad and tips. It hung down like a very short skirt, ending just above the cuffs of her shorts. The shorts were bright red. They looked snug around her thighs.
‘Ready to order?’ she asked.
‘Give us a few more minutes,’ Lauren said.
‘Can I bring you something to drink while you’re deciding?’
‘Do you have beer?’ Pamela asked.
‘You bet.’ Nicki flashed her white teeth. ‘All we got’s Bud, but tha
t suits most folks.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘One for me, too,’ Lauren said.
‘You got it.’ Nicki headed for the counter.
‘She seems nice,’ Pamela said.
‘A good kid. But she drives Terry crazy. He’s got it really bad for her but she won’t have a thing to do with him.’
Pamela felt a quick shiver. Rodney and me.
‘A thing like that can be dangerous,’ she said.
‘Keeps the place lively.’ A corner of Lauren’s mouth tilted upward. ‘We’ll have to make up some sort of billboard about this place being a “passion pit.” You just wouldn’t believe all the lust and unrequited love we’ve got around here.’
Shaking her head, Pamela made a wry half-smile of her own. ‘That’s how I got here, I guess. A guy had the hots for me and wouldn’t let it go. Killed my husband,’ she added quickly.
The last three words were enough to shut her throat and fill her eyes with tears. Across the table, Lauren blinked. She pressed her lips together. They formed a tight, straight line. Leaning forward, she reached out and squeezed Pamela’s hand.
‘Nothing bad’ll happen to you here. We take care of each other, and you’re welcome to stay just as long as you want.’
Chapter Twelve
Pamela cried softly, head down, trying to stop. Hoping that everyone in the cafe wasn’t staring at her. Lauren kept hold of her hand, and said nothing.
Nicki showed up with the beer. She set two frosty glass mugs on the table. Then she put a hand on Pamela’s shoulder. Pamela looked up at her.
‘Whatever it is,’ Nicki said, ‘I’m sure sorry. You gonna be all right?’
‘She’s been through some rough times,’ Lauren said. ‘That beer’s bound to help.’
Nodding, Pamela murmured, ‘Thanks.’ She sniffed. With the back of her hand, she wiped her eyes. ‘I haven’t . . . had a chance to look at the menu.’
‘No problem.’
‘Do you like burgers?’ Lauren asked.
Pamela nodded.
‘Get her a Pitsburger Deluxe and chili cheese fries. Same for me.’
Nicki let go of Pamela’s shoulder and started to turn away. Before she could leave, Pamela said, ‘I don’t . . . have any money.’ She sniffed again. ‘Where’s Sharpe?’
The Glory Bus Page 9
