Mango Digger

by Bill H Myers

  “But she warned me not to be fooled. She said that like Clark Kent, you had a secret identity. But yours wasn't Superman. She said you were more like the Hulk. Make you mad, and things could go south quickly. She said she didn't believe it at first, but saw it first-hand. Said you took on three guys in a parking lot.”

  I knew what she was talking about. Three guys beating up a defenseless man and somebody needed to step in and end it. Turned out it was me. I left the three guys on the ground. It wasn't something I was proud of, but it had to be done.

  I didn't tell Abigail this. I just said, “I'm not the Hulk, and I'm not Clark Kent. I'm just a regular guy.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, she said you'd say that. She also said that, like Superman, you had a weakness. Instead of kryptonite, yours was women, especially those that needed help. She said you'd believe anything they told you. You'd do whatever they wanted. Is that true?”

  I didn't want to admit it, but it was true. For some reason, I felt compelled to help women in need. Maybe it was the way I was raised. Or maybe it was some of the things I'd seen in Kandahar. Whatever the reason, I was always willing to step in and help if I could.

  Sometimes it backfired. I'd believe their stories no matter how farfetched. I'd volunteer to help, even if it meant doing things like driving across country with a stranger—or their cat.

  I hesitated with my answer. I didn't want to admit my weakness, especially since Abigail, like Devin before her, could use it to her advantage. So I was relieved when she said, “Don't worry, I've learned not to put too much stock in anything Devin says. She has a history of making things up. You probably know that.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I learned about Devin the hard way. She's a big fan of make believe. She fooled me before with her tall tales and will probably fool me again.”

  Abigail laughed. “I think she already has.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She reached out and touched my arm. “Remember what she said about me this morning while I was outside waiting in the car?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

  With a grin, she said, “I could hear most of what she was telling you. And it isn't true. I'm not that shy. I don't faint like a goat. I don't get lost in crowds, and I don't have a drinking or gambling problem.”

  I hoped she was right, but I wasn't convinced. Maybe Devin had stretched the truth a bit, but I'd already seen the goat girl do some strange things.

  I decided to ask her about it. “What about this morning? Devin said you were shy. When she introduced us, you walked away without saying a word. You went to the back and stayed there for three hours. What was that about?”

  Abigail turned away from me and looked out the side window. I wasn't sure whether she was going to answer or not. Maybe I had hurt her feelings. Maybe she was shy and I'd touched a nerve.

  But then she turned toward me and said, “Devin showed up at my place at three in the morning. I was still in my pajamas. Not even close to being awake. She drove me a hundred miles and dropped me off at your motorhome. I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open. When I saw you had a bed in the back, I made a beeline for it. It wasn't that I was shy, I was sleepy. I apologize if you took offense.”

  I shook my head. “No need to apologize. It was my fault for believing Devin.”

  Turns out the goat girl wasn't shy. She was just sleepy.

  “So, you heard me call you Goat Girl this morning?”

  She nodded, “I did. And I thought it was funny. Me, the goat girl.”

  She put her fingers beside her ears like little horns and said, “Baaaaaaa.”

  It was weird. And funny. Her “Baaaaa” sounded more like a sheep than a goat. Maybe she didn't know the difference. Maybe she wasn't raised around sheep or goats. Either way, she was strange. No denying that.

  She turned to me, stuck her chest out and said, “Maybe I should get a T-shirt with 'Goat Girl' printed on the front. What do you think? Should I?”

  I looked to see what she was talking about and immediately forgot the question. Her thrusting chest pose was not what I had expected to see from the Goat Girl. She held it, waiting for my answer. I couldn't think of anything decent to say, so I returned my focus to the road ahead.

  “Aren't you going to answer?”

  I almost blurted out, “I think you're too pretty to wear a Goat Girl T-shirt,” but I knew better than to say that. Too early for that kind of compliment. So I just shrugged and said, “Sure, get a Goat Girl T-shirt if you want. It'll look good on you.”

  I really didn't care whether she got a Goat Girl shirt or not. If it made her happy, good. I always liked it when women were happy, especially around me.

  We rode in silence for another twenty minutes. Then she asked, “How well do you know Kat?”

  It was a reasonable question. The only reason we were on the road together was to try to find Kat, assuming she was really missing and not just laying low. Kat was a grown woman and had proven many times over that she could take care of herself. As the daughter of a higher up in the Russian Mafia, she had been trained from an early age in the skills needed to protect herself and deal out punishment when needed.

  Kat valued her privacy and I didn't want to go into much detail about her, so I kept my answer short. “I met her three months ago in Key West. Spent a week with her on the road. Got to know her pretty well. What about you? How well do you know her?”

  She was quick with her answer. “Well enough to know she can take care of herself and that she's probably not really missing. Most likely she's having a good time and will be surprised to learn we were sent to find her.”

  I agreed with her assessment, but I had a question. “Do you know why she was staying at that campground in Arkansas?”

  “Yeah, I do. Supposedly she met a guy in Key West. Dylan, I think. He had a table set up at Mallory Square selling what he claimed to be 'healing crystals'.

  “Kat was always interested in local con artists, so she struck up a conversation with him and learned he had sold almost all the crystals he had and was getting ready to hitch-hike back to the mines in Arkansas to get more.

  “She had been looking for a reason to get out of Key West for a few days and figured taking Dylan to the crystal mine in her motorhome would be as good an excuse as any.

  “She asked him if he wanted to go and he said, 'Yes.'

  “They left Key West the next day and got to the campground two days later. The manager there said she seemed happy when she registered. He said she paid for three days.

  “When her motorhome was still there on the fourth day and she was nowhere to be found, the manager called her emergency contact number, which went to Boris. As soon as he learned she was missing he contacted me.

  “I think she's probably off on an adventure and not in any kind of trouble. But just in case, Boris wanted us to go up there to make sure.”

  Abigail was probably right. Kat was most likely not missing. But it didn't hurt to make sure. Her father did have some powerful enemies, and there was always the chance one of them might see his daughter as a prime target.

  We had just reached the eastern edge of Tallahassee, which meant our first stop, the Pilot Flying J Travel Center, was close. A huge billboard announced exit 192 would get us there, just four miles ahead.

  When she saw the sign, Abigail said, “I need to go back and change clothes. When you get there, pull up to the pumps and wait for me before you get out.”

  She headed to the back while I watched for our exit. I didn't know what she was changing into, but whatever it was, it needed to do a better job of hiding her lady parts than the skin-tight yoga pants she was wearing. I personally didn't mind but was worried they might attract a little too much attention at truck stop full of road-weary male drivers.

  I took the exit and followed the arrows to the Flying J lot. Pulling in, I saw that there were ten rows of gas pumps; with the one on the far right reserved for motorhomes. I pulled over
and took my place in line.

  We were third; a Dodge minivan filled with kids was in front of us and a green pickup in front of them. Neither belonged in the motorhome lane, but they probably didn't know any better or couldn’t read the sign. Since it looked like it might be a few minutes before we got our turn at the pump, I killed the motor, not wanting to waste gas.

  Glancing up at the rear-view mirror, I saw Abigail coming out of my bedroom. She was wearing a white T-shirt with a Doc Ford's Rum Bar logo, faded jean shorts and a Key West Conchs baseball cap.

  She saw me looking at her and asked, “So what do you think?”

  I wasn't sure what she was asking and didn't know how to answer. My best guess was it had to do with what she was wearing, so I winged it and said, “I like it.”

  “Good. But do I look like a tourist? Because that's what I'm going for. I want to blend in. I don't want to give anyone a reason to remember us being here.”

  I looked around the parking lot. It was full of cars, trucks, RVs and eighteen wheelers all wanting the same thing—to get in, fill up with fuel, and get back on the road as quickly as possible. Most didn't have time to take notice of others around them. If they had noticed, they would have seen cowboys, hippies, beach bunnies, soldiers, long-haul truckers and, yes, lots and lots of tourists.

  With all the people coming and going, and most only there for a few minutes, even if a person wanted to get noticed, they'd have a hard time at Pilot Flying J—unless they were wearing skin tight yoga pants.

  I didn't go into any of this. I just said, “Abigail, if you want to blend in, I'm sure you will.”

  The truck that was using the pump in front of us pulled away. The minivan pulled into his spot. We were next.

  Abigail pointed at my shirt pocket. “You got the credit card in there? The one you're supposed to use for gas?”

  I touched my pocket and felt the card. It was still there. I'd pulled it out of the envelope Devin had given me. The cash was still in the envelope, hidden away under my seat.

  “Yeah, I've got it.”

  “Good. When you run it through the pump, use 33050 for the zip code.”

  I repeated the number. “33050?”

  “Yeah, that's it.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring and handed it to me. “Put this on.”

  It was a gold wedding band.

  “You're kidding, right? Why would I want to put on a wedding ring?”

  She patted my shoulder like you would a small child. “Humor me. Put it on and wear it while you're pumping gas. I'll tell you why when we get back on the road.”

  She pulled out another and slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand. She showed it to me, a small diamond mounted on a gold band. She smiled and said, “If anyone asks, we're the Mendozas. You're Tony, and I'm Paige. And we're married.”

  Before I could think of something to say, she opened the door and walked away.

  Chapter Seven

  Devin had warned me not to lose Abigail in a crowd. She said I might not ever get her back. But she hadn't warned me about wedding rings.

  She should have.

  I still had the gold ring in my hand, pretty sure I wasn't going to wear it. It was heavier than I expected. Felt like real gold, maybe even solid gold. If it was, it would have been expensive.

  The minivan in front of me pulled away; it was my turn to fill up. I slipped the ring on my finger, started the motorhome and moved up to the pump.

  I hopped out and ran the credit card from Boris through the reader. When the screen asked for the zip code, I entered the number Abigail had said to use. It took a few seconds to authorize, but it cleared. I pushed the button for regular, put the nozzle in the fuel fill and set it to automatically shut off when the tank was full.

  The motorhome has a fifty-gallon tank and gets about ten miles a gallon. We had traveled just under four hundred miles, and I knew it would take a while for the pump to deliver the fuel we needed.

  While waiting for the tank to fill, I walked around and checked the tires. I put my hand on each one, feeling to see if it was hot. If it were, it would mean it needed air.

  I had used a gauge to check the air before leaving, but I'd gotten into the habit of checking again at each stop. In a motorhome, if a tire blew at highway speeds, it could be disastrous, so you checked them often

  Fortunately, none of our tires were hot. No air was needed; but I'd check again at each stop along our way. Better safe than sorry.

  When I got back to the pump, the display showed twenty gallons in and still going. Knowing I had time to kill, I grabbed the squeegee from the bucket of water next to the gas pump and cleaned the bugs off the motorhome's windshield.

  I had just finished when I heard the pump click off. The display showed thirty-eight gallons, pretty much what I expected it would take. I removed the nozzle, replaced the gas cap and locked the filler door.

  There were three RVs in line behind me and I didn't want to hold them up needlessly, so I got in the motorhome, started the motor and pulled over to the RV parking area.

  After getting parked, I looked around to see if could find Abigail, but she was nowhere in sight. I figured with her out of the motorhome, it would be a good time to use the bathroom, check on Bob, and, if she wasn’t back by then, go looking for her.

  I was washing my hands when my phone pinged with an incoming text. The message said, “Inside by the deli, bring $$$. GG.”

  Like most large interstate travel plazas, the Pilot Flying J had a restaurant, a convenience store, and a deli where they made sandwiches to go. Apparently, that's where I'd find Abigail.

  I grabbed my wallet and keys, locked up the motorhome and headed across the parking lot, dodging cars heading for the pumps. When I got inside, I saw her standing at the deli checkout and headed in her direction. When she saw me, she smiled and told the clerk at the register, “That's my husband. He's paying for this.”

  On the counter in front of her were two freshly made sandwiches, a bag of chips, and four cans of Red Bull. The clerk, a young man of Middle Eastern descent, bagged everything up and in a thoroughly American accent, said, “Nineteen dollars and fifty-one cents. Will that be cash or credit?”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed the man a twenty. He rang it up and gave me forty-nine cents change. I didn't want to carry a pocket full of coins, so I put them in the collection jar for a local charity next to the register. I grabbed the bag with the sandwiches, and Abigail got the one with the drinks.

  When we got outside, I headed to the motorhome and she followed. I was moving pretty fast and Abigail quickly fell a few steps behind. I probably should have waited for her to catch up, but I didn't.

  Just as I reached the motorhome, I heard the screech of car tires followed by a loud horn. I turned and saw Abigail standing near the front bumper of an older Ford Focus. It looked like the car had bumped into her, and she was holding the back of her leg, like it might have been hurt.

  I ran over and asked, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I'm fine. She didn't hit me, but she scared the hell out of me when she honked her horn. Her bumper was right on me.”

  I looked at the driver, a young woman, probably in her early twenties. She had one hand on the wheel, the other holding a phone to her ear. She tapped her horn with her elbow, wanting us to get out of her way.

  It was a big parking lot. We had been walking on the far edge, away from most cars. There was no reason for the woman to have gotten that close to Abigail—unless she wasn't paying attention.

  On a normal day, I would have gone over and had a talk with her. I would have explained why running over a woman in a parking lot while on the phone wasn't a good idea. I'd also explain how honking a horn at someone after almost hitting them wasn't the best way to handle things. I might even have gone so far as to use my boot to leave a reminder on the driver's door. Maybe it would help her remember to pay attention when behind the wheel. But I didn't do any of t
hat.

  It wasn't a normal day. I wasn't alone, and we couldn't waste time giving driving lessons to strangers in a gas station parking lot. So I just waved the driver around, shaking my head in disgust. The important thing was Abigail was uninjured.

  When we got back to the motorhome, I opened the side door and helped her in. I guided her to the couch and eased her onto the cushion. She wasn't hurt and didn't need my help, but, for some reason, I felt compelled to treat her as if she were.

  I asked again, “Are you sure you're okay?”

  She nodded. “I'm fine. Don't worry about it.”

  She pointed to the bags from the deli. “I bought us lunch. Turkey sandwiches, chips, and cookies. You ready to eat?”

  I was.

  Chapter Eight

  After finishing our sandwiches, I started the motorhome and got us back on the highway. According to Abigail's map, our next stop would be the Love's truck stop, just outside of Mobile, Alabama. About three hours away if all went well.

  Abigail wanted to rest in the back while I drove, so I didn't get a chance to ask her about the wedding rings. I also wanted to ask her how she knew Kat, the woman we were supposed to find. I was pretty sure her answers would be interesting.

  I set the cruise control to seventy, and without any major cities in front of us, I was pretty sure we'd make good time. Interstate 10 from Tallahassee to Mobile is a straight shot. No city traffic to slow us down, no mountains to climb, just a wide, flat, divided highway bordered on both sides by pine forests.

  The only danger the road presented was boredom.

  Three hours and two hundred miles later, the energy drink I'd been nursing had made its way well past my bladder and was calling for a pit stop. Abigail hadn't included any ‘nature calls’ pit stops on her map, but that was her problem; mine was finding a place to pull over in time.

  I was twenty miles past the last of the Pensacola exits when I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to Alabama,” and just beyond it the exit for the Alabama Welcome Center. Relief was in sight.