Again the Dodge wobbled off track, almost head-oning a Greyhound.
"That guy's going to kill somebody, Kevin!"
"That looks like a safe-money bet; himself, if nobody else."
The question was, what could I do about it? I had the ‘57 tricked out with just about every street-worthy speed part you could name, along with a few gimmicks that had to do with my day job as an L.A. County deputy sheriff. Unfortunately that gow-gear didn't run to roof flashers and a siren.
Then, abruptly, the problem was taken out of my hands. The Dodge's driver slumped behind the wheel and the pickup started its final fatal drift to the right. I was flashing my brake lights at the traffic behind us even before he tipped off the edge of the road.
It wasn't too bad of a wreck as wrecks go. At that point, it was only about a three-foot drop from the shoulder of 66 to the desert floor and, thanks to that earth-mover convoy, we'd only been doing about thirty.
I reached the overturned pickup while it was still engulfed in the dust cloud of its roll-over. I kicked in the driver's-side window and hunkered down beside the cab. Reaching inside, I yanked the keys out of the ignition. Gas was cascading out of the truck's filler pipe and a spark just then would have been raunchy.
"He's still alive, Kevin.” Ignoring the dirt, the gasoline, and the broken glass, Lisette was stretched out on her stomach on the far side of the truck, checking on the driver through the busted passenger window.
The Princess only looks decorative. When things go off the high side, my girl is good people to have around.
The driver lay crumpled on the cab roof, a thin, elderly man in a rusty black going-to-town suit. He had the leathery tan of a life-long desert dweller and, under other circumstances, he looked like he might have been a tough old bird. Now, though, he was blue-lipped and limp and when I touched the side of his neck for his carotid pulse, his skin was chill and clammy. I couldn't smell alcohol on him and there didn't seem to be a bottle loose in the truck.
"Is he hurt bad?” A tentative voice asked from the outside world.
"You ever hear of anyone hurt good?” I backed out of the crumpled cab and stood up.
Traffic had come to a stop on the highway with long rows of cars pulled over on the shoulders and the usual crowd of gawkers standing around waiting for somebody else to do something constructive.
And the only somebody available was Kevin Pulaski of L.A. County's finest.
I pointed at a big, late-model Buick Roadmaster station wagon. “Who owns that car?"
"Uh, I do,” a man in a garish Hawaiian shirt and straw golf hat looked startled.
"Okay. Get your tailgate open and your backseat folded down. We're going to need you to get this guy out of here."
That's how you work it in an emergency. Don't ask ‘em. Tell ‘em!
Lisette bobbed up on the far side of the truck, smeared with mud and gas. “Is it a good idea to try and move him?"
"We don't have a choice, Princess.” I looked around at the cholla-studded wastes surrounding us. “It'll hit a hundred and twenty degrees on these flats and it'll take at least an hour for a doc and an ambulance to get out from Barstow. This old guy'll fry if we leave him like this. I figure our best bet is to get him back to Devlin station."
It seemed to make sense, to me anyway. I only hoped I was calling it right. I lifted my voice again. “We're going to need a plank or something to use as a stretcher and some blankets...."
* * * *
Back when the Southern Pacific first ran its rails across the Mojave, they built a string of jerkwaters along the right-of-way to service the old steam locomotives. Named alphabetically from west to east, there was never much to these stations, just a siding and a water tower with all the water coming in by tank car and a few sun-strange section men.
The coming of the diesel made these jerkwaters obsolete, at least for the railroad. But by then, Route 66 paralleled the tracks and some of the stations, like Amboy, Essex, and Goff, got a reprieve from extinction, servicing tourists instead of 4-6-4 Baldwins.
Devlin was average for the breed, a gaunt two-story combination store-gas station-lunchstand-residence and a short row of auto-court cabins. The buildings were whitewashed to bounce off a little of the sun and were all set within a perimeter of rabbit brush, hulked cars, and rusting mining machinery. Tin signs advertised DuPont dynamite and Bull Durham and a yard-tall Nehi promotional thermometer told you what you already knew.
I'd sent an eastbound driver on ahead to let the folks at the station know we were bringing the old man in. They were waiting as our ad hoc ambulance rolled into the shade of the gas-pump shelter. There were only the two of them, a fading middle-aged woman and a lanky, taciturn teenaged boy. I wondered if they might be the entire population of Devlin, California. It turned out I was wrong.
I bailed out of the ‘57 and jogged back to the station wagon to find the woman peering in through its side windows.
"Oh Lord, Teddy! It is Rupe!” Her voice was strange. Soft and flat, but with rags of emotion trailing from it, like she wanted to get excited or hysterical but just didn't have the energy for it. The kid just grunted and hung back, his hands in his dungaree pockets.
"You know him, ma'am?” I asked, coming up beside her.
"He's my husband."
Jesus! I'd have figured him for her father. The woman had the remnants of a baby-doll prettiness left to her and she must have been a good twenty years younger than the unmoving old man in the back of the Buick. She wore a limp nylon waitress's uniform and a stained apron and she had a dishtowel twisted around her right hand.
"Have you called a doc?” I demanded. Any other questions could come later. Still, my cop's instinct for putting things in their places made me do a mental comparison between the face of the old man and the pimply features of the teenager. No resemblance. A second marriage and a stepfather-stepson deal? A good chance of.
"Yes, our doctor is driving out from Barstow,” the woman's hands clenched and twisted on the dishtowel. “I knew this was bound to happen. This place will kill us all!"
"He's not dead yet, ma'am."
The tailgate of the station wagon swung down and Lisette scrambled out. She'd ridden in with the old guy, keeping wet compresses on his head.
"How's he doing, Princess?"
"Better, I think. He's still out, but his heartbeat's steadier and his color's improved."
It had. There was a nasty bruise developing on his forehead, but the blue-gray tinge had left his face and the rise and fall of his chest was deepening. I had the sense this old coyote still had some mileage left in him.
"Let's get him inside. Where you want him, ma'am? And don't worry, I think he's going to be okay."
The woman twisted the dishtowel more tightly around her hand. “That's good,” she said in her washed-out voice. “I think it would be easier to put him in one of the cabins than to take him up the stairs to our room."
Jeez, lady. Try to control your joy.
* * * *
We got the old gent into bed in the first of the four tourist cabins. Then I shook the hand of the station wagon's driver and sent him on his way. He was only a passing tourist with a lousy taste in shirts, but he'd gone out of his way to help a stranger in a jam. I hoped the story would make for a good brag back in Des Moines.
A boxy swamp cooler filled one of the cabin's windows, precious water dripping onto its burlap panels. Its roaring electric fan didn't exactly render the room cool, just less hot. The cabin was like the rest of Devlin: clean, barring the perpetual dust haze of the desert, and well maintained by somebody's hard work. But the furnishings and fixtures were 1930s vintage and wearing down.
The closemouthed boy gave Lisette's legs a long last study and went out to tend the gas pumps, leaving the three of us to stand awkwardly around the bed.
"Thank you for your help,” the woman said finally. “I'm Sue Kelton and this is my husband Rupert. We own the station here at Devlin.” She gave a brief laugh that
didn't have any real meaning behind it. “Nowadays I suppose we are Devlin."
"No big deal, ma'am. My name's Kevin Pulaski and this is Lisette Kingman. We've been visiting in Flagstaff and we were heading home to L.A."
I didn't mention that my visit had been at the invitation of the Arizona District Court. I'd been giving testimony relating to an interstate car-theft ring.
A big part of my job with Metro Intelligence revolved around me not letting people know what I actually do for a living. I'm pretty good at it, too. Damn few folks ever pick up on the fact that this slouching, jeans-wearing, hot-rod driving kid with too much slicked-back brown hair is actually a Los Angeles County deputy sheriff, and that's just how it's supposed to be.
"I don't know what happened, ma'am. We were following behind your husband when he kinda like blacked out and went off the road. Has he been sick lately or anything?"
"No, nothing like that. He's just ... old.” She stared down at the slack, seamed face on the pillow, her words drifting. “It's the heat and the work. I've told him it's time we took things easier. I've warned him..."
She shook off some thought and looked up at us, her voice growing brisker. “Thank you again. I suppose you'll want to get back on the road. My son and I can take care of things until the doctor gets here."
I glanced down at Sue Kelton's hands again, knob-knuckled and work reddened, the one still twisted in that dishtowel. I hesitated for one last extra second before making the call. “Nah. It's too hot to go on now. I guess we'll stay over until tomorrow morning. Can we have a couple of your other cabins?"
Mrs. Kelton didn't have a reason to say no, no matter how much she might want to.
* * * *
Teddy Kelton stared at us from the shade of the pump shelters as I backed the ‘57 in between our cabins. He didn't offer to help us carry our bags in.
The Princess held off until we were inside of her airless little clapboard box. “Look, lover, I know it's hot out there but I'd vastly prefer prickly heat to this!"
"Me, too,” I replied. I put down her makeup case and sat on the edge of the cabin's creaky iron-framed bed. “But I've got kind of a funny feeling about this place."
"No kidding!” Lisette braced her hands on her hips. “This place is strictly nowheresville ... literally! The giant radioactive tarantulas are going to come crawling out of the desert at any minute! If you think I'm...” The Princess stopped revving her engine and looked at me sharply. “Wait a minute. You mean cop funny, don't you?"
"Yeah.” I untwisted my Luckys from my T-shirt sleeve and drew one of the smokes from the pack with my lips. “I want to talk to that doc when he gets here,” I said around the cigarette, “and with the old man. And I don't want to leave that old guy alone for too long either."
Lisette crossed to the cabin's front window and peered around the edge of the cracked shade, the outside glare putting a bar of light across her suddenly intent features. The Princess likes to hunt, too, although she maintains her amateur status. “The boy's still watching us from over by the gas pumps. What do you think the caper is?"
I touched my lighter flame to my smoke. Standing, I joined her at the window, putting my arm around her slim shoulder. “I dunno, Princess. It could be the sun's just getting to me, but when we brought that old Joe in breathing, I got the feeling that somebody was disappointed as all hell."
* * * *
Dr. Bruce Purcell of Barstow was a desert rat in his own right. He drove a battered Jeep station wagon, wore a sweat-stained stockman's Stetson, and called his patient a dried-up old son of a bitch.
Rupert Kelton laughed at the comment, although it was a feeble kind of laugh. The station owner had come around a few minutes before the doc had arrived. He was shaky, but his head was clear and he didn't seem ready to pack it in yet.
Kelton insisted on shaking my hand, and we had a hard time keeping him down on the pillow while doing it. “I surely appreciate it, son,” he said gravely, “and I'm sorry, causin’ you all this trouble."
"Forget it,” I replied. Beat up or not, the old gent had a grip. “No big deal."
"The question is, what happened to you?” the doctor demanded, rigging a blood-pressure cuff around Kelton's other arm. “Any chest pain? Anything go numb or paralyzed? Any sparks of light in front of your eyes?"
"Ah, hell, Bruce. Nothin’ like that.” Kelton sounded disgusted. “I don't know what happened out on that road.... Damn me, I think I just fell asleep."
He glanced toward his wife sitting stiffly in the cabin's one straight-backed chair. “I'm sorry, Treasure. I guess you're right. I am getting old."
She didn't make an attempt to go to him. “I told you, Rupe. This damn station is killing you!"
He shrugged and winced. “A man's got to die someplace. You might as well do it somewhere you know."
The doc pumped at the bulb of the blood-pressure cuff and scowled at the results on the dial. “I thought you had a buyer for the place?"
"Oh, I been thinkin’ about it. I was goin’ in to Barstow to talk to the fella again.” The old man closed his eyes. “I don't think it's gonna work out. He's not offering enough to keep me, Sue, and the boy going for long. At least here we can stay alive."
"No we can't, Rupe!” For the first time there was real feeling in Sue Kelton's voice and she sat forward in the chair. “Can't you see that? Now the truck's wrecked on top of everything else."
"Don't take on, Treasure,” the old man murmured back, not opening his eyes. “We'll make out."
The doctor unstrapped the cuff from his patient's arm. “From what I can see, it's cuts, bruises, and a mild concussion. Nothing seems broken, and I can't see any indication of internal injuries yet. I don't suppose I could convince you to go to the hospital for a couple of days for observation?"
Kelton still didn't open his eyes. “Not likely."
"On your own head be it, then. All I can say is to stay in bed for a few days and watch yourself. Concussions can be tricky.” The doctor started stowing his gear back in his bag. “If you start to feel strange or if you pass out again, have me called immediately, but by then it'll probably be too late anyhow."
The corner of Kelton's mouth twitched up. “I'll take it easy, Bruce."
"What do you figure made him conk out, Doc?” I interjected.
"Damned if I know. His heart's strong. Pupils are equal and responsive. Blood pressure is right where it's supposed to be. No overt indication of a stroke or heart attack. If I could get this old fool into a hospital for some tests I might be able to tell you something."
"I was wondering if it might have been the heat."
The old man on the bed opened his eyes. “No, son, it wasn't that. I've lived out here all of my life and the heat doesn't get to me much anymore. Anyway, Teddy filled up my swamp cooler before I left and it was working real good."
I recalled touching Kelton's throat and the chill feel of his skin. Yeah. That thing had been working real good. “Could you have had an exhaust leak?"
The old man looked faintly puzzled. “I don't recall hearing one or smelling any fumes. Anyway, I keep my rollin’ stock in good shape and it ain't as if anything ever rusts much out here."
Sue Kelton stood up abruptly. “Look, I really think it would be best if we let Rupe rest now. Isn't that so, Doctor? He's had a hard day and he's tired."
The doctor rose from the far side of the bed. “You're right, Sue. Rest's as good a prescription as any. I'll come by tomorrow and have another look at him.” He glanced down at the woman's hands. “And maybe at you, too. What happened to your hand?"
The woman's right hand wasn't wrapped in a towel anymore but in a swathing of gauze and adhesive tape. “This? It's nothing. I just burned it on the grill in the lunchroom."
"Better let me have a look at it while I'm here. No sense in taking any chances."
She took a hasty step back. “No, really. It's nothing."
Rupe Kelton spoke up from the bed. “Let the old croaker have
a look, Treasure. He can use the money."
Reluctantly Mrs. Kelton extended her hand. Dr. Purcell guided her back to the chair and started to unwrap the bandages. As for me, I just sort of stood back out of the way, trying to look dumb and uninvolved.
* * * *
With a professional patch job done on her hand, Sue Kelton returned to the lunchroom, while I trailed out after the doc. As he stowed his bag in the back of his Jeep I unobtrusively flashed my star at him.
"You're a deputy,” he said, his brows lifting.
"Yeah, and if you're surprised I'll take it as a compliment.” I slid my badge wallet back in my hip pocket, looking around to make sure Teddy boy wasn't hovering around anywhere. “You sound like you've known the Keltons for a long time."
"I've known Rupe since just about forever,” the doctor replied, tilting his Stetson back. “He was already working out here for the Southern Pacific when I went away to medical school."
"How about his wife and her kid?"
"Well, at least since they moved to Barstow just after the war. She was married to Lee James then. Lee was killed by a hangfire at the White Arrow Mine back in ‘fifty-two and Sue and Rupe married up a little while afterwards."
"How's it worked out for them?"
Doctor Purcell hesitated.
"This is official, Doc."
He frowned back. “If you put it that way, it was a damn fool stunt for all involved. Rupe married because he was so lonely out here he was talking to the Gila monsters, while Sue and her boy were starving to death because she'd run through all of her first husband's insurance money. Since then, Rupe's been halfway okay with how things are, while she's been going stir-crazy. She's been nagging on Rupe to sell out, but I doubt it's ever going to happen. Rupe's a desert man. If you know the breed, you know how they are."
I glanced out across the shimmering cholla flats and the naked lava ridges beyond. I did know the breed. Running hot rods on the Mojave's dry lakes, I'd gotten to know a few of them.
There is abso-goddamn-lutely nothing out here to hold a person, yet, somehow, the very vast emptiness of it can creep into you and grab hold. I've picked up a touch of it myself, enough to understand, at any rate. Put a born desert rat into a greener, more crowded land and, man, they'll just curl up and die like a horn toad in a snowbank.
EQMM, March-April 2009 Page 8
