Corbett tapped his fingers on the table. “We’ll be standing up temporary housing today, but it’s going to be a while before they’re completed. I have about a dozen pop-out trailers at the high school, but I don’t think that’s going to be enough for all of you.”
“No, they won’t be. What about the high school itself? It has multiple rooms, shower facilities, even a cafeteria. Perhaps we could stay there until the temporary housing is completed. I don’t mean to say we’re helpless. We can live under the sky if we need to, but I’d prefer we have some hardened shelter if possible.”
“Agreed. I already have plans to build it out and harden it up, so if your folks don’t mind living in a construction zone, I’m good with you being there. I’ll speak to Booker about it. It’s not like class is going to be in session for much longer. Along those lines, I was wondering if you’d allow your police to join up with the town’s.”
Victor leaned back in the booth and regarded Corbett over his reading glasses. “I don’t like that proposition very much. A couple of the guys in Single Tree PD are abusive. But I also don’t see much of a way around it.”
“I’ll ask Grady to tamp down on them if you give me their names,” Corbett said.
“Santoro and Whitter, with Santoro being the bigger offender of the pair.”
Corbett considered that. He didn’t know either man, but if they were going to make things difficult, he’d have to find a means to get them squared away. “I’ll see what can be done.”
“Dumping their bodies in the desert might be a great start,” Victor said.
Corbett raised his eyebrows. “Is it that bad?”
“No, not really. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a wish-list item.”
Corbett snorted. “I hadn’t realized you were still this cold-blooded, Victor. It’s like you never grew up.”
“Some things you never leave behind. Besides, I never did any time, so I don’t have much impetus to turn my back on the past.”
Corbett pointed at Victor’s scarred knuckles. “And you wear your history well.”
Victor tapped a particularly vivid scar on his right hand. “And this is the only one I’m proud of. Want to know how I got it?”
“Sure.”
“Happened when I got into a fight with Hector Aguilar in 1980.”
“You actually beat down Hector badly enough to leave a scar like that?”
“Well, I was winding up for a punch, and he got so scared he passed out right before I hit him. He fell, and my fist went through the window behind him. But he did piss himself, so it was worth the pain and blood loss.” Victor let out a contented sigh. “Ah, happy memories of a tragically misspent youth. I’m sure if it happened again today, Hector would still pass out, only I’d stumble and fall over his body and wind up pissing myself.”
Corbett laughed. “Hey, whatever it takes. A man’s gotta go when he has to go, Vic.”
“Indeed,” Victor said with a wry smile.
Danielle returned and set two cups and a plastic coffee urn on the table. “Coffee, boys. Careful, it’s hot. Was just brewed.”
“Cold coffee’s not high on my got-to-have list,” Corbett said. “Thanks, Dani. And why are you here so early this morning?”
Danielle waved around the diner. “It’s hopping, Barry. You can see that, right? This zombie-apocalypse stuff might be hell for the rest of the world, but for Raoul’s Diner, it’s a godsend. For the next day or so, anyway.”
“Why only until the next day?” Victor asked.
“Because we’re running out of stock, and it doesn’t look like there’s any chance of us getting more. Every sunny spot gets dark eventually, right?” A customer waved at her. “Sorry, gotta jump.”
When she walked away from their booth, Victor didn’t follow her with his eyes. “I like her attitude,” he said. “Anyway, she brought up an interesting point—supplies.”
Corbett raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. Danielle was right. The stuff was damned hot. “What, you want me to break open the refrigerated trailers and restock Raoul?”
“Not at all. Just wondering how we’ll be doing on that front. We have some substantial supplies, but not enough for the entire town. My people would be lucky to make it through the winter, and by then, it’ll all be gone. We’re willing to share, of course.”
“I have enough to keep the town going for over a year,” Corbett said. “But face it. Not everyone’s going to make it. So we might be able to eke out a bit more as time goes on.”
“And do you think we’ll last that long?” Victor asked. “You’ve seen the images coming out of New York, yes? The streets crawling with the dead?”
“That’s New York. We’re in a better position. We’ll button up the approaches, and we’ll stand up our defenses. That’s one reason the housing will take so long to tend to. We need to get the fortifications stood up, or at the very least, the first tier. Once we provide some measure of protection for the town, we’ll be able to start up other operations while the second and third tiers go up. We’re a long way from LA and Las Vegas, so we’ll have some time, but the next week is going to be critical.”
Victor nodded. “Los Angeles is going to go down hard. The San Fernando went from bad to worse, and the east side is headed for the same thing. Orange County is bottoming out as well. But I’m more worried about Las Vegas. It’ll take some time for the dead to make it here from Los Angeles, but from Vegas? It’s a fairly straight shot across the desert, and I’m assuming things like Death Valley aren’t going to mean much to people who are already dead.”
“Preaching to the choir.” Corbett looked over Victor’s shoulder as the couple sitting in the booth behind him rose and headed for the cashier’s station.
The man was a sallow-faced hipster with low-rise jeans, leather loafers, and an expensive-looking sport vest over a short-sleeved polo. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary as if he had just come off a tremendous vodka bender. His dark hair was spiky, and Corbett couldn’t tell if that was intentional or from a lack of grooming. His companion was shorter and heavier, an effete man with a full beard and a shaven head that bore quite a bit of stubble. His eyes were bright and panicked behind his small, trendy glasses. He wore a gray jogging suit, though Corbett figured the only time he actually ran was when he needed to get to the bathroom in a hurry.
The taller man stopped short and turned back to Corbett. “Excuse me. We overheard some of your conversation. Would either of you know anything about San Francisco?”
“What about it?” Victor asked.
“Is it… is it still there? Is it safe?”
Victor exchanged looks with Corbett. Corbett shrugged.
Victor shook his head slowly, like some wizened Native American shaman. “Sorry, boys. We don’t know. Not a lot of news about San Francisco. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that SF doesn’t get that much airplay out here in the desert.”
“Larry, let’s just go,” the shorter man said, taking the taller man’s hand and pulling him away.
Once their backs were turned, Corbett shook his head. “Damn, I could never like faggots.”
Victor cocked an eyebrow. “It’s the twenty-first century, Barry. If you keep using language like that, people will think you’re just a simple knuckle-dragger.”
Corbett took another sip of coffee. He scowled, but it wasn’t because of the hot liquid. He knew he was a man of many faults, but his disdain for homosexuals was one he would never be able to get over.
“Hey, I think I know that guy,” Victor said.
“You know someone in town? Wow, you really get around,” Corbett said, staring into his coffee cup.
Victor said, “Hey, Barry, he’s—”
A hand suddenly landed on Corbett’s shoulder, and a loud British accent filled his ears, drowning out Victor’s words. “Barry Corbett! Imagine meeting you here!”
Startled, Corbett looked up as hot coffee sloshed about in his cup. The man standing bes
ide him had clear blue eyes that, at first glance, seemed to be full of intelligence. Corbett knew from personal experience that the man was quite clever, but the intellect presented in his gaze merely floated on a sea of icy deceit. His brown hair was going gray at the temples, and his fair skin was showing some red from exposure to the desert sun. He wore a navy-blue blazer over a white collared shirt and gray trousers, with brown tasseled loafers on his feet. In his jacket pocket was a puff-folded kerchief. The man looked as if he were stepping out for a casual but still dressy luncheon in Manhattan as opposed to a small diner in the middle of the California desert. Hovering behind the man—whose obsequious smile was made especially brilliant by expertly crafted porcelain veneers—was an extraordinarily handsome woman who, if Corbett’s guess was correct, had a ton of money behind her.
Oh, fucking hell, Corbett thought sourly. As if the zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough. “Jock Sinclair. What a… what a surprise,” he finally managed to say.
Sinclair chortled as he seized Corbett’s hand and shook it vigorously, as if they were long-lost mates. Corbett lamented sending Lennon off to the bar, for he would have stopped Sinclair from getting anywhere near him. He glanced over at Victor, who carefully folded up his reading glasses and slid them inside his jacket. Victor didn’t even attempt to conceal his smirk.
“Yes, it is a surprise, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, smiling broadly. “Whatever in the world are you doing out here?” He tilted his head, favoring Corbett with a sidewise glance as if he’d arrived at some great deduction. “Oh, but of course. You’re actually from this town, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, well… I am,” Corbett said. “So that explains my presence. What are you doing here, Sinclair? I thought you were a resident of Manhattan’s Central Park West.”
“We were on our way to Los Angeles when the airlines were grounded.” Sinclair put a hand on the woman’s back and nudged her forward. “Oh yes, please let me introduce my wife. Meredith, this is Barry Corbett, one of America’s greatest living industrialists.”
Corbett detected a sneer in Sinclair’s voice, the same one he had been forced to endure for almost an hour when he’d appeared on the silly twat’s television show two years ago.
“Good morning,” the woman said, smiling perfunctorily.
Sinclair, still smiling like a buffoon, looked at Victor. Victor stared back stoically, the smirk gone.
“And who’s this?” Sinclair asked, the wheels in his head obviously turning as he tried to align a man of Victor’s heritage with Corbett’s presence.
“No one of consequence, I assure you,” Victor said.
“This is Victor Kuruk, leader of a local Indian tribe,” Corbett said. “You’ll like Victor, Sinclair. He’s a self-made man of color leading the charge against white America.”
Sinclair tittered as if that were one of the most enjoyable bon mots he’d heard in years. “Oh, is that so? Plotting your revenge here in a diner, are you?”
“The best places to kill a man are when he’s eating or sitting on the toilet,” Victor said in a total deadpan.
Sinclair’s smile dimmed for an instant as he processed that, then brightened as he tried amping up the charm. “Oh, is that so? Delightful! I’ve never heard that before!”
“So, Jock,” Corbett said, “you’re on your way to Los Angeles, are you?”
“Well, yes, once we get a few things sorted out,” Sinclair said, still beaming.
Corbett sensed something in Sinclair’s response. Oh, here comes the ask.
“What do you have to ‘sort out’ in Single Tree, Mr. Sinclair?” Victor asked helpfully, even though Corbett had no doubt he’d already figured out Sinclair was a hanger-on the moment the so-called “television journalist” opened his mouth. At that moment, Corbett could have strangled both of them.
“Well, does there happen to be a Maserati dealership in this town?” Sinclair asked, glancing at Victor but keeping his gaze on Corbett.
“You want to buy a Maserati?” Corbett asked. It sounded stupid, but he knew how some people worked. To a self-styled international bon vivant like Sinclair, the zombie apocalypse would be the best time to haggle over price.
“Actually, I need to repair one. Ours went wonky just outside of town last night.”
“This morning,” Meredith corrected.
Sinclair waved off her comment with a dismissive gesture. “Yes, well, our car is duffed up, and we need to get it to a dealer so it can be looked after. I’d think that the town that gave rise to the great Barry Corbett would have one hidden away someplace, yeah?”
Corbett looked at Victor. “Victor?”
Victor shook his head. “Closest Maserati dealership I know of in California is in Bakersfield. Have you tried calling for service? Whenever something happens with my 488, I just call Ferrari, and they send someone out to take care of it.”
Corbett fought back a smile. While Victor might have had the money to afford an Italian super car like the Ferrari 488 Gran Turismo Berlinetta, he would never buy such a thing. When he wasn’t on his precious Harley, Victor drove around in a restored yellow 1978 Dodge Power Wagon Club Cab. An extremely nice Dodge Power Wagon but nothing like a Ferrari.
Sinclair’s smile dimmed a little bit. “Ah. Yes, well, we do have roadside service, but I can’t seem to get through on my phone. Our service appears to be restricted out here. I can only surmise it’s because we have a New York number.”
“Well, I can help you out there,” Victor said, pulling an iPhone 6 out of his jacket.
Corbett raised his eyebrows when he saw it. “You actually bought one of those?”
Victor looked indignant. “Of course not. It was a gift.” He unlocked the phone and handed it to Sinclair, who took it with a dubious look.
Sinclair handed the phone to his wife. “Meredith, would you be so kind?”
“Sure thing, Jock,” she said. Her tone indicated she did in fact mind.
Corbett sipped some more coffee as he looked around the diner. The members of his detail were watching him, but no one had gotten up to see if he needed anything, like maybe putting a bullet through whatever passed for Sinclair’s brain. Corbett realized he could end it all right now by calling them over, but the last thing he wanted was for Sinclair to cause a ruckus.
“Really, it is fantastic seeing you here,” Sinclair gushed.
“I admit that you weren’t someone I’d anticipated running into,” Corbett said. “Especially after that hit piece you tried to ram down my throat a few years ago.”
Sinclair waved dismissively. “Oh, that. That was business, Barry! It has nothing to do with my real position on your industry. Without people like you, we’d have no energy, no fuel, no rechargeable power sources—”
“And no global warming, I believe you stated,” Corbett said.
Victor crossed his arms, enjoying the show. “Oh, is that how you two met?”
“Barry, really, you’re not still upset about that, are you?” Sinclair asked, adopting an aggrieved expression. “That was just for the telly. Tell me you’re not holding a grudge!”
“I’m not, Jock. As a matter of fact, I don’t give a damn what you might think of me.” Corbett took another drink of his coffee.
Sinclair’s mouth fell open. “Oh. Well, I do hope there’s something I can do—”
“Sir? I’m sorry, but does your phone work?” Meredith edged toward the table as more people entered the diner and pushed past her, hunting for a place to sit. She held Victor’s phone out to him.
Victor took the iPhone, frowning. “Well, it did about an hour ago.” He thumbed his way across the icons on the screen and tried to place a call. He held the phone to his ear for a few seconds then scowled and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. “My sincere apologies, madam, but I guess the service is down now.”
“Telecommunications are fragile, Vic,” Corbett said. “They weren’t going to last for long, anyway. Not with what’s going on.”
Sinclair looked aroun
d the diner. “Well, perhaps a landline?”
“Jock, you’re not going to get your car fixed,” Corbett said. “It’s well past time for that. What do you think Maserati is going to do, send a technician out here from Bakersfield?”
Meredith turned to Sinclair, a look of concern cutting through the exhaustion on her face. “But without the car, how will we get to San Francisco? Is there bus or train service from here?”
Corbett shook his head. “No trains out here, and I have no idea if there’s even a ghost of a chance of you getting on a bus. I wouldn’t even know where you could get one.”
“The McDonald’s farther up Main Street,” Victor said. “Those of us who are less fortunate than Mr. Corbett here are quite used to riding on the Eastern Sierra Transit Authority coaches. They usually leave for Reno at eight forty-five every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.”
“But today is Wednesday,” Sinclair said.
“Yes. It is.” Victor looked up at Sinclair’s wife. “So where are you staying?”
“The Trail’s End,” she said.
Corbett chuckled. “Oh you are, are you? How do you find the accommodations there, Jock?”
Sinclair pursed his lips. “I find them… very basic.”
“Make room, folks. Chow coming through,” Danielle said. She moved toward the booth, carrying Corbett and Victor’s breakfast on a wide serving tray.
As Sinclair and Meredith stepped aside, Victor half stood and took the tray from Danielle. He held it while she removed the plates and put them on the table.
She flashed him a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Kuruk. Do you guys need more coffee?”
“Please call me Victor, and more coffee would be fantastic when you can,” Victor said, handing her back the serving tray.
“Great.” Danielle turned and looked at Sinclair and his wife. “Folks, if you’re here for breakfast, it’ll be more enjoyable if you have a seat.”
Sinclair’s face reddened, but he only said, “Yes, well, perhaps we should.” He looked down at Corbett. “Good to see you again, Barry.”
The Last Town Page 17
