by Mark Dawson
He took out the Beach Boys tape and replaced it with a compilation from The Animals. ‘Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood’ started, replaced in short order by ‘The House of the Rising Sun.’
Milton tapped out the beat on the wheel and let his thoughts drift. He felt good, better than he could remember feeling for a while. He had always been happy with his own company, latterly choosing solitude over the seemingly inevitable strife that sat on his shoulder and attached itself to anyone who came across his path. He was content with what he had: the car, the open road and a selection of choice music. Eric Burdon’s voice rang out of the ancient speakers, a warning to mothers so their sons might avoid the things that he had done, and Milton rolled down the window to let the afternoon zephyrs blow the stuffy air out of the cabin.
He arrived in Bakersfield at five and stopped for fuel and a sandwich. He didn’t dawdle, hungry to get back to the drive. He got back into the car and set off again, now heading east. He passed out of the city limits and picked up speed again, the scenery rushing by on either side of the car.
7
He was ninety miles from Vegas when he decided to stop for something more substantial to eat and to top up the tank. He pulled the car off the interstate just as he passed through the town of Baker, found a gas station and filled up. There was a restaurant attached to the gas station, the sign hoisted high above it announcing it as the Mad Greek Café. Milton had checked the route before he had set out in order to learn a little about the landmarks that he would pass along the way. This particular establishment was a well-known highlight; it was familiar both to hopeful visitors looking forward to reaching Vegas, and also to bitter refugees running from the casinos, their luck spent.
Milton drove over to the parking lot, slid the GTO into a space next to a shiny new Tesla Model S, and went inside.
His guidebook had revealed that the Mad Greek had been a fixture in the desert since the late nineties. It was a reasonably small building, and, as Milton looked around, he counted twenty tables, most of them empty.
A waitress in a branded shirt came over to greet him. “Afternoon,” she said. “How you doing?”
“I’m good,” Milton said.
“Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the empty tables. “I’ll be right over.”
She gave him a menu and went over to deliver a pot of coffee to a table where two grizzled truckers were working on plates of chili. Milton found a table at the window where he could look outside, and sat down. The menu was a large laminated card and he scanned up and down it. The café was known for its gyros, but the menu offered a much wider selection in addition. There were burgers, pastrami and cheesesteaks mixed in with falafel, dolmadakia and spanakopita. The baba ghanoush that two chastened gamblers had ordered looked particularly good, and Milton decided that he would order that and a strong coffee.
He sat back and checked out the other diners. Apart from the truckers and the gamblers, there was a table of four raucous young men, early twenties, hyped up about the prospect of a night in Sin City; there was an older man, his eyes hidden behind a purple visor; and, in the corner, there was a younger woman sitting by herself. She was facing him and, as he glanced over at her, he saw that she was crying.
The waitress came over. “What you having, darlin’?”
“The baba ghanoush looks good.”
“Is good,” she said. “You want something to drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Be right back.”
She made her way to the open kitchen counter. Milton kept his eye on the girl on the other side of the room. She took out her phone and swiped her finger down the screen. She took a moment to compose herself, tapped the screen and then put the phone to her ear. Milton watched her as she spoke. The diner was too noisy for him to hear her side of the conversation, but he could tell that whatever it was that she was being told did nothing to alleviate her unhappiness. She frowned and then scowled, and then, her voice raised, she snapped that whatever had been said was “completely unacceptable,” before ending the call and laying the phone back down again.
The waitress returned with a mug and a pot of coffee. She put a napkin down on the table and rested the mug atop it.
“Going to Vegas?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“That your GTO out there?”
“It is.”
“Seventy-two?”
“Sixty-nine.”
She sucked her teeth appreciatively. “Had a boyfriend once; he had one just the same. Nice wheels. How did it handle the desert?”
“Like a dream.”
“Like I said—nice car,” she said. She poured out a mug of coffee. “You see the Tesla next to it?”
Milton said that he did.
“It’s hers,” she said, pointing to the girl in the corner. “She can’t start it. Been here an hour already. I don’t know… You wouldn’t see me taking an electric car into the desert. I don’t care how expensive it is. Something goes wrong, what you gonna do?”
She went back to the kitchen. Milton sipped his coffee, watching as the young woman laid a banknote on the table and stood. She wiped her eyes with her napkin before balling it up and dropping it onto her empty plate. She made her way to the exit, passing right by Milton’s table. He looked away as she approached. Empathy was not one of his strong points, and he wouldn’t have known what to say if she had stopped to talk to him. He heard the door open and close and watched her as she made her way across the lot to the Tesla. She aimed her phone at it, stabbing at the screen, before aiming a petulant kick at the rear wheel. She put her back to the car and slid down it, leaning back against the chassis with her legs bent.
The waitress arrived with Milton’s food. “Here you go,” she said, depositing the plate, a knife and fork wrapped in a napkin, and a glass of water on the table. “Get you anything else?”
“I’m good,” Milton said. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Enjoy your meal.”
Milton picked up the knife and fork and took a bite. The eggplant was perfectly cooked, succulent with juices, and delicious. Milton swallowed and took a second bite, glancing over at the young woman once more. She had the phone to her ear again and was in the midst of a second conversation. She was crying, her head dipped down. She finished the call, wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and got up. She tried the door, couldn’t open it, and kicked the car again.
Milton tried to turn his attention back to his food, but couldn’t; he was distracted, thinking about the girl and wondering whether there was anything he might be able to do to help.
8
The girl was still there when Milton had finished his meal. He laid a twenty on the table to cover his meal, added a five for a tip and made his way outside and back to the GTO. It was eight o’clock and still warm, although there was a chill in the air that suggested that night in the desert was going to be cold.
She looked up as Milton approached.
“Hello,” he said.
She looked up at him. Her mascara was streaked with tears. She didn’t speak.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head.
“You’ve broken down?”
“Piece of shit’s fucked,” she said at last.
“How?”
“I can’t even open the doors.”
“If I’m overstepping, please say,” he said. “But is there something I could do to help?”
“You an engineer?” she asked him.
“Afraid not.”
“Then I doubt it.”
She was brusque, but not rude. There was something in her face—something open—that endeared her to him.
“Is it yours?”
She nodded. “Six months old.”
“You know what’s wrong with it?”
“The battery’s dead.”
He looked at the car and scratched his head. “If it had a normal engine, I might have been able to help, but I wouldn�
��t know where to start with this. These are expensive, right?”
“Ninety grand.”
“Don’t you get roadside service for that?”
“You do, but apparently not for another five hours. Which would be fine if I had five hours to waste, but I don’t.”
“Why?”
She rubbed her eyes again. “I’m supposed to be at home to pick up my father. We’ve got a flight to catch. I’m not going to make it.”
Milton looked at her and bit his lip. He had been enjoying his own company, but she had been dealt a bad hand and obviously needed a favour. He had covered most of the distance to Vegas and would have as long as he wanted in his own company if he took the car coast to coast like he had planned. He was on the home stretch now; there was only another ninety minutes to go before he hit the Strip.
“You want a ride?”
“You’re going to Vegas?”
“I am. Where do you need to go?”
“Summerlin.”
“I can take you there.”
“You sure?”
“It wouldn’t be a problem. Happy to help.”
She looked at him, her despair from moments ago now replaced by a hopefulness that was quickly suffused with suspicion. “This is just you offering me a ride because you’re a nice guy, right? No other reason?”
Milton knew what she was suggesting: what did he expect in return? “I’m not that kind of guy,” he said. “I’m going to Vegas; you want to go to Vegas. You’ll have to put up with my taste in music, but that’s it.”
She glanced at her inert car. “I guess I could leave it here and get the garage to pick it up.”
“Well, the offer’s there.”
“My stuff’s in the back.”
“And you can’t open it?”
She shook her head. “The doors, the trunk—they’re locked. But I don’t suppose it’s a big deal. I can get what I need in Vegas.”
Milton waited for her to make up her mind.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“John Smith.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Scout’s honour,” he said. “You’ll be safe.”
She sighed, got to her feet and put out her hand. “Thanks, John. Appreciate it.”
“And you are?”
“Jessica Russo,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
9
Milton stepped aside so that she could get into the car. He went around to the other side, dropped into the seat and started the engine. It rumbled happily, ready to devour the miles once again. Milton almost made a comment about the enduring benefits of the internal combustion engine, but held his tongue. He put the car into reverse and edged out of the parking space. Jessica gazed out at the Tesla as Milton put the GTO into drive and rolled out onto the freeway.
“I was going to get a Porsche,” she said. “I wish I had.”
She took out her phone and cancelled the roadside assistance. She finished with that and made another call. Milton could only hear her side of the conversation, but could tell that she was speaking to her father. She told him what had happened with her car, that she had hitched a lift back to Vegas, and that she would be a little later than planned. She engaged in a little extra small talk and then ended the call.
“All okay?”
“Fine,” she said.
They were on the fringe of the Mojave National Preserve. The road was two lanes going northeast and two lanes going southwest. The traffic was scarce, and all Milton could see to the left and the right were the wide-open plains, tickled with scrub, running all the way to the mountains that loomed in the gloomy distance.
Jessica grew quiet and brooding.
“Is everything all right?” he asked her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be antisocial. It’s just…”
“Whatever it is, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I can’t pretend like it’s not happening. My dad has cancer. The same type my mom had.”
“I’m sorry,” Milton said, abashed.
“The doctors say he’s got a year. He’s told them to stop the treatment so he can enjoy the time he has left. He’s leaving the country.”
“Where to?”
“Italy.”
“Russo,” Milton said. “You’ve got Italian blood?”
She nodded. “My family came from Siena, back in the 1900s. Dad wants to go before… well, you know, while he still can. That’s why Mason and me are going back.”
“Mason?”
“My brother.”
“You’re both going with him?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s why I was upset back at the truck stop. I don’t usually burst into tears in front of strangers. I was just worried that I wouldn’t be able to get back in time.”
“What time’s the flight?”
“Eleven. I’m picking Dad up and meeting Mason at the airport.”
Milton looked at his watch. “You’ll be there in plenty of time.”
Milton decided to put on some music to help lighten the mood. He reached down for the tape that he had dropped into the storage bin in the side of the door. It was Donovan’s ‘The Hurdy Gurdy Man,’ and as he pushed the tape into the player, the title track played out.
“You weren’t kidding,” she said.
“About what?”
She gestured at the stereo. “Your taste in music.”
“What do you mean?” Milton protested. “This is a classic.”
“I don’t even know who it is.”
“You’ve never heard of Donovan?”
She shrugged. “Should I have?”
Milton handed her the cassette box. She took it and held it out in front of her with an expression of exaggerated curiosity.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a tape before,” Milton said.
“What can I say? I’m twenty-two. This is practically an antique.”
“Come on,” Milton said.
She shone him a bright, white smile. “Relax,” she said. “I’m kidding.”
Jessica brightened now, visibly relaxing. She was attractive, in that wholesome and hearty way that he had observed in so many American women. Her skin was clear and her teeth were perfect. She wore her hair long, down past her shoulders, tying it into a ponytail to keep it out of her face. Her eyes were lively, too, especially now that the redness from her tears had started to fade.
“Put something else on if you like,” Milton said. “There are more tapes in the glove box.”
She opened the compartment and sifted through the tapes. “I’ve never heard of any of these,” she complained. “The Kinks. The Small Faces. Manfred Mann.”
“What do you like?” Milton said.
“Beyoncé,” she said.
“Don’t have any Beyoncé.”
“This’ll do.”
She ejected Donovan and pressed in a Creedence Clearwater Revival compilation. ‘Bad Moon Rising’ started.
They listened together, Jessica tapping her finger to the beat. The GTO leapt forward hungrily, and Milton had to make an effort not to let it race ahead.
“Tell me about your brother,” Milton said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Younger or older?”
“Five minutes older,” she said. “We’re twins.”
“What does he do?”
“He was army.”
“He got out?”
She paused for a moment. “Got a discharge.”
There was something there that she wasn’t saying. Milton guessed that her brother had not left the army on the best of terms, but saw no point in prying into something that might be uncomfortable.
She changed the subject. “Where’s your accent from?”
“England.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Holiday. I’ve always wanted to drive cross country.”
“And you’re stopping in Vegas
?”
“It’s been a while since I was here. I thought I’d spend a day or two.”
They reached Halloran Springs; they were approaching the state line. Milton allowed himself to succumb to temptation, pushed down a little on the gas and watched as the speedometer slid around to ninety. Jessica was comfortable; she sat with her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees.
She looked over at him. “What do you do when you’re not on vacation?”
“For work? Nothing much.”
“You don’t have a job?”
“I’m a cook,” he said. “I have a job in London.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You weren’t always a cook, though?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You were in the military.”
He looked over at her, surprised by her perspicacity. “How’d you work that out?”
“Like I said—my brother was, too. All the soldiers I’ve ever met have the same look. I saw you in the diner and thought you must have served.”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve been out for years.”
“Working as a cook,” she said, apparently still finding that difficult to credit.
“For part of the year,” Milton explained. “I save up; then I spend that travelling around. Sometimes I work while I’m on the move; other times I don’t.”
There was an eighteen-wheeler ahead of them. Milton flicked the turn signal and pulled out, stamping down on the gas and pushing ninety as they blasted by it. He pulled back into the right-hand lane and let the speed bleed down to seventy again.
Jessica grew quieter as they drew closer to the city. She seemed to be thinking about something. Milton listened to the music and concentrated on the road ahead.
10
Milton pushed the speed limit until he judged the risk of being pulled over had grown to an unacceptable level. As a result, they made excellent time. It was a quarter past nine when the neon lights of the Strip glowed in the distance, a hue of golds and pinks smudged against the dark, beckoning people with the promise of luck and fortune. Milton had interest in neither. In truth, it was with some trepidation that he looked on those monuments to gambling and excess. He felt secure in his sobriety, but he knew that there were few places on the planet that were designed to encourage a lapse better than Vegas.
