It amazed me that a runaway wife was worth all the time and money and people that Claire’s husband was investing in getting her back. Maybe she was worth it. Maybe they were rich. Rich people, what I knew of them, had a way of overreacting to life’s speed bumps. Get in a beef with a neighbor, hire an attorney; lose some money in the stock market, file a lawsuit; your wife runs away, hire a bunch of private investigators and track her wayward ass down, damn the expense.
Ginny had said the man who had questioned her had a cop with him. The cop kept quiet. He was there just for show and to lend a false impression of authority to the man named Doc. That took not just money, but power, though if you had the first you usually had the second. Rich people always had someone to call who could arrange something that the average guy couldn’t get done, no matter how right or wrong. The only call the poor man could make was to Jesus. If Jesus didn’t answer, Smith and Wesson always did.
The husband would find Claire—of that I was certain. It was none of my business. I was certain of that, too. It pissed me off that all of their petty bullshit had to involve Ginny and me. I needed to tell Claire, purely as a courtesy, that her husband had called out the cavalry and, in any event, the ice cream man wouldn’t be making any more rounds. Until then, I just had to do my best to keep the cavalry galloping in circles out in the desert and away from Claire. After I told her what was what, it was up to her, and my promise to her now had an expiration date. I had enough of my own problems.
In case I was being watched, I recycled my coffee off the front porch in full view of the street, going for distance and sending as much of a message as a broke and lowly Jew Injun truck driver could send.
I didn’t leave the gates of the transfer station until full daylight. If I was going to be followed, I wanted to see whoever was doing the following. It occurred to me that there could be a device of some kind attached to my tractor-trailer, except that by now the runaway-wife posse should have figured out that technology was unreliable on 117.
I knew money was no object to them. After all, they had blown at least fifteen hundred to sell me a load of reality television bullshit. That didn’t mean they weren’t tracking me, only that they would have to somehow follow me in person. They didn’t know I wouldn’t lead them to Claire. Not today at least. So, who would it be, the schoolteacher? The man called Doc? Josh? Variety being the spice of life, I hoped for someone new.
I kept my speed not too fast and not too slow, and I used my turn signals well in advance of turns. Following me should be possible, but not easy. While waiting for a break in a stream of oncoming traffic in order to make my usual left turn off U.S. 191 onto SR 117, I began to wonder why Claire’s search party was so convinced that I could lead them to her.
By my rough estimate, 117 cut right through the heart of about five hundred square miles of Utah’s high desert. If they had traced her to the area around Price, Carbon and Emery Counties, there were a lot of roads, small towns, isolated ranches, and sparsely populated wide patches where she could hide out. I only drove 117. Everyone knew that.
If they had taken all that money and all their contacts and connections and simply asked me, maybe brought a bit of pressure to bear, which they could easily have done, I might have given her up. I’m not a coward, but I’m not a fool either. They could have threatened to pull strings here or there to mess with my commercial license, insurance, or even my contract with the corporate boys. What they did was screw with me, and then scare the shit out of a pregnant teenager.
Why don’t people with money and power realize that when they screw around with the little guy when they don’t have to—especially when it’s a little guy like me with not a damn thing to lose—sometimes the little guy is just going to get pissed off and stubborn up? It was all I could do, and I was sure as hell going to do it. Whoever had drawn the short straw was in for a long, damned day of driving bad roads and sucking dust—all for nothing.
I dropped off two heavy crates at Walt’s place without knocking on his door. I no longer cared if there had been dancing at the diner. There were three access roads between the diner and the Lacey brothers. None of them was fit for a fat snake to slither on and they led absolutely nowhere, with ninety-degree turns, narrow canyons and road cuts, and ruts so deep it took every ounce of driving skill I had, the right speed and load balance, to keep the tires rubber-side down. I took each one. A couple of times I headed out roadless, cross-country over hard rock that left no tracks. Each time I rejoined 117 I would check my mirrors for signs of anyone following me. Each time I saw nothing but a lot of my own dust and diesel smoke drifting back the way I had come.
For the whole day I was the most sociable son of a bitch on the map, paying unscheduled visits to abandoned ranches as well as customers I hadn’t seen in weeks, in some cases months. I was on a first-name basis with every deer and jackrabbit, snake, prairie dog, and sagebrush that came my way.
There were discoveries along the way. Up a sandstone canyon so narrow I didn’t have more than a few inches’ clearance on either side, the road came to an abrupt end. There was nowhere to turn around, which meant I had to back down the narrow, steep grade maybe a half mile or more. It was going to be a bit of slow, tricky, and dangerous driving. I got out and walked ahead into the end of the canyon to stretch my legs.
What I found left me weak at the knees with surprise. Spiraling out of the rock was a series of mini-waterfalls, each emptying into a plum-colored stone goblet and finally into a deep, clear pool of water. The canyon walls were maybe forty feet high and only ten feet across at the top, leaving the waterfalls and pool in perpetual shadow.
A small herd of some kind of dwarf deer I’d never seen or heard of before drank from the pool with barely a nod of recognition to mark my presence. The pool, no more than fifteen feet across, disappeared into itself, down into the bedrock, refusing to trickle away its beauty and life into just another dry wash or sandy-bottomed arroyo. It began and ended where it was, without any ambition to go anywhere or do anything else. There wasn’t a beer can or a cigarette butt in sight, or even the remnants of a long-ago campfire.
I didn’t turn around to walk out. I backed up, placing my feet in the prints I had made coming in, holding my breath like a father leaving the room of a sleeping child.
I hiked back down the road several hundred feet and came to the conclusion that it was not a road at all, but a ledge of slough from the ridgetop above that simply resembled a road with a tight turn and a hundred-foot drop on one side. One miscalculation, and my truck and trailer and maybe I would come to a very loud and twisted end.
The position I’d gotten myself into was foolish, but part of me welcomed the challenge. Inch by inch I backed down the ledge, knowing that even if I had my trailer and cab perfectly centered, the lip could give way under the weight at any time. Over an hour later I was safely back down to the desert floor, drenched in sweat and, oddly, never happier. I had been enjoying the hell out of myself the whole damn day, running my tractor-trailer over lost roads, half roads, nonroads, and dry lake beds off 117. It was the most fun I’d had in months.
For a while I’d forgotten why I was tooling around the desert in five tons of truck, trailer, and cargo, most of which I had still not delivered by the time the sun began to set. On the desert floor I climbed on top of my trailer and did a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree circle looking for signs that I had been followed. The result was disappointing, unless they were better than I was willing to give them credit for. My feelings were mixed. I was also damn glad no human being had witnessed the mess I’d gotten myself into driving onto a slough ledge. That relief was mixed with regret that no one, friend or foe, had seen me back my rig down that treacherous piece of rockslide. I was a damn good driver.
It was past nine when I got home. The pregnant teenage punk fairy had paid me a visit. All the wads of paper were gone and the carpet vacuumed. My bed was made. The accordion file was gone.
On my dresser was a note. Dear
Ben, You old farts sure know how to show a young girl a good time. I made another sandwich. Took a nap. Hope you don’t mind. Meeting with my professor about our project this afternoon.
Above her name she had made a crude drawing of a skull and crossbones that I supposed was meant to convey affection in some youthful way I would never understand, and probably wasn’t meant to. The skull did seem to be sporting a lopsided smile. I got the message. Whatever character flaws Ginny had, lack of loyalty and follow-through were not among them.
If no one had attempted to follow me the day before, someone was at it bright and early on Saturday morning. Moab was pretty much a day’s drive and back. For a reasonable price you can rent a stripped-down Jeep to go four-wheeling, or use it to carry your mountain bike into the canyons.
Most of the rental Jeeps are fire-engine red or bright white. All the Jeeps come equipped with a GPS and a homing beacon. The Jeeps announced to the world that you had no clue where you were going or if you’d know when you’d arrived—but you had a Jeep with four-wheel drive. Everything else was just a detail. The GPSs and homing beacons regularly saved lives. Common sense was usually one of the details that didn’t seem to matter when you had the overwhelming false confidence brought on by four-wheel drive. In the steady stream of early-morning truck traffic leaving Price, I was the only one being paced by an infected four-wheel-drive pimple.
I took my sweet, careful time making certain that all the oncoming traffic on 191 had cleared before taking my left onto 117. Whether the red Jeep passed me or waited behind me in traffic with the other vehicles didn’t matter. Once I got on 117, I’d know. The Jeep waited with the other five or six vehicles behind me. It continued south on 191 after I made my turn. The driver was wearing a cap and sunglasses.
While I waited for traffic to clear, I thought about how much expensive fuel I had burned the day before, and about the limitations of the truck and trailer. I thought about Ginny and Claire. I thought about Walt and his motorcycles. By the time I reached the diner I had finished most of my thinking for the day. For the first time, instead of parking off the shoulder along the gravel drive, I backed my trailer up along the side of the diner to within twenty yards of the Quonset. The nose of the cab jutted out from beside the diner, where eastbound drivers could see it, though not until they were almost directly in front of the diner.
I stood at the rear of the trailer and waited. Only one vehicle passed the diner headed east. It was a red Jeep, moving fast. Its brake lights flashed when the nose of my cab became visible. Josh was at the wheel. The driver’s head was turned away. It was Josh, though.
“What the hell are you doing?” Walt’s snarl was in top form.
I jumped. “Got some freight,” I said.
“I asked you a question.”
“I gave you an answer.”
Sometimes a conversation with Walt went that way. He was upset that I’d parked my trailer beside the diner. It really didn’t matter, except Walt was always at war with any kind of change. It was always possible that he might take a swing at me, though it had never happened. His muscles twitched under his white T-shirt, and his jaw was set on his face like a piece of steel. He was only slightly shorter than me, and I outweighed him by maybe five or ten pounds. Overall, we were evenly matched, if you didn’t factor in his age. Doing so would be foolish. He had the wide chest and long reach of a gorilla. It occurred to me there might be a first time coming my way.
Walt locked his pale eyes on me. When I didn’t blink, he turned and walked toward his workshop. “Don’t park here again.”
After unloading the boxes, all of them damn heavy, and setting them on the hand truck, I wheeled them to the door of the Quonset, which he had left open. He shouted for me to leave them just inside the doorway. The inside was as black as a cave, and a cool breeze blew by me.
“The union,” I said, “says not to bring freight indoors. Or into unsafe areas that might result in injury.” I didn’t belong to any union. We both knew it.
Walt switched on a small light at his workbench. “You and Jimmy Hoffa can kiss my ass.”
I took the stuff in and dropped it where he pointed.
“Why’d you park that way, Ben? I want a straight answer. When a man does or says something he’s never done before, either he’s gone crazy or he has a damn good reason. Has suckling all those losers on 117 made you crazy?”
Given his mood, I decided to forgo mentioning that Walt’s place was on 117. He offered me a crate to sit on next to his stool in front of the workbench. Off to the side, stretching to the rear of the workshop, the motorcycles were dimly lit and arranged in the shape of a chevron. In spite of his years, Walt looked healthier and happier than I had ever seen him. It seemed there might be some truth in what I’d heard about his love life.
“I need a favor,” I said. “A big one.”
In all the years I’d known him, I had never asked Walt for anything, even a glass of water. Whatever he had given or done for me had been offered, not requested. I was curious how he would react.
“What do you need it for?” he asked.
“What?”
“The motorcycle.” I hadn’t told him what the favor was, but he guessed. “Tell me straight, Ben.” This was a demand as well as a warning. I took heed of both.
He sat on his stool, bolt upright, and listened to every word. Every word was the truth, or as much as I knew of it. There was no sign on his face that he was concerned in any way. He listened and said nothing until I was done.
Finally, after a moment, he said in response, and by way of summary, “You made a promise to a woman you do not know. You owe her nothing, except that promise.” Walt stood and switched on an overhead light above his collection of motorcycles. “I take it that once you ditch your shadow you intend to tell her the jig is up and it’s time to either skedaddle or go home to her husband. Does that about cover it?”
That was exactly what I intended to do, and I said so. Until Walt said it plainly I hadn’t realized, no matter how little sense it made, that I would miss Claire. “Yes,” I agreed. “All I’m doing is buying her a little time. After that it’s up to her.”
Walt strolled up and down and between his motorcycles and then straddled one. “This is a 1966 BSA Victor 441. In the history of motorcycles, this might be the worst one ever made.”
Knowing Walt’s love of fine machinery, I had to wonder not only why he had one, but why he thought this one would fit my needs.
“Because,” he said, examining the throttle linkage, “in my opinion it is the finest example of a piece of shit. It is the gold standard of shit.” He caressed the yellow gas tank with an obvious tenderness. “This bike is everything the Vincent isn’t. It is poorly designed and poorly manufactured from the poorest-quality materials available at the time. Every expense was spared. It’s not a road bike and it’s not a dirt bike. It won’t stay tuned for longer than an hour. It handles about as well as your truck without power steering. Even on a smooth stretch of road the ride is so rough you might shake loose a filling or two. But,” he added, “if you’re going off road, the only other choice is that little 200cc Tiger Cub over there.” He pointed to a small dirt bike. “But that is the bike Lee raced for a while. He gave it to me the year before he died.”
The message was clear. Walt would rather send me out into the desert on a perfect piece of shit than risk lending me a reliable dirt bike that had sentimental value because of his lifelong friendship with Lee Marvin. If accused of sentimentality, Walt would have certainly denied it, though his motorcycles and the diner, especially the way he kept them up, were a shrine to a life and lives that no longer existed. Not only was the message clear, but I appreciated it. Given the same set of circumstances, I might have done the same.
He filled the tank of the BSA and gave me a few quick instructions. He kicked it over. The engine crackled to life. “Don’t,” he said, “expect it to start like that when you need it to. The Victors were cruel and capricious Britis
h bastards.”
The two of us rolled it into the back of my trailer, which was almost full of cargo. We secured it with bungee cords to keep it upright, and then covered it with a thick blanket.
Walt wished me luck. “You are going to need every bit of it,” he added grimly. “And if that old rattler quits on you out there, and it probably will, you drag, push, or pull the son of a bitch back to me. You understand?”
I told him I understood.
“If that bike makes it back without you,” he said, “then I’ll be sorry. You come back without that bike, you’ll be sorry.”
There wasn’t much I could say. I gave him my best solemn nod. Just as I was putting my truck into gear, Walt jumped up on my running board. He flat-handed the roof of the cab hard enough to startle me, again.
“Be at the diner tonight at seven,” he shouted over the engine. “I’ll feed you. If the Victor doesn’t strand or kill you.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He jumped down with the nimble light-footedness of a man one third his age and disappeared behind my trailer.
I went about my deliveries knowing Josh was nearby, if not close enough to see. He did a respectably good job staying out of sight. The motorcycle was always in my way. Walt was right. Even in silence it was a heavy, cumbersome pain in the ass. Over the course of the morning I lost track of how often I had to unfasten it and move it out of the way and then tie it down and cover it again. I wasn’t ready to fire up the Victor yet, assuming it would start. Josh’s extreme desert adventure wouldn’t begin until I was ready, which wasn’t until late afternoon.
The Never-Open Desert Diner Page 12
