17
Linda busied herself dusting. She did the bar top, then the glasses, then the backbar and the bottles of hard liquor lining the shelves. It wasn’t for show. Everything was coated with a fine alkaline grit. The wind had been blowing for most of the day, sweeping off the mountains, pushing clouds of dust across the desert floor. It found its way into all the nooks and crannies of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, a structure so drafty that coats and jackets were a part of normal winter attire despite the blazing fire in the large stone fireplace, which only managed to scorch those sitting nearest the flames.
Apart from the fireplace and the oversize kitchen, not that much remained of the original boxlike structure, which had been hastily thrown up during the gold boom of the 1880s and 1890s. When the desert wind kicked up, the building leaked like a sieve. At best, it was no more than a sorry windbreak made rickety by time and shoddy construction. The skeletal remnants of the original building were perforated by various-caliber bullet holes, souvenirs of the gun-toting crowd passing along the desert highway in the dark of night. The pockmarks of vandalism had been transformed by the club’s denizens into the stuff of legend, each bullet hole a scar from desperate duels played out on the stage of imagination, a place where outlaws and lawmen, miners and claim jumpers, and pimps and prostitutes distributed the ingredients of death and destruction. It was all broken hearts, broken heads, and derring-do. The colorful inhabitants of fictional memory marched on cracked voices from whiskered mouths into a reality more vibrant than the sad ghosts of forgotten faces.
Linda knew that, seen from one angle, the regulars of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club were odd ducks, like her dad and his pals, a bunch of aging misfits, refugees from smog city, freeways, and pavement. Eccentricities united the “Red Mountain boys” in an undeclared fellowship.
She smiled at the thought of the “boys,” as they referred to themselves. No, they were definitely not boys, much too geezerlike. More important, they’d lived the lives of men, old wolves in sheep’s clothing. They liked to say they’d seen the elephant. Despite their flinty exteriors, she thought of them fondly as mischievous, although she knew they wouldn’t welcome the observation. She tended to be drawn toward the ones who were a bit offbeat. Men like Frank, she thought.
That had been her mistake with Joaquin José Guzman y Reyes. So beautiful, so humorless, so self-absorbed. She should have known on that day she’d teased him about his name that something was missing. “Joaquin José—that’s sort of southern, like Billy Joe.” She’d grinned. He’d frowned. The dark brows had gathered themselves into lines of displeasure. ‘No, not really. It is nothing like that. I am named for Joaquin Guzman, whose family held a patent of land from the king of Spain. The name of José is from my mother’s family. I have a cousin who was married to a Figueroa.” She’d let it pass, but it was a warning shot, and she had ignored it.
She suspected he’d been relieved to see her go. As an appendage, she’d missed the mark. She lacked compliance, which might have been regarded as an understatement by Joaquin. Fortunately, there were no children, which had been another point of contention. He’d been determined to produce another of his name or names, even if the lands and titles had gone with the wind, perhaps gone with the orange groves, although that didn’t have the same ring. She smiled grimly to herself. There’s a movie in this somewhere. She had no regrets—well, no material regrets. There were lots of eligible geezers in Red Mountain, if geezers could be considered eligible, and there was Frank Flynn, a puzzlement.
Now she had two jobs, half the pay, no pressure, and a wonderful sense of freedom. The freedom seemed to go with the desert. Despite the fact the Joshua Tree Athletic Club appeared on the verge of collapse, it made enough money to keep the doors open and pay the bills, with some cash left over.
Lately, business had taken an upturn. There was enough money to pay her for her time and provide the boys with sufficient pocket change to get them in trouble. Maybe because the old place looked like a ramshackle saloon from a Western, the club was a regular stop-off point for curious tourists coming up 395 on the way to the skiing or fishing in the Sierras. It seemed like a bit of the Old West caught in a pocket of time. All pretty weird and interesting, but she knew her life was on hold.
The wind increased in ferocity. Linda realized she was fighting a losing battle, but she was determined to keep the backbar clean at least. The dust swirled under the bottom and between the rubber lips of the swinging doors. Her efforts spared her from having to make conversation with the two couples at the bar. The men had sought to impress her with loud talk of desert hangouts and tales of barroom brawls, mostly borrowed from the movies. Whenever she bent down to reach something under the bar, she could feel their eyes on her backside. Lots of the patrons flirted with her, and sometimes she flirted back. But these two were phonies, decked out like Hollywood bad boys, their behavior mimicking celluloid villainy.
The huge baby-faced man with a puffy body was wearing a T-shirt too small to cover four inches of hairy gut adequately, but he was less offensive than his companion, who took an inordinate interest in his own tanned and muscular body, the result of hours in the gym and tanning salon. His eyes were fixed on his flexing biceps in the mirror back of the bar. That is, when he wasn’t staring at her bottom. The heavyset one wore an expensive gold wristwatch; his muscular companion sported a thick gold chain against a tan neck and a black Grateful Dead T-shirt—the accoutrement of bucks, not bikers.
The women were less pretentious. Both wore close-fitting leather outfits, dusty but unscuffed. Their faces bore none of the ravages of biker life, such as the flat eyes, hard mouths, and leathery skin. Their complexions were soft and smooth, crow’s-feet moistened carefully away. Linda thought she should look so good. Despite the loud talk of the men, the women’s laughter was softened by the culture of money, no braying or raucous hoots of approval. The group had ridden up on motorcycles of some sort, but not Harleys, at least not street hogs. Their machines were too quiet, no rumbling punctuated by the staccato of backfires. She watched as one of the men placed a couple of twenties on the bar, crisp from an ATM. Definitely ersatz bikers.
The man with the toned body raised his voice against the steady roar of the wind when it suddenly stilled, and he found himself almost shouting into a hushed void. They paused in the sudden silence. Linda, towel in hand, stood motionless; the others turned toward the entrance as if waiting for the wind to resume. In that moment, the doors swung inward and a short, ugly red-haired man seemed to be propelled through the entrance on a violent blast of wind. He was immediately followed by a stringy companion in a cutoff denim jacket and denim jeans, his clothes embedded with the dun color of the desert. His graying hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, revealing an angular profile that resembled nothing so much as a hood ornament, pointy and hard. Then a third man sauntered lazily in behind them, his hair and skin so white that he seemed almost iridescent in the half-light of the bar. Linda drew in her breath at the third figure. She could only see the pupils of his eyes, which gave him an oddly mechanical appearance. She’d seen them before. The three newcomers stood framed at the entrance for a moment, and then the white-haired one gestured the others to a table and approached the bar.
“Man, that’s what I call windy.” His smile exposed even white teeth against gums that appeared dark red in the dim light. “Could use three beers to wash away the dust.”
He gave off a faintly acrid, metallic odor. Linda’s heart was pounding. It was them, the ones who’d beaten up the hunters the last time they’d come in. A miasma of evil clung to them like dirty garments. For the first time in her life, she felt terrified.
“Three Sierra Nevadas on tap.” He drummed his fingers on the bar. “Okay, lady? Hey there, we’re kinda thirsty here, what with being out in all that dust.”
She looked up at the pale face. “Oh, yeah, sure.” Linda filled the glasses, glad to have something to do while she tried to think, and keep from looking
at the shotgun under the bar, just below the cash register. She set the beers on the bar.
“Six dollars.”
“Pay as you go, huh? Well, no offense taken. We’re not regulars in here—yet.” He gave her a soft grin, then added, “Are we?” A pale, sinewy hand put a wrinkled ten-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the rest. Kind of a tip in advance.” The pallid right eye winked. As he carried the beers over to the others, she saw that the redheaded one was staring intently, and she turned quickly away to the comfort of the people at the bar, now so seemingly pleasant and normal, she wanted to hug them. She heard a wet clicking sound. From the corner of her eye, she watched in mesmerized fascination as the redheaded dwarfish one pivoted his head about in small jerky motions, as if it were on a ratchet. Each movement of his head was accompanied by a wet clicking sound. A troll from her Arthur Rackham–illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales, all thick and hairy, eyes bright with malice. She had to think, to remain calm.
“Click, click, click.” He swiveled his head toward the bar, his gaze resting on the couples seated on the chrome and leather stools. “Click, click.” His eyes traveled the length of the bar and back; then the woolly head ceased to move, arrested by the motion of a Loony Bird next to the cash register. It was the kind that tipped and dipped its beak into a water glass, popped upright, rocked back and forth, moving ever closer and closer to the water, then dipped and tipped and rocked back, over and over in endless repetition. He made a loud slurping, sucking sound as the bird’s beak touched the water. “Slurrrp.” The wet sucking sound was followed by a burst of rapid clicks that paced the frantic bobbing of the bird, then slowed as the dipping head came ever more slowly and surely to dip back into the water. “Cslick … csslick … cssslick … slurrrrp.” He grinned over at the people at the bar, who had been watching him in silent fascination.
“Quit it, Jace.” The pale one’s voice was sandy and matter-of-fact.
“Click, click, click.” Jace ratcheted his head around to peer at his companion from under bushy red eyebrows.
“You speaking to me, pilgrim?” It was an eerily accurate imitation of John Wayne’s voice.
“Can it, I said.” Pale, colorless eyes met the other’s bright glare, which glittered like bits of blue glass.
“Click, click, click.” The redhead’s voice raised in defiance. “Click, fucking click, fucking click.” Each syllable was sharp and distinct, the voice increasing in volume. Then catching sight of the jackalope above the bar, he fell silent, his tiny blue eyes bright with curiosity. The lifeless eyes of the jackalope regarded him with glassy calm. It was as if these aberrant entities were transfixed by a sensed kinship, mutants in a moment of mutual recognition.
He turned abruptly toward the people at the bar, a furry red arm extended in their direction. “Who’re you?” The big man closest to the one called Jace leaned back, exposing four or five inches of hairy gut. His tattooless fat arms were white and covered with black hair, especially at the back, thick enough to comb. New motorcycle boots rested on the brass foot railing.
“Who wants to know?”
Jace’s wiry companion leaned toward the pale one and stage-whispered, “Salty fucker, ain’t he?”
Linda recognized the pattern: the beginnings of trouble. Again, she struggled not to look at the shotgun. What good would it be? Her dad said it was for emergencies, but she’d never fired it. It was a heavy thing, a ten-gauge double barrel, with old-fashioned side hammers. Her dad had cut the barrels so it was less unwieldy. He called it Stop and Think, because one look at the size of the barrels made a person do just that. She’d been raised around firearms, but mostly .22s. Plinking with her dad. Hunting Campbell’s tomato soup cans, going on tin-can safaris. She’d fired her dad’s twelve-gauge at clay pigeons a few times, but she hadn’t liked it. Too noisy, and it hurt her shoulder. She imagined what the ten-gauge must be like.
“Hey, what’s your name, man?” The pale one asked. “How can we talk until we know each other’s names?” The one called Jace bobbed his head in a rhythmic pattern. The heavyset man looked over at his partner, pointed his finger at his head, and made a twirling motion.
Jace’s pale companion stood up and strolled toward the bar, his face tight, slender frame and ropy muscles moving under a long-sleeved white T-shirt tucked neatly into dusty white denims. “Hey man, we’re just being friendly here.” His sandy voice permeated the room with covert menace. “My name’s Roy. This here noisy one is Jace. Some folks call him ‘Loco Roco.’ That what you meant by this?” Roy twirled his finger at the side of his head. “Loco? ’Cause if it is, he’s sensitive about it.” Jace made another slurping sound as the bird dipped its beak in the water.
“Didn’t really mean anything by it.” With Roy standing so close, regarding him with those strange eyes, the big man’s bravado had disappeared.
Roy shrugged. “And that’s my partner there, Wild Bill Hickey.” He gestured with his arm, pointing in the general direction of the table but never taking his eyes off the men. “So, who’re you guys and these lovely ladies here? Howdy there. I’m Roy.” He flashed a smile made ghastly by the red gums.
The woman seated next to the muscular man in the Grateful Dead T-shirt smiled and offered her hand. “I’m Barbara, and this is my friend Joann.” She smiled. “Do you and your friends live out here?”
“Yes, ma’am. All around in this desert is our home.”
“I’m Fred Nietzsche.” A muscular arm extended from the Grateful Dead shirt. “This is my business partner,” he added, gesturing at his portly companion, “Art Schopenhauer.” He smirked over at the women, his little joke. Barbara and Joann exchanged amused glances. The man dubbed Fred took Roy’s hand, squeezing it hard, letting Roy know he was outclassed in the muscle department.
Roy removed his hand, shaking it in front of him. “Man that’s some powerful grip you got there. You’re some strong motherfucker. Oops, scuse me, ladies.” He turned to Jace and Hickey at the table. “Hey there, say hello to Fred and Art here.”
“How ya doin’?” Hickey waved a languid arm.
Jace lifted his right hand, exposing the palm with the crude death’s-head tattoo. He slowly bent the little finger forward, causing the image of the empty eye socket to close. “Hi, Fred.” Then he repeated the process with the index finger. “Hi, Art.” He made a loud explosive sound, halfway between a bark and laugh. “Yeah man, the Grateful Dead,” he said, grinning at them with matched rows of perfect little teeth.
“Those big bikes out front belong to you guys, those Gold Wings?” Roy gestured vaguely in the direction of the entrance.
“Um-hmm.” Art nodded, sounding uninterested.
Roy gave his companions a look of disbelief. “Man oh man.” He began shaking his head. “Never heard of Pearl Harbor, these guys. Drivin’ rice cookers.” He let his face go blank. “Man, aren’t you guys Americans?” he asked, shaking his head again. “You don’t want to get caught out here by real bikers, Hells Angels, Mongols, or the Sidewinders, especially the Sidewinders. They’re bad folk. Folk you up real good.” Laughter on cue from the table. “Isn’t that right, brothers?” The redhead nodded vigorously, clicking furiously with each movement. Wild Bill Hickey just gave a dreamy smile.
Fred looked sour. Somehow these rubes seemed to be mocking them, not the other way around. “For your information, fella, we used to ride with the Hells Angels.”
“No shit.” Roy widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Hear that?” Roy turned to his companions at the table, rolling his eyes. “These guys were with the Hells Angels.” Roy gave Art a questioning look. The big man seemed boyish and pudgy. He sat with rounded shoulders, his belly pooching forward. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and neck and disappeared into his T-shirt. “What chapter, man? Victorville, San Bernardino, Fontana?”
Fred puffed himself up, on the defensive now. “Up in northern California. Out of Watsonville.”
Roy regarded him expectantly, encouraging him to go on. “Yeah?”
/>
“Some years back.” For a moment, he held Roy’s gaze, then turned away.
Roy turned back to his buddies at the table. “Whadda ya think, brother Hickey? We should let bygones be bygones, especially since they’re from up north?”
Hickey nodded in affirmation. “Why not, man. There’s a lot of pus buckets in the Angels.” But the furry red one, Jace, shook his head back and forth, clicking furiously.
Art glanced sideways at his companion, then back to Roy. He looked trapped and pitiful. Linda wanted to save him, but she felt equally helpless.
“Hey, it’s okay, man.” Roy tossed an arm casually over Art’s flabby shoulders. “See, we’re with the Sidewinders. Bikers, like you guys.” He nodded in communion. “Only, only”—he grinned back at his companions, then at Art—“only we kick the shit out of the Angels.” He felt the soft shoulders sag. He glanced over at Fred and back to Art again. “You heard of us right, the Sidewinders?” Fred and Art were mute. They shifted their eyes away from their pale interrogator. Something had slipped away.
Roy rolled his eyes in open disbelief. “Sidewinders, like rattlesnakes. You know, like the flag. ‘Don’t tread on me.’” Roy looked earnestly from one to the other. “Man, like the early American flag, the one we shoulda kept, the one with the rattlesnake. You guys gotta go back to school, find out about our country. I bet Barbara and Joann here know all about snakes.” He winked and leered.
“Hey look, pal.” Fred’s face flushed with red blotches of anger. “I don’t need any fucking history lessons from you.”
Shadow of the Raven Page 17
