The man reaches down. “Give me your hand.”
As I stretch my fingers upward, it feels like something slices through my side and between my ribs. My arm falls back down, landing heavy and useless against my thigh. Nausea and discouragement roll through my gut. I can’t. This is just too hard. And I’m so tired. Rest. I need to rest. My eyelids drop shut as I slump against the side of the car. My cheek is pressed against the dirt and something sharp bites into my skin. Rocks, probably. Or maybe glass. What difference does it make?
“Stay with me! Grab my hand!”
The man’s barked commands cut through the dismay and pain, making me bristle. How dare he yell at me? I’m the victim here. I deserve a little tender loving kindness. I open my eyes and see him leaning farther in, grasping, reaching.
Then he speaks again. “It’s going to be all right. I promise.” His voice has become soft and comforting, and it turns my reaction around. How can I be angry with the guy who’s trying to help me? He just wants to get me out of the car.
Gritting my teeth against the pain to come, I reach out, stretching up as far as I can. His hand closes in above my elbow. His fingers tighten around my arm.
He pulls.
Noises fill the air.
He grunts from the strain of holding all my weight.
I scream as a lightning bolt of pain rips through my spine.
He stops pulling, but doesn’t let go of my arm. “I know this hurts, but I’ve got to get you out.”
“Why not—” I force the words through lips that feel like old rubber, dry and cracked. “Why not out through the front?”
He looks at the jagged shards of windshield lining the window frame like broken teeth and shakes his head. “There’s too much glass. Besides, I don’t know if I could get you out from under the dash that way.” He pauses. “It’s very important that I get you out of this car. If I can get you out of here, you’re going to be all right. Do you understand?”
It’s an effort to move my head. The best I can manage is a short, jerky nod. I understand, but I only want to do this once.
“Okay then,” he says. “Here we go.”
I take a deep breath. The next time he pulls, I tug my left arm free. I twist my body and clutch above his wrist with my other hand. Drawing up my legs, I scramble until I can push my feet hard against the door, all the time groaning and screaming from the effort.
“Now!” He calls out a warning before giving one last, hard jerk that pulls me free.
And then, it’s over. I might have blacked out for a second, because when I open my eyes again, I’m lying on the ground, sprawled across my mysterious rescuer.
“Success.” He gently pushes me off to the side, then squats next to me on the balls of his feet. “Are you okay?”
I look down at my body, expecting to see a bloody mess or, at the very least, ripped clothing and bruises. But a quick examination of my legs, hands, and arms shows there’s nothing like that. Amazingly, I’m in pretty good shape. No blood, no cuts, not even a tear in my jeans.
My car, on the other hand, isn’t so lucky. The old, green hatchback lies on its side, the front end wrinkled like an accordion. And it’s in pieces. I spot a hubcap over there, a side mirror over here, a license plate way over there, and bits of glass and chrome scattered everywhere.
Yet I’ve managed to make it through the crash without a mark on me. Not only that, but most of the pain I’d been feeling just moments earlier is gone. It makes no sense, but I’m not about to question it.
I look back at the man. “Yeah, other than a killer headache, I’m fine. Thank you.”
This is the first opportunity I’ve had to really check him out. He doesn’t look like any trucker I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a crazy uniform made up of a white shirt, black pants, striped suspenders and a red bow tie. A paper hat shaped like an upside down banana boat is perched on his head. Pinned to his chest is a plastic oval name tag that reads “Vinnie.” The whole getup reminds me of what they make the employees wear at Steak ’n Shake. I look around, as if I’m going to find the restaurant he belongs to, but I know there isn’t one for miles. Which brings me back to my first thought about him.
“Are you the truck driver?”
Shaking his head he stands and looks over his shoulder. “Nope.”
“If you’re not . . . then who . . .” Now I realize what he’s looking for. “Hey, where is the truck?” I shift my eyes to the road. No sign of it. “He didn’t even stop?”
“He had no cause to.” Vinnie is still looking over his shoulder as if he’s following the truck’s route. “By the time he looked in his side mirror, you’d already hit the ditch. As far as he knows, it was a simple blowout, so he’s going to a safe place to take care of it.”
I narrow my eyes at Vinnie. “How can you know that?”
He shrugs. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
I look down the long, empty road. “I guess so.”
“Well, sure it does. Any decent person would stop if he knew there was someone behind him who needed help.”
Sure, any decent person would. So Vinnie must have driven up right after the accident. But if that’s the case, then where’s his vehicle? I look around again, swiveling my head like a hoot owl.
Nothing.
Great. He must have broken down somewhere and been walking to the next stop when he found me. Just my luck to be rescued by an on-foot food service worker. Not only that, but I’m stuck in the middle of the desert with a total stranger. I peer down the road in the other direction, but it’s empty, too. Looks like it’s just the two of us.
Just me and Vinnie. This is an episode of Criminal Minds waiting to happen.
He reaches down, holding his hand out to me. I hesitate a second, then take it. His grasp is firm as he pulls me to my feet, grabbing my elbow with his other hand to steady me. But he doesn’t need to. I had expected to feel something out of the ordinary, maybe strained muscles or bruised knees, but there’s none of that. My legs are only slightly wobbly. Even the pain in my head is subsiding.
Weird.
When he sees that I’m not going to topple over, Vinnie lets go of my hand. I give him a nod of thanks, then wipe my palms against my thighs. “So, what brand of Good Samaritan are you?”
He hooks his thumbs under his suspenders and pushes out his chest, like a proud father in front of a hospital nursery window. “I’m Vinnie. You see that over there?”
He points at a building on the other side of the road. It’s flamingo-pink, with palm trees flanking the front door and a big, empty parking lot. A huge neon sign on the roof flashes two different images: first a coffee cup with a pot poised over it, then the pot pouring into the cup. Cup empty, cup full. Cup empty, cup full. It keeps flashing and pouring as I take in the scene and random thoughts zip through my mind.
It’s like something from another era.
It’s the kind of place I’d like to take my Aunt Bobbie.
It wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
I look back at Vinnie. “What is that?”
His smile grows even bigger. “That’s my place.” With a sweep of his arm he says, “Welcome to Vinnie’s Diner.”
3
Vinnie’s Diner
What I’ve always loved most about Interstate 15 is all the bizarre roadside attractions.
There’s the Mad Greek, which looks like a truck stop but serves authentic Greek food. I stopped in there once. Enjoyed the stuffed mushrooms. Not so much the stuffed grape leaves.
At least half a dozen paint-peeling mini-billboards sport cartoonish drawings of cone-headed green men and point the way to a shop that claims to sell alien jerky—which has always made me wonder, are they saying the jerky would be enjoyed by aliens or that it’s made out of aliens? Is it a kind of extra-terrestrial Soylent Green? I never had the stomach to find out.
There’s even an abandoned water park sitting back from the road, the huge red slide faded a washed-out pink from years of inactivity under the intense de
sert sun. It’s always reminded me of the kind of place the Scooby-Doo gang would find themselves. Their van would break down, they’d go into the park and think it’s haunted, only to find out that some unscrupulous businessman is trying to steal the deed from a bunch of senior citizens. Of course, he’d be foiled in the end by those meddling kids . . . and their dog.
What all these spots have in common is that they’d be totally out of place in the middle of a highly populated area. Some are abandoned. Others just look that way. But out here, in the barren landscape of the desert, surrounded by scrub and sand, they fit right in.
But Vinnie’s Diner . . . well, that’s different. It doesn’t have the wind-battered, sand-blasted look of the other buildings. There are no chips in the paint, no cracks in the windows or missing neon from the sign. The parking lot, though empty, is well kept and ready for patrons. It looks like the kind of place that’s been around for a while and has been taken good care of.
Which is why my brain refuses to accept the existence of this diner. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve made this trip. I’ve driven this road more than once, and I don’t recall ever seeing that building before.
Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. I tend to zone out, especially on long drives. I must have gone right past it and never noticed. Sure, it’s possible. After all, I have a habit of letting important information slip by. A fact my mother’s shared with me more than once. It’s probably why I’m so good with trivia. Useless knowledge seems to stick with me.
Vinnie lopes ahead, and I have to jog to keep up with him. At the edge of the highway, I stop and carefully look both ways before crossing. It’s more out of habit than necessity, since my car is still the only vehicle on the road. Which is another odd thing. Even though it’s a weekday, there’s usually a lot more traffic.
“Wait a minute.” I stop at the edge of the road. “Have you seen Grimm?”
Vinnie turns around. “Excuse me?”
“Grimm. My dog.”
“Big black mutt? Not winning any beauty contests anytime soon?”
There are some dog owners who would be offended by that remark, but I can’t fault the guy for speaking the truth. “That’s him.”
“Yep, I saw him. He ran into the diner when I came out.” He turns around and resumes walking. “Follow me.”
Once we’re at the building, Vinnie opens the door and stands aside, ushering me in with an extended palm. Cool air rushes out to greet us and I lift my face to it, taking in big, greedy gulps.
He laughs and gives me a gentle push between the shoulder blades. “If you go have a seat I can shut the door and stop air conditioning the desert.”
Embarrassed, I take a step forward, far enough inside for him to enter the building and close the door behind us. But then I stop again. The place is full of people. Customers sit at tables, perch on counter stools, lean against the wall. One man chews on a toothpick as he talks to a circle of friends, then takes it out of his mouth and pokes it in the air to emphasize his words. A young waitress, her hair framing her face in tight, brown ringlets, is at the service window picking up more plates of food than it seems possible for one person to carry. On the kitchen side, a round-faced cook with huge, bushy sideburns offers her a lopsided grin.
“How did all these people get here?” The question sputters out of me as I turn back to Vinnie.
He shrugs. “Same way you got here, I suspect.”
He’s kidding, right? “They walked in here after rolling their cars in the middle of the road?”
Vinnie raises an eyebrow in amusement, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“Your parking lot is empty,” I continue. “These folks sure didn’t walk in off the street. So how did they get here?”
He twists his mouth and leans his head to the right. “That’s a good question. What do you think?”
Normally, I’m all about figuring out the answers to word puzzles and brain teasers. But this isn’t a normal day, so I’m less than excited about playing Twenty Questions. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I think going along with him is the smart thing to do. When it comes right down to it, I have no way of knowing if I can trust Vinnie. This isn’t the reaction you’d expect after someone saves your life, I know. But I’ve learned the hard way that people who do good deeds usually have an ulterior motive. Besides, this guy’s still a stranger to me. How do I really know what I’m dealing with? Sure, he looks harmless enough, but so did Ted Bundy until he let you see the real him. For all I know, he might be the type with a hair-trigger temper. It’s probably best not to do anything that could possibly antagonize him.
I consider his question and try to work out a plausible explanation for the crowd. There are no cars in the parking lot, but all these people had to get here somehow. Most of them have plates of food sitting on the tables in front of them, so it seems likely that they arrived as a group and placed their orders at the same time. And the diner is on the way to Las Vegas. So . . . “They were dropped off by a tour bus?”
Vinnie taps the tip of his nose twice with his index finger and then points at me. “That makes a lot of sense. The driver could have dropped them off to eat while he went to gas up the bus.”
Sure it does. Except that any exit with a gas station has at least one fast food place nearby, so why go out of the way to drop all these people off here, go get gas, and then come back? But bringing that up would probably just mean more questions, so I keep the idea to myself.
The familiar sound of panting followed by the clacking of toenails on tile draws my attention. Grimm saunters around the end of the counter, ears perked up as if he’s taking in the entire conversation. He’s my ugly, loveable mutt, but something isn’t right. He’s way too calm. Before the wreck, he’d been edgy and bristling. Now, he’s downright placid. And he’s much too clean. Shouldn’t he show some evidence of fleeing the site of an accident?
Vinnie moves behind the counter. “Sit.” He pats the open spot between two customers.
Grimm plops down on the floor as I hitch myself up on the red vinyl stool and rest my elbows on the counter. While Vinnie messes with something on his side, I let my gaze wander the diner, checking out the décor. It’s an amazing mix of entertainment memorabilia. Movie posters from just about every decade share wall space with black and white publicity photos and prop replicas. I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be the Maltese Falcon peering down at us from a shelf in the corner. Off to the left is a poster for the final episode of the Star Wars saga. I stop, squint, look again. Revenge of the Jedi. Wow. I’ve heard about those posters. George Lucas changed the title to Return of the Jedi because revenge is not a quality that’s associated with The Force, but not before a first run of posters had been printed. Most were pulled, but some with the original title survived. I’ve never seen one up close and personal before. I wonder if Vinnie has ever been tempted to sell it on eBay. Or maybe that’s where he got it. My eyes continue to sweep the walls. This place is paradise for a trivia buff like me.
Trivia. Shoot. The realization smacks me hard like a face palm. The trivia contest. If I don’t check in by five o’clock, they’ll disqualify me. I need to let someone know what happened and where I am. I reach for my cell phone, but it’s not there. Neither is my purse. Double shoot. They’re both still in the car.
“Vinnie, is there a phone here I can use?”
Instead of answering, he sets down a tall glass sporting the Coca-Cola emblem on the counter. “Here you go.”
I look at the drink I didn’t ask for. “Thanks, but I really need to make a call. You don’t understand how important–”
“I think you’ll agree that nothing clears the mind and revitalizes the spirit quite like a Vanilla Coke.”
A Vanilla Coke? The mention of what’s in the glass manages to ease my anxiety over making contact with the contest officials. He’s got a point. A few more minutes won’t hurt anything.
The first time I tasted a Vanilla Coke was when my Au
nt Bobbie took me on an old-fashioned Hollywood sightseeing trip for my tenth birthday. We saw everything: the hand and footprints in front of Grauman’s Chinese, the star-studded walk of fame (and the pan handlers who worked the crowd along the walk of fame), the Capital Records building, the Pantages Theatre, Hollywood and Vine. We’d ended up at an old-fashioned diner not far from Farmer’s Market. When the waiter came to take our drink order, my aunt spoke for both of us.
“We’ll have two Vanilla Cokes.” She promised me it would be the best thing I’d ever had to drink. And she hadn’t over-sold it.
After that, Vanilla Cokes were our special thing. Some of the nicest memories of my life include my aunt’s eccentric wit and an ice-filled, condensation-beaded glass like the one in front of me. My throat is so parched, and the memories are so strong, I let it slide that Vinnie still hasn’t told me where the phone is. I guess I can wait a few minutes to make that call. “Thank you.”
He pushes the glass closer to me. “So what’s your name, Miss?”
The fizzy liquid pricks pleasantly at my throat as I swallow. I take another drink and smack my lips before answering. “Allie.”
Vinnie nods gravely, as though I just gave him the correct answer to a very difficult question. “Nice to meet you, Allie.” The smile returns to his face, and he slaps a menu down in front of me. “In case you want to eat something.”
The waitress hustles around the back of the counter and stops next to Vinnie. Her uniform is nothing like his. While his unique, quirky outfit seems to complement his personality, her dull brown dress is completely at odds with her full-lipped smile and sparkling blue eyes. And it’s much too tight. The buttons up the front are straining, particularly where the dress pulls across her generous hips and chest.
“What’ll you have, honey?”
There’s something familiar about the tone of her voice. It’s rich and smooth, but breathy at the same time. I feel like I know her, but I can’t imagine where we would have met. She holds an order pad in one hand and a stubby pencil in the other, ready to scribble down my order. Absently, she reaches up and uses her pinky to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, revealing an enormous rhinestone drop earring. At least, I think they’re rhinestones. Nothing that large could be real.
Vinnie's Diner Page 2
