Look about to gather my things and here I see the laundry what was in the machine when I left for the hospital, all dried and folded neat on the bed.
“Stinky Joe?”
Here I am, Master.
“I like it. Hey, who brought the laundry in?”
A blonde woman. Strawberry.
“Cleanin’ lady?”
She didn’t clean. She brought in clothes.
“Mmm.”
Glock on the desk aside me I drop my expropriated acid wash denim and smelly ass polo shirt. Grab a fresh set of socks and sit on the bed’s edge in the raw, lift the right foot and give it a little help to the knee with my left hand. Wonder how I’ll do the right with the arm in a cast.
I’ll confess a flash of hate toward the black booted bastard busted my arm on account I busted his face while he was tryin’ to rob and kill me both. One more thug someone decent shoulda put down long ago.
Lotta people like that.
Why don’t the locals put down their shitheads? Oh, hell no. Leave it to the itinerant mass murderer.
You’re rambling.
“Just a little torqued is all.”
Sock half on the foot I whiff the armpit, accidental.
“Ah, hell.”
Masterdog need a bath.
Snort. “Yeah. How the hell’m I gonna do that?”
I can’t see Mags, me stinkin’ like a gut wagon.
Arm cast locks the elbow at ninety degree. Don’t want water down in under the plaster so I guess that arm goes high the whole time. That bein’ the case, left arm’s the only one workin’… how’s a feller get the left pit?
Fold the left arm and the hand’ll fit the pit. Son of a gun. I’da never thought.
Already nekkid I get the water adjusted hot ’nough to peel a tomato then cool it a degree, as I ain’t cannin’ Baer. Ma said a shower oughta hurt. I climb in and slip where someone use oil for bath wash. Scrub what I can.
Thud.
Look about. Pull the curtain a foot and poke the head.
Listen.
Nothin’.
“Joe?”
He nose open the door.
“That you?”
Head shake. Outside.
Think on it.
Glock’s out there in the room and I’m in here balls swingin’ like the last time I got my ass beat. That didn’t give the results I wanted. Now I’m in the shower slicked up with body lotion, one arm ain’t workin’ and the brain’s muddled on pain or killers or stupidity, one.
Both.
Yank the curtain all the way and careful of the oil slick on the bathtub floor, I climb out drippin’. Peek out the bathroom and Stinky Joe’s hopped on the bed and curled ’tween two pillows. Leave water footprints on the tile and carpet to the dresser, grab Glock and though I recollect the status, check the chamber for brass.
Maybe that noise was someone poppin’ an Eldorado trunk?
Open the door and a small gust whooshes the curtains. Feel it on the belly. Though I don’t need to step outside to verify the Eldorado’s parked unmolested, goin’ from hot shower to icy outside predawn cold, every hair I got tingles tight and stands on end. First time in sixteen hours I got clarity.
I need to see Mags ’bout a feeling I got, maybe completely bass-ackwards what she intended. Grab a poke if she’ll let me and come back for the girls.
First one thing…
Back inside I shut the door. Fish my wallet from my pants and out the bottom unfold a paper with a number. Press digits in the phone next the bed and wait. No answer. Voicemail.
“Pick up your fuckin’ phone.”
Dial again. Rings.
“Yeah?”
“That you?”
“Uh.”
“Uh-huh. It’s you. Listen. You runnin’ for governor?”
“What? Who — ”
“Girls is in trouble and I’m half busted up too. ’Less you’re shootin’ for the mansion get your ass up to Glenwood Springs.”
“Ba — … — shit. What time is it?”
“Get yourself waked up?”
“Alden? That you?”
“Indeed.”
“What kind of trouble are they in now?”
“Best we let that wait for the face to face.”
“It’s your… Alden.”
“What?”
“I’m talking to Mae.”
“She there beside you?”
“Yeah, right here.”
“Nathan… Ain’t you in bed?”
“I married her. I told you that. I asked your permission.”
“Oh, shit. Right. Like I say, they bust me up good too. An’ I suspect the hospital fed me some drugs.”
“You said Glenwood Springs? Colorado?”
“That’s right.”
“Full day’s drive. But I can’t do it for two days.”
“What you got goin’ on?”
“None of your business.”
“Fair ’nuff. You be here in two days.”
“No, it’s a full day’s drive. Three days.”
“Fine, if that’s your best.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“Find a motel called the Lodge on 82. Look for the gold Eldorado.”
“The Cadillac? That Eldorado?”
“No, the fuckin’ Toyota Eldorado. Who the hell makes an Eldorado but Cadillac?”
“Easy, Grandpa. See you in two days.”
“Good. Fuckin’ cradle robber. One more thing. Bring ropes like we’s going climbing. Oh, and I’d be thrilled beyond my limited capacity for speech if you was to connive a way to bring me a 44 Smith ‘n Wesson.”
“Forty-four? You been lifting weights? Or you want a sling and tripod too?”
“Eat shit.”
“Fuck you.”
“All right. Good?”
“Yeah. Good hearing your voice. I’ll be there in three days.”
“All right, Nat, all right. I appreciate you.”
“I appreciate your daughter.”
He grunts a laugh and a girl giggle come with it. I never hitched a woman legal with a ring, but I expect it’s good to keep the sinful spirit in the fornication, so bein’ married don’t turn it into a plain old screw.
Now I’m cold and the soap I left on the skin’s half dry. Shower’s still spillin’ steam out the door. I climb back in the tub, rinse what’s been washed and figure the rest got wet too. Blow the nose. Chirp a weak fart like the gunpowder got wet and towel off learnin’ each step new, now I only got one workin’ arm.
Earlier I was thinkin’ I’d shoot Frankie Black Boots Lloyd, but longer I deal with this arm I want to find a way to beat him to death instead.
Towel off best I can and since they’s fresh clothes folded on the bed I don ’em and take special care not to upset the busted arm. Joe’s eyeballs track every motion.
You leaving me here again?
“Nope. Now on, you come everywhere I go.”
Yeah. Sure.
“I mean it.”
This road trip has something to do with the cast on your arm and the bandage on your head?
"Directly in a roundabout way."
Don’t have a hanger for the suit so I fold it loose. Gather what little items is about, a toothpick I been usin’ since Albuquerque and a little piece of knotted juniper look like a horse head I found off the road takin’ a leak way back outside Flagstaff. Coins, gold and fiat. Leatherman tool. Glock. Wallet. Do a final look about and take what’s gathered to the Eldorado. Get Joe in the car and drivin’ to the office to leave the key, learnin’ how to drive with a useless right arm and the shifter on the right, I commit once more to killin’ Frank Lloyd with as much cruelty as is meet and good.
Under the awning I fish a map out the glove box and seems no matter which route I take to Chicago, I go through Denver first. I’ll figger the route from there. Mostly I want away from the motel and away from Glenwood Springs. From the map it looks a good thousand mile plus the zig zags, call it
another hundred. Eleven hundred mile at a hundred mile an hour is eleven hour. Half that speed is twenty-two hour. Add half that speed back, figure seventy-five mile an hour, pissin’ in a bottle and that adds half the time agin. Fifteen hours, plus stops to dump the bottle, as I don’t want any extra yellow on the gold paint.
Four AM plus fifteen is nineteen PM on the twenty-four-hour clock or seven PM for us regular folk.
Looks like I’ll need a motel agin afore I see Mags.
I showered for nothin’.
82 to the Interstate and I’m outta Glenwood Springs in five minute. No lights behind me ’til I’m five mile up the hill.
One thing I learned in all my hooliganism, as the mighty Clint Eastwood said, even the feller with no limitations oughta mind ’em. I try. Lord I try.
Joe seems all he wants is shut eye and for me it's the opposite. Keep thinkin’ if I close my eyes with a concussion behind ’em, who knows if I don't pry ’em back open. Save the mortician some glue, I suppose. But I'm reluctant to blink, reluctant to lean the head agin the rest and I damn sure don't want to find a rest stop and kick off the boots.
So, I stew on what I think I know that don't add up and time I exit for Chicago I got a suspicion the situation in Glenwood Springs with Corazon ain't what I thought at all.
Not a damn bit. But I don’t know why.
Chapter Nineteen
The door’s open but afore I arrive at the corner to look in and announce myself, part of me says it’s time to head back the car, tell Stinky Joe the whole thing was a rotten ass stupid idea on my part and skedaddle back to Colorado.
They must be four billion ladyfolk in the world and I don’t give a shit what any of ’em thinks. But this gal up here in Chicago — where the whole city make the point to tell you fuck off, go home, don’t come here — got me so tangled I don’t know what to say. On account my promise to Stinky Joe I got no likker to help ease into the situation and now I’m outside her door I realize how stupid my line is.
I come back for my coffee.
What kind of lame ass…
Well, I only got two lines and don’t got the balls to risk askin’ if she’d like to grab a pizza and screw. I’m tired of standing here like a fifteen-year-old boy dreamin’ outside the girl’s locker room, so here goes…
Step.
Phone rings.
“This is Maggie… yes… no… my office hours are almost over for today, so why don’t we discuss the matter tomorrow at two? Good. M-kay. Thanks. Uh-huh. That will be fine. M-kay. Bye.”
Now I really want to skip out back to Colorado. She says m-kay.
“How long are you going to stand out there?”
Shit.
“Uh.” Try to recall my line — either — but she shook ’em both loose. Step into the doorway in my suit and rattlesnake boots. Got the bolo cinched up respectable. Suit jacket don’t fit right on account my folded arm slung in under. Maybe fetch a little sympathy.
“Wow,” Mags says.
“Thank you.”
“You clean up.”
“Ain’t you supposed to say nice?”
“You clean up nice.”
And now I see you got a rack like the Fourth of July…
Boom.
“You look sweller’n all heck.”
She leans back in her chair and crisscrosses her fingers three dozen times afore throwin’ her arms over her head and stretchin’ her back.
And if that ain’t a classic look-at-the-goods invitation…
“I’m stunned,” Mags says. “You know, I really felt like we had a connection and I thought it might happen this way, you know? I knew you would find me.”
She drops her arms, fluffs her blouse and after she catch me studyin’ I know the right move is give her a deep look in the eyes, make her squirm. But I can’t help lookin’ at her desk fulla papers instead. A wall of books and folders is ’tween me and her. I sit I won’t see them ta-tas but she don’t look too unhappy I’m here so mebbe I’ll set aside the finer survey work for later.
Mags flick her hand toward the chair. “Close the door, first. Or leave a crack. This is a college campus.”
I don’t get the reference but I swing the door touchin’ and sit.
“Your arm! What happened?”
She just now notice. That’s real good. No way in royal Scots hell I’m about to start off on the wrong foot with a lie.
“Well these two girls, you see — ”
She hold up her hands. “Okay. Too much information.”
“No, it was innocent. They didn’t do anything. It was the feller with the ball bat come after.”
“A man beat you with a baseball bat?”
Shrug. Grin. Maybe I’ll buy Frank Lloyd a beer afore I beat him to death.
“Wasn’t much to see. I was there in the bath towel on account I was washing all my other clothes — ”
Mags is shaking her head now. Smiling too hard for ordinary life to get in. I seen women in similar states erupt into giggles, tears, even a little cluster fart.
“So, I’m there nekkid — ”
“Okay.” Hands up. “Okay. Enough context. I understand the broken arm.” She smiles. Looks down at a paper and lifts a pair of glasses I didn’t know she needed and plants ’em on her nose. “He didn’t break anything else did he?”
“No, hell no. Everything else is solid. Rock solid.”
“Good.”
I stand. Point to the picture on her shelf with the knickknacks.
“What?”
“What the hell? That’s Günter Stroh.”
Her face don’t move but her brow looks half past curious — on the way to I don’t know what.
“I spent a year with that fella. What? How you get that picture?”
Don’t feel the juice nor see the red but the spooky feelin’ rise up quick about me. Got to reassess. Open the door and look both ways down the hall. Ain’t practiced pullin’ Glock from my back left-handed but I reach — and stop. No one in the hallway.
“What’s going on? Baer?”
“This don’t make sense. How you mixed up in this? Show me your hands.”
Her eyeballs is round. She place both hands on the desktop, palms up and empty.
“What is this? What’s goin’ on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know how you know my grandfather. But until we sort it all out, let me remind you that we already agreed this reality isn’t the highest order and it’s entirely likely your being here was orchestrated at a level so far beyond our capacity to imagine we’ll only drive ourselves mad trying to understand.”
“You said a mouthful.”
“Baer, I’m not the bad guy, or with the bad guy. You came to see me, remember? And I’m so happy you did! Close the door and remove your firearm if it will make you more comfortable to have it accessible while we talk.”
Dunno about all this. Woman’s too damn smart, what with how a man get confused just lookin’ at her. Hips like that wasn’t built for carryin’ stones. That’s a jewel box. An’ take a gander at them bodacious —
“Baer?”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t understand much any of this but it’s like you say. I got this feelin’ I need to see you and I don’t know why.”
“Not even a guess?”
“Well, no. I didn’t even know your uh… purtyness… afore coming here.”
More blush work.
“No offense, accourse.”
“None taken.”
“You want to get some coffee? Or maybe let’s grab a pizza and screw…”
Lotta people inside. We’re on the coffee house sidewalk, all the street people in they suits swarm by on the hour and the half hour. I had more coffee the last sixty minute than the previous million five.
“Baer, a man like you — any man, any person — he builds a life. He works and studies. He grows his wealth and his possessions and even a family. When he’s old he thinks all of these things he built, the as
sociations between them, the networks, the bank accounts — he identifies with all these inanimate things. He believes they are him. How could it be otherwise? That’s where his thought-world has been. But history isn’t identity. Those things aren’t him. They’re not his essence. His cells will disappear and the energy that animates them will fizzle back to empty vibrations in space.”
Mags is excited. Leans in.
“Exactly right,” says I. “Yup.”
One more button, I’d see somethin’ purty.
“Except it isn’t empty because somewhere else out there is the real man.”
“Real man. M-hmm.”
“The real man isn’t the image on the wall. The real man is like a slide in an old-fashioned projector. The real man is where the true identity resides. He’s in the nonlocal.”
“He ain’t a union man.”
She smiles pretty. “Are you following me?”
“Anywhere.”
Rolls her eyes.
“You’re saying the real me ain’t in my brain. It’s out there somewhere.”
“That’s right. Here’s what you need to understand, Baer. Us — our bodies, this table, your coffee — are images on the wall. They are projections. Your thoughts and soul and all that matters about you, that all comes from somewhere else. The real you, the deeper you, projects it in.”
“Sounds pretty neat.”
“You see, the problem with materialism is that nothing real is material.”
Things she’s saying… back of my head I feel I known ’em all my life.
“Our neural pathways are inherited. We aren’t responsible for our birthplace, sex, religion, economic status, or anything like that at all. Our minds are learning computers — but we aren’t responsible for the program our brains are running when we’re born. Those programs run along neural pathways created by the thought lives of prior generations. Next, you’re not responsible for the experiences you have as a child, that inform your brain and rewrite the neural pathways in your brain. Last, we’re born into an unobligated world that cares not whether we live or die. Nature is harsh and the people who are around us are just as confused. Everyone is prone to lash out. To lie, cheat, steal — and most of the time, they do it in a manner so subtle you won’t even realize it when it happens.
The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6) Page 13
