He carried something heavy slung over one shoulder. She was still closing when the object registered, made her feet stop.
A woman's body.
Her dark hair hung down like spikes, splaying out against the back of the driver's white dress shirt. One of her arms hung down, too. Almost bone-thin, with the hand frozen in an outstretched claw.
Whatever this was, it didn't look like an about-to-happen suicide.
She ducked behind an ironwood bush, reaching for the cell phone in her pocket. The campsite had some reception; she'd experimented the day before and found she could get a signal.
Enough to make a nine-one-one call.
When her breathing had slowed, she flipped the cell open. The screen lit and a high-pitched chime echoed into the silence, telling her a message was waiting.
And echoed.
The driver's head whipped around.
Christ. She'd forgotten the dead quiet surrounding this place. The cell's glow suddenly felt like a rescue flare, and she cupped the thing in her shaking hands. Bald Man's eyes raked the trail. Could he see her?
He shrugged the body off his shoulder. The way the woman slumped when she struck the ground, Shari knew she was dead. Or so unconscious she was in a coma. His hand went to the back of his slacks and came out with a gleaming piece of metal. He held it at waist level.
Snap, snap, snap.
She didn't realize they were shots. Not immediately. A bullet rattled an ironwood branch about a foot to her right and she found herself moving, plowing off the trail and into the scrub. Branches reached out, snagged. She was wearing shorts, and her bare legs brushed spines, rough bark, leaves. Instinctively, she headed toward the lot.
Something rustled the bushes not far behind. She could picture the bald man in pursuit, his gun, and the thought gave her a frantic burst of speed. She scrabbled up an incline, almost tripping over a cluster of roots. The lot's single sodium light winked up ahead. Maybe not so smart, making for a lit area. But all she could think was getting in her car and driving bat-out-of-hell fast.
She broke free of the scrub, her feet touching gravel. The BMW and her car waited twenty feet distant. She bolted, one hand already searching through her pocket for keys, and a concrete waste-bin nearby spanged as a bullet struck it, ricocheted off into brush.
She dropped. Crawled behind a picnic table, expecting the next shot to pick her off. But the shot didn't come. She watched in quiet horror as the creosote along the lot's edge parted. The bald man came limping out. He winced with each step, a half-dozen pads of cholla cactus stuck to his left leg. Despite the obvious pain, his eyes blazed like headlamps over the lot.
In a moment, he'd spot her.
She must've dropped the phone, because her hands were empty. A fist-sized rock lay close by. She curled her fingers around it, taking comfort from the smoothness.
Light filled the lot as Carl's Toyota pulled up.
* * *
The bald man didn't hesitate. Blinking against the sudden glare, he raised his pistol to put four shots into the truck's cab. Glass starred, but the windshield didn't collapse. Still moving, the Toyota made a drunken swerve to the right. It struck a young mesquite tree and bent the trunk double before coming to a stop.
Shari heard groans over the engine's rumble.
The headlights were no longer in the bald man's face. He sighted down his pistol, taking aim at the Carl-shaped outline slumped against the dashboard.
Shari leapt up. The rock left her hand before she was aware of hurling it. Something funny about the slow way it moved, flipping end over end like the surrounding air had gone viscous, and then she realized everything was moving slow. The rock arced downward and bounced off the bald man's chest. Not the impact she was hoping for. He turned his attention from Carl's truck to her, and the gun followed. She saw the barrel come floating up.
Blam.
The bald man jerked. A hole had appeared mid-thigh, on the leg that wasn't bristling with cactus. He doubled, looked back over to the truck where Carl was leaning out the driver's side window, both hands shaking and wrapped around a fat revolver.
Blam.
The second shot missed, or seemed to, but Bald Man was already moving, loping toward the BMW on his savaged legs. He tore the door open and got the engine turned over seconds later. The car made a skidding reverse, swerved, and shot out onto the highway.
Time, Shari noticed, had snapped back to normal speed.
She raced over to Carl's truck. Half his body sagged out the window. The revolver dangled from his left hand, his finger curled through the trigger guard. He looked up at her, head lolling. Coughed.
"I came back to app—apologize," he said.
* * *
She had a dim recollection: driving the bullet-riddled Toyota, squinting around cracks in the windshield as she flew over dark roads. Carl, hunched in the seat next to her. His chest making whistling sounds every time he breathed.
She'd been too afraid to move him to her own car.
* * *
The ER physician, the one who first examined Carl, had offered her Valium after treating the cuts to her legs and ankles. She was able to doze, despite the waiting room's harsh fluorescents.
"Shari?"
Someone touched her shoulder. She slapped the hand away, eyes snapping open to find the room changed. Sunlight streamed in through windows she swore had been black moments before.
Dr. Mott stood in front of her.
"They called me. Is it alright if I sit?"
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon."
He looked bleary-eyed, nervous. Not his usual self. He hunkered down on the chair next to her and propped his elbows on his knees. "I just spoke with medical staff. A bullet punctured Carl's lung, but he's stable. Very lucky, you getting him to help so fast."
"Yeah."
"You talk to the police yet?"
She remembered a female officer, writing things down on a legal pad. That had been hours ago.
"I think so."
"It was on the news this morning. The gunman—" He licked his lips. "Highway patrol found his car, about fifty miles from the campsite. He'd died in there, Shari. Bled out through a wound in his thigh."
Good, she thought.
"There's speculation he was a drug dealer, and the woman you saw his client. Police think she overdosed and he took her to Burning Rock to make it look like a suicide."
It made sense. As much as anything did, right now.
Mott tried out a smile. "You're going to be a stronger person for all this, Shari. I know you had some concerns about your safety, and in retrospect the project might seem like it was a bad idea, a really bad one, but—"
"You're afraid I'll sue," she said.
"Because my career, right now? It'd be a blow. And the university? I'd like to think you had more loyalty than that, personally."
She had to turn away. In the hospital parking lot, cars moved like predators and people darted for the curb, hurrying to safety.
†
Snowflake
When the stripper came in and sat four booths down Dwayne took it as an omen. He'd watched her perform at Silver Cage just before midnight. She hadn't tried to swab the pole with her pudenda or anything like that. Classy.
The phone was next to his short-stack of cinnamon and chocolate chip pancakes. He tweeted: MAKIN' MY MOVE ON THE NEXT MRS. DWAYNE DAWSON. DEETS TO FOLLOW. Then he gathered up the pancakes, the cherry-stuffed French toast with whipped cream, his cup of emaciated coffee, the phone, and waddled down the aisle.
"You look like you could use some company."
She gave him only a brief glance. Exhaled. He set the plates down and slid across from her. "Name's Dwayne," he said, extending his hand.
"Do I know you?"
"No, but I know you." What was her stage name? Chastity? Something like that. She had dark hair crimped in frizzy curls. Olive complexion. "Really enjoyed your routine."
His hand hovered, untouched.
She looked down at her menu. He drew back and tweeted: OPENING MOVE. REBUFFED. THE DAWSINATOR IS NOT DETERRED.
"My boyfriend's meeting me here," she said.
"Uh-huh. Can I get you something? The strawberry crepes kick ass."
The stripper looked like she was about to cry.
* * *
Dwayne had never had, in his own estimation, a really good sexual experience. One he'd be proud to tweet about, say.
He'd been with the same girl for three years. A cat-hoarder, like the ones on TV. Only all her cats had chronic medical conditions. Feline leukemia, arthritis, diabetes, viral encephalopathy—she rescued the sickies. About two dozen in her one bedroom apartment. Every time he came over they'd be surrounded by these shaking, sore-covered creatures, and every fifteen minutes she'd have to get up and give Tabby a shot, or Chester a pill.
Then there was the sex part.
Mostly she just let him go down on her. Which would've been okay, but with all the cat hair and wet cat food smells in the cramped apartment she sometimes … tasted funny.
Kind of a turn-off.
* * *
The stripper, who said her name was Lisa, let him buy her an overstuffed omelet with steak and hash browns inside. He watched her breasts as she ate.
STRICTLY B-CUP. NO SILICON. WEARING BLACK SPANDEX. ME LIKES.
"You're on that thing a lot." She pointed her fork at the phone.
"God yes. I'm a social media specialist. Twitter, Facebook, that sort of thing."
She snorted. "Sounds like a man's life."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing."
She had about half the omelet to go, plus her fruit assortment was untouched. Dwayne weighed the risks of reaching across the table. "You know, some representation on the net could really boost your career. I'd help you. We could build a fan-base, post regular tweets about upcoming gigs—"
"Lisa."
A shadow fell across the booth. Dwayne looked up at an older man, dark-complexioned, wearing a blazer and a lot of gold jewelry. He curled his mouth at Dwayne.
"Time to go, Lisa."
She stared at her hands.
Dwayne tweeted: UH-OH. PSYCHO-PIMP OR BOYFRIEND'S SHOWED UP. NOT SURE WHICH.
"The car's waiting outside. Let's be civil about this, okay?" The man reached over and grabbed her wrist. She rose, unresisting. Let the guy drag her down the aisle like she was sleep-walking.
Dwayne watched her rounded ass recede. Then he glanced across the table at the steak-and-hash-browns omelet.
DECISIONS, he tweeted.
* * *
The IHOP sign cast a white glow against Arizona night. Dwayne cleared the doors in time to see the guy stuffing Lisa into a Buick Regal with tinted windows. None of this was his business, but he could've sworn she was warming to him. He huffed across the lot.
"Hold it. Hold on, there."
The older guy settled his hands on his hips. "What do you want?"
"She's not property. You can't just grab people against their will."
Lisa stuck her head out of the backseat. "Go away, Dwayne."
"You heard her." The older guy turned around, unlocked the driver's side door.
Maybe it was too much coffee. A sugar high from all those pancakes. Dwayne watched in horror as his own right foot lashed out and kicked the back of the man's knee. Not much force, but accurate. The guy slumped over the Buick's hood. Still standing, he managed to turn and draw back the hem of his blazer. White light gleamed off an automatic, jammed above his belt.
Dwayne froze.
"I thought there might be trouble," the man said.
The Buick's rear passenger door opened. Out poured a blonde woman fatter than Dwayne, squeezed into a floral print dress. Her hair was lacquered up in a bun. She wore a crucifix studded with giant rhinestones. Dwayne felt himself backing away.
Not fast enough: she slapped him. Multiple rings slashed his cheek, tore his skin. Her knee found his crotch. Dwayne dropped to the pavement.
"Pervert." The woman spat. "I'm sure you got your sick pleasure, ogling my daughter."
Daughter?
The older man limped into the front seat, slammed the door. Dwayne caught the words "church" and "last time" over the Buick's engine.
He clawed the phone from his pocket and started to tweet. ASSAULTED. FEELING SICK—
The heel of the fat lady's size ten pumps came crashing down, impaling the small screen.
Dwayne groaned.
He watched the Buick drive away. Then he reached for his spare phone so he could take a picture of his face.
†
The Greatest Generation
I wake in time to flip off the sunrise.
Vonda's asleep next to me on the van's floor. She's got the whole of our mutual blanket wrapped around her, but because I've woken dope-sick and hungry I decide to let it go. A man has to choose his battles.
First battle of the day: find some dope.
This is how bad I've gotten. I know there isn't any in the van because I've checked from one rust-spotted corner to the other, several times. The way only a junkie can check. And still, I crawl over to the pile of stolen crap we've got heaped against the back doors.
Vonda stirs as I'm rummaging. "You at it again?"
"Shut up."
"I think I saw some Xanax back there, a couple days ago."
I push aside a folded-up wheelchair and a box of Hummel figurines. The only pills I find are Lipitor, heart medications, and some high-fiber laxatives. No pain-killers. And no Xanax, either, because I'd already taken that.
"I'm going out," I tell her, and slide open the side door.
We've parked at a rest stop a couple hundred feet up in some hills. Vonda's idea of a "vacation." I walk across the empty lot to a concrete picnic table overlooking the ravine below. The drop's steep enough that if someone leapt off, he'd either snap his neck or impale himself on one of the cottonwood trees at the bottom.
I'm considering that option when the rumble of an engine breaks my thoughts.
The largest RV I've ever seen in my life comes chugging into the lot.
* * *
To understand my feelings at this moment, you'd have to understand the line of work Vonda and I've settled into. We rip off old people. Specifically, we pose as home health care workers and steal everything we can. It's a growth industry.
Sound awful? Here's how I rationalize it: those fuckers got the best of everything. Came up in the Forties and Fifties, before this country took a nose-dive. Smoked, drank, guzzled gas and generally didn't give a shit about the future, because they knew they could rely on the next generation having to wipe their collective ass.
Me, what am I going to get? There isn't going to be any Social Security by the time I nuzzle up to the trough. The whole planet will be eco-fucked, anyway. Soylent Green is looking like a best-case scenario. So if I want something from a senior citizen, yeah, I take it. They're vampires. They've already taken everything.
And right now, watching that huge RV rumble closer, I'm feeling like Captain Kid or Bluebeard, or some other famous pirate fuck, watching a Spanish galleon heavy with gold.
* * *
I race for the van, throw open the side-door and vault inside, hoping whoever's driving didn't see me. Vonda's up, the blanket falling from her three-thousand dollar tits. Which aren't that great, you see them out in the open.
"What's going on?" she says.
I peel some foil from a window. "Look."
She peers out. Speechless, for once.
Back in high school I had to read this book—George and Lennie, I think it was called. It's about two guys living on the road. One's big and dumb and the other smart, and the smart guy strings the dumb one along. That's the relationship Vonda and I have. She's not big, but she's pretty goddamn dim. I keep her going with these fantasies I come up with. Fantasy Number One is that we somehow get our hands on a luxury RV and cruise the whole U.S. before the country runs out of gas.
In the book, Lennie fantasizes about living on a farm with rabbits. I just can't get behind that.
"Where's your tube top?" I ask.
She goes digging through a pile of clothes. I find my yellow golf shirt—it's got a salsa stain on the front, but what the hell—and slip into that, plus khaki shorts and a respectable pair of shoes. I remove the studs from my lips and tongue.
A glance shows the RV pulling in three spaces down. I can see the driver through the front window's tinting. An old dude, wearing a striped shirt and oversized sunglasses.
* * *
The RV casts a long shadow over the van.
I swear it's fifteen feet tall. A Sky Streamer with beige siding and a satellite dish cocked on top. The old guy's already come out. He's kneeling by the driver's side front tire, his back to me.
I hobble toward him. My crutches make skritch-skritch noises on the pavement, but he doesn't turn.
You need a sympathy angle with old people, because they're so fucking suspicious. Hence the crutches. Vonda and I used to use dogs for the same purpose. We had this little Chihuahua named Taco Bella who'd yip and make eyes and the next thing you know people were inviting us into their homes. But she'd also shit all over the van, so after a while it was adios Bella.
Vonda and I had even talked about having a baby. Trust me, nothing drops an old person's guard like a baby. Vonda nixed it, though, on account that pregnancy would ruin her three-thousand dollar tits.
I get within spitting distance of the guy and clear my throat. He gives me a sort of peripheral glance, like maybe I'll go away if he concentrates hard enough on that tire. When I don't, he slides the pressure gauge into his shirt pocket and stands up. Unlike most seniors we contend with, he's in pretty good shape. Wiry, with thick white hair that comes all the way down to his eyebrows in a 'V.'
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