by Rob Ashman
And what fucking type is that exactly? she wanted to scream in his face. But she scooped a forkful of pork into her mouth instead.
He continued. ‘No, you were never the marrying kind and I could never see you with kids.’
That might have something to do with you fucking robbing me of my childhood and making me into a psycho bitch who kills for kicks. The words stayed in her head as she rammed in another forkful. If this had been a cowboy movie, tumbleweed would be blowing through the restaurant. The awkwardness was thicker than the gravy.
‘How long you planning to stay in town?’ he asked.
‘A couple of days maybe. I thought we could do stuff together, if that’s okay.’
‘You picking up the tab for lunch?’
‘Er, yes, sure.’
‘Then it’s okay with me – you keep paying the checks and you can stay as long as you want.’
He piled food into his face and waved his glass at the waitress for more water.
Mechanic looked at the prematurely dying man opposite and the memories of what made him a monster came crashing back.
The meal ended with no more conversation. Mechanic paid the check while he collected the takeaway boxes, and they left.
‘I got things to do this afternoon,’ Stewart Sells said as they strolled out into the bright sunlight.
‘Okay, I need to find a place to stay, so can I see you later? We could have dinner.’
‘You paying?’
‘Yes, I suppose—’
‘Then come by after six.’
‘Which bungalow is yours, I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘See you at six.’
She reached out her hand, but all she touched was empty space as he turned and walked away.
Mechanic wasn’t sure what she’d find in Prescott, but this didn’t feel like a reconciliation, it felt more like a rekindling of abuse.
25
Mechanic arrived at the red-brick village a little before six o’clock. Her heart was banging in her chest at the prospect of another meeting with her father but she was determined to make things right between them.
The night guard buzzed her through the front gate and she waited in reception. Her watch ticked past the hour and there was no sign of him.
‘My dad said he’d meet me here at six,’ she said to the man in the security uniform. ‘I’m thinking he might have got confused with the time. His name is Stewart Sells, can you tell me where he lives?’
‘No, ma’am, we can’t divulge tenant information, I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait here.’
Mechanic shook her head, but arguing would be a waste of time.
The minutes ticked by.
At 6.17pm the security guy slipped on his jacket and ambled out the back of reception to do his rounds. Mechanic saw her chance and headed off into the network of single-storey homes.
She wandered the paved walkways looking for something she recognised. One of the men she had seen at the card game came out of his house.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m here to meet Stewart Sells but I’ve lost the slip of paper he gave me with his address. Do you know where he lives?’
The old man stopped at the top of his path.
‘Sure, honey, I saw you earlier, you’re his daughter, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right, I saw you too. Quite a card school you have going there.’
The old guy laughed and his chest rattled.
‘He’s at Simpson Place, number twelve.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not sure he’s in though, haven’t seen him since this morning.’
‘Where does he go when he’s not at home?’
‘How would I know?’ he said, his tone changing to one that said ‘enough questions already’.
Mechanic thanked the old guy and set off to find Simpson Place.
She didn’t have to go far, and he was right, there was no one at home. Mechanic peered through the living room window, the place was empty and the TV was off.
She retraced her steps back to reception and headed out the gates. After thirty minutes of walking the streets, she found her father. He was keeping a bar stool warm in a fleapit of a liquor joint. The bar was long and narrow, and decked out in dark wood panelling with a thirteen-inch portable television hanging from one wall. It stank of spilled beer and bad breath, and the blades of the ceiling fan did nothing but ensure the stale odours were evenly swirled around the room. A line of crumpled figures sat at the bar either staring into their glass or squinting at the flickering images on the screen. A crew of drinkers were crammed in behind them, propping themselves up with one hand against the bar and a drink in the other. This was not the place to come for a round-table discussion.
Mechanic pulled up a stool next to her father.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Who? How did you …’ He slurred his words and his breath could have taken the paint off a door.
‘I came at six, but you weren’t at home.’
‘Jo, it’s fantastic to see you.’
‘No, Dad, it’s Jess. We were going to meet and have dinner together.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right. You’re Jess, aren’t you?’ He took an exaggerated sway to the right and bumped his shoulder into hers. Mechanic flinched from the contact, it felt like being hit by a plastic bag full of coat hangers.
‘What time ish it now?’
‘It’s nearly seven o’clock.’
‘No, is it?’ He pulled up the sleeve on his left arm and checked the time on his non-existent watch. His yellowing parchment skin was tissue thin.
‘Don’t you want to eat? You need food.’
‘How did you find me? Who told you I was here? The bastards are not supposed to say I’m here. Who was it?’
‘No one told me.’
‘Then how did you know?’
‘Two things, it’s obvious you drink and it’s also obvious you can’t walk far, so it had to be somewhere close to home.’
‘I don’t drink. I’m on medication.’
‘Okay, whatever you say. Do you want to go for something to eat?’
‘Not hungry.’ He motioned to the barman and another drink arrived in a chipped, stubby glass. He flipped his thumb in her direction. ‘She’s paying.’
Mechanic nodded and ordered another whisky with ice.
‘Where is Jo?’ her father asked, draining his glass and rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know, Dad. I told you, I’ve lost touch.’ The whisky arrived in a replica glass, minus the chips. Special treatment for new visitors no doubt.
‘I liked Jo, she was always good to me.’
‘Yes, I liked her too, Dad.’
‘She had class. She was always the one who would go far. She was the one who had something about her.’ Mechanic could feel her stomach sink. She sipped her drink, she was going to need it. Her father continued. ‘You know, when your mother left me for that douche bag, Jo was the one who kept me going, Jo was the one who got me through it.’
Mechanic’s fingers turned white as they tightened around the glass.
‘Yes, Dad, Jo is a great person to be around. Now let’s go get some food.’
‘She always made me proud.’ He waved his hand and the barman poured dark liquid the consistency of sump oil into another chipped glass. ‘She had the looks, she had the brains, she was the full package.’
He jabbed his thumb in Mechanic’s direction. The universal sign for ‘this one’s paying’.
‘Yes, okay, Dad, I get it. So can we go out for dinner as planned?’
‘It’s my one big regret that I lost touch with her. She would have looked after me. She would have made sure I was alright.’
Mechanic knocked back the liquor, the ice cold against her lips.
‘You’re drinking yourself to death, Dad. I’m not sure Jo would be able to help.’
‘What do you know? I have medication every day and that keeps things in balance. I can ha
ve a few drinks because the meds counteract the booze.’
‘If you want to stay alive, you have to stop drinking.’
‘Don’t talk stupid and anyway who the fuck are you to talk?’ The low murmuring voices around them went silent.
‘I’m your daughter and I care about you.’
Stewart Sells dropped his head forward and, with his chin resting on his chest, he gazed into his drink.
‘You want to know something?’
‘What?’
He lifted his head and leaned in close.
‘You were a good fuck when you were younger but no man in his right mind would touch you now.’
The glass shattered in her hand.
‘Shit!’ Mechanic jumped back as shards cut into her flesh.
The bartender scuttled over with a handful of towels. He swept the pieces of glass from the bar and threw a filthy towel to Mechanic.
‘If you want trouble, go somewhere else,’ he said.
Mechanic wrapped her hand in the cloth. How about I vault this bar and shove your head up your ass? She kept her mouth closed.
‘I’m sorry, it was an accident. There’s no trouble here.’
Her father carried on as if nothing had happened.
‘I mean, look at you.’ Stewart Sells was poking his finger into her shoulder. ‘No wonder you’re not married, talk about damaged goods. You were only good for one thing back then and I doubt you can do that now.’
Mechanic balled her bloodied hand in the towel.
‘Now Jo on the other hand, she was class. While you, you were nothing but a fuck bag.’
He sank what remained of his drink and motioned to the bartender, who shook his head as he polished glasses with a stinking rag.
‘No more,’ he said.
Stewart Sells grunted and slid from the stool. He steadied himself on Mechanic’s arm and staggered through the guys at the bar towards the exit.
‘The bitch is paying,’ he said over his shoulder.
Tears fell onto the cracked veneer as Mechanic stared at the blood seeping through the towel. The barman tore a slip of paper from the till, stuffed it in a glass and slid it along the counter top. It came to rest in front of her.
She hadn’t bargained on paying such a high price for the trip, and the cost had nothing to do with the ten bucks she left under the glass.
26
The needle on the speedometer hugged fifty-five as Lucas drove along the I-8 East away from San Diego. He was heading for Bonds Corner, a small unincorporated community in Imperial County, a journey of one hundred and thirty miles. It was in the middle of nowhere, its only claim to fame its location close to the Calexico US port of entry for trucks crossing the US-Mexican border. Lucas had to be there by 9.30pm.
The traffic was light and he made good time. The miles flew by and in under two hours he hung a right and hit the CA-111 travelling south. The road was slower, with trucks of every description trundling their way to the border. After a while he came to the intersection with the CA-98, turned left and drove parallel to the state line. Eight miles further on Lucas saw the sign saying Bonds Corner.
He swung the nose of the rental car off the road and onto the makeshift hard-core parking lot. He killed the engine. Cassandra’s Café was a thirty-foot trailer set back from the road in a deserted dustbowl. Lucas knew he was in the right place because the name was painted in four-foot-high red letters across the side, he couldn’t miss it. He pulled the car around the back and got out. There were arc lamps poking out of the roof, leaving the trailer sitting in its own oasis of light, while outside the hard-core area the rest of the landscape was pitch black. But no amount of blinding white lamps could disguise the fact that it was a shit-hole.
Lucas walked up the three steps to the wrought-iron security gate and yanked it open. It swung towards him and he pushed against the screen door.
The inside was clean and airy with a long counter running down the one side with a line of red leather bar stools stacked against it. On the opposite side were six booth seats, also decked out in red leather, each one set against a window. The place was completely at odds with the exterior decor.
Lucas strode in and slid into a booth facing the door. Two men sat at the counter. One was a road-worn trucker with an empty plate in front of him and a mug of coffee big enough to drown a small horse. The second was an older man, a biker, with expensive leathers and a glossy helmet. He was reading a local paper, sipping iced water.
Lucas stared out at the blackness.
A middle-aged woman ambled over to him wearing a blue dress and a white apron.
‘What would you like to drink, sweetie?’
Lucas looked up. She had a mop of tightly permed brown hair and wore half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose. She smiled but the look on her face said ‘It’s late, I’m tired’. Her name badge said Marge, she didn’t look like a Cassandra.
‘I’m ready to order,’ Lucas said.
‘Okay, sweetie, what’ll it be?’
‘I’ll have waffles with French toast and a side order of bacon please.’
The woman stared at him over the rim of her glasses.
‘You know we have a dinner menu, right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine thanks.’
‘You haven’t looked at the menu. Shall I give you a couple of extra minutes, sweetie.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Waffles, French toast and bacon please.’
The trucker stopped drinking his bath of coffee and snorted.
‘Okay, sweetie, anything to drink with that?’
‘Regular coffee please.’
The trucker looked over, shook his head and snorted again. Lucas imagined that in the world of truckers, real men didn’t drink regular, they drank frigging enormous.
Marge went behind the counter and spoke to the man working in the kitchen. Lucas could make out snippets of the conversation.
‘Well, I don’t know, Earl, maybe he can’t tell the difference between nine twenty at night and nine twenty in the morning.’ Marge was defending his waffle order.
Lucas gazed at his reflection in the window and kept glancing over to the door. He checked his watch and played with the packets of sugar in the bowl. He pulled out his car keys and placed them on the table.
The biker guy jumped down from his stool and picked up his helmet. ‘Cheerio now,’ he said in a British accent.
Maybe a tourist but more likely an ex-pat, Lucas thought. He watched as the screen door clanked shut, followed minutes later by a roar as a big Honda motorbike with British plates chugged across the car park. The guy checked both ways and blasted off into the night.
Lucas was still mulling over the ‘he must have been an ex-pat’ deduction, when Marge appeared beside him.
‘Coffee, sweetie.’
She placed the steaming mug in front of him. It was very different from the sludge he was used to drinking in the worst café in Florida. It was excellent coffee, strong and bitter.
The screen door opened again and a short man walked in carrying a black Puma sports bag. He was not old, but not young either. However, he was old enough to know you don’t go out dressed like that.
His jeans were torn at the knees and he wore a pair of greasy work boots. His tatty denim jacket was threadbare and his elbows stuck through holes in the sleeves. His hair was long and lank, and he didn’t look like he owned a comb or a razor. This guy didn’t just need a bath, he needed a trip through a car wash.
Marge clocked him with a disapproving glance, the expression on her face now saying ‘dirty hobo’. He shuffled in and took up a place at the counter across the way from Lucas. He dumped the bag at his feet and eased himself onto the stool. The truck driver didn’t flinch, he was obviously more comfortable with the hobo than he was with Lucas.
The food arrived. Marge arranged the plates in front of Lucas.
‘Need a refill, sweetie?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Enjoy your food.’<
br />
Marge went back behind the counter to serve the hobo.
‘Enjoy your breakfast more like.’ The truck driver sank the last of his enormous coffee and threw ten bucks onto the counter. He scowled at Lucas as he left.
Lucas tucked into the waffles, they were light and fluffy, really good. Or they would have been at seven thirty in the morning. But at half past nine at night they were a proving a struggle. Lucas persevered, pretending to enjoy his sugary dinner.
The hobo ordered coffee. Marge was much less chatty and didn’t once call him sweetie.
Lucas shovelled slabs of waffle into his mouth and crunched on the bacon. This was a seriously tasty breakfast.
The hobo drained his coffee, jammed his hand in his pocket and spilled a bunch of change onto the bar. He dropped from the stool, turned and stood directly in front of Lucas. He moved in close and Lucas could smell engine oil.
‘You got a light, buddy?’ he said taking a pack out of his pocket.
‘No, sorry, I don’t smoke.’
Lucas noticed the hobo’s hands were soft and clean, his nails neatly trimmed. He shot an unlit cigarette in his mouth and walked away. Lucas watched him leave and the trailer door slammed behind him.
He looked down. His keys were gone.
Lucas continued to munch his way through the food and finished off his coffee. His belly told him it was time to stop. He looked at his plate, there was more than half of it left.
Marge came over.
‘You want a top-up, sweetie,’ she said holding a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
‘No thanks, that was great. Can I have the check, please.’
‘You didn’t like it, sweetie?’ Marge eyed his plate, like a mother eyeing the unfinished plate of her wilful child.
Lucas felt compelled to respond. ‘It was real tasty, but I can’t finish it, can I have it in a box to go?’
‘I suppose so, sweetie.’
Lucas could hear the latest exchange between Marge and Earl.
‘Well, I don’t know, Earl, maybe he’ll eat the rest for breakfast. I mean breakfast for real, not ….’
