“You’re brother’s a fag?” Charlie asked.
I turned the truck north onto the Turnpike, past Duncan Pond, which was famous up here for having a crane sticking out of the water. Been there since forever. This time of year, the pond was a slab of ice, but you could still see the tip of the boom and its sheave, hoist line dangling, parts rusted, thrusting out of the water like a redneck Excalibur. Nobody knew how that crane had come to rest in the middle of Duncan Pond. Rumor was, back in the early days of Lombardi Construction, a worker had gotten pissed off and sank the machine in protest. Whether that was true or just small town legend, who knew, but it was nice to chalk one up for the little guy.
“Jay?”
“Beats me, Charlie,” I said, punching the lighter on the dash. “Who cares if he is?”
“I don’t care. Just weird, is all. Your brother had so many girls back in the day.”
“Kitty, Katherine, said he’d meet guys at the truck stop and they’d help him out. So that’s where we’re going to look.” As uncomfortable as it made me to think of my brother that way, it also made sense. Someone had to be putting Chris up all these years, especially in the coldest months. Being homeless in northern New Hampshire wasn’t the same as going alfresco in Arizona or Florida. What else did Chris have to offer in exchange? Nothing in this life comes free.
“Who’s he go with?” Charlie asked. “Like, what, queer truckers?”
“Gay truckers. Gay lawyers. Gay whoever.” I stabbed the hot, cherry end of the dashboard lighter to my cigarette and sucked in the sizzle. “How am I supposed to know how this shit works?”
“Sorry, man,” said Charlie. “I know this must suck, hearing this shit about your own brother.”
I flipped the wipers on high as snow and ice pelted the windshield like spitballs from a juvenile god. When Nor’easters hit, everything could grind to a halt. Once it got bad enough, the town would stop sending the plows. Then you weren’t going anywhere. Forecast didn’t have it letting up till morning. Which made it a lousy time to be prowling the TC in search of clues, but I didn’t see how holing up in my apartment and waiting for the skies to clear was going to help the situation.
A giant, orange plow thundered past, going in the other direction. We still had a couple hours. I hoped.
As we climbed the last hill before the TC, Charlie peered over. “What’s the plan, Hoss? We knock on every window? See who’s feeling lonely?”
“You check out the Maple. I’ll poke around the semis. If we see anyone who looks like they’d associate with my brother, we ask questions.” Charlie looked like he wanted to laugh. I threw up my hands. “I don’t know, man. I’m new at this investigating stuff.”
“I’m busting your balls.” Charlie hugged himself. “When are you going to get the fucking heater fixed in this thing? You live above a service station, for Christ’s sake.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The Travel Center was its own little town, rising like Reno from the barren tundra. Even at this hour, the place was frenzied with truck drivers pulling in and out, grizzled, road-weary warriors disembarking their big rigs to fill up on diesel at the gas station, fuel up on deep-fried at the restaurant. These were all gruff-looking men’s men, with hewn, rough features, leathered lines, and unkempt facial hair. It was hard to pick out who might swing for the other team. Honestly, none of them looked much in the mood for any kind of company.
Because of the storm, they’d sectioned off most of the parking lot to keep clear for plowing, all cars corralled in a tiny square outside the restaurant. The truckers were still granted the eastern retaining wall, where dozens of semis currently were lined up, butted against the main building and extending farther than the eye could see. We parked outside the Peachtree with the rest of the tourists, which were understandably fewer given the conditions, as booming engines roared past. Whether idling or powering down, the rigs still rumbled the ground beneath your feet hundreds of yards away.
I watched as heavily flannelled men stalked into the laundry or showering facilities, or stocked up inside the convenience store, skulking back out with chubby paper sacks stuffed with Red Bulls or MiniThins, or whatever other stimulant they’d scored. I didn’t see much haggling for companionship going on. Not sure where that stuff went down, exactly. I imagined they had to be discreet about it. I didn’t see how that was even possible. First off, you had all the employees who worked there, maintenance and grounds personnel, waitresses and busboys, night clerks, cashiers, security guards. Plus all the travelers coming from or heading to Canada, stopping for gas and bathroom breaks, a midnight snack, screaming kids in tow. The place was crawling with people, even on a night like this, infested with all kinds, everyone scurrying to get back behind the wheel before the roads were shut down. I scanned for my brother, or, more accurately, anyone who looked the part. From inside my truck cab, I didn’t see anyone who fit the bill.
I opened my wallet and pulled out an old picture of Chris and me, taken not long after our folks had died. In it, Chris was about forty pounds heavier, still had his teeth, and didn’t look like he’d just stuck his head in a lawn mower. I gave it to Charlie. It was all I had.
“What do you want me to do with this?” he asked, taking the photo from me and staring at it. “Jesus, you look like a baby.”
“Show it to people. Ask if anyone’s seen him. Try the motor lodge next door first, ask the desk clerk, any riffraff you see slinking in the shadows. I’ll try the store, then go down that row of trucks.”
“Your brother don’t look anything like this anymore, y’know.” Charlie stared at the picture. “Hell, he looks like… a normal person.”
“Best I can do, man. Just say you’re looking for a friend who’s missing. I’ll meet you at the Peachtree in half an hour.”
Despite the storm and the late hour, the TC still bustled, the snow really coming down now, visibility only a few feet. I wrapped my wool coat tighter around me as I made my way past the restaurant windows. Helmet-haired waitresses, all looking like variations of Flo from the old Alice TV show, poured coffee and slung hash, ringing up tabs with fried-hair sass. A family, taking a break from the road, shoveled in food. Mom, dad, two little boys. All wore matching white sweatshirts with giant red maple leafs. They looked so happy to be together, warm and indoors.
The Peachtree led into to the Travel Center lobby, exiting by a row of arcade games and bank of pay phones, clearly leftover from a time when people actually used pay phones. Restrooms and showers splintered down the hall, running past vending, soda, and ATM machines. Another set of doors led from the lobby into the convenience store, which was more like a Walmart, so much stuff in there.
Place was huge, offering everything from groceries, to a well-stocked automotive section, and, of course, skiing accessories. Skiing and snowboarding were a big deal up here, with the Black Mountain Resort only sixty minutes away.
The lights from the gas station island burned like a thousand stars, blinding through the windows and illumining the aisles, which I prowled, keeping an eye peeled for truckers and other customers and-I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, but, like art or irony, I figured I’d know it when I saw it.
Shoppers were growing scarce. A few employees stocked shelves with the cheery disposition of anyone stuck working the night shift in the middle of a snowstorm, on their knees or perched on ladders, barely acknowledging my presence, except to scowl uninvitingly and make it clear not to ask any questions.
I filled a coffee and bought a pack of Marlboros, then headed south into the swirling gusts and snowfall.