“Tell him I won’t bother you people,” I said to the kid. “But others will come along sooner or later. You can’t stay around here too long.”
He translated, and my smoking buddy nodded, scratched his moustache. The talk coming back the other direction lasted a minute.
“We are far away from where we were supposed to be dropped off,” the kid said. “We could call someone to come get us. We have a number. Enrique has a cell phone, but it doesn’t work.”
I shook my head and sighed. “We’ve never had cell reception around here, and all the phones in town are dead.”
The kid translated, and the other guy frowned and talked again.
The kid said, “We worry. The men can walk. We have endured worse hardships.” He gestured toward the concession stand. “But there are women and children.”
Women and children. Perfect. I stood, dusted myself off and headed for the concession stand, my new pals following. I opened the door, pushed my way inside. A dozen women sat against the wall. More than half held babies or toddlers in their laps. As a group they looked bedraggled, probably dehydrated and hungry.
Hell. What could I do with these people? What could anybody do? They don’t teach you this kind of thing at the academy. They threw a lot of civil codes and procedures at me, all in one ear and out the other. But nobody had taught me a damn thing about saving lost souls. You can’t arrest starvation or desperation. What these people must’ve been through, well, I couldn’t imagine. And I felt sorry for them, but I also wanted them to go away.
The cramped snack stand stank of sweat and diapers. I moved near the window for a breath of air, wracked my brain what I could do for these people, knowing damn well not a thing.
I leaned on the windowsill, tried to remember what this place was like back when they were showing movies. I loved the smell of popcorn. A chilidog and a Coke. Must’ve been nice. Mom and Dad had told me they’d brought me when I was two or three, put me in the back seat with a blanket. There would usually be a double feature, something for the kids at first, and then I’d drift off and the second movie would be for the adults. I didn’t remember, but I bet it was fun.
I looked up just in time to see the headlights swing into the Drive-in entrance. It was a black pickup truck. Jason’s Harley was parked in plain sight, no way they’d miss it.
“Son of a—oh, come on,” I muttered.
“Some sort of problem, señor?” the kid asked.
“That pickup truck means trouble.”
“For us?” “For me,” I said. “Listen. Get out there and tell them I’m gone. Say some other police car came to pick me up, and I left the motorcycle here. Can you do that?”
“Si, señor.”
“Best get everyone out of here.” I motioned to the women and children. “Maybe they’ll come in for me or maybe not, but it could get ugly.” I let my hand rest on the revolver.
He nodded and translated. The kid and my smoking buddy herded the rest from the concession stand. I backed into the shadows, watched through the window. The truck parked three feet from the Harley Davidson. Damn.
One man got out of the driver’s side, another from the passenger side. Both held shotguns. Damn. Damn. Damn.
I pulled my revolver, watched and waited.
The guy who’d been in the driver’s seat looked only vaguely familiar, a broad-shouldered cowboy with messy brown hair and a square jaw, maybe a couple years older than me. I recognized the passenger immediately.
Blake Harper was a rat-faced string-bean, with hunched shoulders and a bony chest. His greasy hair fell into his eyes and down past the collar of his plaid shirt. Patchy Elvis sideburns. He looked so thin and brittle and bony, I thought one good punch would knock him into a thousand pieces.
Blake had been Luke Jordan’s toady little kiss-ass sidekick in high school. Back then, he’d been too cowardly to try anything too ambitious himself, mostly he just stood in the background and laughed at Luke’s stupid jokes while Luke pounded some freshman or snapped girls’ bra straps. Upon returning home, I’d heard Blake had moved up the food chain half a notch, ripping off cars stranded on the Interstate and stealing mail from people’s boxes. All of it rumors and nothing ever proved. Finally, Blake tied a chain to an ATM machine, tied the other end to his pickup and tried to take off. A security camera caught the whole thing, and he ended up serving a couple years.
He got out of prison and returned to Coyote Crossing to resume toadying duties with the Jordans. Apparently, they had the whole roster of douche bags out after my ass.
A group of five Mexicans approached Blake and his pal, including the Mexican holding the length of pipe. Blake lifted his shotgun, and the Mexicans backed off. They traded words, but I couldn’t hear. The Mexicans finally moved off toward the bonfire, and I saw Blake and his buddy put their heads together to confer. They pointed, nodded, and Blake’s pal headed for the big Drive-in screen.
Blake came straight at me.
I backed up to the service counter, swung myself over, keeping my eyes on the window the whole time, Blake still coming with the shotgun in his hands, not in much of a hurry. I was aware of the doorway to the kitchen behind me, and I was banking there was a back way out.
I let the darkness of the kitchen swallow me as I eased back, stopping when my butt hit something solid, some kind of counter or stove maybe. I kept the door and window in view, still watching Blake’s steady progress. He drifted out of sight as he got close, and I braced myself for the front door to open, a tight grip on my revolver.
At first, I thought maybe Blake had changed his mind. I waited, and nothing happened.
Then the door slowly creaked open. Blake wasn’t going to blunder in. He was being careful, knew I might be in here. I only wanted him to go away.
The shotgun barrel came in first, then his hand and one of his legs.
I backed around behind the stove, made myself small.
Blake was trying to keep quiet, but his boots scraped against the grit on the floor. He poked the shotgun into every corner, searching. I held my breath. I didn’t have any doubt Blake was coming to splatter me with buckshot. Maybe I should jump up quick and shoot first, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to shoot anyone. I just wanted this long night to end. And anyway, Blake’s pal was out there someplace with another shotgun and would probably come running. If I shot at Blake and missed, it’d be two against one.
Just go away, you asshole.
He came around the counter, and I heard him poking into cabinets. A second later he was right there, his silhouette in the kitchen doorway, standing there like the perfect target.
And I thought about it. I really did. It would be so easy to point the revolver and squeeze the trigger two or three times.
Blake peered into the darkness, hunched forward trying to see. He reached along the wall, looking for the light switch. When he found it, he flipped it up and down a half-dozen times, but there wasn’t any power. He muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch and took a step into the kitchen.
I pressed myself back into the dark corner between the wall and the cold steel oven. A trickle of sweat made an itch down the center of my back. More sweat in my eyes. My heart beat like some kind of whumping bass drum.
Blake’s head turned slowly one way, and then the other.
And then he backed out.
Keep going, man. Walk away.
I heard the front door open and close again. I let out a ragged breath, put a hand on the oven next to me to push myself up, my knees all watery.