11 – Every which way

 

 

 The sound of tires over the gravel woke her. The cops again?

Maybe. Though it had been two days since she'd heard anything, and pushed herself up to peek, her clothing soaked with the scent of soil. Even the smell of her precious tomato plants had driven her crazy. Two days of sneaking green tomatoes in from the garden. Waiting. Wondering when the cops would return.

 It was the thirst she couldn't cure, and she would have killed for a beer.

 She saw nothing. The vehicle stopped on the other side of the stairs, its weak engine putting out the sounds of something dying.

It was no police car.

 "Hello?" a voice called out, followed by a series of coughs. "Is anyone here?"

 Chris pushed her eye closer to the crack as boots sounded on the gravel near the steps.

 "Where is everybody?" another voice asked. A female voice which stiffened Chris.

 Her? Here? Impossible!

 And yet, it dripped of Detroit.

 "Hello? Hell-o!" Mike yelled, his nasally voice the last bit of proof Chris needed.

 "I'm here!" she shouted, tearing at the wooden covering and the sticky tomato leaves till she had clawed her way into sunlight.

Mike came around the edge of the stairs and stopped.

 "Chris?" he said, half laughing at her appearance. She looked down at herself, at the thick clumps of dirt clinging to her. The shame flowed into her face. Nothing but a stupid savage.

 "Keep your voice down," she said, crouching behind the stair. "And keep your friends quiet."

 Mike stared for a moment, looking unclear as to whether he should laugh or not, then hissed towards the others. "Hey, guys. Keep it down."

 "What was that?" Dan asked, peering down from the porch, flopping hat hiding his eyes.

 "Shut up!" Chris said. "And for God's sake get out of sight."

 Dan ducked down behind the porch rail, his long nose poking through the arms. "Good to see you again, Chris," he said, as Mike settled beside her. "But what exactly are we hiding from?"

 "Unwanted eyes," Chris said. "The cops raided the joint two days ago. Got everybody but me."

 "You think they're still around?" Mike asked, sniffing at the air.  Instinct. Not so different from Chris'.

 "I can feel them out there somewhere," Chris said.

 "So can I," Mike mumbled. "Now. We should have been more careful."

 "Hard to be careful after what we've been through," Dan said, his own voice thick.

 Afraid? Of what? Something unhealthy.

 "You have any gas round about here?" Dan asked. "We're just about tapped."

 "Might be some in the shed," Chris said, indicating the wobbly structure down the drive beyond the edge of the building.

 "Mikie?" Miss Detroit called from the other direction. "Where are you Mikie?"

 Something tightened in Chris' stomach.

 The red hair and overly made-up face came around the steps like a movie queen, everything an exaggeration of what Chris believed typical in the white man's world-- flamboyant enough to be seen for miles.

 "Your little hussy's going to get us busted," Chris whispered.

 "Over here, Marie," Mike called softly.

 "Oh?" Marie said, marching towards them. "Why are you all..."

 Mike yanked her down beside them.

 "You're hurting me," she complained.

 "Shut up," Chris growled and studied the horizon for signs of rising dust or the sound of approaching cars.

 "You? Here?" Marie hissed.

 "I live here," Chris said, enjoying the girl's discomfort.

 Marie glared at Mike as if betrayed. He ignored her, his face taunt with other worries, worries over the lack of sound. Not a bird. Not a jack rabbit. Only the movement of cars along the highway a half mile west.

 "Where are the others?" he asked.

 "By the van," Marie mumbled, her indignity shifting into something more manipulative. "Having some sort of argument."

 "Argument?" Mike asked.

 "Lance doesn't want to go back to L.A. Sarah does."

 Mike sighed. "Well, they can't stay here, that's for sure." He looked up at Dan's face through the banister. "Go tell them what's what, then get the gas. We're going to have to split."

 Dan eased down the stairs in the direction of the van.

 "So, the cops came," Mike said, studying Chris' face intently.

"What did they get besides the people."

 "A shipment of dope."

 Dan stopped ten feet away and turned. "From Denver?"

 Chris nodded.

 "Damn," he mumbled. "Then the whole circuit's ruined?"

 "I don't think so," Chris said. I couldn't hear everything, but Demetre said..."

 "Demetre?" Mike hissed. "Here?"

 "He seemed to be head honcho."

 "Shit!" Mike said, glancing out at the horizon-- his flat face crinkling up as he squinted. "He's had time to grill them. He's probably waiting out there for us to lead him on to the next station in the circuit."

 "So?" Chris asked.

 "So, we've got to lose him. I was counting on this place being up and running. Now I've got to take the next step if I'm going to find Buckingham."

 "Buckingham?" Chris laughed. "There's no such person."

 "I have to find out," Mike said. "Dan. Get the gas."

 Dan moved, turning sharply around, his long legs taking him down the path towards the shack.

 "Mike?" Chris whispered.

 "What?"

 "Can I tag along?"

 "NO!" Marie roared.

 "Stop it, Marie," Mike said. "We can't leave her here like this."

 "She'll only cause trouble, Mikey!" Marie pleaded. "Like she always does."

 "I can help," Chris said. "I know ways to Phoenix the cops won't."

 Mike looked around, his gaze a little lost. The way Chris knew him back in the old days, before he'd become too sophisticated.

 "They'll follow us," he mumbled. "We're riding in a Goddamn advertisement."

 "I can still help," she said. "We can part ways again after we're out of here."

 "All right," he said. "Get your things.

 Chris grinned. "Thanks, Mike! You're still a sweetheart!" She bounded up the stairs and into the house.

 "Just hurry up," Mike shouted after her. "This place gives me the creeps."

 Albuquerque looked pale. The usual wind had ceased, allowing a yellowish haze to settle over the accumulation of low buildings, making it look like Denver or L.A.-- the stench of its rush hour traffic and petrol refineries reminding Chris of Detroit. Only hotter. And flat. With only the distant blue ridge to the Northeast and West saying there were mountains at all.

 They drove straight through the city. No use trying to be clever now, she'd told the others. Head west for the mountains. We'll lose them there.

 Them? Chris didn't know who. But they were there. Floating behind in a variety of vehicles. Sometimes a camper. Sometimes a sports car. Mike noticed them, too. His sharp gaze shifting back from time to time. He said nothing. The others didn't need to know.

 "Where west?" Dan demanded, as they came to the far side of the city.

 "Gallup for now."

 "What about gas?"

 "We can get some up ahead. I just want to get clear of this place."

 It had stained her. She'd never be able to come back again after what had happened.

 Mike sat tight against the passenger door with Marie slumped against him, her red nails digging into his denim jacket like claws, glaring back at Chris from time to time. The other two continued to bicker in the back, neither taking notice of her or her bags when they climbed aboard.

 "I was going to turn south," Dan said, breaking the heavy mood hanging over the interior of the van.

 "For where?" Chris asked.

 "Las Cruces and Route 10. It's the way we came."

 "Too dangerous," Chris said. "Demetre would expect that route."

 "But the van's not good at mountain climbing," Dan said. "We had a hell of a time coming over the Raton this time. She might just give out half way up."

 Dan turned into a Chevron station. The sun-beaten round-topped pumps part of a forgotten era, one only remembered here. Yellowed newspaper stuck up on the inside of the station glass with decade-old headlines.

 The hick eyed the van and the people inside, but took Dan's order without comment, poking the hose nozzle into the tank. The hum of the gas vibrating the whole vehicle.

 "We'll make it," Chris said. "I wasn't thinking of anything difficult."

 Though in truth she couldn't quite recall the route. It had been years since she'd been through the reservation. She recalled only the dust and worn teepees and tourists taking pictures.

 "But we're going to lead them right to the next stop on the circuit," Dan complained.

 "Maybe," Chris said. "But I was thinking about losing them in the hills."

 "Where will that get us?" Mike asked. "They have to know where we're headed."

 "Do they?" Chris asked.

 Mike turned, his father's hard Irish eyes staring at her. "Where else would they think we went?"

 "You know."

 Yeah, he knew. She could read the memory on his face as the muscles tightened and the eyes closed, and he turned back towards the window. She had pleaded with him to go there.

 No cop'll come after us in Mexico, she'd said. We can raise the baby there.

 But he knew Mexico and said they could build no future there.

 It's the end of the world there, Chris, he'd said. Nothing but a dust bowl for slaves.

 He'd seen the factories billowing black poison into the air and the half-starved tan-skinned natives crawling to work each day, sweating themselves to death for a few cheap U.S. dollars. No unions to worry over their health. No benefits. Often no money even for their funerals when they fell dead on the job.

 Mike had always come back fuming from his jaunts across the border. They sit and take it, Chris! They let us push them around when they should be buying guns.

 And maybe he might have become a Mexican Ho Chi Minh had they gone south. But he might well have been dead as well, finding himself on the wrong side of the government where killing was a matter of habit.

"If they think we're trying to get away, they'll expect us to go south," Chris said. "They won't expect Phoenix."

Mike stared out at the dilapidated gas station. The attendant wiped the windows slowly, pausing over the small round hole at one corner.

 Dan snorted in obvious disbelief.

"You don't know the Denver crowd," he mumbled. "They were waiting for us at Trinadad."

 "You didn't have me then," Chris said. "Well, Mike?"

 Mike shrugged, ignoring Marie's whispered protests. "I don't see as we have a choice," he mumbled.

 

Hip Cities main menu

email to Al Sullivan