portable
building, facing in toward a cement yard fenced off by ten-foot-high
chain link. Beyond that was a corrugated-metal warehouse the size of
a small airplane hangar. Lining the side of the street, four insanely
tall palm trees cut black silhouettes against the sky at
gravity-defying curves, like Dr. Seuss trees.
I pulled across the street from the yard gates. A
single light glowed behind the white-paned side window of the
RideWorks office. One floodlight on a telephone pole threw a yellow
oval of illumination on the closed hangar doors of the warehouse.
Other than that the place was dark. Several cars lined the side of
the street next to the warehouse — a Pontiac, an old Chevrolet, a
Ford double-wide pickup.
Jem stuck his head over the front seats.
"They make rides?" he asked me excitedly.
"Yep."
"Can we go in?"
"Not right now," Erainya said. She was
watching the buildings, getting impatient. "Honey, if you were
thinking we could just..."
She stopped. We both focused on the same thing —
the tiny flame of a lighter flaring up in the cab of the pickup truck
across the street. The flame briefly illuminated a cigar, shadowy red
jowls, the brim of a cowboy hat. Then it flicked out, replaced by the
fainter glow of the cigar tip.
Before I could comment, a new set of headlights cut
in directly behind us, coming up Camden. Del Brandon's red Fiat
convertible glided up to the RideWorks gates and stopped.
"Someday, honey," Erainya told me, "I'm
gonna decide whether you got the best timing in the world or the
worst."
Del Brandon got out of his sports car. He looked the
same as he had that afternoon, storming out of Ines' house — same
greasy wedge of gorilla hair, same yellow shirt, now snagged on a
side-holstered gun. His face was large and washed out and marked with
a terminal heartburn scowl.
He looked warily at my VW.
Then the Fiat's passenger's-side door opened and
Del's companion got out. Erainya said, "Mother of Jesus."
Del's friend was a boulder of a man with
incongruously girlish hair — tight blond cornrows curled up at the
bottom and tied off with little blue rubber bands. Bo Peep on
steroids. His facial features were thinly applied to a block-shaped
head — his eyes shallow, dull dents; his smile an accidental mark.
Gray running clothes. Height maybe six-five, density three or four
tons. I didn't see any gun, and I didn't have any illusions that it
mattered. Bo Peep was not a man who would bother with, or be bothered
by, weapons smaller than a ballista. They were both still staring at
us when the cigar smoker in the truck opened his cab door and called,
"Del."
In the sudden illumination of the dash light, the man
in the truck appeared weathered and dour, maybe sixty years old,
rough and thick as a granddaddy oak. He resembled any number of Texas
ranchers from here to Brownsville, his mouth mostly lower lip and
cigar.
The rancher planted his boots on the street, glowered
in our direction, then walked toward the sports car, where Del and Bo
Peep were waiting. The three men stood together, looking at us. They
didn't talk. That was a bad sign. It meant they had no disagreement
about us.
"Are they going to show us the rides?" Jem
asked. He was bouncing now, a well-placed fifty pounds on bad shocks,
and the VW was bouncing with him. The three guys across the street
didn't frown at us any less.
"Maybe we should drive on," I suggested.
Erainya opened her door, got out, and leaned across
the car's roof. She hollered, "One of you guys Del?"
"Or," I mumbled, "maybe you have
another idea..."
The three guys glanced at one another.
Del Brandon stepped forward. "Who's asking?"
"Who's asking? Come on, honey. You want to come
closer, see we aren't monsters or anything?"
Something about the way Erainya talks — I've seen
it a dozen times and I've never quite gotten the magic of it. It
makes even the most hardened guys red around the ears. They check
their zippers, check that their ears are washed, try to
building, facing in toward a cement yard fenced off by ten-foot-high
chain link. Beyond that was a corrugated-metal warehouse the size of
a small airplane hangar. Lining the side of the street, four insanely
tall palm trees cut black silhouettes against the sky at
gravity-defying curves, like Dr. Seuss trees.
I pulled across the street from the yard gates. A
single light glowed behind the white-paned side window of the
RideWorks office. One floodlight on a telephone pole threw a yellow
oval of illumination on the closed hangar doors of the warehouse.
Other than that the place was dark. Several cars lined the side of
the street next to the warehouse — a Pontiac, an old Chevrolet, a
Ford double-wide pickup.
Jem stuck his head over the front seats.
"They make rides?" he asked me excitedly.
"Yep."
"Can we go in?"
"Not right now," Erainya said. She was
watching the buildings, getting impatient. "Honey, if you were
thinking we could just..."
She stopped. We both focused on the same thing —
the tiny flame of a lighter flaring up in the cab of the pickup truck
across the street. The flame briefly illuminated a cigar, shadowy red
jowls, the brim of a cowboy hat. Then it flicked out, replaced by the
fainter glow of the cigar tip.
Before I could comment, a new set of headlights cut
in directly behind us, coming up Camden. Del Brandon's red Fiat
convertible glided up to the RideWorks gates and stopped.
"Someday, honey," Erainya told me, "I'm
gonna decide whether you got the best timing in the world or the
worst."
Del Brandon got out of his sports car. He looked the
same as he had that afternoon, storming out of Ines' house — same
greasy wedge of gorilla hair, same yellow shirt, now snagged on a
side-holstered gun. His face was large and washed out and marked with
a terminal heartburn scowl.
He looked warily at my VW.
Then the Fiat's passenger's-side door opened and
Del's companion got out. Erainya said, "Mother of Jesus."
Del's friend was a boulder of a man with
incongruously girlish hair — tight blond cornrows curled up at the
bottom and tied off with little blue rubber bands. Bo Peep on
steroids. His facial features were thinly applied to a block-shaped
head — his eyes shallow, dull dents; his smile an accidental mark.
Gray running clothes. Height maybe six-five, density three or four
tons. I didn't see any gun, and I didn't have any illusions that it
mattered. Bo Peep was not a man who would bother with, or be bothered
by, weapons smaller than a ballista. They were both still staring at
us when the cigar smoker in the truck opened his cab door and called,
"Del."
In the sudden illumination of the dash light, the man
in the truck appeared weathered and dour, maybe sixty years old,
rough and thick as a granddaddy oak. He resembled any number of Texas
ranchers from here to Brownsville, his mouth mostly lower lip and
cigar.
The rancher planted his boots on the street, glowered
in our direction, then walked toward the sports car, where Del and Bo
Peep were waiting. The three men stood together, looking at us. They
didn't talk. That was a bad sign. It meant they had no disagreement
about us.
"Are they going to show us the rides?" Jem
asked. He was bouncing now, a well-placed fifty pounds on bad shocks,
and the VW was bouncing with him. The three guys across the street
didn't frown at us any less.
"Maybe we should drive on," I suggested.
Erainya opened her door, got out, and leaned across
the car's roof. She hollered, "One of you guys Del?"
"Or," I mumbled, "maybe you have
another idea..."
The three guys glanced at one another.
Del Brandon stepped forward. "Who's asking?"
"Who's asking? Come on, honey. You want to come
closer, see we aren't monsters or anything?"
Something about the way Erainya talks — I've seen
it a dozen times and I've never quite gotten the magic of it. It
makes even the most hardened guys red around the ears. They check
their zippers, check that their ears are washed, try to
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