Remote Feed (7 page)

After a minute of being ignored, the siren wails.

"Shit." Where did that come from? No billboards to hide behind, no trees or blind turns; everything is within sight. Saul
clicks on his hazards—a blatant attempt at ingratiating himself with the law—and eases onto the shoulder, decelerating gradually
and with professional care. His adrenaline, on hold for the last ten hours, now cuts loose with a torrent of epinephrine.
Palms begin to sweat. Throat fills with saliva. And a sense of a greater guilt washes away any chance of presumed innocence.

A trooper with the prerequisite sharp hat and mirrored sunglasses and mustache ambles up to Saul's window, his left hand casual
on the butt of his revolver. "Hi there," he says. His relaxed manner is threatening in a Southern way: corrupt affability.

"Hi."

"License and registration."

"Here you go." Saul hands over his documentation. "For some reason, I thought there wasn't a speed limit in Montana. Read
it in the paper or something."

The trooper smiles. "That isn't quite true. It's discretionary. If it's open road and no traffic, I'm not going to stop you
unless you're being a real idiot. But in other circumstances I might pull you over for going seventy. Truth is, I can decide
anything I want."

"Oh."

"You been driving long, Mr. Messer?"

"Since I was a kid."

"I mean recently, Mr. Messer."

"Oh, I see. Yes, all the way from California."

"Where you going in Montana?"

Saul sees a possible opening. "Well, I'm not sure," he says. "I'm kind of here to scout locations for a project. I'm in the
movies, business side, you see, and I'm trying to find a nice town, a charming town, a town that has a certain flavor to it.
Do you know any?" This schmooze often works, sometimes getting him the best hotel rooms at half price.

"Anaconda's nice. Do you have any drugs in the car, Mr.

Messer?"

"No. Nothing."

"Any weapons?"

"No."

"What happened to your finger?"

"Broke it. Slammed it in a door."

"Ouch! Gotta hurt. Do you know why I stopped you, Mr.

Messer?"

"Not really."

"You were going forty-five miles per hour in the left lane. That's a bit slow for this highway. Can be dangerous to other
vehicles. We do have a minimum speed in this state."

Saul nods. "I guess I'm tired," he says.

"You look it." The trooper straightens, pulling himself up by the belt. "I'm going to go and run your name through the computer,
see what comes up, then I'll come back and tell you what's going on. Okay?"

"Sounds good."

The trooper leaves, and Saul watches him in the rearview mirror: in the front seat of the squad car, head down, hands typing,
eyes reading. The computer. What's being spat up onto the screen? Maybe a few parking tickets, speeding violations, a DUI
from twelve years ago, that's about it. Nevertheless, Saul grows worried, and the longer he waits—ticktock ticktock ticktock—the
more he becomes convinced that something is in fact wrong. Has the registration expired? Have all the fines been paid? Is
there an outstanding debt? Has your wife filed a missing person report? Did the studio discover your slight history of embezzlement?
Is screwing your assistant a form of sexual harassment? Does an incidental erection while playing horsey with your daughter
warrant an arrest for incest? Can spousal abuse be declared for long silences, for under-the-breath muttering, for blatant
acts of narcissism? And then what about all of those sacred laws, the laws of your people, the halakah—shit, you are the Dillinger
of Judaism.

The trooper steps out of his car, a clipboard in hand. Saul slowly pedals in the clutch—it creaks like a haunted door. The
trooper drops something, a pen, and he bends down to pick it up. Saul pinches the key in the ignition—the fish key chain,
a gift from his daughter, dangles back and forth. The trooper is at the window, and he says, "Okay, Mr. Messer," but before
he can say another word, Saul has the car started and he guns the engine—a little too quick on the clutch—and just barely
catches the gear. He peels out. Unfortunately, there's no gravel to kick up, but soon the Porsche is climbing past a hundred
miles per hour and Saul is weaving in and out of the now present morning traffic, his eyes searching the rearview mirror for
any signs of the fuzz.

Four minutes later, the car phone chirps, and Saul instinctively answers.

"Yeah," he says.

"Mr. Messer?"

"Speaking." Saul doesn't recognize the voice; it's too calm.

"This is Trooper DeKirk, the trooper you just fled."

Saul freezes—first thought: how did he get this number?—then he says, "Yes, officer." Rather lame for a fugitive.

"Well, Mr. Messer, I'll tell you what, a rookie would get a real kick out of you. Yep, he would. This is some good action,
Porsche and all, but I'm a bit old for this high-speed crap. You're in entertainment, right? That's what you said."

"Yes."

"You know what show I just loved?
The Andy Griffith Show.

That was my favorite."

"I'm involved with film, not TV."

"Whatever. All I'm saying is that I like to bring a little of that May berry style to the troopers. You know, a country approach.
I sing, too. Go to schools and stuff. Safety classes. So I really don't want to do some crazy shit out of
Bullitt
right now. I'm not the type. Hell, I used to be, but not now. And I'm sure you're not the type. And you don't want to become
a first-time felon. Believe me, Mr. Messer. So why don't you pull over and I'll be there pretty soon to give you a warning
for driving too slow. Maybe we'll talk for a bit, the way Andy used to talk to Otis."

"I'm not a drunk."

"I know that, Mr. Messer. I was just saying we could talk. But do me a favor and pull over before I
get
frustrated. This is silly. A black Porsche in Montana sticks out."

There's an exit for Dillon, and Saul slows down and puts on his blinker and takes the curve of the ramp with geometrical precision.
A sign points toward a business loop.

"Mr. Messer, you there?"

Saul thinks about the new wave of popular pulp-trash flicks, and he almost shouts,
Come and get me, you dirty copper,
but instead simply says "Yes" before pushing the "end" button.

Jolly Pack Rat Used Motors is strung with out-of-season Christmas lights, a canopy of tacky color above the cars, the trailer
office outlined like a be jeweled box of myrrh. Too bad the morning sun has washed out this effect. Saul parks between a Ford
Bronco and a Chevy Wrangler. Stepping away, gauging its visibility from the main drag, Saul wonders how he ever managed to
fit into such a car. It's so small you'd think you'd be able to slip it in your pocket. Saul imagines a child's hand pushing
the matchbox Porsche along a carpet, the roar of the motor nothing more than a labial sound effect.

The sign on the door says "Closed," but through the window a man can be seen reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, eating
a glazed doughnut. Saul knocks.

"One second." And after a few moments of shuffling, the door opens. The man, a large guy who looks more like a coal miner
than a salesman, smiles and says, "Want some coffee?"

"What?"

"Coffee, I got a pot."

"That'd be great."

The man disappears into the trailer—Saul notices an unmade cot in the corner and a few moving boxes with clothes spilling
over the sides. He comes back and hands Saul an Elks Club mug and says, "Shall we take a little walk around? My name's Jolly.
Pack Rat's just one of those war nicknames, you know, stuff to make you sound tougher. Funny thing's Jolly's a nickname too,
a junior high thing, you know,
get your jollies off.
Well, that was me. Whew! those were the days, weren't they? Even in Montana. But when I got into this business I thought I'd
just combine the two because I'll tell you what, in the end, when all the chips are cashed in, I'm more Jolly than Fred and
I'm more Pack Rat than McGlynn." While speaking, Jolly has led Saul straight to the Porsche. "Now to get to business: you
selling or buying?"

"Both."

"I see, a little trade." Jolly sits on the hood of the car—the tires flatten a bit—and he rocks up and down. Something squeaks.
"Pretty warm, you been driving from California?"

"Yes."

"You know what—now what's your name?"

"It's Stretch. Stretch Larson." Saul is extremely satisfied with his quick thinking.

"Stretch? Okay. Sure. You really should be here at night, Stretch, with the lights, I mean, because this place is . . .

sublime." He leans back against the windshield, arms crossing behind his neck. "I tell you what, Stretch, I love the mix of
winter darkness and daylight savings. That's as good as it gets. Look forward to it. To me, summer's dead."

"Listen, Jolly, I'm in a hurry."

"I can tell."

"And I'm willing to give you a pretty propitious deal."

"Once again, Stretch, I can tell." Jolly rolls over on his side. "Propitious. That's a good word. Propitious. Nice in the
mouth. Of late, things haven't been so propitious for me. Very unpropitious, in fact. Wife and I are at war, and she's not
abiding any Geneva Convention." Saul points to his watch, hoping to cut short this back-story spiel, but Jolly keeps on talking.
"You know what, Stretch? You know what I've been thinking? In Vietnam I was never a POW, but I would've been a good one. Like
Bill Holden in
The Bridge on the River Kwai.
Or
King Rat.
Even the crap that went down in
The Deer Hunter.
But fuck all, I never got caught, not when it would've meant something to me, and now I'll never find out what's the worst
I can live with, you know, the deepest depths, where stars are the only virtue. Seems important to me, more important than
a job skill."

Inside the Porsche, the car phone chirps.

"You got a call."

Saul steps forward. "I'm going to let it ring. In fact—" He opens the door, reaches down and rips out the car phone, wires
and all. It surrenders with surprising ease. He hands over the plastic clump to Jolly. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we?
I'll do a straight trade, the red Dodge Ram over there for the Porsche. But let me tell you what I don't have. I don't have
a license, a registration, title. Can we work around those issues?"

"I think so." Jolly slides off the hood and onto his feet. "That was pretty cool, what you did," he says.

"I'm also going to need Montana plates for the Ram."

"I'll hunt you up a pair."

"And I'd appreciate it if you held off from taking the Porsche out for a spin. Just for a couple of days. It's not stolen,
I promise you that."

"No big deal." Jolly shakes his head, a baffled expression on his face. "You don't look like an outlaw."

And before reaching into the Porsche for his briefcase, Saul can't

resist the perfect comeback. "Looks," he says, "can be deceiving."

Jolly kicks the dirt. "Jesus. I fed you that line."

Parking in the Kmart, the cars in their neat rows, Saul is tempted to throw the truck into four-wheel drive and charge over
the compacts and subcompacts. Pancake them! You could do it. In first gear this rig feels like a tank. And you certainly get
a different perspective from this height, a feeling of invincibility, a monster truck ego where only the most extreme forms
of nature can slow you down.

The Ram takes up two spaces. Saul climbs down—there's an actual step—and walks inside the store. Never been in this kind of
place before. It's huge, a warehouse of middle-class value, the customers strictly an action-movie crowd. Signs hang from
the ceiling—Lingerie, Candy, Hardware—swinging in the draft like executed bandits. Saul grabs a cart and serpentines toward
the Men's Department, where he rifles through racks of clothes, grabbing an assortment of plaid shirts, jeans, an eight-pack
of white socks, a denim jacket, a hat—this is kind of enjoyable. How about some heavy gloves and a University of Montana sweatshirt
and a pair of steel-toed boots and a hunting knife and a toolbox, and while in the Personal Care aisle, why not pick up a
bottle of Brute cologne and Old Spice deodorant and Vitalis and a Reach toothbrush with a scoliotic curve. By the time Saul
wheels to the register, the cart is brimming with the makings of a new person.

The cashier, a young woman tragically close to being pretty, sweeps the items over the scanner—beep!—and buries them in plastic
bags. When four bags are packed and redeposited in the cart, she says, "That'll be $198.37."

Saul counts the money straight into her hand, amazed at how cheap everything is. And the cashier becomes giddy with the growing
pile, as if, in some alternate universe, this cash belongs to her.

***

After pumping gas—that dirty self-service makes you feel tough, to the point where you want to check the oil and envision
mechanic expertise in a dipstick—Saul changes clothes in the Mobil rest room. The new duds are tight and scratchy and militantly
out of fashion; the old designer suit is thrown into a dumpster. Saul pulls the yellow CAT hat tight to his head and wipes
his hands against his shirt. Let's get a move on. And as he walks to the truck, he almost expects to hear the shout of some
celestial Everyone-in-come-free, telling him the game is over. Time to go home for lunch. But Saul keeps playing. The other
game is over. And he'll never eat lunch in that town again. Nope.

So, on to Anaconda, the definition of boom and bust held within the dead monuments of smelter towers, toxic mines, and immense
pits (plus you've got to like the name: not only a huge South American snake, but also a type of poker game where each player
is dealt seven cards, discards two, then plays the remaining five, flipping over one after each round of betting, the truth
revealed in increments). Years ago, there was so much copper in these hills that it was nicknamed Copperopolis, but production
has slowed, and more and more people try to get by with poker. Saul tunes into a country station, and finds himself saying
amen to Way Ion Jennings. Yes, yes, amen.