The Juliet (11 page)

Rigg wished Nash well in his pursuit of Willie. Maybe The Mystery House would keep Willie around just a little bit longer. At the end of the day, the love story was
the
story, and everything else was a subplot. Regrets were for deathbed scenes.

He jumped back into his Jeep and visualized an imaginary film he titled
The Beatty Encounter
:

Focus in on a single light on in Carter’s Supply where a sweaty creep (Carter himself) with about eight long hairs combed across his scalp toils over books that can’t be juggled to hide his incompetence. Outside, the Jeep pulls into the lot and Dexon’s tooled leather boot comes down on the gravel, fills the frame. Carter looks up, sees The Cowboy. Carter knows what he’s in for, goes for the baseball bat under the counter…

Rigg headed east, stopping first to gas up before he left the park boundaries. He swiped his card and inserted the nozzle into the tank, gripping the pump handle as if it was his fierce will that brought the fuel up from underground. Rigg always posed, no matter how mundane the task. The world expected it of him. He placed his palm above the driver’s side door and leaned into his task, letting his hat tip down almost to the bridge of his nose.

He’d been looked at all his adult life, except for the past few months. Maybe it was easier to be seen than not. This particular Sunoco was a busy stop, sometimes the first place to rest if you were driving in from Las Vegas and the idea of pausing in Pahrump made the hairs rise up on your neck. He could already hear the whispers. Used to be he’d hear the stormy whir and click of cameras around him, but nowadays fans could take silent snaps with their mobile phones. Best policy was to assume someone was always taking his photograph, like a part of nature.

A woman and her sister approached, asked to pose with him.
No problem.
Then three teenagers, same thing.
My pleasure.
He started signing scraps of paper, all kinds of paper. A lot of receipts from the snack shop. Someone tried to get him to sign a dollar, but he wouldn’t do that. Signed a ball cap instead, like he was a major leaguer. Sometimes he thought the question he asked most often in his lifetime was, “How do you spell that?”

A beast of a man as tall as he was wide made his way over to Rigg and asked, “You here to play?” Rigg assumed he meant golf. There was a little golfing man stitched onto the fellow’s polo pocket, and the course at Furnace Creek was famous for its low elevation and high level of difficulty.

“No sir,” said Rigg. He couldn’t help but imagine the man frying in his own fat by the fourth hole.

“You here to make a movie?”

“I’m retired,” Rigg chuckled, but he knew that wasn’t going to be enough. He dropped his voice slightly and said to the golfing man, “I came out here ‘cause I fell in love, but then I got my heart broke. Now I gotta leave. You know…”

He waited for the man to say the line.

“Like you ain’t coming back?”

“That’s it.” Rigg fished around in one of the pockets of his jean jacket and withdrew an old, battered Zippo lighter, silver in color, scratched up. A cheap mess waiting to happen even when it was new. He held it out in his palm as if weighing it. “There’s no fluid in this. I don’t smoke anymore, but back when I did, I took it off Sylvia Krystel’s dresser and forgot to give it back. It’d be worth something if there was any provenance, but there ain’t. Just memories, you know?”

Rigg handed it to him. “Feels good in the pocket. I guess that’s enough.”

The man was tremendously moved by the gift, and the five people who had witnessed the exchange began murmuring excitedly. Everything was theater.

The numbers on the pump escalated. Rigg had changed his life again. He could always go back, tell Willie he was drunk when he signed over the house. She’d understand. Or, he could go to Beatty and punch the lights out of a guy he didn’t know. The choice was obvious, and Rigg was satisfied that he had self-cured his depression. By the time the tank was full he’d spent a fortune, but that was to be expected.

An actor acts.

The characters he played made decisions on the spot, right or wrong, and they kept the plot going. He knew it was always best to go on instinct. That’s how he made it here, after all. That’s how he made his money and got all the things a man needed, at least for a little while. Houses, cars, exotic pets, fine wine. And young wives, too—a fresh one every decade or so.

Rigg hopped back into the Jeep, but just as he turned the key he spotted a punky girl trotting out of the station. She had pink streaks in her hair and was wearing a white apron smeared with candy colors, and sure enough when she got to him she smelled like fudge and cigarettes. She waved a postcard at him.

“What have you got there, babe?”

“Can I get an autograph? I have a pen.” She handed him a purple marker along with the card. On the front of it was an old sepia portrait of a trick rider from a Wild West show.

The picture made Rigg grin. “You know who that is, don’cha? Gabe Grease. He was the guy they’d bring in to do the tricks the right way when Wild Bill or Texas Dick were too drunk to do much more than wave at the kiddos. Nice choice.” He uncapped the pen and hovered over the white space on the back of the card, waiting.

“Dawn,” said the girl. “Dawn Turner.”

“Dawn Turner,” he repeated. He wrote more slowly than he had with the other fans. “Turner,” he said again, almost tasting the name. “As in Tony Turner.”

She nodded once. Not proud but not embarrassed either. Tony Turner was Tony Jackpot’s real name. Not many people knew that, or cared to for that matter.

Rigg tapped the side of his nose and returned the signed postcard to the girl. “You hold onto this now. I gotta feeling it’s a lucky card.”

Dawn Turner stepped away with her prize. She read what he’d written and gave him a look that would have been coquettish if it weren’t for all the punk rock sass. She wagged a silver-ringed finger at him.
For shame, sir.

He was done here. Even going to the toilet could be an event for Rigg Dexon. As he pulled out onto 95, he passed the golfing man one last time. The guy just stood there, swollen like a proud soldier suppressing a salute so as not to betray a comrade in disguise. Rigg Dexon was a real life hero.

Jackpot’s girl waved in his rearview mirror. A perfect exit, the second one of the day, and the only thing that threw it off was the damned flowers. It’s hard to look hard driving off into fields of posies.

* * *

Carter’s Auto Repair & Supply was as Rigg had imagined, even if Carter himself was not. His duality was clear: from the waist up he was tie-dyed and ponytailed, and from the waist down he was all camo shorts and boots. The half hippie–half commando stood out on the grease-stained lot, legs apart with a rabbit gun over his shoulder. Someone had tipped him off.

Rigg parked alongside the stout, battered building. Carter’s business was cruddy at the seams with piles of parts and tires everywhere. Rigg exited the Jeep slowly to show a modicum of respect for the proprietor and his vermin killer. Sure, he wanted to beat the living crap out of the man, but that didn’t mean spilling blood. Or rather, bloodshed was best when it was a merely a side effect and not the intent.

“Can I help you,” Carter said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t truly customer service oriented. He shifted the rifle so that he was holding it in both hands like an oar.

Rigg Dexon sized him up. Kid was fidgety, younger than his sunburned face suggested. Maybe not even thirty, and a born and raised desert rat by the looks of it. “I suppose you know I’m here on behalf of that Willie Judy gal.”

“I know that. I just got a call from the Alkali. They said you were making your way out here.” The boy was calm and steady, but he’d been given the lines of a nervous fella. “We don’t have a problem, me and you.”

“I think we do.” Rigg grinned and took a heavy step on the gravel because this corny macho stuff was still fun, really.

“Man, you’re a real pain in the ass.” Carter’s face scrunched up in the sun. “Before this gets stupid let me ask you a question.”

“You fired her.”

“Do you not see that I’m armed?”

“Is that your question?” Rigg was trying to get his blood up. “It’s kinda pointless to threaten a man that’s ready to die.”

Carter lowered the gun butt to the asphalt, holding it around the barrel. “No, that’s not my question. My question is, how long did it take you to drive out here?”

The boy seemed to have skewed priorities. Rigg answered, “About an hour and some.”

Carter nodded. “Exactly.”

Rigg added it up. It
had
been a quick drive. Rigg was beginning to see Carter’s point. Not much reason for Willie to make a day out of a simple carburetor delivery.

“And look, Mr. Dexon, I like her too, but Willie’s just not cut out for deliveries. Maybe the gig is too simple, you know? Maybe she’s not Zen enough. The best couriers are retirees with Lincolns or Crown Vics. Guys who like to drive the Valley all day. If it’ll make a difference I’ll call her and apologize, but I can’t rehire her. It’s a man’s job, pure and simple. Ladies think too much.”

Rigg’s knuckles were aching for action, but Carter was rapidly becoming un-punchable. If Rigg weren’t an actor, he might have felt foolish that his mission was a failure, but a man who has worn a chicken suit could never be humiliated. “Were you really gonna try to use that thing on me?”

Carter tilted the butt in the gravel. “Might have slowed you down.”

“Only on a sober day son, and I try not to have too many of those.” Rigg considered his options, and decided he needed to refuel. “Where’s the nearest tavern?”

Carter squinted. “I got beer if you want that. I got weed, too.”

“What a huge surprise.”

Carter picked up his gun and propped it on his shoulder like a toy. “We okay?”

Rigg accepted the invitation. “I suppose.”

There wasn’t a single window of Carter’s Auto Repair & Supply that wasn’t repaired with duct tape. Most of the duct tape covered cracks, but some of it covered holes. That much Rigg could tell when he got inside, enveloped in cold air and the rich smell of rubber, grease, and something else—something as sweet as hippie perfume.

Carter said, “You gave Willie The Mystery House.”

“I did.”

“Man,” Carter said wistfully. “I guess she got to you. She’s never even been there, you know?”

“You have?”

“In high school. We’d sneak up there to party.”

Carter gestured for Rigg to follow him through the front office, through the garage, and even farther back where Carter’s Auto Repair & Supply morphed into a low-lit, sloppy bachelor’s lounge with a TV, a mini fridge, a beat up sofa, and bench seat that looked like it had been salvaged from a semitruck. Carter pulled a canned beer from the fridge and told Rigg to take a seat. He chose the truck bench; it was the cleanest option.

Carter held up a finger before slipping through a back door that he opened and closed so quickly that Rigg almost didn’t see the rack of grow lights back there. Almost. When Carter returned he was firing up a generously packed joint. Before he handed it to Rigg, he said, “Just take it easy with this.”

Kids with pot were always warning him about how strong their stuff was, as if they assumed Rigg hadn’t smoked since the seventies. He let them think what they wanted, let them show off and overdo it. It was cute the way they’d sort of tilt and fall over eventually. But not Rigg. He knew how to keep upright. He’d been practicing on barstools all his life. He accepted the joint and filled his lungs with its sweetness. It did hit quick, he noticed. His spine grew warm, sending a fat tendril of well-being into his skull.

“So,” Rigg said. “Did the girl know she was delivering more than car parts?”

Carter sat on the sofa. “I don’t tell the couriers. Is that shitty of me?” He had pulled a sagging cardboard box out from under a table and was rummaging through it. DVDs with homemade labels, some obviously pornographic.

“That’s another reason you like old fellas, then. No one ever pulls them over.”

“You know it. Ha, here we go.” Carter waved a golden DVD with the words “Hot Gun Job” scrawled on it in felt-tip marker.

Rigg was surprised. “How the hell?”

“Buddy of mine transferred a bunch of VHS tapes to disc. You know these titles aren’t available anymore.”

Rigg leaned back. He thought he’d met every kind of fan out there, but this was a new one. A kid born in the eighties who liked bootleg softcore. “Son, the women in those films…”

“I know. They’re my Mom’s age.”

“And more’n half of them are dead. That was a dangerous industry back then.”

“Dude, be cool. Vintage is awesome.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were vintage yourself.”

Carter wasn’t listening. He’d found at least two other discs that he laid out on a coffee table. “I wish I had the tapes though, if only for the box art.”

“Well I’m glad you don’t. That’s a chapter in my career I don’t get nostalgic about.” After the movie and TV roles dried up, Dexon enjoyed an ironic comeback of sorts, guest starring in a few adult video features, parodying the
Summer Man
character he made famous.

Carter slid a disc into the machine. Rigg was prepared to strenuously object, but the truck bench had become very comfy, warm as skin. He and Carter watched the previews flip by, along with the PSA about legislative moves to curtail rights to private entertainment, etc. Carter laughed like a child. He was stoned already. The movie started, and Rigg made his first appearance two scenes in. He played a detective in a trench coat, despite the obviously sunny California location, and he’d stumbled in on a girl–girl scene. That would be the pattern throughout the film. Sexual encounters would commence, and the detective would intrude for comic effect.

Carter asked, “You bummed you never got to do the wet work?”

“Nope. They didn’t have the budget.” Rigg watched as an actress in a red wig and nothing else tried to hide in a closet that was already occupied by two other naked women. Soon there’d be five or six of them in there, performing a lipstick lesbian homage to the Marx Brothers. There were lots of hammy close-ups of Rigg’s wide-eyed surprise. He remembered that girl. They went out a couple of times. She was kind of a gun nut, as he recalled.