This Wicked World (38 page)

O
LIVIA AND
T
AGGERT ARE STILL SITTING UNDER THE
awning, side by side on the car seat, when T.K. and Spiller come up from the bunkhouse. The men pause briefly next to the van, looking it over, then glance up toward the house, confused.

“Well, well,” T.K. says when he sees Olivia.

“Hey, boys,” Olivia says.

“Obviously, she’s back,” Taggert says. “We’ve talked things out.”

“And I want to tell you guys that I’m sorry,” Olivia says. “I acted like a real idiot.”

“You’re sorry?” T.K. says, and Olivia doesn’t like his tone. There’s something disrespectful in it, something superior.

“You need something more than that?” Taggert says.

“Not if you don’t,” T.K. replies.

“I don’t,” Taggert says, putting his arm around Olivia.

A blast of wind rocks the house and tears something loose, sends it clattering across the yard.

“So let’s get down to business,” Spiller says, trying to ease the tension. “Figure out who’s doing what tomorrow.”

“You want a beer or something?” Taggert asks Spiller and T.K.

“I’m good,” Spiller says.

T.K. grunts his refusal.

“Let’s go over this once more,” Taggert says. “The meet is set for noon. Spiller, you and me will take off around ten for Lanfair, the ghost town where we’re doing the handover. T.K., you’ll leave a couple hours earlier and go to the Nipton exit off the 15, where you’ll wait for Mando and his partner. After you check them and their vehicle, you’ll call us with the all clear. Then you can head back here. Got it?”

“I got it,” T.K. says.

“Meanwhile, me and Spiller will be searched by their guy, then drive on to Lanfair, where we’ll hand over the money and get the paper.”

They go back and forth a little longer about directions and gas money and what’s for dinner tonight, but Olivia already has everything she needs. She sits there staring at T.K. while they talk, getting off on the way he won’t meet her gaze.

B
OONE
, C
ARL, AND
Robo are drinking coffee at the Coco’s in Baker when the call comes from Olivia. Boone jabs the button to answer, barking, “Hello! Hello!” as he hurries through the restaurant and out the front door.

“You there?” Olivia says.

“Of course,” Boone replies.

“The town is called Lanfair,” she says quietly, like she’s afraid of being overheard. “They’re meeting there at noon.”

“Lanfair. In the Mojave Preserve.”

“Yes.”

“Noon tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Boone closes his eyes, squeezes them shut. “How’s Amy?” he asks.

“Missing you lots, so don’t fuck up,” Olivia replies.

“Seriously, Olivia —”

“Seriously, Jimmy. Good-bye.”

The phone goes dead. Boone walks back into the restaurant, returns to the booth.

“We on?” Carl says.

“Yep,” Boone replies. He unfolds the map of the preserve he bought at the gas station and moves his finger around on it until he finds Lanfair.

“And this is where we’re headed,” he says.

T
HEY ARRIVE IN
Lanfair about six. The last thirty minutes of the trip is spent bouncing along a roughly graded dirt road, with a short stop to shoo a small herd of cattle out of the path of the truck.

Boone walks to a crumbling concrete foundation and steps up onto it to look over what remains of the town, a small settlement established by homesteaders in the early 1900s. They planted wheat and barley, built homes and businesses, but clashes with the big cattle concerns over land and water rights and the difficulty of coaxing a decent crop out of the desert soil eventually wore them down.

According to the tourist info on his map, most of the residents headed west, to L.A. or San Diego, in search of work. The post office and general store closed in 1926, and the town was left to the wind and the sand and the sun, the coyotes and the pack rats.

The Xterra is parked on what was once the main drag of the community. Eight weathered wood-and-corrugated-steel shacks lean at odd angles on both sides of the road, interspersed with a few brick and stone ruins. There’s a dilapidated windmill, a water tank shot full of holes, and what’s left of a small train depot, the tracks and ties long since hauled away by enterprising scavengers.

Carl and Robo are standing on the lee side of the Xterra, using the vehicle as a windbreak. Boone walks back over to join them.

“What do you think about hiding the truck in that thing?” he says, pointing at a skeletal wooden hulk that used to serve as a warehouse. It sits on a bluff above town and has a clear view of the main road in both directions.

“High ground’s good,” Carl says. “Just as long as the damn thing doesn’t blow down tonight.”

“It’s lasted this long,” Boone says.

They pile into the Xterra and drive up to the warehouse. The doors have fallen off their hinges, and Boone and Robo drag what’s left of them out of the way. Their activity disturbs a flock of pigeons that has taken up residence in the building. The birds swoop down from the rafters and fly past the men to regroup outside and wheel in unison against the evening sky.

Carl backs the truck into the tottery structure, so that when it’s time to move, all he has to do is give it gas. A rank odor hangs in the air, decaying wood and bird shit. Dusty shafts of sunlight beam down from holes in the tin roof, and missing planks in the walls allow for narrow glimpses of the desert outside.

The three men walk out of the warehouse and stand at the edge of the bluff to look down on the town.

“Being that we don’t know exactly where they’ll be stopping tomorrow, we should spread out, take up three different positions, and hope one of us winds up near their meeting place,” Carl says.

“Maybe there,” Boone says, pointing at the train depot.

“And by that water tank, and another man across the street, near the last building on that side.”

Carl nods. “Get some triangulation going,” he says.

“Wherever they stop, though, I’m the one who goes out for the money,” Boone says.

“I ain’t gonna argue with that,” Robo says. “ ’Bout time the white boy did the dirty work.” A sneaky gust of wind unseats his black Dodgers cap. He manages to grab it before it leaves his head and tugs it low over his eyebrows.

Returning to the truck, the men unload their gear. Robo gathers rocks for a fire ring and stacks the wood he brought along beside it. He watches as Boone spreads a tarp on a flat, sandy spot and unrolls his sleeping bag on top of it.

“You’re sleeping out here?” he asks, incredulously.

“Sure,” Boone replies. “Why not?”

“Motherfuckin’ scorpions is why not. Motherfuckin’ snakes.”

Carl carries his bag over and sets it next to Boone’s.

“You dudes are crazy,” Robo says. “I’ll be in the truck. With the doors locked.”

The sun has dropped behind the jagged range of mountains to the west by the time they get settled, but the desert still glows with the last of the daylight. Robo brings out the guns, and the men pass them around, drawing back bolts and inserting clips. Boone raises an M-16 to his shoulder and squints down the barrel. It’s military issue, configured to fire three-round bursts.

“Remember how to use that?” Carl asks.

“Come on, bro. Sergeant Rivera beat that shit into us,” Boone replies. “I bet I could still fieldstrip this thing blindfolded.”

Robo hands Boone a nine-millimeter Ruger and says, “You want that or a Glock?”

“This’ll do,” Boone says and sticks the Ruger into the pocket of his hoodie.

They give the rifles back to Robo to store for the night.

Boone’s restless, so he takes a walk, following his shadow into the scrub. He crosses a wash, then climbs onto a boulder to look around.

Pulling the Ruger from his pocket, he sights on a rusty can lying on the ground fifty feet away. Before he can stop himself, he’s squeezing the trigger. His three quick shots send the can skittering across the hardpan like it’s being kicked by a ghost.

“Hey!” Robo yells from camp.

“Sorry,” Boone calls back, but he’s not.

T
HE WIND DIES
at dusk, and Robo starts a fire. Boone and Carl eat MREs — chili mac and meatballs — and Robo has tamales. After dinner they gather beside the fire. Robo brings out a bottle of Cazadores, and it makes the rounds.

Night has reduced the world to a flickering circle, and the men gaze silently at the flames. The only sound other than the pop and crackle of the fire is the soft cooing of the pigeons, which have returned to the warehouse to roost. Thoughts of Amy disrupt Boone’s reverie. He worries that she’s scared or in pain.

It’s a relief when Robo belches and says, “Jimmy, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Boone replies.

“You went to prison for almost beating some dude to death?”

“That’s right.”

“What the fuck did he do to you?”

A log shifts in the fire, sending up a swirl of sparks. Boone watches them rise and fade and says, “I thought he was molesting his daughter.”

Robo’s face crinkles in disgust. He’s a little drunk. “Are you kidding, man?” he says. “Shit, I’d have used a gun.”

“Good thing I didn’t,” Boone says. “Because I was probably wrong. Looks like it was just some crazy husband-wife bullshit.”

“You were going on what you had,” Carl interjects. “No shame in that.”

Boone shrugs and takes a pull from the tequila.

“Okay, how about this,” Robo says, stroking his chin and assuming a philosophical pose. “When’s the first time you got laid?”

“Jesus,” Carl exclaims. “What the fuck is this, a slumber party? You need to go to bed, man. We all do.”

Robo raises his hands and says, “Okay, okay, but I got to tell you this first.” He leans forward to show he means business. “If something happens to me tomorrow, you motherfuckers better make sure my share gets to my family.”

“What do you think we are?” Carl snaps.

Robo raises a warning finger. “I’m serious. I will come back and hunt you down like Dracula.”

“Don’t even think like that,” Boone says.

“Okay. Good,” Robo says. “Now I got to piss.” He struggles to his feet and lumbers off into the darkness.

“Me too,” Carl says quietly, after he’s gone.

“What?” Boone says.

“If this goes bad for me — Diana and the boys, see they get paid.”

When Robo returns they douse the fire with bottled water and handfuls of sand. Robo walks into the warehouse to sleep in the Xterra, and Boone and Carl zip themselves into their sleeping bags.

The stars are woven into a glittering veil that stretches across the sky, and Boone gazes up at them long after Carl drifts off, so long that he eventually dreams he’s floating among them, like some legendary lost soul.

T
HE SUN HAS
been down for a while now, but Amy’s not tired. She’s spent the past few hours struggling against her bonds. Again and again she strains to free her hands from the headboard until the pantyhose tighten up and she has to stop and twist her wrists to restore the flow of blood to her fingers. The bedspread is damp with her sweat.

Virgil’s footsteps on the stairs rise above the constant drone of the TV. Amy closes her eyes, feigns sleep. The door opens, and the room is flooded with light. Virgil lingers on the threshold for a second, then steps inside and closes the door.

He stands in the dark, breathing hard. “You want more pizza?” he says.

Why doesn’t he turn on the lamp? Amy is suddenly uneasy. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she says.

“Okay. Sure,” he replies.

A thin strip of light under the door gives vague shape to objects in the room. Virgil walks over and sits on the bed. He stinks of booze and chemicals.

“Where’s your sister?” Amy says.

“Fuck her,” the kid slurs.

Amy’s body jerks with raw revulsion when he reaches out and cups one of her breasts through her T-shirt.

“You’re hot,” he says.

Amy tries to keep her voice calm. “Untie me,” she says. The kid is so fucked up right now, if he cuts her loose, she’s sure she can get the jump on him.

“Will you be nice?” he says.

“I’ll be real nice.”

Virgil hesitates a moment, confused, then squeezes her breast so tight it hurts.

“You think I’m that stupid?” he says.

“Get your fucking hand off me!” Amy screams. She yanks hard on the pantyhose, puts her whole body into it again and again, until the nylon cuts into the flesh of her wrists.

“Whoa,” Virgil yelps, pulling his hand away. “Calm the fuck down.”

“Get out of here!”

“I will,” Virgil replies. “I will.”

He doesn’t though. He continues to sit on the bed beside her. Amy sees him wobble a bit, and a moment later he brings his legs up and curls into a ball with his back to her. A snore rips the silence. He has passed out. Amy can see the Glock, black against the bedspread, in the light seeping in under the door, the kid’s fingers still curled around the grip. Two feet away. Might as well be a hundred miles.

S
PILLER AND
T.K.
COME UP FROM THE BUNKHOUSE EARLY
Tuesday morning for a last powwow before the meet. T.K. makes a face when he enters the kitchen and sees Olivia frying bacon at the stove. Taggert tenses up. This is a bad time for one of his horses to be bucking. He motions for the men to join him at the table. Spiller sits, but T.K. remains standing. “I pulled something in my back,” is his excuse, but Taggert knows it’s all about defiance.

Olivia pours coffee for Taggert and Spiller. T.K. watches her with hooded, angry eyes, and waves her off when she lifts the pot in his direction.

“You about ready to go?” Taggert asks T.K.

“I’ve been thinking about the plan,” he says.

“Yeah?”

T.K. glances at Olivia like he’s uncomfortable saying what he wants to say in front of her. Fine, Taggert thinks. He’ll send her out.

“Babe,” he says to Olivia. “Could you give us a few minutes?” The request angers her, he can tell.

“Whatever,” she snaps as she turns off the stove and bangs a few pans together.