Alibi Creek (11 page)

21

SATURDAY OCTOBER 6, 2007

P
LANK DEAD
. W
HOOSH
. G
ONE
.

“It ain't fair, Mother. A sweet soul like yourself suffering day in day out, caught in limbo, and that old fart just closes his eyes and crosses the finish line easy as a racehorse.”

“Bubble.”

“Yeah, Danielle's somethin', huh? I see she's been watching TV with you this morning, munchin' chips and drinking Cokes. Probably switched channels to something you can't stand.” He picked up the remote and found TCM. “And I bet you're pissed off she won't pick up after herself. Doesn't take much to carry a can to the trash and close a bag of Doritos. She never was one to pay attention to anything other than her body. Wait. Let me extend that to a man's body. She's got one now, but I can already predict the outcome. Our sly kitten will twist that guy into every possible contortion until he can't breathe, sneak every last dime out of his pockets, and spend it on junk 'cause she can't tell the difference between crap and quality. There'll be squabbles and resentments, lyin', cheatin', bric-a-brac flyin', until one of those weapons hits him on the head and he wakes up and pitches her out, far as he can, China maybe.” He patted Mother's hand and turned up the volume. “Don't you worry. She'll be gone soon. There. Ray Milland in
Lost Weekend.
Never saw it.
Dial M For Murder
was one of Dad's favorites. Remember? He liked Grace Kelly, but she ditched every
guy in America and married a prince. Every woman wants a prince. Women are too cowardly to take on the world alone and the richer a man is, the greater the opportunity of never having to face life. A woman can invent all sorts of reasons for wanting a man—soul mate, true heart, good in the sack, but in the end, it boils down to one fact—a man will allow a woman to slack off dealing with survival. Fill a pill with vitamins, you still got but one pill. Hell, I got to go.”

Keith was off somewhere, the ATV's tires having flattened two strips of grassland toward the Randall Range. Walker tried the door to the trailer. The living room was empty, but for the couch and lounger, and of course, the brown throw. A shingle flapped on the roof and down the hall a branch scratched against one of the bedroom windows. The frills women collected mattered, and placemats and a few knickknacks might have cozied up the place, but Danielle obviously wasn't into decorating the same dump twice. Under grimy kitchen wall cabinets, Keith's red and black flannel shirt lay on the counter beside a leather wallet, loose change, and a checkbook. Walker shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and stepped closer to the counter. Aside from Keith's driver's license, the wallet contained the usual credit cards and $643.00 in cash. He opened the checkbook. A balance of $1,266,000.57 written neatly in fine ballpoint pen popped off the page. He folded the checkbook and held it to his chest. Eyes closed, he rubbed the slick plastic cover, as if warming his hands, and slowly re-opened it. Yup. $1,266,000.57. Flipping back through the entries, he discovered $880,000.00 had been withdrawn just prior to Keith's visit. The vet was ready, and able, to buy. Walker rushed outside and hollered. “YEEHAH!” A few grackles lit out from the trees. He threw
his arms to the heavens, dashed the length of the trailer and back. Boy, he'd love to call Pat Merker, spill the news. Pat Merker. Merk the Jerk. The guy hadn't lied. All their jabbering and plotting and big ideas were about to pay off. Hot damn. Hot tamales. Hot stuff. Hot to trot. Hot spot. Good shot. Hit the spot. Thanks a lot.

Do not tell Jo. He drew an imaginary zipper with a silver tassel across his lips. Oh, but she'd get a kick out of this one. She'd be hurt that he hadn't let her in on the scheme, wonder for years what became of him, because this time he'd disappear for good. No sneaking back for a midnight visit to laugh at the havoc he'd created. Couldn't take the chance. This deal amounted to the grand finale, the culmination of forty-two years of practice.

A cloud passed in front of the sun, casting the dirt in even light. In prison he'd ached for sun on his skin. Lying on his cot at night, blinking into black stale air, he'd clear his mind and drift to a speck of ground out on the plains and stand in the sun he'd taken for granted, the horizon far off. The only thing to discover in any direction would be more space, the air so dry, sweat evaporated before it dropped. And he'd zoom like an aircraft, arms pressed against his sides, head directing his body west toward rolling hills, until he caught sight of the Rio Risa trickling out of the Mariposa Mountains. He'd follow the river to where it met Alibi Creek, where he could damn near smell ponderosa pine baking in the July heat, get a headache from juniper pollen, spit dust, and squint against snow that stayed dazzling white. He'd land and bow to lizards, gophers, rattlers, and bull snakes, his ears straining to pick up the low bleating of a cow, a baby elk squealing for its mama, or a coyote calling its mate, and drift off to sleep with the love of place, the missing of place and the longing for place. This place.

He reached into the bed of the pickup, took a beer out of the cooler and drove seven miles north, up through the rock cliffs onto the flats just this side of Arizona and parked between a couple of cedars and walked into the field. The final warmth of summer had put a hold on the season, refusing to let go. Flies and gnats buzzed lazily, about done with their frenzied dance until spring. His eyes fixed on a spot a hundred feet ahead and when he got there he tossed down his hat, lay on his back, arms tucked under his head. Pebbles poked his shoulders and rough clumps of grass tickled his neck, and a light breeze licked his cheek. He shut his eyes against the shocking blue sky and fell asleep.

He met Jo on her usual perch at 5:10 sharp and took the Manhattan from her hand before she took a second sip.

“Darlin', let's blow this joint, get some real food in a fine restaurant.”

“Any restaurant classified as ‘fine' is an hour and a half from here. I'm tired.”

“C'mon. You don't need to do a thing. I'm driving.” He poked the corners of her mouth into a smile. “That's better. Say, ‘why Walker, I'd love to!' like a pleasant lady.”

She removed his fingers and sucked in her cheeks.

“I'm no pleasant lady, and you know it.”

“Sweetheart, I know just who you are and I appreciate every cell in your body. Tonight I aim to show you how much. This much.” He pulled her off the stool and wrapped his arms around her and squeezed with all his might.

“I can't breathe.”

“Don't sit down,” he said, grabbing her purse, then her hand, and dragging her out the door. “Larry's Front Quarter, here we come!”

“Damn you, Walker. Maybe I got plans tonight.”

“This is the plan. And I'm your man. The night belongs to us.”

They drove west into the last of daylight and he hooked his pinkie around hers until she relaxed.

“Personally,” she said, pulling her hand away and lighting a cigarette, “I've got nothing against your sister, but everyone else rolls their eyes. Running around with a clipboard clutched to her chest like a coat of armor, supporting all that crap those commissioners dole out. We're all waiting to hear the bullshit she hands to the press about the big federal handout. Nothing will change. Years from now, if we're lucky, we'll discover what the Three Stooges did with the money.”

Walker drove in silence. He never spoke ill of Lee Ann, never defended her either. The favors she'd done him out-weighed expressing personal feelings one way or the other. He had his opinions, though. Lee Ann wasted time trying to live up to Christian ideals that didn't exist. Any sane person would go nuts meeting those standards, even God Himself. Pious folks set the bar high to make sure there'd be a lot of room for failure and therefore, criticism, which meant a lot of room for improvement spelled out in the Bible. Lee Ann cared too much what others thought. There wasn't a person alive could please everyone. Trying to please everyone resulted in living carefully, self-consciously, and that amounted to keeping secrets about all sorts of ugly acts righteous people pretended not to have committed. Living carefully ruined spontaneity. Sure as a boot heel snuffed out a spark, the thrill of reacting in the moment couldn't thrive smothered with caution. Taking up with Eugene was probably the one time in her life lust drew Lee Ann into a whirlwind of emotion too powerful to resist. As if to repent, she loaded herself with a slew of duties. He'd caught her whispering, probably still begging for forgiveness for the
sin of betraying Wayne, that clumsy, morose, first husband she couldn't stomach, a man with such a gray temperament folks skedaddled when they saw him coming. She should have dumped him the first week of their marriage, but oh, no. Lee Ann stood by her commitments.

“You listening?” Jo said. “I've only got a twenty.”

“This is on me.”

He'd sweet-talk Larry out of the bill once they'd eaten.

A lump the size of a wild plum, and growing, stuck in his throat and his tongue felt thick. Their last night together. Jo slipped her arms out of her jacket and opened the menu, candlelight flushing her chin and forehead, cheeks aglow. Why, her hair, which usually reminded him of a Brillo pad, looked soft as dandelion fluff. She'd dabbed her nose with makeup and swiped dusty rose lipstick across lips seldom bruised by kisses. Delicate, unadorned hands unwrapped the cloth napkin rolled around a steak knife and fork. Without missing a beat, she ordered a Royal Manhattan.

“Thanks, Walker. I didn't realize how much I needed a change from the same old grind.”

When their drinks arrived, he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and toasted their friendship, that damn thick tongue getting in the way of his words.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling with her whole face, some of that candlelight dancing in her eyes. “I love you, too.”

They recalled capers they'd pulled when they were kids. By the light of a full moon they'd raided Iris Herrington's garden, picked the corn, pulled up carrots, plucked tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and squash, and conned Art, who was old enough to use his dad's truck, into driving them to the farmers market in Show Low for a cut of the profits.
They'd convinced their classmates to invest in a group lottery ticket and kept the money. And what about the time he told everyone Jo was in the hospital and collected money to send flowers, plush slippers, and a terrycloth bathrobe when really, she'd skipped school to go to Phoenix with her mother. They'd shared the money and hitched a ride to Silver City and got stomachaches from an overdose of popcorn, Nibbs, and chocolate covered mints while watching
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
At some point Walker discovered the value of pre-historic Indian pottery—artifacts Dad had discovered atop the mesas along Alibi Creek, on the Walker Ranch, and in the national forest. Before Lee Ann found out, he and Jo sold half the family's collection to galleries in Santa Fe and dealers in Albuquerque. He'd put money down on land without clear title and resold the property indiscriminately, bought and sold crappy used cars and trucks. His first stint in jail had resulted from scamming folks into importing Mexican cattle with a make-believe partner in Chihuahua. He and the money disappeared. Six months later, broke and worn out, he reappeared having declared bankruptcy. Lyle showed up the next day and took him to jail, booked him on fraud.

Not only Jo forgave him. Folks blamed themselves, not Walker, for falling for his wild propositions. Sure, after losing money they'd get pissed off and upset, swear up and down and call him names saved for their worst enemy. In the end, however, they'd been entertained, beguiled, and enchanted by the thrill of believing in a dream. Deep in their hearts, they knew the unlikelihood of this “sure thing” paying off. But then again, maybe, just maybe it might. And when the scheme failed, and he looked so forlorn for disappointing them, saying no, there was no way to get the money back, most ended up feeling sorry for the guy. Of
course, there were plenty who would never speak to Walker again, who spit at the mention of his name.

Jo dabbed sour cream on her baked potato and sprinkled chives and bacon on top, sipped her drink, and sighed before cutting into her steak, savoring each bite. She reached for a roll, broke off a piece, and slathered it with butter.

“Where's your wife?” she asked.

“Three guesses.”

“I know you married her for a reason, and I won't pry, but I don't imagine her running off with Keith was part of the plan.”

“Things couldn't have worked out better,” he said. “I get to spend tonight with you.”

He jumped from the pickup and escorted her to the door.

“That's not necessary,” she said.

“I'm coming in.”

“Walker, we've tried this. It doesn't work.”

“You're killin' it by sayin' that.”

She led the way up the flagstone walkway and he followed her inside. In the dark he held her shoulders and turned her to him.

“You're a married man.”

“You're jealous.”

“That's right.”

“No need to be. I joke you're the only gal for me, but I mean it,” he said. “All the others are either too young or too tall.”

“That's not funny,” she said.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her closed, baby soft lips.

“C'mon, relax,” he whispered. “I got so much feelin' for you I'm about to bust.”

He pressed her hand against his crotch.

“See.”

Her hand rested where he placed it, as if deliberating whether his erection could hold up and deciding it just might, she led him into the bedroom. He unbuttoned her blouse and unzipped her skirt. She undid his belt and tugged at his shirt. One step dropped them beside each other in bed, one leg over another locked them together, one kiss led to lips against shoulder, breast, and belly. She smelled kind of like the courthouse, but he didn't mind. Those thighs, he welcomed their grip. She raised her arms above her head and moonlight caught the curve of her armpit and the swell of her breast. He looked down at her closed eyes and parted lips and his body moved as though he were singing to her, the rhythm carrying him along, her response spurring him on. She hugged his neck and moved with him and against him. In all his days, he never felt anything like it.