Diamonds in Baja preview 5 - Red Mountain

Frank stirred and groaned from his sore ribs. He rolled over as the eastern horizon paled to Prussian blue. After sleeping in his refuge, the odor of mildew and mold, the dust, and the pungent rat droppings soured his good feelings of the previous night. His cartridges rolled all over the floor in the dark when he reached for the bag of cartridges.

“God damn Rats!” he muttered.

The large rodents skittered as he began stirring. They scurried like cockroaches when a light suddenly shone on them.

He crawled on his hands and knees all over the floor to retrieve the cartridges. Rat dung and mold smeared his hands. He placed the cartridges one by one in the pockets of his leather jacket. The water spigot still worked in the kitchen so he was able to wash up.

Anyone who has lived in the country at all knows that it’s pretty damn hard to get up and out before the first cock crows. Those sons-of-bitches start croaking their throats about 3:00 am. Nevertheless, Frank was out early. The sun was not yet on the dew when he started down the road, but the sky had become a pale cerulean blue.

☼

Fifteen minutes later, he was in Red Mountain. Red mountain was a small town. It sat smack dab on the major Eastern Sierra north–south Highway 395, about halfway between San Bernardino and Lone Pine. Most travelers wanting to stop would opt for the more populated Ridgecrest, near China Lake, before or after crossing Cajon Pass. However, a few history freaks, interested in local color and semi-ghost towns, dropped in. Enough stopped so that the merchants could pay their electric bills. Most people with smarts did not stay long, because of all the cyanide in the well water. Miners had made heavy use of cyanide to process ore in the surrounding mines. Cyanide, or no cyanide, a few locals kept the town alive. They met in the café early every morning, except Sunday, to gab the local gossip.

☼

Frank parked his Kawi around the corner, behind a rusty yellow dump truck, and went into the Red Mountain Café and Cantina. He noticed a bunch of locals in back, where they had shoved some tables together. Some were relishing their breakfasts, some were talking, some were eagerly awaiting delivery of the morning paper, and some were smoking and drinking coffee. Nobody cared if you smoked in Red Mountain: If the smoke did not kill you, the cyanide would. There were also a few loners at the bar.

Frank sat in a stall, close enough to the back door so he could slip out if he had to, but far enough from the chatty group so as not to draw their attention. He finally had a good meal: sunny side up eggs, hash browns, bacon, pancakes, orange juice, and some Irish coffee. He was not worried about the townsfolk. There was very little radio reception out here, so they probably would not know what was on the news--not until the Los Angeles Times was delivered.

Frank sipped his Irish coffee and waited for his tab. He became alert when a young couple entered. She was cute and Mexican. Her partner looked Nordic. They both were dressed for a desert exploration holiday.

“Boy he must have given her a good bang last night--she can’t even walk! I’ll bet she gave it to him good too--judging from his grin,” thought Frank in passing. They sat near the front window so that she would not have to walk too far. From their vantage point, they could watch the town, such as it was, wake up. They did not even seem to notice Frank.

Frank saw the tied bundle of newspapers, thrown on the curb across the street. A man from the general store came out, picked up the bundle, and went back inside, locking the door.

When the general store opened, Frank paid his tab, crossed the street, and entered the store. He bought some food, a small camp stove, and some whiskey.

☼

Back out on the road, Frank headed towards the northeast towards the Panamint Valley and bad memories. He appeared anxious to get out of the sun before it rose too high.

Diamonds in Baja preview 4 - Loyalty Amongst Thieves

Lefty Lonowski was a known snitch. Frank would have been well advised to have visited somebody else after making his break, but Lefty’s home was the only one handy when the bus blew over.

Lefty did not want to be a snitch but life had been cruel to him. He had found out early that information was as powerful as bullets: people would pay for it. Only problem was, after everyone knew he was a snitch his sources dried up: he was cut out of their thoughts and words. Finally, he had something of value.

☼

Lefty waited until after dark. Not wanting to be seen nor heard, he slipped stealthily down the alley to the old gas station two blocks away. The telephone booth at this station was way out on the corner of the lot and the overhead light was burned out. As a convict on parole and a friend of Frank, he could not risk a call from home. Big Brother could be snooping.

He would sacrifice his tight budget for this long distance call. He glided through shadows to the dark booth, dropped his quarters in with their deafening “cling clanks,” and dialed San Bernardino. He would have preferred to call Arturo because he did not like to deal with blacks, but Mose was level headed and probably clear headed. Mose would get the message straight the first time.

“Mose? It’s Lefty! Lefty Lonowski!”

“Mose here, watcha got?”

“Mose! Hey, listen up and listen close. You still give old Lefty his finder’s fees?”

“Sure boss. Don’t tell me you got lucky. What’s the scoop?”

“I want ten per cent of your take. You’re not to mention my name to nobody! I’m still on parole. I can’t afford the publicity!”

“Well, I know how that is Boss, my life has to be very careful lived since that damn caper with Frank! You’re in! Ten per cent of what I get! I hope it’s a good rat, ‘cause parolee livin’ doesn’t leave much for steaks.”

“Frank broke out today. I lent him my bike, some clothes, some cash, some grass. He even took my sleeping bag. He’s on the run. Just thought you’d like to know!”

“Sleeping bag, huh? Where’s he headed, Boss?”

“Not sure! But he let it slip that he was glad there was enough gas in the tank to get to Bakersfield!”

“You done good Boss! I’ll call Arturo right away! We won’t forget you! If your rat runs true, you’ll get your villa in Acapulco yet buddy!”

☼

Mose had never been involved in anything really bad--until he had met Frank. Mostly, he had been raised in semi-squalor, and had ridden and worked the rails. He had been a railroad conductor. He had saved his money and had had a modestly good life style. In the early days, white businessmen had discarded their Wall Street Journal and Fortune magazines into his hands. They had given him tips. He had been beginning to form a respectable nest egg.

Out of the blue, the CEO of his company had up and died. A new guy had come onboard. He had been disgusted by the aging force of conductors, stewards, and red caps. Everyone over forty had been let go. Mose had not had enough money to retire and nobody had been hiring blacks without skills.

Mose’s friends had deserted him. All he had had left were the street people. That was his downfall: association. He might have fought his way back if he had not associated with the wrong people. His reputation had been tarnished by the death of the diamond broker, and now he was an ex-con. No future had been open to an ex-con. He had tried to play his guitar for a while, but then he had gotten sick and had had to sell his guitar for medicine. He had never gotten back on his feet. Nevertheless, his spirit was unbroken.

☼

Mose went next door to the neighbor lady’s house. It was old and smelled of mildew and black mold, but he was welcome there because he did chores for her and looked after things for her when she was gone. It gave him a better image in the neighborhood. She was gone but she had left him a key. He dialed Arturo. Arturo answered but he was shit-headed so Mose hung up. Mose gathered a bedroll, some canned beans, some bacon, some chocolate bars, a camp stove, and his shiv. He stowed them aboard Shady Lady, his shiny black Harley. Forty minutes after Lefty had called, Mose was off in the dark of night headed for Riverside.

It was too bad Arturo was always loaded. It would have been more efficient for Arturo to come up and meet Mose by Cajon Pass, or at least be up and getting ready while Mose drove over. But hey! At least Lefty had ratted. That was a major break. It could have been days before they heard it on the news. They seldom listened to the news except for sports news on the Lakers. That would have been too late.

☼

Mose found Arturo groaning on the floor in a stupor with a whiskey bottle spilled on the stained carpet. Arturo was a chronic alcoholic. Even his parole officer suspected his drinking. Nevertheless, since Arturo always drank alone and caused no trouble, there was no reason to turn him in just to be vindictive. There were bigger fish to fry.

“Hey, Boss! Big news! Franks out, and it looks like he’s headed for the stash. You got no business getting loaded on parole. Just cause you got some money to spend from your body and fender job. You gotta get your head together! We got big shit goin’ down now!”

Mose rustled up some coffee and left it on the floor within Arturo’s reach. He retrieved Arturo’s keys out of his pocket and began making ready.

Mose loaded both of Arturo’s dirt bikes, along with Shady Lady, into the bike trailer and drove the van, with the trailer attached, down to the all night station. He filled all the tanks on Arturo’s credit card, which was always in the glove compartment. Then he drove back and began loading the van with any food and supplies that looked camp-worthy.

Arturo’s van and trailer were black. He had planned to have the cult logo painted on both, but had always been too drunk. Mose was pleased. For once, Arturo’s drinking was giving them anonymity.

Mose went through Arturo’s cabinets. “Hey boss? I know you! You gotta have a piece?”

Arturo brought his puke-encrusted lips off the stained carpet and peered up at Mose, grimacing angrily as though he had been hit on the head with a pipe. “I may get a drunk on, but I’m not crazy. They’d throw the key away if they found me with a piece! But I got somthin’, Bro. I got a huntin’ bow in the van with arrows.”

“You crazy? What can you do with a bow?”

“It’s much more silent than a gun with a silencer.”

“All right, where do you keep your matches? We might need to start a fire. And if you have a camp stove . . .”

Arturo growled, “All that stuff is on the top shelf of the pantry. And don’t forget my whiskey and a couple of jugs of water!”

“Ooohh Shit!” Arturo scraped himself off the floor and onto the frayed couch, tipping over the almost empty coffee cup.

“You can get your own whiskey, but I’ll get the water. You better be taking it easy on that stuff though, ‘cause we’ll need to be there for each other. I’ll need your backup.”

Mose tuned on a rerun of “The Sound of Music” for Arturo to watch and took away his remote control so he would sober up faster. Arturo hated musicals and would do anything he could to get shipshape so that he could get up and turn off the TV.

☼

Patches of clouds, still hanging heavily in the sky, began to shimmer on their edges with that pale alizarin crimson of a coming dawn, as a black van pulling a black bike trailer topped Cajon Pass and dipped into the dark bowels of the southern Mojave Desert. Dagger-like slivers of sunlight slanted through the clouds on the eastern horizon and set the tips of the Joshua trees aflame.

“Hey Bro!” Arturo looked puzzled. “How we gonna find him anyway?”

“Dunno, Boss.” Mose rubbed what was left of fuzz on his head. “May pass we don’t. Got any hunches?”

“Listen Bro, last time we saw him was in Pahrump. He told us to party hardy, to celebrate our newfound wealth. He said he was going to visit a friend in town who would buy the diamonds.”

“Yeah! Everyone knows Pahrump is an almost outlaw, barely legal, town. More brothels than churches! More meth labs than drug stores! More pit bulls than French poodles!” Mose paused. “Didn’t he say that all the whores were toothless, Boss?”

“No Bro, he said the johns were all toothless! The whores are actually pretty cute. Don’t you remember those whores that washed that guy’s motor home in the movie, ‘Mars Attacks’”?

“Yeah boss! I remember! But you’re confused. It was the scrawny red-headed guy on ‘Sunday Morning,’ but they were cute.”

“I don’t watch stupid shows like that!”

“Boss, ya do when ya so wasted you can’t find the remote.”

“Whatever! The point is they picked him up in Panamint Springs. That’s the other direction. What’s in between?”

“Boss, that’s Death Valley!”

“Listen Bro! They have to be either in Death Valley or very close by.” Arturo looked over at Mose’s worried expression. “Why you lookin’ at me that way?”

“Boss, Death Valley is a mighty big place, it gets really hot, and there’s not much water. I don’t want coyotes gnawing on my black bones.”

“Bro, you spent too much time in school learning to reason. If you had field smarts you would know: first your black body has white bones; second the coyotes will eat your body--they’ll leave the bones to the buzzards.”

“Okay, so we’ll go up through Randsburg and Panamint Springs“?

“That would be too obvious! It’s too easy to spot us with all those wide, open spaces and viewpoints. I got it figured Bro! We’ll sneak in the backdoor. It’s easy to sneak into Shoshone. We can make that our base. We’ll leave the van out behind the Crowbar lounge and then split up. You can take the Harley up Salisbury Pass and then up the main drag. I’ll double back with one of the dirt bikes and take the Saratoga Springs Road and then West Side Drive. We’ll meet at Golden Canyon. If one of us hasn’t shown by 1:00 p.m., the other will backtrack over his buddy’s track with an eye out for trouble. Any way you slice it, we are going to go slow and easy and keep our eyes peeled--for anything.”

☼

Clouds had mostly cleared up and the sun was bright. Heat permeated the van so that Arturo screeched in pain when he touched the windowsill. They stopped in Yermo, at a redneck bar run by a spiky haired blond gal. They drank until they could no longer feel the heat searing through the tavern walls and then hit the road to Baker. By the time they reached to Baker, the drinks had had an effect on Arturo. Mose pulled in at a cheap motel for the night. It was only a single bedroom and Arturo kept quaking and shouting out in his alcoholic dreams, keeping Mose awake most of the night.

Diamonds in Baja preview 3 - Red Rock

Jerry and Irene breached the pass and headed down the long steep slope to Mojave. The damp Pacific air was gone. The desert air left their nostrils dry.

The town of Mojave had not changed much. It still had its offbeat charm. A major desert T-intersection of two highways with too long a freight haul to interest the franchise people and just enough business to keep the locals going.

☼

Heading northeast on the Red Rock Randsburg Road, Irene scanned the desert for jackalope, or was it antelope. “Turn around now, Geraldo!”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“¡Órale! There’s a train coming. A big one! It’ll take a long time to climb the mountain. You could beat it up the hill and wait for it and take a picture of it doing the yoga thing.”

“Naw! Look at how long the shadows are. We need to make camp soon.”

“Are we still going to stay at that Red Rock place?”

“¡Sí! ¡Piedra Roja!”

Jerry tried the radio again. KSMG out of Los Angeles could be heard intermittently between the static.

“. . . sscchhiitt. . . Now turning to California news. K-Smog News has just learned that earlier today a Department of Corrections bus was blown over, by a freak gust of wind shear, on a road near Oakland.

Frank Gunderson, was onboard the bus and is reported missing. You may recall that Frank car-jacked, and brutally murdered, a diamond broker at a gas station in Baker, six years ago. After the killing, he was apprehended near Panamint Springs. His two cohorts had been apprehended earlier at a brothel in Pahrump. From what they told the arresting officers, it was believed that Frank had hidden the diamonds, believed to be worth forty-four million dollars at the time, in the general vicinity of Eastern Mojave and Death Valley, after skipping out on his comrades.

Frank is also the famous charismatic leader of the Jagged-Cross, a convict-centered religious cult, that believes that convicts will inherit God’s. . . sscchhiitt. . . Paroled members of the cult are known for the jagged-Cross logo on their motorcycle jackets. The cult further believed that Frank. . . sscchhiitt. . . Mojave.

His two cohorts, Arturo Mendez and Mose Jefferson, are serving out their plea bargained parole sentences in Riverside and San Bernardino counties respectively.

Frank was en route from San Quentin to Soledad to start a new chapter of his cult.

Rely on K-Smog to keep you informed on all your local late breaking news. Turning to sports. The Los Angeles Lakers announced. . . sscchhiitt. . . sign a contract with. . . sscchhiitt. . . Head Coach. . . sshheezz. . . Yau Ming. . . sshheezz. . . sscchhiitt. . . hit five under par. . . sshheezz. . . sshheezz. . . sshheezz. . .”

Jerry gave up on the radio and switched it off.

“Jeez! Sweetheart! That’s the guy who almost heet you!”

“Maybe! Maybe not! Do you know how many ex-convicts live in the Sierra foothills? I remember one time up at Negro Bar, near Folsom. I almost got kill. . .!”

“You’re gonna miss your turn!”

☼

Red Rock was the red cliff wall that sheltered the campground from prevailing Pacific winds. Little caves could be seen high up on the wall face. To the West was the high country of the southern Sierra foothills. They encountered the sudden drop at the red wall. To the east was the great expanse of the Mojave Desert.

Irene, “So what do hyou wan’ for dinner tonight, Señor”?

“Why don’t you fix some hash browns, beans and carrots? That way in the morning you can swap some bacon for the carrots and have breakfast without that much extra fuss.”

“And I suppose you are going to take pictures?”

“Well, I need to put up the kitchen, put up the beds, and get ready for the dark. They don’t seem to have any lights in this campground and it’s a new moon tonight. But you’re right. The light is fading fast. I had better take some pictures first.”

“And I have to cook in the dark?”

“I’ll fix up the lantern for you!”

Jerry shot a few exposures of the fading landscape as the clouds put on their crimson evening clothes, and then helped set up the kitchen. Then he turned to the cots.

Irene scolded,“What did you bring those stupid things for? They take up all the space in the car?”

“Scorpions!”

“Scorpions? Are they deadly?”

“Never know! Mostly, around here, they have Mojave Greens. They won’t kill you but you’ll wish they had. Nevertheless, there are a few rare scorpions around that could kill you. Just be careful. Put all of your clothes and shoes on the folding chair by your cot, and be sure to shake them upside down if you get up in the night to pee, or when you get up in the morning.”

“scree. . . scree. . . scree. . . scree”

Irene jumped. “Now what?”

“Bats!”

Flying rodents could be seen emerging from small caves on the cliff face. They seemed to be everywhere as they screeched with their radar voices.

“Are they vampires?”

“whooo”

“The bats!”

“Oh, I thought you meant the owl.”

A cream-colored owl, glided effortlessly among the trees in the dark.

“I don’t know! Keep an eye on them and duck if any start diving at you. You better get some good sleep Irene, ‘cause it’s your turn to drive tomorrow.”

The night was warm. Jerry and Irene lay side-by-side watching the bats against the fading twilight crimson of the dissipating clouds.

Just before they dozed off they, heard rodents scurrying around on the ground. Irene said she hoped they were not packrats. Soon the young tourists were sleeping like baby coyotes. Irene’s pants were hung carelessly off the edge of the campstool, where they reached all the way to the ground.

Diamonds in Baja preview 2 - Tehachapi

Bakersfield was a Californian archipelago in the San Joaquin Sea. After two days of monsoon, half the city was submerged. One of those weird retro-moving storms had traveled slowly from east to west. They were usually caused by Pacific storms coming up against strong high-pressure centers over the Great Basin, which forced them to back up. Sometimes these same high-pressure areas also developed into Santa Ana wind conditions, downing trees in Los Angeles, toppling empty big rigs on the Grapevine, and blowing sandstorms in the deserts.

On the Highway 178 grade, above Bakersfield, rain drained quickly; more quickly as the grade increased. A Dodge Raider cut through the runoff, splashing rooster tails, ascending out of Bakersfield with 4-wheel drive engaged. Jerry Jensen hated Mitsubishi engines, but at least the Raider had a steel-plated protection, solid enough to protect its otherwise soft underbelly from most anything it would encounter in Death Valley.

☼

Jerry was a jaded high-tech worker who lived for his outings. They provided escape from the clean rooms, the secrets, the office politics, and the android bosses who demanded 300%. These safaris allowed him to smell the forest pines, listen to the waves on a rocky shoreline, and explore the secret desert canyons. Wherever he traveled, he took his Olympus cameras and assortment of lenses and filters, so that he would always remember what he had seen. For him life was graphic.

☼

Bakersfield had thrived as a major city along the truck routes ever since the Ridge Route had opened in 1915. Twenty years later, the Ridge Route had been replaced by the Grapevine. The route south into, and out of, Los Angeles had always been perilous, with vehicles losing control on the steep grades and plunging in ‘the somersault of death’ off one of the hairpin turns.

☼

Modern Bakersfield was a major truck stop. Big rigs stopped here just before or just after they took on the perilous Grapevine between Los Angeles and Bakersfield, and the radio stations played trucker music.

☼

Willie Nelson was singing ‘On the Road Again.’ Jerry traditionally listened to Keene Country Radio whenever he climbed this grade. He preferred jazz, but Bakersfield had the best Country-Western station this side of Luckenbach. He sang along to the music and said, “When in Bakersfield do as Buck Owens would” to his friend Irene.

His eyes swung to the left to take in the quickly disappearing East Bakersfield rooftops. Many were covered with plastic tarps held down against the wind by discarded truck and car tires.

Irene rode shotgun. She looked out the window for wild animals. She loved to write and had published a few articles in nature magazines. Her world was literary.

She loved animals, almost as much as she loved Jerry. She loved to get away with him and see the wonder in his eyes. She wanted to provide him with more wonder. She wanted to have his baby.

☼

Approaching the town of Keene the rain slowed and finally stopped. The hills became ablaze with the bobbing waves of golden California poppies dancing in the in the light breeze and glistening with fresh raindrops.

Jerry rounded a curve and pulled onto a too narrow muddy turnout. He stepped out and crossed the road. He took several polarized Kodachromes of the gilded flanks on the other side of the canyon, as a bright rainbow appeared behind the poppies. He was ecstatic at the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time. Jerry’s photography depended more on serendipitous opportunities than on technical expertise.

As he re-crossed the road, replacing his lens cap, a large bull rounded the curve and made a blind pass at Jerry, as though Jerry were waving a cape and wearing a suit of lights. It was a black Kawasaki, leaning way down on the inside with a tall rider wearing a black bandana and a black motorcycle jacket. The bike missed Jerry by suicidal leaning even further into the turn. Attempting to miss Jerry, the biker almost ran into the Raider, which he seemed to only see at the last second. As the bike sped off, Jerry noticed that the back of the leather jacket bore a jagged-cross logo.

Irene, “Jeez, honey! That idiot almost hit you!”

“Yeah! Almost!”

☼

As they approached Tehachapi, someone started to sing ‘Rocky Top,’ but the Tehachapi area was anything but a rocky top. Jerry turned off the radio so that he could concentrate. He took the Tehachapi off ramp, anticipating some local color. It had been years since he was last here. What had happened to the town? All of the local color had been replaced omnipresent plastic McDonald’s and Burger Kings. A quick U-Turn and they were back out onto the highway.

Irene piped up, “Hey Geraldo, I bet you’re grateful now that I got up early and fixed us some nice road snacks.”

Jerry had told her to sleep in, that they would eat lunch in Tehachapi and enjoy the quaint little village. Irene had ignored his request and gotten up early anyway. She had fixed deviled eggs, burritos a la habanera, and added some jalapeño flavored Fritos.

Jerry ignored her. “Someday I wanna come back here and just sit!”

“What you mean just sit? You gonna sit and wait for a chupacabra to come along and suck a goat? I don't see no goats!"

“No! I just wanna to sit and wait for a freight train!”

“¡Órale! What is so important about a train?”

“The grade over the Tehachapis is so great that a freight train, even with four to six locomotives, could not go up or down. The engineers got around the problem by building a 360° bend in the track.”

“Engineering intelligence! They wanted to go in circles?”

“The track doubles back and crosses over itself. This gives the locomotive more track length in which to climb the grade. It’s sort of like stretching the mountain so that it is flatter. It’s a kind of railroad yoga. Sometimes you can reach the unobtainable by just allowing yourself a little more latitude.”

“We’re gonna need hobo yoga if this recession stretches out too much longer.”

☼

Approaching the Tehachapi Summit all radio reception became, at best, intermittent. Even the station that was supposed to explain the countryside was mostly static. They did not need a tour guide to know that they were passing through one of the great wind-energy production fields of the world. All over the hills above them were so many tall drum majorettes standing with their feet apart and twirling their batons.

Irene screamed, “Jeez Geraldo! Isn’t that the guy that almost ran you over?”

Jerry glanced over his shoulder and saw a black motorcycle stopped, with the rider sitting next to it working on something. The rider was pretty well hidden, back from the road with heavy shrubs on three sides. “I dunno! Maybe! They all look alike”.

Diamonds in Baja preview 1 - Frank

Driving rain stung his face, drenched his black bandana, and bounced of his black leather jacket. As he climbed the grade eastward, the rain let up and he began to feel more traction. California Poppies streaked past were hypnotically, like good LSD. Frank Gunderson smiled the smile of a free man, as he raced higher on his borrowed Kawasaki.

☼

After Frank’s bus had tipped over, he had made his way to Lefty Lonowski’s pad, a paroled cult member who lived near Oakland, California. Frank had intimidated Lefty into the loan of the large Kawasaki, a change of clothes, some cash, a sleeping bag, and some weed. He had raced down Interstate 5 so fast that Bakersfield city limits were upon him before the need to pee.

He had petitioned the prison authorities to acknowledge that his church needed LSD, like the American Indians needed peyote, so that they could more fully experience their religious visions. The warden and the prison board had given him wide latitude in managing his church, but LSD was not to be allowed.

Frank had never meant to go wrong. Things had just happened to him--before he knew it he would be in a situation, which demanded a resolution. One time the resolution had demanded brutality. He had learned a lot in prison, like how to find diplomatic solutions with fellow convicts who were as desperate as he was--that was his most important lesson. He never wanted to resort to brutality again. Still he was ready if they cornered him.

☼

Frank really wanted to stop and smoke a joint. Enough distance had been placed between himself and the law that he could afford to stop for a smoke.

The wind screamed over his helmet-less head and his wet and matted blond hair flapped from under his bandana like so many flames in a wind driven brushfire. It felt good to be out and on the move, after five years in the joint. Frank leaned more deeply into the turns as the asphalt dried out, enjoying his new freedom.

“Oh shit!”

Some stupid cream puff, tree hugging geek was standing in the middle of the road with a camera, like a damn idiot. Frank had to lean and turn even more sharply, and as he did he noticed that stupid Raider SUV sticking out in the road--where there was no room for it. Frank straightened up and barely missing the other vehicle.

That was close. The last thing Frank needed was to draw unnecessary attention to himself or to kill somebody, with or without premeditation.

He accelerated up the grade, leaning forward to reduce wind resistance, until some distance had been placed between the SUV and his bike.

He stopped in a deep turnout, surrounded on three sides by brush. Squatting on the bike’s shady side, he rolled a joint. He looked up from the rolling to see the Raider go racing by. “Fuckin’ Geeks!” He gave them the one finger salute and settled down for a good smoke.

☼

His siesta was interrupted by a paranoid dream where the police were closing in on him. The shadows were lengthening and he needed to get back on the road. He figured that the geek must be in the next county by now.

They must have put something extra into that weed. The wind towers were police helicopters with conical search beams looking for him. He rode on slowly so as not to draw their attention. He eased on down the long slope to Mojave. He felt relief as he left those choppers behind. At the bottom of the grade, the highway made an abrupt turn to the South. The lights of Mojave were beginning to glimmer in the dusk. Near the main intersection in town, he pulled into the parking lot behind an all-night café.

☼

Mojave was a desert junction. There was little crime--too little crime. The police spent too much time having coffee and donuts and not enough time patrolling. If there were any fugitives coming through town, it would be up to the Highway Patrol to snag them down, especially if there was a new girl serving donuts.

Frank had intended to get some coffee and get straight, but then he saw the squad car along the side of the building, and out of sight from the road. There was a double-barrel, sawed-off shotgun in the middle of the front seat and a box of cartridges on the tray by the gearshift. The stupid cop had carelessly left the gun unlocked in its rack.

Frank scanned the parking lot. The only people he could see were a young couple, who were too busy fighting over who was sober enough to drive to notice him. He reached in and grabbed the shotgun and cartridges. Now he had protection. Let those choppers come back. He was ready. Bring ‘em on!

He would have to get straight later. He rolled up the gun in his bedroll and dropped the cartridges in his saddlebag. Now he had to get out of town--but first, he stopped, at the convenience store at the gas station on the edge of town, for a Coca-Cola and some pepperoni.

He headed out the road that led to Red Rock. He could not afford to stay the night at a conventional campground, so he kept going to Garlock.

☼

Near where the Southern Pacific tracks crossed the road, he found an abandoned shack. Around back, the porch roof had fallen over and made a perfect lean-to where he could hide the bike. He took the bedroll, shotgun, cartridges, and grub to the second floor. He surveyed his view of the roadway and sat down. “Nothing like Coca-Cola and pepperoni when you’re on the run,” he told himself, “Just like Louie and Clark and Sack-A-Ja-Wanna on their voyage of recovery!”

He placed the cartridges in his convenience store shopping bag.

After a hungry chew on the pepperoni, he wrapped up the rest and shoved it into his pants pocket to keep it away from the rats. Soon he was sleeping like a pet dog lost in the forest, twitching with each strange sound.

The rats left his pepperoni alone, but while he was snoring they chewed a big hole in his bag of cartridges.