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.