Prodigal Blues Read online

  I couldn't hear what they were saying to one another but her body language told all I needed to know. The flicker from the streetlights glinted from Rebecca's eyes and the tears running down her cheeks. She knelt down as best she could and took hold of Thomas's trembling hands, then leaned in against him, whispering in his ear. After a moment Thomas freed his hands and wrapped his arms around her. Rebecca began to return the embrace, hesitated a moment, and then gave in. They held each other in silence. I could not even begin to imagine what was passing between them. I can imagine better now, but I try not to.

  Rebecca was the one to break the embrace. She stood, wiped her eyes, tried to smile but didn't make it, and then simply walked away, leaving him parked halfway up the walk.

  The beam from the laser-sight jumped up and down against my chest. Twice.

  This was the first signal.

  As soon as Rebecca was out of sight I was to count to sixty, then make the call.

  She rounded the corner and paused. Her head made a slight half-turn as if she were about to take a last look at Thomas, but she stopped herself and resumed walking. Our transportation was parked farther down that street, in an area where there was not a streetlight; by the time I reached sixty she would be back inside the vehicle, waiting for the rest of us.

  Hidden somewhere near the young man with the pistol was another kid named Arnold. He was wearing a set of headphones and was pointing a twenty-inch parabolic dish in my direction. Grendel had ordered it through some online surveillance equipment company. It ran on three AAA batteries and could listen in on any conversation within three hundred yards with pinpoint accuracy. He wouldn't need to hear what was said by the person I was about to call, he was listening only for my side of the conversation; one mistake, and he'd tell the young man with the pistol and that, as they say, would be that.

  They were an organized bunch, no argument there.

  When I counted forty I thumbed the "talk" button and—

  —and this isn't right. Not at all. Sorry. Dammit. I said I wouldn't know where to begin.

  The biggest part of the mess.

  Not always so obvious at first glance, I'm afraid....

  3. The Twin Butter Dishes

  I was stranded at a truck-stop near Jefferson City, Missouri. It happened like this:

  The drive from Cedar Hill to Topeka had taken the better part of eighteen hours because the car I was driving (borrowed from my brother-in-law's used car business—he'd assured me it was "...in top-notch condition!") kept overheating and frequent service-station stops were required. The list of ailments it suffered from kept growing exponentially the farther I traveled, and one mechanic even went so far as to say, "Please tell me that you didn't actually walk onto a lot and buy this goddamn nightmare from someone. The only things holding that engine together are spit and wishes, and I'm not all that sure about the spit. I've done all I can. I hope you make it home. I'll remember you in my prayers."

  I decided something along that line would be a good slogan for my brother-in-law's business:

  Perry's Used Cars: We'll Pray You Make It Home.

  Despite the mechanic's dire assessment, I made it to Topeka and did what I'd gone there to do. It took about as long as I'd expected, and after three days of dealing with redneck Kansas relatives I was more than ready for the comfortable, white-bread blandness of Ohio. I packed up what was needed, said my goodbyes, got onto I-670 East, and had driven a couple of hundred miles toward home—almost far enough away from Topeka to allow myself to feel relief—when the engine made a sound somewhere between a screech and Godzilla's roar and did not so much stop as it did throw up its arms and say Good-bye, cruel world! Smoke and steam billowed from underneath the hood in heavy tendrils that quickly formed heavier clouds, filling the car with a strong, burnt, metallic odor. I count myself lucky to have made it over to the emergency lane without hitting another vehicle. I sat there for a few moments, promising myself I'd remain calm—I'd kept it together for the last three days, I could keep it together now—then began beating the steering wheel with my fists and screaming like a madman. The car was singularly unimpressed. I waited until the cloud thinned out, then tried starting the engine once more. Every time I turned the key and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine made its feelings known.

  Click. Fuck it.

  Click. Fuck it.

  Click. Fuck it.

  The burnt metallic odor became stronger with each attempt.

  I popped the hood and climbed out. I had no idea what I thought I was going to do. My ignorance of the inner-workings of automobiles can be summed up in one word: profound. I knew you filled their tanks with gas. Changed the oil every three thousand miles. Took them in for a wash once in a while. Rotated the tires when you felt whimsical.

  I was screwed.

  I propped up the hood with that hood-propping-upper thingamajig and leaned in for a better look, coughing from the stench of burned metal.

  I rubbed my face, then sighed.

  No doubt about it.

  None whatsoever.

  It was definitely an engine.

  I shook my head, cursing my wife for being right, yet again. This was going to be good for at least two weeks' worth of well-deserved I-told-you-so's. How many times since we'd gotten married had Tanya asked me to get a cell phone? "I know you think they're just expensive pampered-yuppie toys, but some day you might be stuck out in the middle of nowhere and need help—then what are you going to do?"

  "I'm a big boy who can take good-enough care of himself. I'll think of something."

  What I thought of was to kick the fender.

  Which came loose.

  Then fell off.

  Onto my foot.

  I was so screwed—no, wait, scratch that: I was so far beyond screwed that it would have taken the light from screwed a thousand years to reach me.

  Cars whizzed by. I considered stepping out in front of one; the driver would either stop to help or splatter me from here to Indianapolis; either way, I'd be on the road again.

  I rubbed my eyes, stretched, then leaned against the side of the car and watched the traffic. I wondered where everyone was going. They all seemed in such a hurry. I waved at them. Nobody even looked in my direction.

  It's a real education to find yourself in a position to observe the sorts of cars that are still on the road. I saw everything from rusty Corvettes to reconditioned Gremlins to BMWs to Pintos and something I swear was a Volkswagen "Thing" (anyone else remember those?); I counted fourteen station wagons—not SUVs, not minivans, station wagons, replete with faux wood paneling on the doors ala The Mod Squad; I saw a couple of electric cars (which I still maintain look like four-wheeled suppositories), dust-caked Cadillac convertibles, and Novas whose like hadn't been manufactured since Nixon resigned office; but the blue-ribbon prize went to an honest-to-God VW Microbus, circa 1969-70; it was painted bright silver and reflected the afternoon sunlight so intensely I couldn't look directly at it for more than a few seconds.

  In case you don't happen to recall what this particular highway star looked like, the VW Microbus (incredibly popular in its day; immortalized by Arlo Guthrie in the song "Alice's Restaurant") had four doors—one on the driver's side, one on the passenger's side, and two side doors with directly opposing handles; neither of these doors slid open, mind you, they opened outward like a pair of metal wings. Once inside you could relax in the comfort of the bucket seats in front and fold-down padded seats in the middle and rear.

  I hadn't seen one of these in decades, which is why it caught my attention, but what made it really perfect was that this blindingly silver VW Microbus was hauling an equally-bright silver Airstream trailer; they looked like a pair of antique covered butter dishes making a run for it.

  The VW slowed as it passed me, and for a moment I saw the passenger: a little girl of perhaps nine or ten, with blonde hair, big eyes, and a killer smile. She gave me a little wave, then was gone.

  As I watched the twin butter
dishes move onward, I noticed a break in the traffic from both directions. For about two minutes I was standing beside a completely empty stretch of highway, and something about it struck me as funny at first—after all, it's usually during scenes like this in half-assed science fiction movies that a spaceship lands to set loose the intergalactic proctologists on the unsuspecting schmuck who's in a similar situation—but then it got eerie in a hurry, because I realized that at this moment, in this place, right now, this second, nobody—

  —nobody knew where I was; not only that, but I had no way of letting anyone know.

  If a mysterious Lovecraftian something-or-other was going to snatch me out of the world so my name could be listed along with those of Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and the guy who invented the water engine, this would be the time to do it.

  Sounds silly now, but believe me, there wasn't a damn thing funny about it for those one-hundred-and-twenty seconds I was by myself out there. Consider this: how many times over the course of a week do you find yourself in transit from one place to another without anyone knowing exactly where you are for however long it takes to get from point "A" to point "B"? You pop out for a pack of smokes and don't tell anyone; you run to the store for eggs or milk and don't leave a note; you head over to the Post Office to mail out some bills after the family's asleep. Stop and really think about it—like I did during those two minutes—and you might be left a bit anxious by the total. I figured there were about six hours (give or take) during any given week when I was not only alone (regardless of the size of your crew, janitorial work is mostly solitary), but completely out of reach with or from anyone (say, when moving between buildings).

  The realization was, for me, anyway, incredibly creepy.

  I was so relieved when cars started reappearing that I didn't mind their drivers ignoring me. I promised myself to buy a cell phone as soon as I got home. Tanya could gloat all she wanted.

  I'd been standing there for about half an hour, resigned to spending the rest of my days in this very spot, when a Missouri State Trooper pulled over.

  "Good morning," he said, approaching me slowly. I could see his partner back in the cruiser talking into the radio microphone.

  "Boy, am I glad you came by." I read his name-tag—L. Murphy—and then saw my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses; even I thought I looked suspicious.

  He gave the car a once-over and slowly shook his head. "You be offended if I said I'm not surprised that this thing broke down on you? Looks like—" He leaned in for a closer look, then made a hmph! sound. "—like a bad primer job, for one thing." He scratched at a small section of paint. It came right off, revealing the red underneath. "We've be seeing a lot of this around here lately. Got some boys from a Kansas City chop-shop been stealing cars and giving 'em a quick facelift. 'Course we ain't got 'em all, yet, but we're working on it."

  This was more information than I needed. He wasn't just making small-talk, he was deliberately making me nervous. He looked at the paint under his fingernail, then wiped it against the side of his pants. "Can I ask your name?"

  I told him.

  "This your car, Mr. Sieber?"

  "Nope."

  The response seemed to surprise him. "Mind telling me whose car it is?" he asked, his right hand slipping just a little closer to his holstered weapon.

  "Technically, no one's. My brother-in-law loaned it to me. He owns a used-car dealership in Cedar Hill, Ohio." After that it was just a matter of showing him my license, giving him Perry's address and phone number, and waiting while he ran a check on the information.

  Once he confirmed that I wasn't part of some tri-state car-theft ring he came back and returned my license. "It all checks out, which I'm sure comes as a big surprise to you. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we gotta be careful. There've been a lot of car thefts in the last week or so. A couple of folks were even bashed in the head and pulled from their cars at stoplights. So we kind of want these fellahs real bad."

  "I understand." I shoved my wallet back into my pocket. "I don't suppose there's any way you could give me a lift to the nearest service station…?"

  "Afraid not. Unless it's a life-or-death emergency, it's against regulations. I already got 'hold of Cletus over at the truck stop—a better mechanic you won't find. He'll be along with the tow truck in about forty minutes and you can ride back with him. He'll get you fixed up, but I gotta warn you—he'll talk your ear off."

  "If he gives me a ride and can fix this heap, he can sing arias from La Traviata in Esperanto for all I care."

  The trooper grinned. "Hey, you know opera? My wife's a big opera fan. I bought her season tickets last Christmas. 'Course that means I have to go with her, but I'm getting to not mind it as much as I thought I would. Some of them singers can hit notes that'll shatter your bridgework. Here," he said, handing me an ice-cold can of Coke and small plastic bag filled with carrot sticks. "We keep a cooler of sodas and snacks and stuff in the back of the cruiser in case we come across folks like yourself. I'd've brought you some water, but we're fresh out. Anyway, it seemed to me like you could use some refreshment, so there you go. I hope Cletus can get you fixed up all right. Try to enjoy what you can of the day."

  "Thank you."

  He started back toward his cruiser. "Don't you worry none about being stuck out here, Mr. Sieber. If Cletus says he'll be here in forty minutes, he'll be here in forty minutes."

  He was there in twenty-five. While I stood waiting, the twin butter dishes cruised by a second time; once again the little girl smiled at me and waved, and I gave her the same in return. Her folks probably took a wrong exit and had to get turned around. I felt nothing but sympathy for them. I noticed this time that the Airstream's windows were taped over from the inside; that seemed an odd way to keep out sunlight. Maybe they'd lost their blinds. Maybe the windows had been cracked by rocks shooting out from under the tires of passing semis. Maybe I should watch that my ass didn't wander into oncoming traffic while I wondered about other peoples' trailer windows.

  I'd just finished the last of the Coke and carrot sticks when Cletus pulled up in his rig. "Mark, I take it?" he called out through the window.

  "Cletus?" Using first names like we were old friends.

  "Appears we're all in our places with bright shiny faces, then." He climbed out and handed me a brown paper bag; inside was a ham and cheese sandwich, a brownie, and another can of Coke. "I had Muriel make this up for you. My garage is attached to the truck stop restaurant. Lorenzo said you'd been out here a while. Figured you'd be a bit hungry."

  "Thanks," I said. "Who's Lorenzo?"

  "Murphy. The trooper who talked to you. And, yes, that is his real name, don't ask me why, I wasn't privy to the discussion his parents had prior to saddling him with it. The food's free of charge, in case you were wondering. Figure folks stuck by the side of the road got enough headaches without their stomach giving them three different kinds of holy hell."

  "I appreciate it."

  He pulled a flashlight out from his bib overalls and snapped it on. "Don't be too appreciative just yet. You got no idea what the bill for this might be."

  "I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

  He went around to the passenger side of the car and crawled underneath. As I ate the sandwich, the flashlight beam beneath the car danced round and round, then up and down and back again. Cletus laughed a couple of times, coughed once, then stopped for a moment and muttered, "Diddle me with a fiddlestick," before emerging back into the light.

  "Should I even ask?"

  "Wouldn't if I was you," he said, leaning over the opened hood and shaking his head. He reached in, jiggled a few things, checked the oil, licked his thumb and unscrewed a spark plug, then snorted a sad little laugh.

  "Can you see this?" he asked me.

  "What am I looking for?"

  "The color. Does this look green to you?"

  "The stuff coating the spark plug? Yes, it does."

  "Remember that. There
's gonna be a quiz later." He replaced the spark plug, then slammed closed the hood. "Way I see, Mark, you got two choices; we can tow this thing to my garage, or I can pull out my trusty Savage over-and-under and put this thing out of your misery. Your call; either way you're riding back with me."

  "Is it that bad?"

  "Your car or riding with me? I see I've confused you with my home-spun wit, so I'll just keep talking 'cause I'm what you call a 'local character' and like the sound of my voice; this car—and I'm being charitable using that word—is an insult to pieces of shit everywhere. You know much about how cars work?"

  "Nope."

  "Good, because I could pull a muscle explaining everything that's wrong with this over-priced paperweight. Understand this: I don't embellish, I don't pad the bill, and I don't talk down to folks who aren't as well-schooled about cars as my own resplendent self. Ask anyone who knows me—and you can do just that when we get to the truck stop—and they'll tell you I'm as straight and honest as they come, unless we're talking Pinochle, where I cheat like a son-of-a-bitch. You getting the gist of this long-winded preamble to the point or should I start again and talk slower?"

  I think I liked him. "I'm with you so far."

  "That thrills me—see how I'm all a-flutter? Okay, here goes: you've blown a head gasket—not high on the list of 'good things,' trust me—and you've got coolant leaking into the oil and cylinder. That's why the spark plug looked green. You've also got a leaking master cylinder, which is a brake component, should have been caught before this thing left the lot, and is a damn serious safety violation. If that isn't enough, I've got thirty-year-old suspenders that my dog uses as a chew-toy that're in better shape than that alternator belt—and those are just the problems I saw right off the bat. Further details would drive even Mickey Mouse to suicide. Let me ask you something: before this thing crapped-out on you, did the 'Check Engine' light come on?"