Above the Law (3 page)

The place was one big, barnlike rectangle. Dark wood, rough-paneled walls, black-and-white-checked linoleum floor that rippled from years of seepage. Opposite the entrance was a long bar, with an impressive old back-bar behind it against the wall. This was a serious drinking place, judging by the quantity of the bottles stacked on the shelves. Lots of bourbons, blended whiskeys, and vodkas. A few token bottles of wine, the corks stuck in them for God knows how long, sat in a corner. Several beer taps adorned the bar, in front of which were a row of red Naugahyde-covered stools. High-backed booths, covered in the same Naugahyde, aligned the front and side walls, with freestanding tables in the center. In one corner sat a classic Wurlitzer jukebox circa 1955, and a TV, tuned to a local station, was mounted halfway up the wall. Like a few other old bars I’d come across in my travels—Barney’s Beanery in Los Angeles being one well-known example—old California license plates going back to the 1930s had been hammered onto all the walls, wherever there was an inch of free space. Your basic roadside tavern.

In the short moment it took to get from my truck to the entrance, the storm had blown a coating of fine sand over all of us. We looked like pieces of chicken that had been dipped in bread crumbs. The sand had penetrated under my shirt as well, making my skin feel like it had been rubbed with a Brillo pad. Shaking off as much of it as I could, I looked around.

There were over a dozen people in here, not counting the bartender, cook, and waitress, who, although chronologically somewhere in her middle age, looked like she’d stepped out of an old Robert Mitchum B movie, the ones where the good girls are bad and the bad girls are worse. She had a friendly smile, though, warm and welcoming.

“Here’s another litter the cat dragged in,” she exclaimed with gusto. “You girls look like you’ve been put through the wringer,” she went on, looking at them more closely.

“We were stranded out there,” Marilyn told her.

“Luke rescued us.” This from Jo Ellen, the third girl.

The waitress gave me the once-over. “A good man is hard to find,” she informed the girls.

“The voice of experience?” Marilyn asked, winking at her. Marilyn was the boldest of the three, the ringleader who could get them into trouble, if the opportunity arose.

“Definitely,” the waitress responded in a tone of hard-earned wisdom. “How’s it blowing out there?”

“Bad,” I replied. “The roads’re about impassable now. Couple more minutes, nothing’ll be moving out there.”

“Well, you made it to here, so you’re okay. We’ve got plenty of food, the TV works, and we just pumped out the septic, so we’re prepared for the long haul.”

The cook called out from the kitchen, “Order up, Deedee.”

She left to take care of business. While the girls, who’d brought their packs with them, retired to the ladies’ room to clean up, I checked out the others who were sheltering from the storm. A few of them looked like regulars—men who drink in bars like this one; the others were refugees, like us. A family sat at one of the big tables in the center of the room, chowing down on cheeseburgers and fries: mother, father, two little girls, and a little boy, all big and blond like their parents. They reminded me of people I’d known from the upper Midwest, Scandinavian stock. They seemed to be holding up well, considering the circumstances. In a booth, nursing beers, were three middle-aged men who looked like upper-management executives, even though they were casually dressed. On the way to or from a hunting or fishing trip, I guessed. The remaining outsiders, the motor-homers, were three older couples who sat at two pushed-together tables, talking earnestly, eating large meals, laughing quietly at each other’s jokes.

Considering how lousy things were outside, everyone seemed to be in decent spirits. Most of them had been here when the storm had struck or had been close, minutes away. The conscientious ones had listened to the weather station and had been warned that the storm was coming. Like the girls and me, they were grateful to have found a refuge where they could wait out the storm in comfort.

I approached the bartender. “Pay phone?” I had to call Riva, let her know I was all right.

He shook his head. “Phone lines are out. Got a generator and a propane backup in case we lose our gas and electric, but no phone. I’d let you use mine, but it’s dead, too. Sorry.” As if to make amends for my disappointment, which he had nothing to do with, he plunked an old-fashioned glass on the counter. “First one’s on the house. Name it.”

After what I’d been through, a drink was what the doctor ordered. “Johnnie Walker Black?”

“Ice?”

“Neat’s fine.”

He took down a bottle from the back bar, poured generously. I sipped—it burned going down, the good burn. I raised my glass in toast.

The girls, having changed their tops and generally freshened up, emerged from the bathroom. They flopped into one of the free booths. Marilyn patted the empty seat next to her, an invitation to sit down.

“I’ve got to get something out of the truck,” I said. “Order me …” I glanced at the menu. The specialty of the house was chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, country gravy, and choice of two veg. Not today. “A western omelet easy, hash browns, sourdough toast. And coffee.”

“You’re going back out? That’s crazy,” Marilyn said.

I swallowed the rest of my drink. “If I’m not back in an hour, send the St. Bernards.”

The wind was howling as badly as it had been earlier, maybe worse. Large drifts were forming against the sides of the restaurant and the vehicles. Even bigger ones were pyramiding in the parking lot and on the highway, creating sand dunes.

I fought my way to the truck, yanked open the door, and grabbed my cell phone out of the glove compartment. Dropping it into my pocket, I fought my way back to the safe harbor.

The highway was shut down. Nothing was going to be moving until the storm was over and the road was cleared; at least overnight, maybe longer. We were stuck in Brigadoon, home of the high desert’s best chicken-fried steak.

Riva’s voice on the telephone was thick with relief “I’ve been worried sick. This storm’s all over the news. Is there a television where you are?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t paid it any attention. Looking up at it, from where I was standing at the bar, I could see pictures of sand blowing. If I didn’t know the storm was right on top of me, I would have thought they were shots of the Sahara.

“They say it’s the worst sandstorm ever recorded in California,” she said. “It’s not supposed to stop until late tonight or tomorrow.”

“I believe it.” Looking outside, I couldn’t see anything, not the cars in the parking lot, the highway, it was all sand. It was evening now, but it could have been high noon, there still wouldn’t have been any sunlight. I explained where I was, the circumstances of getting here, a quick description of the Brigadoon and my fellow stranded pilgrims.

“Sounds like you’ve got it made.” In the background I could hear Bucky making impatient noises. It was dinnertime, she had been in the middle of feeding him when I called. “Three college babes hot for your bod and a well-stocked bar.”

“This is true.”

“Keep your hands to yourself and don’t get too drunk.”

“I can do that.” That was the last thing on my mind, either of those possibilities.

“Here, talk to your son.”

Bucky’s voice sang to me. “Daddy, when are you coming home?”

“As soon as I can.”

“I love you, Daddy. Come home now.”

“I love you, too, sweet boy. I’ll be home just as fast as I can.”

Riva came back on. “It sounds like you won’t get home until tomorrow, if then.”

“I guess. Even after it stops, the roads’ll have to be cleared.”

“Don’t push it. Be safe. And cautious.”

I’ve been known to take risks against the odds—but being a husband and father is very tempering against that. “Of course I will.”

“Okay, then. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, before I hang up. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Buy the motorcycle.”

With everything else going on, I’d forgotten about that. “Yes. It’s outside in the trailer, even as we speak.”

“It was worth it, then.”

“I guess.”

We said our good-byes and hung up. Everything was okay now. It was only a storm, and I had shelter.

“You know what’s a bitch?” Deedee the waitress said. She was sitting on a bar stool, shoes off, rubbing her stockinged feet.

“What?” Pauline asked. The girls had moved to the bar, where they had a better view of the television. The news was on: pileups on the freeway, a bank robbery in Palm Springs, and of course, the sandstorm, which got most of the airplay.

“I can’t go outside to smoke, ’cause of this storm, and I can’t smoke in here, ’cause of the stupid antismoking lobby and the chickenshits up in Sacramento.”

Marilyn told her, “It’s brutal.”

My group had been in the Brigadoon for a couple of hours now, the last to find refuge. Nothing was moving outside; nothing human, anyway. Time passed slowly. We’d eaten, including decent blueberry pie a la mode for dessert (homemade). Most of us were sprawled out around the room, watching
The Simpsons,
which the kids had turned to, except for the motor-homers, who had brought a Scrabble game in with them and were playing a spirited four-handed game, and the executives, who were playing liar’s poker.

A general torpor permeated the place. Wally the bartender, Ray the cook, and Deedee had joined the rest of us in the restaurant proper. We had nowhere to go and nothing to do, and plenty of time for both. I wished I’d brought a book along, but who knew?

Pauline leaned across the bar and helped herself to a draft. For the last hour, since everyone had finished their dinners, Wally had stopped bartending and had come around to the civilian side. Those who wanted a drink got their own and dropped bills, honor-system style, into a jug he’d placed on the counter.

The room was close—the windows were shut as tightly as possible and the air-conditioning had gotten clogged up from sand blowing into the filter. We were beginning to breathe each other’s air, smell each other’s body odors. Before dinner I had given myself a half-assed sponge bath with paper towels, but I still felt grimy and oily. It was getting to be a ripe environment and would get more aromatic before it was over.

The towheaded boy heard the noise outside first. He’d gotten bored with watching television and was standing near the door, staring at the patterns of sand blowing against the window, like snowflakes in a winter storm.

“Daddy, come here.”

His father walked over to him.

“Do you see that. Dad?”

“What, Roger?” The man looked out the window.

“I thought I saw something outside.” The boy pressed his face to a pane of glass.

His father leaned in next to him. “No, I don’t see…” He paused; then: “What is that?” he exclaimed, loudly enough that it caught my attention.

I walked over to them.

The father turned to me. “I thought I saw something moving.”

I leaned forward and joined him, our heads almost touching. Then we looked at each other, startled expressions on our faces.

Sheer visceral reaction—I tore open the door and rushed outside, the father hot on my heels. It was murky black out, no moon, no stars: only sand, an endless blowing veil. I hollered into the wind, “Where are you?”

From somewhere, a man’s ragged voice answered, “Here.”

“Where?” I was staggering forward, blind, my hands stretched out in front of me.

“Here,” the voice feebly called again, and as I looked in what seemed to be the direction it was coming from, I saw a form.

“We’re coming,” I yelled, my voice whipping back on me.

The wind was howling. Fine grains of needle-sharp sand were stinging my face like wasps. It was almost impossible to remain erect; the father and I held onto each other for dear life. I had a hand over my eyes for protection, squinting out between my fingers.

Two apparitions, so phantom-like in the turbid darkness they almost seemed to be holograms, not actual flesh and blood, were swaying in front of us. We rushed toward them, the force of the wind so strong it was like running through tar. As we reached the ghost-like figures, both of whom were men, they slowly collapsed to their hands and knees—they had managed, by force of will, to survive long enough to find help and now had nothing left in reserve.

The father called back toward the doorway. “We need help out here!”

His cry galvanized some of the others, who came running out. Pulling the bedraggled survivors to their feet, we dragged them into the restaurant, and safety.

Their names were Joe and Bill. They looked to be in their late twenties; clean-shaven, decent-looking fellows. They were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, which were completely trashed.

More than anything else, they were badly dehydrated. The kitchen staff provided wet towels and pitcherfuls of water, while the girls immediately and efficiently took over the nursing chores, wiping them down, propping their heads up while they drank, cleaning the dozens of tiny pitted wounds on their faces, necks, and hands caused by the exposure to the storm. The rest of us hovered like a swarm of ants, until we were sure they were in no serious danger.

After large doses of tender loving care from the girls, the two men recuperated sufficiently to tell us what had happened to them.

They had been hiking for ten days in Death Valley, moving from location to location—Zabriskie Point, Telescope Peak, Funeral Peak, breathtakingly beautiful places, desolate and forlorn, where you can go for days without seeing anyone and you have to carry everything in, including your water. They were seasoned hikers, they went out on long, remote trips frequently.

As hard-core hikers will do, they had brought precisely as much in the way of supplies as they’d figured they’d need, based on past experience (when you start out with sixty or seventy pounds on your back, you don’t want to carry any extra weight), so that on their last day, a long, strenuous hike back to their car, they had run out of supplies. No food, no water. That didn’t matter, in fact it proved they’d calculated their needs almost exactly, a point of pride. Within an hour they would be back in civilization and could stock up on what they needed—snacks, bottles of water, and gasoline—to get them home to San Diego.