Adobe Flats (3 page)

four

The rat exploded in
a mist of blood and flesh, not so much shot to death as vaporized. The gunshot echoed five times around the pale blue sky before the dump returned to silence apart from cackling laughter behind the hanging basket.

“Don't like that, d'ya? Yer little fucker.”

Grant didn't move. He turned his head slowly towards the trailer.

“You talking to me or the rat?”

The rifle poking out of the open door jerked towards Grant. It settled on his center mass, then moved gently as the shooter came down the steps. A hairy arm came into view, followed by a rolled- up shirtsleeve and a hunched figure wearing stained overalls, the type with a bib front and no sleeves. The face that came out of the shadows was as dry as saddle leather—a theme Grant was beginning to recognize. Heat and dust working its magic on the residents.

The man stepping into the sun looked older than the ticket seller, the hotel clerk, and the bank teller put together. The voice wasn't quite as harsh, but it was a long way from friendly.

“Why would I be talking to you?”

“Because the rat's past answering.”

The old-timer cackled a laugh, then wheezed as he got his breath back. “It was rhetorical anyway. Damn rats ain't much on conversation.”

Grant nodded but didn't move.

“Keeping the vermin at bay—I can understand that. But I think we can both agree I'm no rat. So could you lower the rifle please?”

The barrel twitched, then lowered. “I could shoot the wings off a fly. No need for you to worry.”

“That's good to know.”

The old-timer sat in the sun chair and leaned the rifle against the table. He rubbed his chin, the bristles sounding like sandpaper. He waved a surprisingly steady hand across the yard. “Have to draw the little bastards out so I don't hit the propane store.”

Grant followed the direction and noticed propane tanks through the open door of the nearest trailer. Blue gas tanks were stacked around the side and the back as well. He wondered what the other trailers held. The old-timer must have read his mind because he indicated the next trailer.

“And the armory. Apart from that, I can shoot 'em anywhere.”

Grant walked towards the courtyard, squinting at the rifle. “Small target moving fast. Nice shooting.”

The old-timer swelled with pride. His face broke into a smile. “Young 'uns round here think they's the only ones who know how to shoot. Macready's lot. I've got eyes could outstrip 'em all.”

“Eyes like a shithouse rat.”

“Rat?”

Grant nodded at the bloodstain in the dust. “Not that one.”

He stopped in front of the table.

“A saying back home. If you've got good eyesight, they say you've got eyes like a shithouse rat. Since they live in the dark. You—I'd say you've got the eyes of a sniper.”

The old-timer smiled again. It seemed like this was the only flattery he'd been given in a long while.

“Two wars and a skirmish. Back aways.”

He didn't say which wars, and Grant knew better than to ask. “Sorry for cutting through your land.”

The old-timer's eyes held Grant's with a hint of humor. “Cutting through to where?”

Grant jerked a thumb to the far end of the dump. “Sixto's. Need to hire a car.”

“That's the place to do it. Got all sorts. From comfort to ex-army. You goin' anywhere particular?”

Grant nodded. “South. I'm looking for Adobe Flats.”

Sixto's was a hundred
yards farther on after Grant reached the main road again. He kept turning the old-timer's reaction over in his mind. The humor had vanished out of his eyes in a flash, replaced by a blank look and a sigh that heaved the old man's chest.

“Good luck with that.”

He'd dismissed Grant with a wave.

“And don't step on my rat.”

It was fairly obvious what had sparked the change of attitude, and it wasn't the mention of heading south. Adobe Flats. How much weight Grant should attach to the reaction of a crazy old man was something to consider as he followed the two-lane blacktop out of town. Sixto's Gas and Wreckers was on the left just before a battered metal sign on a pole that had been shot so full of holes it had turned around.

ABSOLUTION, TEXAS Est. 1882
Pop. 203—Elev. 4040
Welcome/Bienvenidos

A cluster of bullet holes made the population hard to read, and
bienvenidos
was almost completely obliterated. Maybe Mexicans still weren't welcome. Anybody reading the sign was heading out of town, so the greeting was too late anyway. The tarmac gave way to a dusty forecourt, and Grant bypassed a pair of gas pumps into blessed shade. The canopy was high and wide and decorated with Shell's red and yellow signage. The red and yellow had faded in the constant glare of the sun. The Shell name had been painted out but was still a ghostly memory.

The sales kiosk and office was under the canopy, a glass and wood afterthought tagged onto the front of the main workshop building. Mechanic bays showed through the open shutter doors down the side. A big American car and two army jeeps were parked in front of the bays. A fenced-in compound round the back was piled high with scrapped cars and trucks, any usable parts already cannibalized for resale. A dog on a chain patrolled the compound. It saw Grant and charged the fence—not barking but wagging its tail. If it could have smiled, Grant reckoned it would be smiling.

“Don't mind Pedro. He's harmless.”

The voice was good-old-boy Texan. The man it came from was standing in the doorway of the sales kiosk. He was about twenty-five and didn't look as if he'd done a day's work in his life. The pointed boots and cowboy hat were clean and new and hadn't seen hard times since they'd come out of the box. Unlike the tough guy at the hotel, this one couldn't even attempt intimidation. The tone was condescending. Grant disliked him immediately.

“Not a lot of point having him guard the cars then, is there?”

The Texan stepped aside to let Grant into the office. “Old Pedro isn't a guard dog. He's just a dumb old Mex living off the town.”

Grant noticed an elderly Mexican cringe behind the sales counter. The Texan paid him no mind as he continued. “Anyway. Nobody steals from me.”

Grant closed the door to let the air conditioning cool him down. “You must be Sixto then.”

“Nope. Macready. Scott Macready.”

He didn't offer his hand. Grant let the name sink in but didn't show it.

“Police around here must have it easy. With nobody stealing from you.”

Macready glanced out of the window along First Street.

“Town sheriff has his work cut out, just not with thieving. Public disorder mainly. Mexicans who can't hold their liquor. Wife beating and the like.”

The Mexican kept quiet. Grant looked at the Texan and saw the kind of man who'd have to beat up women to have a chance at beating anybody.

“Wife beater. Isn't that some kind of vest?”

Macready smiled to humor the foreigner. “More like a tank top with inch-wide straps and a deeper scoop neck.”

Grant nodded.

“A poser's shirt. Bodybuilders wear them back home to show off their muscles. Anybody who beats on women, though, they're just like an empty vest. Full of wind and too much arm hole.”

The subtle put-down was too subtle for Macready. “If we need muscle around here, we just hire it in.”

Grant glanced down the road towards town. “Yeah. I saw that at the hotel.”

“They make you welcome?”

“Like a turd in a swimming pool.”

“They're just wary of strangers is all.”

“
Bienvenidos
works better if you want to attract customers.”

The Mexican smiled. Macready slitted his eyes. “Welcome to Absolution. You've read the sign.”

“Sign only seems to apply if you're leaving town.”

“That why you want to hire a car?”

Grant's ears pricked up. Now he knew who the phone call was to. “Just exploring.”

“Exploring where?”

And that told him the old-timer at the dump didn't have a phone.

“Adobe Flats. Just south of here.”

The Mexican's shoulders hunched as he tried to look smaller. Macready blinked but kept his face straight. A fly buzzed around the office, then fried itself on the electronic bug catcher above the door. The sparks made everyone jump except Grant. Tension crept into the room. Macready didn't let the silence become awkward.

“What you want to go out there for?”

“See somebody.”

“Well, you won't find anybody at Adobe Flats. There's nothing there.”

“You sure? That's the address I've got.”

“For who?”

Grant considered telling Macready it was none of his business, but since he wanted the Texan to rent him a car, he decided to play along.

“Eduardo Cruz.”

The Mexican flicked his eyes up, then down again. Macready shook his head.

“Doc Cruz? He left years ago. Like I said, there's nothing there anymore.”

“I'd still like to drive down there. Pay my respects.”

Macready's response was too quick. “I didn't say he died. He left.”

Grant was getting tired of always going round the houses to make any headway. His reasons for being here were private. He reckoned he'd shared enough.

“Family. One of the jeeps'll do. How much for the day?”

Macready ignored the request. “Cruz ain't got no family down there. Place is empty.”

“Then it'll be a short visit. How much?”

Macready looked flustered, uncertain what to do next. Not at all like a man nobody ever stole from. Not like a man in charge of things. His face hardened as he made his decision.

“Jeeps aren't for hire.”

“The car then.”

“That neither. They're in for service.”

“All of them?”

“We don't have anything.”

The welcome just kept getting better. Parched skin and dried voices. Not a hint of the famous western generosity or pioneering spirit. Grant's mouth was drying out, the dust finally getting to him.

“How about tea?”

“What?”

“I'd like a cup of tea.”

“You're in Texas. We don't drink tea.”

“Coffee then.”

“This is a gas station, not a café. Diner's next door.”

Grant followed Macready's nod of the head. To the left out the window. The railroad-car diner was round the other side of the workshop building. The red neon tubing of the Gilda's Grill and Diner sign barely registered in the sunlight.

Grant nodded at the Mexican, ignored Macready, and went out the door to buy a coffee.

five

Steam hissed up from
Grant's lap as scalding hot coffee shrivelled his nuts and turned the front of his jeans into molten lava. At least that's what it felt like when his efforts to peel back the lid of his latte tipped the king-size paper cup over his nether regions and threatened to melt his gonads. Hot coffee in his lap and a swirl of white foam down the front of his T-shirt like a question mark.

The waitress looked up from her work behind the cash register. An elderly couple sitting two booths down let out a gasp. Grant smiled and waved and spoke through gritted teeth.

“I'm all right. No worries.”

He picked the paper cup out of his lap and stood it on the table. There was an inch of coffee left. The lid floated in a puddle of spillage on the Formica top. He sat back in the booth, but that didn't help so he stood up, tugging the hot, damp cloth away from his skin. He dabbed at the wet patch with a napkin. That didn't work. It was like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. Spilled coffee pooled around his feet.

“It's okay.”

Nobody believed him. Scalding coffee on your private parts was never okay. The elderly couple smiled their embarrassment but didn't get involved. He was a stranger around here. Strangers didn't last long. Right now Grant couldn't argue with that.

The counter flap banged open. The sound snapped Grant's head towards the cash register. The waitress who had served him the coffee five minutes earlier came out with a damp cloth and a roll of paper towels. The sad little smile she gave warmed him more than the coffee. It was the first friendly act he'd received since arriving in the dusty Texas town. Friendlier than the greeting those Mexicans got who visited the Alamo.

“If they don't use
lids in England, why don't you spill your coffee back home?”

Her voice was rich and throaty and dripped irony. She was soaking up the spillage with pads of folded paper towels. On the table, not his lap. Grant dabbed at that using the damp cloth she'd given him. The question mark of cream had gone, and the spilled coffee was already cold. After the extreme heat his knackers felt like they were bathed in ice. He pulled the cloth away from his skin again.

“The lid was the problem. Drinking through that little hole in the top.”

He stepped out of the booth while the waitress spread paper towels on the floor.

“That's what it's for.”

“I know. But I prefer to drink it like a man. Not some kind of pensioner who can't look after himself.”

She stopped wiping the floor and looked up at him. “You clearly can't look after yourself.”

Grant shrugged. “You think I should've used a straw?”

“Straws are for cold drinks.”

He indicated his wet crotch. “It's cold now.”

The waitress stood up and leveled steady eyes on his. The throaty voice made her response even more suggestive. “You want me to suck you through a straw?”

She looked shocked when she realized what she'd said. Grant laughed.

“There's no answer to that.”

He held out a hand.

“Jim Grant.”

She shook it.

“Sarah Hellstrom. Pleased to meet you.”

“Not Gilda?”

“What?”

“Gilda's Grill and Diner.”

“Oh, that? Place is mine. Name goes back aways.”

“Is anywhere in this town named after who owns it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Sixto's, owned by Macready.”

“Everything's owned by Macready. Can't have everywhere called Macready's. It would confuse people.”

Grant watched for her reaction. “Macready doesn't own the diner?”

Sarah clenched her jaw. “No, he does not. It was my dad's. Granddad's before him.”

“His name Gilda?”

“He liked Rita Hayworth.”

“As in
The Shawshank Redemption
?”

“Sorry?”

“The Stephen King story they based the film on was
Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption
.”

“So?”

“So why not call it Rita's Grill?”

“He was being obscure. She starred in a movie called
Gilda
.”

Sarah indicated the next booth, and Grant followed her instructions. He slid onto the padded seat and felt the cold dampness touch his skin. He handed the cloth back, and she nodded towards the counter.

“I'll get you another latte. Without a lid.”

“Thanks.”

“Then we'd better do something about your pants.”

He watched her walk the length of the railroad-car-turned-diner. She had a lovely walk. If he'd been visiting Adobe Flats for any other reason, he thought there might have been possibilities there. He surveyed the parking lot through the diner's windows. Big, wide windows that ran all down one side. He could just make out the first jeep poking round the side of the mechanics bay. It still had the unit markings and combat pattern that should have been painted out when decommissioned. That was something to think about. Then his second coffee arrived with a wiggle and a smile, and his thoughts turned elsewhere.

Grant washed his clothes
in the utility room at the far end of the diner. Or rather Sarah Hellstrom put his jeans and T-shirt through the washing machine while Grant stood wrapped in a towel like a man in a skirt. He picked up the peg bag from the shelf and dangled it in front of his privates.

“All I need is a sporran.”

“A what?”

“Man purse on a string.”

She realized what he meant. “Oh, a kilt. You from Scotland?”

“Yorkshire.”

“I have no idea where that is. They wear kilts there?”

“No. It was just the towel thing. Never mind.”

Jokes weren't funny when you had to explain the punchline. He put the peg bag back on the shelf next to a Welcome to Big Bend calendar and looked around the office and utility room. There was a cluttered desk with two chairs, a filing cabinet that leaned to one side, and the washing machine and tumble dryer combo. The room smelled of washing powder and fabric conditioner. Grant's jeans and T-shirt went into the rinse cycle.

“Thanks for doing this.”

Sarah finished folding the tea towels she'd taken out of the dryer.

“You're welcome.”

Grant moved to the small window near the back door. “Now there's a word been in short supply since I got into town.”

“On the train, right?”

“You can see the station from here?”

“Don't need to. The
Sunset
never stops at Absolution. The fact that it did and a stranger walks into my diner—doesn't take a genius.”

“Yes. On the train.”

“There you go then. Folks around here aren't too keen on the Southern Pacific since they took Absolution off the scheduled stop.”

“Judging by the ticket office, that must have been a while ago.”

“Thirty years.”

“Wow. They really know how to hold a grudge here, don't they?”

“Most blame it for letting business dry up. Folks leaving.”

Grant leaned his back against the wall. “And the rest blame Macready.”

Sarah stopped what she was doing and leveled a steady gaze at Grant. “Who told you that?”

“Just an observation. Macready's bought up most of the town. Has the heavy mob watching the hotel. Won't hire cars to strangers. Doesn't take a genius.”

Sarah put the folded towels on top of the filing cabinet. “Scott wouldn't hire you a car?”

“You on first-name terms?”

“Used to be.”

“No car. Don't think he wants me going down to Adobe Flats.”

The washing machine began its final spin. Vibration hummed through the floor. Sarah waited a beat, glanced through the window into the diner to make sure there were no customers, then rested her backside against the desk.

“What you want to go out there for?”

“That's what he said.”

“And what did you say?”

“Looking for Eduardo Cruz.”

She let out a sigh. “Doc's gone. Nobody lives at Adobe Flats anymore.”

“Business dried up, huh?”

Her hand came up to touch her cheek, then dropped again. “He's a doctor. Business never dries up. He just moved away.”

“But Macready stayed.”

“When you own as much as Macready, you don't just walk away.”

The machine clicked off, and the spinning drum slowed down to nothing. She opened the front and took the jeans out. They were almost dry. The T-shirt too. She flapped them to stretch out the creases. Grant pushed off from the wall.

“He didn't strike me as somebody with a firm grip on things.”

She looked up from draping the jeans over one arm. “Scott? He couldn't grip his wiener. His father. Tripp Macready.”

“Not a man to be messed with, I'll bet.”

“No.”

“Is that why you're going to lend me your car?”

Their eyes met and locked. There was no denial. No discussion. She simply opened the desk drawer and took out a set of car keys. She held them in her hand briefly, then put them on the scarred wooden desktop. Then she nodded over Grant's shoulder at the ironing board and handed him the damp clothes.

“You know how to iron, don't you?”