Alibi Creek (18 page)

38

FRIDAY OCTOBER 26, 2007

W
ALKER HIT THE ROAD
F
RIDAY
morning and arrived in Des Moines three hours later. Done with fancy-shmancy, he checked into the Holiday Inn Express west of the city. He called Jimmy Zebrowski and scribbled directions to a six o'clock dinner at Applebee's. In the motel lobby he found a map of the city and went sightseeing, not in the regular sense of taking in the main attractions, but rather a slow drive through the suburbs and downtown, across the river and back.

Up and down the blocks and around the corners, he passed two-story, brick or wood-sided houses on tended yards with evergreen and deciduous trimmed hedges and paved driveways. Sidewalks with proper curbs lined the streets. Cement steps led up to porches with solid, square posts, the overhanging roofs pitched and layered with proper shingles. The people who built these homes were good, sturdy stock, descended from ancestors in northern Europe or Scandinavia, tradesmen who brought their masonry and carpentry skills across the ocean. Street after street of solidarity, security, and conformity. Ah, the predictability of it all. In New Mexico sidewalks were a rarity and streets bled into yards, loose gravel served as a driveway, if you had one at all, and a mansion might fill an acre right next to a shack. Houses were made from the dirt they sat on, with flat roofs that leaked. Front yards crowded with
cosmos thrived happily next to vacant dirt lots littered with trash and rampant weeds.

He drove past insurance companies, banking establishments, and high-rises with meager bits of landscape at their feet, no space wider than a horse stall between them. Man, no air. Reflections of obtrusive rectangular structures bounced off glass windows, distorting the sky and blocking the horizon. Inside, people worked nine to five, scurrying down hallways into rooms with no natural light—a death sentence. High-heeled shoes. Suits and ties. Damn, cowboys lucked out being spared such a fate.

Jimmy hadn't changed since prison, fat and sloppy, the same high, nervous laugh, and up to the same old dealings that got him in jail in the first place. He'd held onto a job at a 7-Eleven, augmenting his minimum wage income by selling pot to his wife's relatives and abetting their slimy activities. Walker accused him of being the personification of yet another rehabilitation hope failed.

Jimmy said, “Look who's talking.” He looked Walker up and down. “You look like a fucking mega dweeb.”

The steak on the menu looked good, but when it was placed before him, whatever appetite Walker had left the premises. He missed Vera's, the hands that waved, even the heads that turned away, the air foggy with cigarette smoke, the chile so hot it burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. He missed the grimy bric-a-brac and the smudged glass case behind the counter filled with day-old, maybe week-old pies, and the ancient register from the fifties with the numbers worn off, and the drawer that stuck.

Jimmy sliced into his meat, sending juice oozing around his plate. Walker looked away. Bloody food was for savages. Seasonings, sautéed vegetables, salad dressing, rolls,
and butter tightened his throat. The only thing able to slide down easily might be liquid, alcoholic liquid.

“I need a driver's license,” Walker said.

“I'll need a photo.”

Jimmy held up his phone.

“Okay, then. Finish up and let's do it.”

Back at the motel Walker stood against the white wall while Jimmy moved close and stepped back, getting it just right.

“Let's see.” Walker took the camera. “Good. I want the name to read Ross Plank.” He tore a slip from a Holiday Inn notepad. “Here, I'll spell it out.”

“Give me a day or two,” Jimmy said. “I'll meet you here at noon Sunday.”

A lot of people had screwed on this mattress, consumed umpteen bottles of beer, wine, or champagne, quarreled, promised eternal love, and betrayed their one and only. He crossed his feet on the maroon, yellow, and green floral bedspread, and turned on the TV. An excited weatherman warned of an early snow blizzard coming down from Canada. Treacherous conditions. Stay indoors. Do not travel unless absolutely necessary.

He stocked up at a liquor store and stopped at TD's Sports Bar. Fair-haired, well-fed twenty-year-olds in sweat-shirts and jeans filled the place. Ponytails and rosy cheeks. On TV, the Colts were ahead of the Jets seventeen to ten. TD's rambunctious patrons cheered and booed. For the first time in his life Walker sat alone, this crowd, the game, and this establishment of no interest whatsoever.

Right about now, Jo would be perched on her stool at Art's, sliding a Manhattan across the slick, wood counter. She'd light up and postpone taking the first sip until she
took the first drag and after a while she'd cross her legs. Smoke would come out her nostrils and linger around the impenetrable helmet of red hair. Art would know better than to say, “Any word?” His expression would remain unchanged, his voice would stay low, as if a relative had died, and they'd drift into familiar small talk until the crowd picked up. At seven o'clock, she'd drive home, heat a Lean Cuisine and watch one of those lawyer shows.

The first snowflakes blew in from the northwest, hit the windshield, and stuck. A fierce wind picked up, and when he shut the motel room door, the wail and chill came through the walls. He cranked up the heat. Out the window snow blew at a horizontal angle, already collecting against the brick wall.

39

SATURDAY OCTOBER 27, 2007

T
HE SIGN ALONGSIDE THE FREEWAY
read
PRISON FACILITY. DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS.
Lee Ann turned off at the next exit and parked in the area assigned to visitors, checked her hair in the rearview mirror, and collected her purse and notebook.

Saturdays and Sundays, Level 1 admitted visitors to a large, yellow common room crammed with long Formica tables, metal chairs, and a few vending machines lined up on gray linoleum, everything jammed together and smelling of Pine-Sol. A chain link fence enclosed an outdoor area with a few concrete tables and benches.

Lee Ann passed through security and took a seat at one of the indoor tables between a family of four and a young couple tattooed all the way up to their chins. A month ago, she'd have forgiven their sins and offered compassion. Today they were questionable characters—sad and crude, smelling bad, and talking too loud.

Pat Merker walked through the double doors, taking only a second to spot her. He might have been Walker's twin—slight build, light step, twinkling blue eyes, long nose, and ready smile. He looked like he'd been washed in warm, all the colors having bled into a faded, neutral tone, and yet a hot, orange flame burned inside. He winked and made his way across the room. Two warm hands captured her cold one and she blushed when he said, “I've seen your
picture, but let me tell you, you're a hell of a lot better looking in person!”

The same Walker con. A carbon copy.

“Thank you,” she said, retrieving her hand. “Let's talk outside.”

“You'll be cold.”

“I'll put up with the chill to have some privacy.”

“All right then,” he said.

They stood next to the cinderblock wall, benches and tables empty, shadows of two leafless locust trees spreading veins across the concrete.

“I'll come right to the point,” she said. “I need to find my brother.”

His lips stayed set in a smile and his eyes held hers.

“An urgent matter has come up regarding a large sum of money he's inherited.”

“I wish I could help, ma'am, but I wouldn't know where he is.”

“The money is from our mother. She died.”

Pat's smile vanished, as if swiped by a damp cloth.

“Where is your mother?” she said.

“She died when I was twelve.”

“I'm sorry.”

Two young boys burst into the yard and chased each other around the tables.

“Walker doesn't know.” She bowed her head. “He was very close to Mother.”

The boys aimed their index fingers and shot at each other, yelling, taking cover behind the benches.

“The money was left by our grandfather, who was a gambling man. I believe it comes to about twice the amount of what Walker got from Keith Lampert for Ross Plank's property.”

“Bam! Bam!”

Pat leaned in, hands in his back pockets.

“Walker has to sign the appropriate papers in order to claim his half of our ranch, either in person or by mail. And of course, half of the large sum of grandfather's money is his due, as well. I need an address.”

Pat's eyes darted back and forth across the pavement.

“He's in Des Moines,” he said, finally. “You can find him through Jimmy Zebrowski.”

“Bam!”

He held the door.

“Wait inside, I'll get Jimmy's number for you.”

She stopped at the Los Lunas Walmart and washed her face and hands in the bathroom, then washed her hands a second time. On a pre-paid cellphone, she called home from the parking lot. Scott reported everything under control.

“Be careful, Mom. They're expecting blizzard conditions in the Dakotas, Iowa, across Michigan, and Illinois. I wish you'd let me come with you.”

“I'll be fine,” she said. “See you in a few days.”

A fat man struggled with his shopping cart, maneuvering it between two trucks and letting it roll into the back of his car, and she got out to help.

“Stocking up before the storm,” he said.

During the blizzard of '88, when she and Wayne were building the house, the power had gone out for four days. Snow piled on itself, half burying the stacked lumber, sheetrock, and vehicles, covering the fences. The first night she cooked hamburgers in the wood stove. The second night she roasted hot dogs in the fireplace and made popcorn by candlelight. The snow was supposed to stop by morning, but it kept on. Wayne grew irritable and resisted her attempt at a
romantic interlude, grumbling about the lousy electric coop's inability to fix the power lines, how it'd take days to get the vehicles out, how he despised kicking the dreaded muck off his boots. She had the first inkling of her mistake then, and as time passed, the premonition proved true. She would have continued, had Eugene not appeared and persisted and won. He'd been patient, offering her time to work it out with the first man in her life, the Lord. When she broke her promise to love, cherish, and obey her husband, Eugene stood by her, sympathizing with her inner turmoil, respecting her faith without engaging in spiritual dogma, for Jesus was not his savior. Eugene asked for nothing more than taking life a day at a time, acceptance of man and nature at his core. He'd married a woman who prioritized virtue at the expense of everything else and sought guidance from a phantom god—a wife who, from the start, had relegated him to second place. A man couldn't help resent that rank, feel diminished compared to perfection.

The storm might strand her in a cheap motel, eating packaged muffins with weak coffee for who knew how many days. She took the exit to the Albuquerque airport and found the long-term parking lot. A shuttle delivered her to American Airlines, where she booked a flight at 10:35 the following morning. After a stop in Dallas, the plane would land in Des Moines at 4:50. She caught another shuttle to La Quinta Motel, left her suitcase in the room, tucked the key in her purse, and walked over to Denny's. A baked potato and a cup of hot tea were all she could stomach. As a girl, she and Mother had flown to a cousin's wedding in Phoenix. The wind had blown that plane around like a tissue.

40

B
Y MIDNIGHT SNOWPLOWS HAD STARTED
piling long, white berms along the city's main roads. Walker sat on the edge of the bed and checked the time, his arms and legs aching, as well as his lower back. Traveling screwed up his internal clock. Without Sir Galahad's wake-up call, he slept late. To break up the drive, he'd stopped at rest areas for naps, a habit that kept him staring at the ceiling half the night. He hauled the suitcase out from way under the bed and took out a bundle of bills and inhaled. Nothin' like the smell of money. A pizza might taste good right about now, but the promise of a hundred dollar tip couldn't get one delivered on a night like this.

The way to the ice machine was carpeted and he let the door click behind him and walked down the hall in his socks. If number 107, 109 or 113 would open, some fun-loving
mature
person might poke his head out and invite him in for a drink. Hell, he'd supply the booze. 110 seemed to have some fun going on behind it, the TV and laughter seeping into the hall, but the door stayed shut. He returned to his room, put on his boots, filled his insulated coffee mug with scotch and ice and carried his drink to the lobby. A chubby brunette in a green Holiday Inn jacket smiled at him from behind the reception counter.

“Evenin',” he said. “Quiet night.”

“I'm loving it.”

“I guess there might be some advantages. Tell me about them.”

She closed a window on her computer screen.

“Well, for one, I get to talk to you. Where you from? Where you going?”

“I'm from New Mexico. Going to the UP.”

“You'll find it a heck of a lot colder and snowier up there.”

“I'm starting to worry about that,” he said.

“Worrying will kill you.”

“I got medicine.” He held up the mug. “I can get some for you.”

She giggled. “Maybe just one.”

He bounded back to the room and tore the wrapping off two plastic cups, fit one over the bottle and filled the other with ice.

She wouldn't let him smoke and he launched into how you could do anything you damn well pleased where he lived. Everybody in Dax County made personal choice top priority. There was plenty of room for everybody's individual idiosyncrasies because folks lived and let live. Sometimes, when idiosyncrasies crossed the line to infractions, people resorted to the use of firearms. Didn't make much sense to call the sheriff. He'd just tell you to solve the dispute yourself.

“I wouldn't like that,” she said. “I'd feel lost without boundaries and convention.”

“Sweetheart, we call it freedom. Supposedly what this country was founded upon.”

Two hours later they were silly. He dragged a chair behind the counter and drew a detailed picture of Mother's ranch with the creek running through it, the mesa, the canyons and all the animals that lived there—the horses, Sir Galahad and his harem, Patch and Blue, Butch out with
the cattle, Scott and Dee with mama pig and her piglets. He added his sister, carefully illustrating her widow's peak, Mother in a wheel chair, and his brother-in-law with a frowny face.

“And where are you?” she said.

“Passed out on the couch. Ha ha!” He drew himself stretched out with one leg hanging over the edge, hat covering his face, bottle in hand, glass tipped over on the floor.

“No. No. Wait.” He erased the figure. “I'm gone.”

He stopped laughing. His house was a thousand miles away. A huge, black walnut tree played drums on the roof in the fall and a graceful weeping willow shaded it in summer. Existing in a cold, gray city seemed crazy when you could live where eyes needed sunglasses every day and black bears swiped juniper berries off trees right outside the back door, where double rainbows began and ended in between creases in the mountains, where the Milky Way streaked the sky, where sleep was interrupted by bugling elk instead of sirens.

“It's been swell,” he said.

The security chain refused to slip through the lock. His head swirled. He stumbled to the bathroom and fumbled with his fly, his stream missing the toilet, and staggered sideways. The edge of the sink bonked his forehead. The tile floor was cold as a sheet of ice and he crawled on all fours to the bed, pulled himself up, and swung forward and back. The flowered bedspread blurred into rocks, hills, and mountains where he'd discovered the pottery sherds, arrowheads,
metates,
bone tools, and fetishes of the ancient ones who'd built stone houses and hollowed kivas out of the southern slopes of mesas. He flopped on the bed and tucked his arms under his head. On the ceiling, wispy clouds moved in circles around Solitaire Peak. From the very top, he scanned a hundred miles—the plains to the east, the lower mountain
ranges to the north, the Rio Risa to the south, around and around and around.…

In the morning, the bathroom mirror reflected a pale face with a quarter-size purple bump on his forehead. Ooh. Tender. He adjusted his baseball cap carefully.

A young man had replaced last night's receptionist.

“Tell the maids not to clean room 106.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's the latest weather report?”

“Should pass through by evening, sir.”

“Is this the army?”

“No, sir.”

“Just checking.”

He flipped through ESPN, CNN, Discovery Channel, Preachers, PBS, Turner Classic Movies. Right now, Mother might be staring at Bogie in
The Caine Mutiny.
Let's see, she'd have been in her late twenties when that movie came out, wearing a denim skirt and plaid blouse, telling him to hold that chicken tight while she put a leg ring around its ankle. That was how they were going to tell the age of that hen after they got more and forgot all about this one. This one had shiny feathers and was about to lay her first egg, but like all God's creatures her looks would fade and eventually they'd come to think of her as a workhorse, or workchicken. You could tell a chicken's age by her feet, just like people; and like people, some aged quicker than others. Mother kept track of her chickens on a chart in the mudroom, where she also marked the first frost, first snowfall, and last freeze. The chart hung over a cabinet with forty long, narrow drawers full of seeds. On top, Mother's gardening gloves, a trowel, and pruners were laid out beside an old Apache basket that overflowed with vegetables and fruit in the summer.

Bogart was ugly, stiff, and miserable looking, and spoke without moving his upper lip. Mr. Tough Guy. Walker put on his fleece-lined denim jacket and trudged down the block to the Chevron Station Redimart. Snow blew in his face. In order to survive these winters, he'd have to give in and buy one of those down-filled jackets that made a man look like a marshmallow.

He kicked the snow off his damned running shoes and whacked his sleeves. Hunger nagged at him and he scanned the aisles. Just the thought of food left a lingering, greasy film on the roof of his mouth. Come on man, try
something.
A package of cheese crackers stuffed with peanut butter. A loaf of bread and a can of tuna. He bought a bag of Fritos, a ham sandwich and two packs of Winstons.

His feet were soaked and Bogie was still slurring his S's when he got back. He put his shoes and socks on the heater, ripped open the sandwich and took a couple of bites, checked his watch. Twenty-four hours until Jimmy showed up.