Dangerous Lies (8 page)

“How many hours are you hoping for?”

“As many as you’ll give me.”

“I’m looking to hire someone part-time, twenty hours a week. You’d be responsible for some food prep, like milk shakes and adding the right dressing to our stock salads. But the primary duties of a carhop are taking orders from curbside customers, sending the orders to the cooks, and taking the food out when it’s ready.”

“I can handle that.”

“The nice thing about sitting smack-dab on the street corner is that we’ve got the parking spaces all down the left side of the building. Customers pull in and they don’t have to leave their car to get food. We serve anywhere from twenty to fifty cars a night.” She smiled slyly. “They don’t take up tables in the dining area and there’s no cleanup. Best of both worlds. Can you start tonight, Stella?”

I blinked. “Are you offering me the job?”

“If you want it.”

It was an easy decision. Time away from Carmina, AC, and a little spending money? I smiled brightly. “You’ve got yourself a new carhop.”

Dixie Jo rose from behind the desk. “Be here tonight at four thirty. It’ll give you a chance to get the swing of things before the crowds arrive. I pay every other Friday. Still on board?”

“Definitely.”

“Then we’ll see you tonight, Stella.” With a smile, she signaled me to see myself out.

I was halfway across the kitchen when I backtracked and poked my head through her door. “One more thing. Is there a uniform?”

She snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot. The new ones just came in. The old ones were pink-and-white-striped dresses with a lace hem. Reminded me of something Dolly Parton would’ve worn on tour in 1981. If you swing by the Salvation Army, they’re selling them for ten apiece.” She rifled through one of the boxes stacked along the back wall and held up a faux leather black skirt and fitted camo top.

“Better?” She arched her brows, asking my opinion.

I laughed. “You have to ask?”

“Top has to be tucked in for safety purposes, but you can wear whatever closed-toe footwear you choose. What size would you like?”

I took a medium and walked out with a bounce in my step. As far as job interviews went, I was 1–0.

*  *  *

Outside, Carmina’s beach cruiser was gone.

I glanced both ways down the street. A few cars rolled along the brick streets of Thunder Basin’s downtown, but the sidewalks were empty. No guilty-looking pedestrians making a break for it with an eyesore of a bike. So much for small-town safety. I still didn’t have a cell phone, so I couldn’t report the bike stolen. Nor could I call Carmina to pick me up—she’d be furious, and would probably force me to walk as punishment. Any way I looked at it, I was going on foot. I’d give her the good news first—that I was Thunder Basin’s newest carhop. And hope it was enough to soothe over the loss of her bike. But it still didn’t answer how I was going to get to work tonight.

Pinning my hair up, I crossed to the shady side of the street and started the long walk back. I’d only made it a few blocks when a banana-yellow vehicle rumbled up beside me. The passenger window was rolled down, and Chet Falconer grinned through it, tipping his tan Stetson at me.

“Hot morning,” he observed.

“What do you want?” I said, feigning annoyance, but the truth was, I couldn’t believe my luck. Maybe Chet was finished in town and I could bum a ride back to Carmina’s.

“Did you walk to town? Quite a hike.”

“Not
all
of us are lazy. Some of us like a little exercise and fresh air. What is this gas guzzler, anyway?” I asked, gesturing at his vehicle. I’d never seen anything like it. It looked like the love child of a jeep and a military truck.

“1977 International Harvester Scout. They don’t make them anymore.”

“Hazarding a guess . . . fifteen miles per gallon? You could give the environment a break and at least carpool. Find some lonely traveler who could use a ride . . .”

His grin widened. “You angling for a lift?”

“Just worried about the state of the world we’re leaving for our grandchildren.” For emphasis, I eyed his Scout doubtfully.

“Get in, already.”

I glanced farther down the sidewalk, bit my lip, and tried to look conflicted. “But it’s
such
a nice day.”

Chet snorted. “It’s ninety degrees out. Get in before I change my mind.”

I tugged on the door and hauled myself inside. “
Fine.
You talked me into it.”

The inside of Chet’s Scout smelled like an earthy mixture of leather polish, old books, and grass clippings. No artificial air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror, and I hadn’t caught a whiff of cologne. I hadn’t expected to. Chet wasn’t as fastidious about his looks as the boys I knew back home. He definitely wasn’t as meticulous as Reed, who ironed his jeans. When Reed came to pick me up, his stiff hair held the telltale sign of maximum-hold gel, his clothes were fresh from the cleaners, and he smelled as fragrant as a department store. He probably spent at least an hour getting ready.
Detail.
I’d always appreciated his attention to it. But in retrospect, it did make him seem a little . . . fussy.

Chet hung his arm out the open window and put the Scout in gear. “Straight home?”

It was too early for lunch, but I wasn’t ready to go back to Carmina’s. Not unless I wanted a stern talking to. Seriously, how many people stole a green beach cruiser circa 1965?

“Know of any good bike stores in town?” I asked.

“Used or new?”

“Definitely used. I’m in the market for something pretty specific. A green beach cruiser with a basket between the handlebars. The paint has to be peeling. Scratches on the frame are vital. Oh, and it needs a wide padded seat. Think I can find one of those?”

Chet whistled thoughtfully. “Sounds like there’s more to this story.”

I tossed my hands up. “I lost Carmina’s bike. I rode it to town this morning for a job interview, which I totally rocked, by the way”—I paused my story to give him a high five—“and when I came out, it was gone. Stolen. First the Mustang, now the bike. I’m not having any luck. She’ll probably ground me. Having to stay at her place 24/7 is about the worst punishment I can think of.”

“The Charlton Brothers,” Chet mused to himself.

“What?”

“Jimbo and Billy John Charlton took your bike. Don’t take it personally, they do it to everyone.”

“Their names are really Jimbo and Billy John?”

“This is Nebraska.”

He had a point.

“I know exactly where your bike is,” Chet said, making a hard and illegal U-turn in the intersection. I grabbed the granny handle for balance as the tires clipped the curb. “Where?”

“Junkyard.”

“They steal bikes and dump them in the junkyard?”

“Nothing better to do. They live in a trailer park near the railroad tracks. Dad’s a drunk and on his way to join his wife, who died of cirrhosis of the liver a few years ago. The Charlton boys don’t go to school, don’t have jobs, and don’t pay taxes. Rumor has it they’ve both made inappropriate advances on their little sister, Millie Sue.”

“Ew.”

“Town disgraces, Jimbo and Billy John.”

Well. That’s what happened when people got stuck in a place like Thunder Basin. Once the inbreeding started, it was all downhill. Drug dealers, bike thieves, and perverts, the whole lot of them.

*  *  *

Thunder Basin’s junkyard was framed by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Chet parked at the rear of the sprawling acreage to avoid being seen by the attendant at the front gate. We weren’t likely to get in trouble for trespassing, Chet assured me, but if we went through the front gates, we’d have to pay for any property we left with. I wasn’t paying for a bike that was mine—Carmina’s, technically—to begin with.

Chet walked along the outer perimeter of the fence and went right to the spot where the chains had been cut to form a hidden seam. “When Dusty was twelve, the Charlton brothers took his bike. Haven’t changed their M.O. in years.”

We slipped through the fence, walking down rows of old cars piled three high, and ancient appliances. We passed a mountain of tires, axles, and other car parts. Retired tractors and farm equipment had also made their way into the junkyard. Chet turned down a row, and at the end of it, I saw a large hill of dirt. Atop the hill was Carmina’s green beach cruiser.

“That’s it!” I said, quickening my pace.

I came to an abrupt stop at the base of the hill, dismayed to find the dirt had a sticky, mudlike consistency and was strewn with hay. It smelled awful. I was a city girl, but I didn’t need to live on a farm to know that I was standing before a heaping pile of fresh manure.

“I’m going to kill the Charlton brothers,” I muttered vengefully.

Chet clapped me on the shoulder. “First step’s the hardest, kid.”

I glanced at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose . . .”

Chet flipped his palms up and backed away. “No way. You’re on your own.”

I took one tentative step onto the manure. My sandal sank easily. Wrinkling my nose, I let my thoughts travel to a myriad of gruesome ways I could dismember Jimbo and Billy John Charlton. Knives. Chain saws. An ice pick. My own two hands.

After slipping and sliding my way uphill, at last I had the bike in my hands. Digging in my heels to steady my footing, I sent the bike wheeling down to Chet. I got my hands dirty in the process, and had to close my eyes and count to ten to keep my composure. When I reopened my eyes, I risked a glance down, and was mortified to discover that my sandals had sunk completely into the manure; it was creeping up my bare ankles.

I couldn’t help it; I shrieked.

“If it makes you feel better, cows are vegetarians,” Chet called up cheerfully.

“What will make me feel better is a shower!”

Tamping down the queasiness rolling in my stomach, I jogged downhill as fast as I could without risking a fall. At the bottom, I kicked my feet at the air, flinging off any clumps of manure clinging to my heels, then took several deep, steadying breaths. After a minute, I’d managed to suppress my gag reflex.

“Where do they live?” I demanded, already striding toward the back of the junkyard, where Chet’s Scout was parked. “Where can I find those two dirtbags?”

Chet waved me off, a strange gleam in his eyes. “Nah, let karma take care of them.”

“I’m not waiting for karma. I’m going to take care of them right
now
.” I bit off each word.

“They’re mean boys, Jimbo and Billy Joe. If I were you, I’d take the bike and be glad they didn’t stick it someplace worse.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Which is it? Is his name Billy John or Billy Joe?”

Chet went a little pink at the ears. He coughed, clearly trying to disguise a laugh.

I stared at him for a few moments before realization dawned, and I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, no, you didn’t. . . .”

“Oh, I definitely did.” With that, Chet let out a whoop and took off running for the fence.

I grabbed the handlebars of Carmina’s bike and chased after him, shouting a slew of creative and threatening curses. When I reached the fence, I was out of breath, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. Chet stood on the other side, examining me distrustfully, but not without a slight and mocking smile.

“Told you I’d get you back,” he said, smirking.

“Low blow, Falconer.”

He pointed a finger at me. “I was just starting to get back in Carmina’s good graces by mowing the lawn, and this was a big step backward. Did you see the way she eyed me when she found out I helped you start the Mustang? Tell me that’s not worse than climbing a pile of manure.”

“Well?” I huffed. “What got you in her bad graces?”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “We’re still talking about Carmina, right? Does anyone need a reason?”

Point taken.

I stewed in my anger a minute, then heaved an irritated sigh. “The least you can do is give me a ride.”

Chet held the broken fence open and helped me guide the cruiser through. Then he hoisted it onto his shoulder and carried it to the back of the Scout. I was still dusting myself off when he came around and held my door open for me.

“
Now
you decide to be chivalrous,” I said, climbing in.

Another snort. “What kind of payback would it’ve been if I had rescued you?” After he swung behind the wheel, he turned to face me sheepishly. “Still friends?”

“Only if you make sure I get in the softball league. I need a nightlife. Has Pastor Lykins talked to you yet?”

“Matter of fact, he has.”

“And?”

Chet thumbed his nose. “I figured I can squeeze you on my team. We’ll have an extra player, but nobody will care.”

“Good.” I settled into my seat, content. “I was hoping we’d be on the same team.”

“You were?” he asked, looking surprised and pleased.

“Rumor has it you’re a good shortstop. I don’t want to be on a losing team.
Obviously
.”

“Right. Well, you’re in luck. We’re 2–0 for the season.”

On the drive back, Chet grinned suddenly in recollection and said, “Still can’t believe you bought that story about Jimbo and Billy what’s-his-name.”

“It was a legitimate story!” I protested. “Totally plausible!”

He gave an eye roll. “All small towns in America are filled with inbreeding, ignorant, Bible-spouting rednecks?” He wagged his head pathetically. “You can’t really believe that. That’s like me saying all city types are backstabbing, morally corrupt workaholics.”

“The workaholic part is probably true. People go to the city because they have a dream—”

“You know what I’m saying.”

I sighed elaborately and made a pouty face. “Okay, I admit I was wrong and perhaps prejudiced. Happy?”

“I’m not trying to coerce you into thinking one way or another, I just want you to consider my perspective. I’ve spent my whole life in Thunder Basin. This is my home. I like it here. But I’m not blind. I can tell you hate it. Fair enough. But I wish you’d hold off judging the town—and everyone in it—until you’ve given it a chance.”

I bit my lip to hold in a smile. “I wish you could see your face right now. You look so
serious
.”