Read Last Call For Caviar Online
Authors: Melissa Roen
Last Call For Caviar (8 page)
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The shadows were lengthening as I left the Astrarama. It was just a couple of days till June twenty-first, the summer solstice, and though the sun wouldn’t set till almost 9:30 p.m., I didn’t want to get caught out on these roads on foot. With twilight would come a stirring of the things that had stayed hidden all day. It was just going on 6:40 p.m., and it would take at least another hour and a half to get down the hill before I would be safe behind my walls for the night.
Every couple hundred meters, I scanned the trail ahead of me and behind, sweeping my binoculars in a slow 360-degree search. I felt a prickle of unease, as though something was out there, shadowing my footsteps.
Less than a kilometer away, I could see the rooftops of the Ecole des Chiens Guides through the treetops, the training center and kennels of the seeing eye dogs for the blind. I heard they’d run out of funding and closed down months before.
I was relieved that the trail I was taking would skirt the training center. The loss of Blue was still raw. I didn’t need any reminders of how loyal or smart golden retrievers were, or how they made ideal companions, aids and defenders of the blind.
I was about halfway to the turn-off for the training center when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of gold weaving in and out of the underbrush, pacing me to my right about seventy meters distant. I stopped and waited, but the blur of gold disappeared. I continued another hundred paces, and the golden flash trotted along, now fifty meters on my right. Every time I moved, the flash moved also. When I stopped, the golden flash froze.
I was level with the path that led to training center, coming to the turn that would take me home. The sun was lowering in the western skies; I needed to keep moving. But something held me there, waiting. Maybe I only imagined the golden blur playing hide and seek off to my side. I waited as the minutes stretched on. The sky was reddening in the last hours of the dying day.
I couldn’t wait any longer. Then, as I turned to go, I saw his form standing on an outcrop of rock twenty meters away. A male golden, about four years old, I estimated, his chest just starting to fill out and take on the muscles and bulk of a male in his prime. The outline of his ribcage was visible, his golden coat matted and dusty with burrs and bits of bramble, but the breeding was there in the line of his body and the way he held his noble head. He gave a joyous bark of greeting and bounded from the rock, landing in the middle of the path. He took a dozen steps towards me then danced back twenty, his tail held aloft like he was in the show ring. He stopped and barked once again, inviting me to follow him down the path towards the center.
I took ten paces towards him, speaking in a low voice. I held out my hand, “Hey, buddy, where did you come from? You sure are a pretty boy.”
I stopped twenty paces away and knelt in the dirt, so he would see I was no threat. I coaxed him towards my outstretched hand. He approached slowly, sniffed my hand, and let me caress the lines of his head and flank just once, then pranced away, keeping playfully out of reach.
He must belong to someone, though from the condition of his coat and his gauntness it seemed like he’d been fending for himself for a while. I didn’t see a collar, so there wouldn’t be a tag with a number I could call to say I’d found a lost dog. The training center had been closed at least four months, and as far as I knew, no one was squatting there.
“Come on, Buddy. Let’s go.” I whistled to see if he would come. I started down the path, hoping he would follow. He stayed in the middle of the path and barked. I retraced my steps and tried once more to coax him along. He followed me a few steps, then retreated towards the center and held his ground. We were in a stalemate; neither one would follow the other home. I didn’t want to leave him. For a moment, it almost felt like Blue had come back from the dead, but I’d already stayed too long.
I looked back one last time as I reached the top of the switchback that led down; he was silhouetted against the violet sky, the last golden rays highlighting his form. I felt his eyes watching over me until I disappeared around the bend heading home.
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The twilight deepened into early evening as I covered the last couple of blocks home. Everything was how I’d left it: no doors or windows forced. One more day had passed, and I’d escaped harm. For some reason, I walked through these days without fear, feeling almost invisible, as though I was under the protection of a powerful charm.
Looking out through the panes of the French doors, I could see the streetlights were coming on: a string of reddish-gold halos, interspersed with pockets of darkness, lit the Basse Corniche on the other side of the cove. Now that night had fallen, I was imprisoned; the hours stretched before me until release with the coming of dawn. There’s nothing like pain and loneliness to slow time to a crawl.
I turned on my computer and checked my email. With relief, I saw one from Leah. It had been close to three weeks since she’d told me they’d be heading for Oregon soon. I’d heard nothing since.
Hey, Baby Girl,
” read the opening line. I knew the old nickname was meant in affection. At times, my sister seemed to think I was still nine.
Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you before, but it was hard to get a signal on the road, and we’ve had our hands pretty full. First of all, to set your mind at ease, we’ve all arrived, the beach house is secure, and we’re safe.
I knew Leah’s little band consisted of Jack and his brother Noah, who had come down from Oregon to help with the trek; Mama and Kobe, the gentle golden retriever I’d given her ten years before, who never left her side; Leah’s daughter Sloan, whose tats couldn’t hide what a beauty she’d become—and her boyfriend Matt, whose shaved head and faux diamond studs spoke of youthful swagger and desperate cool; lastly, Leah’s ferocious Westies, Bella and Rose.
The first part, crossing the Mojave, went off without a hitch. We joined up with a caravan of twenty vehicles, with an escort of professional security outriders. I almost didn’t think we’d need to; I know that drive like the back of my hand. But the stories of outlaw gangs preying on travelers were true, and the gold was well-spent. We passed so many burnt-out cars on the highway. There’s only a few ways to leave Las Vegas, and the outlaw motorcycle gangs lay in wait for a lone car, even small convoys. They throw Molotov cocktails and grenades to force vehicles off the road. No one knows what happens to the victims; there’s never any bodies left behind.
We could see their dust trail out on the desert roads, shadowing our route. Once, we saw a small group—only a dozen riders—idling at a rest area on the Vegas-bound side of the freeway. They looked like something out of Mad Max: greasy cut-off leathers with the death head patch, Mohawks and chains, their bodies crawling with tattoos. You could feel the craziness and menace even from the other side of the freeway! We were too well-armed for such a small group. They let us pass without a fight.
We had a few tense moments when we stopped to refuel, everyone on guard, weapons out and scanning the surrounding desert. A band of thirty bikers came roaring out of the stillness like hell hounds on metal—whooping and hollering—their arms brandished overhead. It reminded me of old westerns when the Indians attack a wagon train. But they like easier pickings. The security guards only had to fire a few warning rounds over their heads—the Hummers with machine gun mounts were a serious deterrent—and they fled.
I smiled as I imagined Leah, like a stern biblical heroine of old, tendrils of hair blowing in the wind, doe-eyes flashing with resolve, bandoliers crossing her chest, as she led her tribe across the desert in search of a promised land.
We left the convoy north of Reno. This was the end of the line. The security personnel had another convoy to escort the following week and were heading back to Vegas. The security outriders did their job, but they’re cleaning up, escorting convoys of frightened people in these desperate times. Don’t ya know it? Someone always makes a buck! It almost makes me wonder if they might be in league with the motorcycle gangs, to scare up business.
We thought we could cross over by Susanville, further south, but the roads were closed. The wildfires north of Los Angeles were burning out of control. The whole central part of the state was in flames, and the brushfires were burning from the mountains right down to the Pacific. The smoke was so thick, we could taste the ash on the back of our throats, and we couldn’t see the sun.
I just thank God we got Mama and Kobe out of Cali, even though she put up such a ruckus about leaving her home.
Speaking of Mama, she’s been holding up pretty well, sweet as can be, docile as long as Kobe is next to her. You always feel she isn’t really taking in what’s going on around her. That little smile on her face as though she’s hearing something no one else can hear. It’s almost as though she has one foot already on the other side.
We were almost to the border crossing into Oregon. We’d been forced to detour onto this back country road and hadn’t seen any other vehicles all morning, when we had a flat tire on the Jeep SUV that Noah was driving. No problem; we had a spare, and a half hour later we were back on the winding country road. About ten miles later, we turned off at a gas station, out in the woods in the middle of nowhere. On the other side of the road sat a diner called Delilah’s. We decided to stop to see if they had gas, patch the tire and get some news about the road ahead.
Jack and Noah went first to check things out and gave the all-clear. There was only a young boy about fourteen at the gas pumps, and an old man of about seventy-five at the register inside the diner. The boy said the old man was his grandfather. The diner wasn’t serving any food. Seems the man’s wife Delilah had been the cook, and she’d passed the winter before.
Everyone got out to stretch his legs. We’d been cramped like sardines for days. It was so peaceful there, among the pines, such a long way from all the tension and worry that dogged our trail. I felt like we could finally take a breath; we were on the last leg of our trek. We should get to the beach house—absent any unforeseen detours—by tomorrow evening, latest. We figured we could let our guard down a bit and unwind, and take an hour for an impromptu picnic in the mountain air.
We’d all been in and out of the diner, used the facilities and even exchanged a few words with Sam, an old man worn down by life. He seemed to be glad of the company and fetched some cokes for us from behind the bar; just a harmless old man with bad dentures, shooting the breeze this summer morning.
We paid and were getting ready to leave when Mama had to use the bathroom one last time. Sloan offered to take her, since everyone else was busy repacking the cars. Kobe stayed with me, even though he strained at his leash to follow Mama as she crossed the road.
I guess we weren’t paying any attention to the time. Maybe they’d been gone twenty minutes. Mama was slow, and it wasn’t easy getting her dressed at the best of times. Then Kobe starting whining and fighting his leash. He slipped his collar and dashed across the road at the same instant two gunshots split the air from the direction of the diner.
We burst through the front door, weapons drawn—and God love her, you would have been so proud—there was Mama, shielding Sloan like a lioness defending her cub, a dainty little Lady’s Special Colt smoking in her hand. We were just in time to hear her say to Sam and the pimply, rat-haired, backwoods tweaker that cowered next to him by the register,
“Go ahead, you sons of bitches, and try for your guns. It will be my pleasure to put down another piece of scum.”
Kobe backed up her words, growling at a long-haired hulk in a dirty gray t-shirt, sprawled across the kitchen threshold, bleeding from a shoulder wound and one in his thigh. There were needle tracks running down each arm.
It seems these two junkies, in their early twenties, had been hiding in the kitchen, watching and waiting all along. The wounded one had snuck up behind Sloan in the corridor as she and Mama were leaving the bathroom, while the younger meth head played lookout from the front room. He had a hand over Sloan’s mouth before she could scream and was trying to drag her into the kitchen.
We figure their plan had probably been to hold Sloan and Mama hostage in the diner while they shook us down for our gold and weapons, or even worse. There are a lot of woods around the diner, the perfect spot to hide unmarked graves. I wonder how many other unwary travellers have stopped at this crossroads diner for gas and a coke, and never continued their journey. They might be sleeping for all eternity, six feet under, somewhere out there in those woods.
Luckily, no one paid any attention to the sweet, senile old lady or thought her a threat to their plan. And we don’t know where the gun came from. Mama still had some tricks up her sleeve! She’d been armed all along.
The teen-age boy at the gas pumps ran off into the woods at the first sound of gunfire. Needless to say, we got the hell out of there, after ripping the phone from the wall, confiscating their cell phones and weapons, and slashing the garage truck’s tires. We tied up the pimply one. The last we saw, the wounded junkie was bleeding out on the diner floor, tended by Sam.
Sloan’s okay now, though she was really shaken and just a little embarrassed that her grandmother had to save the day. It’s been a good lesson for all of us: never drop your guard with strangers.
I swear, it’s like Mama’s a new woman: alert and just chattering away. She tries to help as best she can. Though she only gives a sly smile like a naughty little girl when we ask her about the shooting.
She wanted me to give you a message, “Shoulders back and head up, Baby Girl. Stop slouching!” And she also said, “Never forget where you come from.”
She’s right; we’ve got her blood in our veins. I gotta say, big respect for the old gal; she saved my darling Sloan.
We’re settling in fine here. I’ll send you more news when we’ve had a chance to get a handle on what’s going on. We love you, sweetie. It’s just not the same, you being so far away. Come home!
Luv ya kid,
Leah
I reread Leah’s words; trying to imagine their trek through the badlands of the Mojave Desert, home to Joshua trees, rattlesnakes and outlaw motorcycle gangs. Death could so easily have found them in that moonscape of sterile dunes. I thought about Mama’s heroics during the shootout in the diner and laughed until tears streamed down my face. Then came a feeling of homesickness so powerful, for a second I couldn’t catch my breath. At that moment, I missed my family so much and would have given anything to be with them.
They were right, Leah and Joe: there was nothing left for me here, except ghosts and the bottle of whiskey I nursed while watching the moonlight dance on the waters of the cove.
I crawled to bed half-drunk before midnight and slept like the dead. Sometime after three, I woke up with a splitting head, my tongue like sandpaper and a fierce urge to pee. I’d had a nightmare…
I didn’t remember much of my dream, only that I’d been lost in a labyrinth of tall trees, their branches blocking the exit and scratching at my face. Vines held me fast. I had to claw my way through. Then, there was a golden flash at my side, sometimes pacing next to me, sometimes leading the way forward.
I woke up again at dawn exhausted, the sheet tangled about my hips and damp from night sweats, as though I really had been fighting my way for hours through a nightmare maze. I remembered the golden presence, comforting and protective at my side.
I would go to that damned party with Giovanni. He was right; I had to start exploring other options. But I would go back to the training center and see if I could find the golden again. I was already thinking about how I could bring Buddy home.