Rattlesnake (3 page)

“Yeah, he’s dead all right,” concluded one of the truckers, a man with a big belly and a bushy beard.

“Who is he?” asked another. “Your daddy?”

Jimmy shook his head. “A hitchhiker. I picked him up in the desert. I thought he was sleeping.”

“Well, that’s fucked up.”

Jimmy had to agree with that assessment.

Eventually someone got around to calling the police, and two cars arrived ten minutes later, sirens wailing. An ambulance trailed behind. The truckers backed away a little when the cops came near, but Jimmy stood his ground. Tom had apparently become his problem.

While most of the emergency personnel concentrated on Tom, one cop drew Jimmy aside. He was Officer R. Ramirez, according to his name tag, and if Jimmy had been into men in uniform, this man would have been his wet dream. He was tall and buff, with short dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, and a square chin. He looked Jimmy up and down carefully, and if he was displeased by what he saw, at least he managed to keep a neutral expression.

“Can I see your driver’s license please, sir?” Ramirez asked.

Jimmy pulled the license from his wallet. It had been issued in South Carolina eight years earlier, but it was still valid. He handed it to Ramirez, who peered at it closely. “Is this address correct?” he asked.

“No.”

Ramirez handed back the license and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “Do you currently live in South Carolina, sir?” He’d probably already noticed that the Ford’s plates were from Oklahoma.

“Not anymore,” Jimmy answered.

“What is your current residence?”

Jimmy squirmed uncomfortably. “I, uh, don’t exactly have one. I’m… in transit.”

“In transit to where?”

“Sacramento. I might have a job there.”

“I see. Please tell me what happened, Mr. Dorsett.”

At least he was being polite and not condescending. And he stayed that way as Jimmy told his story. Ramirez asked some questions but only to supplement his notes. He didn’t seem to be trying to trip Jimmy up.

“Okay,” he said when Jimmy was done. “Just wait here, all right?”

Jimmy nodded. Where else was he going to go? He spent a long time fidgeting as Ramirez talked to the other cops and the EMTs. The truckers eventually grew bored and wandered back to their rigs. Jimmy was thankful he’d peed before the cops arrived, but fuck, he was dog tired. Pretty soon he was going to collapse.

The EMTs loaded Tom into the ambulance and drove away without lights or siren. The cops remained, and after a few more minutes, Ramirez briskly rejoined Jimmy. The officer didn’t look happy.

“Mr. Dorsett, do you know anybody in the Fresno area?”

“Not a soul.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stick around while we investigate.”

Shit. “Investigate? He was old and sick and he died.”

“I know. And I don’t have any reason to doubt what you’ve told me. But we can’t just take your word for it. I’m sorry.” To his credit, he looked as if he meant it.

“How long?”

“Two or three days. We’ll need an autopsy, maybe some preliminary lab reports. And we’re going to have to impound your car as evidence.”

Jimmy moaned. “My car! Look, it’s all—”

“I know. We’ll get it done as quickly as possible—I’ll see to that personally. But again, it’s going to be a couple of days.” His expression turned stern. “When we search the vehicle, are we going to find any narcotics?”

“I don’t know what’s in Tom’s backpack, but you won’t find drugs anywhere else.” Jimmy had used when he was younger. Occasionally he’d used heavily. But he’d come to realize that drugs were the most toxic form of hope, lasting only a short while before leaving you worse off than before. He still drank now and then, but not often and usually not much.

After another assessing look, Ramirez nodded. “All right. Do you have enough money for a few nights at a motel? If not, there’s a men’s shelter downtown. Or the jail, but I don’t think that’s a good option.”

Jimmy tried to remember how much cash he had left. “How cheaply can I get a room?”

“Thirty-five a night, if you’re not picky.”

He had to chuckle at that. “I’m not. And I guess I can afford a night or two at that rate.”

“Good. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Yeah, fine.” Jimmy rubbed his face. “Can I have my bag at least?” His duffel bag contained all his worldly possessions other than the Ford: a few changes of clothing, a pair of decent work boots, an old knit hat, basic toiletries, a blanket and towel, and a couple of battered paperbacks he’d picked up somewhere.

“Sorry, no. But you can take a few things to get you through.”

So Jimmy had to endure the indignity of having the cops watch as he extracted underwear, socks, T-shirts, the plastic bag of toiletries, and a book. He watched as the duffel bag and trunk were shut up tight. At least Ramirez found him a larger plastic bag to carry his stuff. That was nice.

Jimmy had never before ridden in the front of a cop car. It was a crowded place, with a laptop and lots of buttons and dials for equipment he couldn’t identify. He controlled the impulse to poke things at random. He was lucky to be heading for a motel instead of the jail, and he really didn’t want to push his luck.

Ramirez took the driver’s seat and smiled at Jimmy before pulling away. “I appreciate your cooperation, sir. I know this is an inconvenience.”

“I guess I’ll survive.” Unlike poor Tom. “Will you contact his son?”

“We’ll do our best to find his next of kin.”

“What will happen to the body?”

“That depends. If we can find family, we’ll release the deceased to them. If not, we’ll see if he has any resources to pay for a burial.”

Jimmy snorted. “And when you find out he doesn’t?”

“Cremation, and storage for a time.”

After a short drive, Ramirez pulled off the freeway and onto what had once been the main highway, lined with motels apparently in decline since the fifties. The Comet Motel was a motor court whose faded neon sign sported a spaceship-shaped appendage with remnants of weathered paint. A pair of hookers waiting near the driveway waved at Ramirez, who waved back.

“Not exactly the Ritz,” Ramirez said as he stopped in front of the office. “But better than the shelter or the jail.”

At this point Jimmy would have slept anywhere. “Okay. Thanks for the ride.”

“Here’s my card. Call if you need anything or have any questions. You’ll hear back from me as soon as possible. I can phone you here. Just don’t skip town, all right?”

“I won’t.” Jimmy took the card and slid it into his pocket. Clutching his plastic bag, he climbed out of the car.

But before Jimmy could shut the door, Ramirez leaned over, hand outstretched. “Thank you again, Mr. Dorsett.”

Christ, this cop was a good-looking man. Under very different circumstances, Jimmy might have flirted with him. But all he did was give Ramirez’s hand a quick shake, then Slam the door and walk away.

A
FTER
O
FFICER
Ramirez dropped him off, Jimmy checked in, paying his thirty-five bucks to a desk clerk with facial tattoos and nightmare teeth. Jimmy wasn’t surprised at the condition of his room, which was dirty and smelly and dark. Nor was he shocked to find a lumpy mattress that had probably been purchased while Carter was president. Which might also have been when the bedding was last laundered. Still fully dressed except for his tennis shoes, Jimmy lay down atop the hideous comforter, pillowed his head in his arms, and immediately fell asleep.

He slept deeper and longer than he expected, until his empty stomach awakened him midafternoon. Under the trickle of water that passed for a shower, Jimmy mentally designed brochures for the Comet Motel. He’d include glossy color photos of some of the highlights, such as the large dead roach he’d found in the tub, the mystery stains on the pink upholstered chair, the smear of blood on the closet door. He could include testimonials from satisfied customers: the drug dealer in the next unit, the man who stalked the parking lot and shouted warnings about aliens listening to people’s thoughts, and of course the neighborhood hookers. And gee, but the motel was conveniently located. After all, the trains passed by just yards away—many times a day—and the freeway was practically out your front door. And if you wanted a front-row view of gang activity, the Comet was your destination of choice.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t stayed in worse places; it was only that he hated emptying his wallet for a dump like this.

Freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, he went in search of food.

The sun’s glare scorched his eyeballs. The Comet and its surroundings looked even worse than they had in the early-morning light. Every bit of faded and peeling paint, rusty metal, and broken concrete stood in sharp relief. So did the feral-looking kids clustered at one end of the parking lot, playing with a ball and a broken shopping cart. Jimmy smiled at them, but they didn’t smile back. He hadn’t expected them to.

The Comet shared the street with several equally decrepit motels interspersed with weedy vacant lots and scabby-looking palm trees. A few blocks away, Jimmy found a gas station with an attached liquor store—handy for all of your DUI needs. But in addition to cheap booze, the place stocked some basic groceries. He chose a loaf of bread, aerosol cheese, a box of cereal bars, and a jug of water. His diet had been shit ever since he hit the road. He was probably going to get scurvy. But he couldn’t afford to eat out—not even fast food—and his in-room dining options were limited when he didn’t even have a fridge. He added a small carton of milk to his purchases. At least he’d get a little nutrition that way. He drained the carton while he walked back to the motel.

He was restless and would have walked farther, but the sun beat down and the scenery wasn’t very promising. Besides, what if the cops returned to the Comet and he wasn’t there? Would they assume he’d skipped town?

Shit, maybe he
should
skip town. The cops would find out soon enough that Tom died of natural causes, and then they’d stop looking for Jimmy. He didn’t care about anything in his car except for the boots, and the car itself was heading to the graveyard. But Officer Ramirez had treated him decently, had trusted him a bit, and Jimmy had given his word. He guessed he could stick around awhile longer.

Back in his room, he sprayed cheese product onto slices of bread, rolled the bread into tubes, and ate. It had been one of his staple meals during childhood, along with dry cereal, peanut butter and crackers, and ketchup sandwiches. Ramen soup if his brothers could be bothered to work the stove. Shit. It was a wonder he hadn’t keeled over long ago.

He washed his shirt, underwear, and socks from the day before and hung them in the bathroom to dry. He tried to stay clean whenever he could, and he hated being smelly. Dirtiness was unavoidable at times, especially when he had to sleep outdoors, but when he saw others draw away from him as if his filth and poverty were contagious, his heart hurt. He made special efforts at cleanliness when job hunting; nobody was going to hire a grimy bum.

Downtime with nothing to fill it was another problem with being transient and unemployed. That’s why he’d tried to cultivate blankness. He sat on the bed and tried to turn off his brain, but today he couldn’t achieve it. His mind kept whirring, nearly as noisy as the Ford. The ancient console TV had a wavering staticky picture and only a high-pitched whine. Finally he grabbed his book and began to read. It was an old Stephen King he’d read before but didn’t mind rereading.

Night fell. The noises outside his room became louder. A couple screamed at one another, and a baby cried. Cars sped by. Trains rumbled, shaking the entire building. Somewhere, from what sounded like the depths of hell, a woman repeated over and over, “You can’t stop it because it wants to stop you.”

And the cops didn’t show.

Although he wasn’t really tired, he eventually switched off the light and lay down, once again fully clothed. He dreamed of earthquakes and other natural disasters, and he dreamed of snakes.

H
E
HAD
to pay another thirty-five bucks in the morning. The clerk didn’t look any happier about taking his money than Jimmy felt about giving it.

“Is there a grocery store somewhere nearby?” Jimmy asked.

“Gas ’n’ Guzzle four blocks that way.” The clerk jerked his thumb.

“Yeah, I was there yesterday. I was hoping for someplace that sells actual food. You know, the stuff without a million unpronounceable words in the ingredients list.”

The clerk pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Okay,” Jimmy said. “You have a nice day, now.”

Out in the parking lot, he spied the kids. He was pretty sure they should be in school, and any adult supervision was evidently done by stealth. Jimmy knew from his own childhood that kids like these usually had a good lay of the land. “Hey,” he said, addressing the oldest one, a grubby boy around nine or ten. “Where near here can I buy groceries other than the Gas ’n’ Guzzle?”

The kid narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m tired of spray cheese.”

“Gimme five bucks and I’ll tell you.”

By now the other children had clustered around, eager to be entertained or enriched. “An entrepreneurial spirit,” Jimmy said. “I like that. But I don’t have an extra five dollars.”

“Then I ain’t gonna tell you.” The kid crossed his arms.

“Tell you what. You give me good directions to a supermarket, and when I get back I’ll juggle for you.”

The kid raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Juggle?”

“Yep. While I’m gone, you find three juggleable objects. That means nonlethal, not too big, and not too heavy.”

The younger children chattered excitedly with one another, considering what things they could find, but their leader had a
don’t shit me
expression. “How do I know you can really juggle?”