Rattlesnake (5 page)

So even if he believed in ghosts—which he didn’t—he saw no reason for Tom to haunt him. But the seat was there, and there was something… expectant about it. Or maybe something demanding.

“Fuck this,” Jimmy grumbled. He took the next exit, which put him at a nowhere crossroads surrounded by spring-green fields. He pulled off to the side of the road, and with the motor still clumping away, he hopped out of the car. The passenger door opened without complaint, but when he found the seat back lever and pulled it up, the seat remained stubbornly in place. “C’mon, you piece of shit. If you went down, you can fucking well get back up again.”

He wrenched at the lever with all his strength and gave a satisfied laugh when the seat popped upright. But before he could celebrate too heartily, he caught sight of a folded piece of white paper lying on the floor. It had been tucked mostly under the seat, invisible when the thing was reclined. It could have been anything. A receipt. Something one of the cops dropped while searching the car. But he knew in his heart what it was, so he wasn’t at all surprised to read the name penned in shaky handwriting across the outside:
Shane
.

Goddammit.

With the paper clutched in his hand, Jimmy slammed the door. He went around to the driver’s seat and collapsed heavily into it. He shut the door and looked at the paper, which was smudged with dirt and had obviously been handled a lot. “Must’ve fallen out of Tom’s jacket,” he said out loud. The cops hadn’t found it when they searched the car, but they probably hadn’t searched all that diligently. The sudden death of a drifter wasn’t exactly their top priority.

Shane didn’t even care enough about his father to give him a funeral. Tom probably deserved his son’s disdain. It sounded as if he’d been a shitty parent before he up and disappeared, and Jimmy didn’t blame Shane at all. So if Jimmy tossed the letter out the window beside a field somewhere north of Fresno, Shane would never know and wouldn’t care even if he
did
know. The letter was nothing. Garbage.

Except it wasn’t. At least it hadn’t been to Tom. And the decision whether to read it or rip it to shreds should be Shane’s. It wasn’t Jimmy’s place to steal that from him.

Fine, then. Shane Little of Rattlesnake, California. That should be address enough. Jimmy could mail it to him. Except that required an envelope and stamp, neither of which he possessed, and while he could certainly find a post office if he tried, well, that felt like the wrong kind of effort.

Fuck. Picking up that hitchhiker was causing him all sorts of trouble.

Feeling oddly voyeuristic, Jimmy unfolded the paper.

Dear Shane,

I don’t know if you have any good memories of me, but we had some. I want you to know about them because I’m dying and I’m a selfish old bastard. Want you to know we was happy once. When you were a bitty baby you used to fuss at bedtime, and the only way to get you to sleep was if I sang to you. I’d carry you around singing whatever came into my head. Country tunes. Ring of Fire was your favorite. And you’d stop crying and close your eyes and your little fists would unclench and you’d fall asleep. You wouldn’t do it for your ma—only me. When you got a little bigger we used to sit on the porch while your ma cooked dinner. I had a job then. A good one. But when I came home you were always waiting for me on that porch, with all them good smells coming out the windows and the sounds of your ma fixing our food, and we’d throw rocks at old tin cans. You had a good arm for a little kid. I used to tell you you’d be a baseball star someday.

I know it all went to shit later. I’d tell you how sorry I am, but you don’t want no I’m sorrys from an old man. They don’t do you no good.

But before I fucked up we had some good. I been remembering that good all these years, even when there ain’t been much other good around me. You keep that in mind, ok? Go ahead and hate me if it makes you feel better, but that won’t change what we had for a short time, there at the beginning.

Love,

Papa

Jimmy folded the paper and set it on the passenger seat. He’d spent a lot of years going away from places, but this was the first time he could remember being drawn
to
somewhere. Tom was dead, but it looked like Jimmy was heading to Rattlesnake in his Place.

T
HE
CAR
almost didn’t make it, rattling its way grimly up the freeway, then through Merced and onto a county road. It was fortunate that traffic was light, because the terrain began to rise and the Ford crawled along, every extra mile a miracle from the gods. Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to Highway 49, and another when he found the turnoff for Rattlesnake.

He suspected that at one time the highway had run right through the center of downtown Rattlesnake. But the state had apparently decided to build a bypass so that folks in a hurry could zoom on to better places. A few fairly modern buildings clustered close to what was now the main route: a gas station with an adjacent auto repair shop, a small grocery store, and a little strip mall with a Subway sandwich place, a pizza parlor, a real estate office, and a hair salon. A few blocks closer to downtown sat an ugly modern church, an old one with a tall spire, and across the street, Rattlesnake High School with a painted mural of an angry reptile on its long beige wall.

And then he arrived in central Rattlesnake—all four blocks of it. The two-story buildings would have looked comfortable in an old John Wayne or Clint Eastwood flick. Jimmy cruised down Main Street, rubbernecking as he went. He passed the Jewel Box Theater, with its art deco sign announcing a superhero movie. He saw a handful of touristy boutiques, a western-wear shop, several restaurants, a tiny museum. A place that sold crystals and incense and crap like that. Antique stores, the post office, a bank. And the Rattlesnake Inn, which appeared to contain both a hotel and a bar.

Smaller streets ran off to the sides, downhill on his right and up on his left, but he didn’t see any businesses. Just houses, most of them old.

Jimmy piloted the Ford into a public parking lot at the edge of the business district. His was the only car there, and as he turned off the engine, it emitted a sound suspiciously like a death rattle. He tucked the letter into his jacket pocket, made sure all his belongings were stuffed into his duffel bag, and settled the bag over his shoulder before setting off toward downtown. He could have left the duffel in the car, but he liked to keep it nearby whenever possible since he never knew when he might have to leave abruptly.

It was past six on a weeknight in April, and most of the businesses were closed. There probably weren’t many tourists right now. The post office was locked up too, but a pair of old geezers sat and smoked on the bench between it and a café. They looked as if they’d been sitting there since the town was founded. One of them had a dog.

“Excuse me,” Jimmy said politely. “Could you tell me where I could find a guy named Shane Little?”

The old men squinted at him as if he’d been speaking a foreign language. Finally the one in the dirty ball cap sniffled. “Whattaya want Shane for? You one of his boyfriends?” Both men cackled.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. Either Shane Little was gay or the townspeople had some kind of running joke about his sexuality. Interesting, but beside the point. “I’ve never met him. But I have a message to give him.”

“Who from?” demanded the second man, whose head was as hairless as an egg.

“Well, I figure that’s his business. If he wants to share, that’s up to him, not me.”

The old guys looked slightly disappointed, but they nodded. “He’s in there,” said the bald one, pointing across the street at the Rattlesnake Inn. “Tending the bar.”

“Thank you.”

A plaque next to the front door announced that the Rattlesnake Inn was built in 1850, burned in a fire two years later, and was rebuilt in its present form in 1853. With the exception of the addition of electric lights and an ATM machine, the small lobby didn’t appear to have changed much in the intervening years. An imposing woman in her sixties sat behind a carved wooden counter, reading a book. She looked at Jimmy appraisingly, taking in his cheap clothes and beat-up duffel bag. At least he was clean.

“Can I help you?” She didn’t sound hostile, just neutral.

“How much would a room for tonight cost me?”

“Fifty-five dollars plus tax. Sixty-five with a private bath.”

He had a little over eighty bucks to his name. “I guess I’ll just visit the bar, then.”

She nodded and returned to her book.

A pair of swinging saloon doors separated the lobby from the bar. As he pushed through, he imagined himself in a ten-gallon hat, a holster slung low on his hips. But he couldn’t picture himself as either the hero or the villain. Probably he was one of those unlucky extras who dive behind a table when the fight breaks out but still get killed by a wayward bullet.

At least nobody inside the bar appeared visibly armed. The light was dim, just enough to make things cozy. He could still discern the pressed tin ceiling, the worn wooden floor, and the elaborate bar running the full length of one wall. He’d be willing to bet that the bar was the one installed back in 1853.

The place wasn’t crowded. In the center of the room, two gray-haired couples chatted loudly over glasses of wine while a few younger people, in twos and threes, occupied other tables. Up against one wall, a cute guy in his twenties sat alone, a big camera perched on the table as he poked at his phone. And at the far end of the room, the bartender was bringing glasses and beer bottles to a middle-aged blonde lady and her younger female companion. The bartender was tall and thin, wearing a blue plaid Pendleton overshirt and faded jeans. He walked with a pronounced limp.

Jimmy strode to the bar, dumped his duffel onto the floor, and sat on a leather-upholstered stool. He liked this place. The Old West theme was genuine, not overdone, and the ambience was quiet and relaxed. No television blaring crap, no gaudy neon signs. The room even smelled nice, like furniture polish with a faint whiff of spices.

As the bartender made his slow, uneven way back to the bar, Jimmy realized he’d misjudged the guy. Based on the stiff way he moved, Jimmy had assumed he was older. But it became clear as he drew closer that the bartender was probably not past his midthirties. He wasn’t so much skinny as lean.
Sinewy
, Jimmy thought. Strong. His hair was brown flirting with red, and a pointy chin, crooked nose, and a few interesting scars saved his face from being too pretty. His eyes, though…
those
were gorgeous. Almost the same deep blue as his shirt, and lined at the corners. He had a friendly smile too, a little lopsided, as if to offset his nose.

“Can I get you something?” he asked as he walked behind the counter.

Jimmy thought for a moment before replying. He should confirm that the guy was Shane Little, hand over the letter with a short explanation, and then skedaddle. But he found himself wanting to stick around for a bit. “If I order a coffee, will you mind if I just sit here awhile?”

The bartender shrugged and waved at all the empty stools. “I think I can spare you a seat.” He turned and filled a white ceramic mug from the pot on the burner. “Need room for cream?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Nope. I take sugar, though.”

The bartender set the cup in front of him, along with a spoon, a cocktail napkin, and a little basket of sugar packets. Then he grinned and gave Jimmy a bowl of popcorn too. “We used to do nuts, but nowadays everyone’s allergic. Popcorn’s cheaper too.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, returning the smile.

And maybe they would have had a little more conversation and Jimmy might have turned over the letter. But just then a man across the room called, “Hey, Shane! Can we get another?” and held up an empty glass.

“Hold your horses, Brandon. I’ll be there in a sec.” Shane moved to fill fresh glasses from a tap.

Jimmy stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee and had a better look around. He saw that although everything was old, it was also clean, the bottles on the bar shelves gleaming and the countertop without so much as a crumb. Shane winced slightly as he walked, and his back was oddly stiff as well. But he seemed in good cheer as he talked to Brandon and a couple of the other guests.

Belatedly Jimmy noticed a subtle decorating theme: snakes. Framed prints of reptiles hung here and there on the walls, a few of the chair backs had squiggly shapes carved into them, and instead of a mirror, the wall behind the bar boasted a subdued mural of a rattler curled up and sunning itself on a rock.

The images took Jimmy back to his childhood, when he and his brothers used to go snake hunting. At the time, the family lived in a shack at the edge of some unmemorable town. Across the street, acres of fields stretched toward the horizon, broken only by a small woods with a tiny creek. Mama worked nights, so during the summer, she insisted they stay the hell out of the house so she could get some sleep. Jimmy’s brothers wouldn’t have let him tag along if she hadn’t required it. He’d been so thrilled to hang out with the big kids that he really hadn’t cared what they were doing.

Every time Mama kicked them out, the four boys scampered into the fields. Jimmy’s oldest brother, Derek, was the best at finding snakes. They weren’t rattlers, of course, just harmless creatures with yellow stripes down their back. Privately, Jimmy thought they were pretty. But he didn’t say so, or else his brothers would have called him a pussy or a faggot. And when they captured one of the animals and poked at it with sharp sticks, watching it writhe in pain before finally stomping it to death, Jimmy hadn’t asked his brothers to stop. Not even when watching made his belly feel inside out, and not even when he knew he’d have nightmares when he went to sleep. He just watched, and if one of his brothers looked at him, Jimmy pretended he was having fun.