Weekend (3 page)

Shani didn't know anything about Sol's background. She didn't know that five days ago he'd been kicked out of his father's house and was now sleeping in the park in his van. She didn't know that he was low on money and was looking to his old ways to get some. Without explanation, while driving through Tijuana, Sol had dropped Park, Flynn, and Bert off for an hour. Afterwards, he had only allowed ever-agreeable Bert to sit in the back, with strict orders that he not touch or smell anything. Why didn't Sol want him to check on the spare? Probably because he'd dumped the tyre and jammed the space with illicit substances. Sol was reading his mind.

"What's the matter, Preppy Park?" he asked. "Don't you trust me?"

Sol had taken to putting "Preppy" before Park's name, since Harvard had written saying that one Park Christopher Jacomini looked like Ivy League material to them. Park did not resent the title. It reminded him of how Ali McGraw had annoyed Ryan O'Neal at the beginning of the movie,Love Story . He strongly identified with the character Ryan O'Neal played. He also had an annoying rich dad, and also was going to go to Harvard, and also wanted to be a lawyer and marry a girl with a body like Ali McGraw's. He even fancied that he resembled Ryan O'Neal, somewhat. Angie said that he did. Of course, she was always quick to flatter. Robin hadn't done that… hadn't needed to.

Before she'd been hurt, Robin had had a body like Ali's. And he'd always figured that he would have married her. She had been - still was - the one with the heart of gold. He glanced south down the road, in the direction where she waited to see him again. He didn't want to think about it. People his age got busted for smoking dope, they got depressed and made fools of themselves over meaningless crushes, they got lousy grades and hated their parents. But they didn't die, not in his world. They couldn't die slowly and take a piece of him with them. God, how he hated himself for having left her for Angie! But what could he do? He simply couldn't handle it. Was this the real reason he identified with Ryan O'Neal's character inLove Story ? What can you say about an eighteen-year-old girl who died…

Park kicked the flat tyre. "What the hell. I don't care if we ever get there."

Sol went right on reading his mind. Blowing smoke in his face, he said, "You're such a wimp."

"Just because I won't go back across the border with you and your stash?"

"Who said I picked up anything? But don't change the subject. A real man would stand by his babe when she's in a tight spot. Robin's a great chick. She gets in trouble and you dump her." Sol spat.

"You should talk," Park snapped, throwing all caution aside. "What about Kerry and tight spots?"

"That was not the same. Kerry got humiliated, and we all felt bad for her, but it was only a joke. Dying is… it's no joke." He added quietly, "I know."

Park wondered at the change in his tone. Probably a memory of a friend stuck with a bloody knife had surfaced. Park pulled off his shirt, and wiped the sweat from his face. "I'll have a talk with her," he said.

"If that's the best you can do, then do it."

Park wanted to change the subject. Peering in the direction of the canteen, he remarked: "What are those guys doing? They've been gone awhile."

"Probably getting drunk."

"I don't think Flynn drinks."

"Bert will down enough beer to make up for him."

"Hey, Sol, what do you think of that Flynn?"

"I don't think he's a wimp."

"Give me a break, would ya?"

Sol patted his cheek lightly. Up close, Sol's features were thick and fearsome; however Park had to admit he was probably handsome. Strangely enough, he looked part Slavic — his mouth especially, which was large and sensual. Also, his dark hair had a hint of red, and fine curls that girls loved to run their fingers through. But his sharp black eyes, his calculating expressions, and swollen, tattooed biceps were clearly from the wrong side of the tracks.

"Okay, Preppy," he said. "I don't know nothing about him. He hardly talks. And besides, who cares?"

"I sometimes wonder about him. He looks — it's weird - he looks familiar."

"Yeah, now that you mention it," Sol said thoughtfully, then shrugging. "But who cares?"

"I can see that you don't. I wonder why he came to Santa Barbara."

"Probably for the climate."

"You're a hopeless degenerate. I don't know why I associate with you."

"Because hanging around me makes you look more interesting to the chicks than you really are."

Park thought that was pretty funny, if not true. "How's Lena been treating you?"

Sol groaned, but before he could elaborate, his eyes narrowed. "Someone's coming."

Park turned. Approaching from the weed-choked desolation of a nearby eastern hill was a tall Indian, clothed in a tan tunic tied at the waist with an orange sash. His long stringy hair was the same colour as his robe, bordering a deep red beardless face that disallowed an accurate age guess. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. The uneven ground and dry shrubs at his dusty, sandaled feet did little to slow his floating gait. A hundred feet directly over his head, a blackbird circled. A minute, and he would reach them.

"Who is he?" Park whispered.

"He's Indian, maybe… He has that look. Maybe he's a holy man."

"A what?"

"Not like at church. A sorcerer."

"Like Don Juan?"

"Yes. Treat him with respect. I'll do the talking."

"Good. I don't speak Spanish."

Sol threw away his cigarette. The man was fifty yards away and the next moment he was standing before them. The blackbird had vanished. Their visitor's eyes seemed to focus through them, or rather, they appeared turned inward, as though he saw them from an unusual perspective. Park felt as though he was being subjected to a thorough scrutiny. However, it was not an uncomfortable feeling.

"Puedo ayudarle, senor?" Sol said.

"Has traido ayuda y odio contigo," the man answered. Park had expected a dry rasp but the voice was smooth and melodious. A closer inspection of his face revealed lines from long years, yet his skin retained a surprisingly soft sheen. A flawlessly straight, but at ease, posture contributed to his youthful bearing.

"What's going on?" Park muttered.

"I asked if we could help him," Sol replied. He seemed unable to break away from the man's eyes. They were strangely fascinating.

"And?"

"He said something like, we've brought help and hate with us."

"Great. If only we had Carlos Castaneda with us to figure that one out." But though he spoke in jest, the man's words had sent a cold shiver through his spine; quite a feat in this heat.

"Shut up," Sol said. He spoke to the man: "Hay problema?"

The man gestured south with his covered left hand, which perhaps held something, hidden beneath the folds of his gown. "Paloma petirrojo. Culebra. Culebra. Veneno. Veneno."

Park noted Sol's right hand sliding slowly towards the pocket where he carried his switchblade. Sol had an antenna for danger more sensitive than NORAD's first strike-detection network. Nice voice or not, Park took a step back. Sol said, "No comprendemos. Explique usted!"

In answer, the man jerked free a blackbird, letting it fly in their faces. Sol had his knife in hand and open in an instant, but the bird did not attack them. It screeched loudly as it wheeled into the sky, vanishing south into the glare of the sun. Trying to settle his pounding heart, Park noticed Flynn coming up the road from the direction the bird had disappeared. For a moment he imagined Flynn had grown wings and a beak. The sun must be short-circuiting his brain. Rubbing his eyes, he snapped at Sol. "What the hell was that for?"

"Cuervo. Águila, Cuelbra veneno. Petirrojo," the man said, undisturbed by the blade pointed his way.

Sol lowered it in measured steps, frowning.

"I asked him if something was wrong. And he rattles on about a dove, an eagle, a robin, and a snake.

You saw what happened when I asked him to explain."

"Don't put your knife away," Park advised, the man smiling faintly at this remark. Despite his fear, he did not feel a danger from the man per se. But that damn bird could have pecked their eyes out. He asked,

"What was that last thing he said?"

"More of the same: raven, eagle, snake, robin."

"Wait a second. Does he mean robin the bird, or Robin the person?"

"Robin the bird. I don't think there is a Robin name in Spanish."

"Ask him anyway."

Sol pressed a button. His blade vanished. But he kept the knife handy. "Tú conoces a Robin Carlton?"

"Hermana," he said, holding up one hand. "Hermano," he added, pointing to where the bird had disappeared.

"Sister… brother," Sol muttered. "He doesn't know her."

"Ask him if she's going to be all right."

"I said, he doesn't know her."

"Ask him if he knows where we can get our flat fixed."

But the old man was already speaking, shaking his head sadly. "Veneno. Culebra. Veneno. Culebra."

"I don't suppose those were directions to a Shell Station."

Sol was wary, puzzled. "He's going on about poison and snakes."

"I wonder why."

He probably shouldn't have asked. An unmistakable rattle started in the dry bush ten feet at his back.

Park looked - and looked again - and found a snake slithering right for his foot. He knew he couldn't outrun a grizzly, but he'd never read about rattlesnakes. It didn't matter, anyway. His trusty, well-educated reflexes had him frozen on the spot. It took a hard shove from Sol to get him out of the fang's crosshairs. The snake swam in between them, divide and bite, its pointed head and tongue snapping at both of them. The old man was forgotten.

"What should we do?" Park cried.

"Don't panic."

"I'm already panicked!"

"Don't let it bite you."

Park backed up several paces, moving to his left to place the van between him and the serpent.

Unfortunately, the snake seemed to like the smell of him better. It slid beneath the rim of the flat tyre with its mouth open and hungry. Park knew intellectually that he should turn and run, but his upper-class, manicured body would not cooperate.It thought that the momentit turnedits back,it would get a huge chunk out of the back ofits calf. And maybeit was right. The snake seemed to keep its distance - six feet

- as long as he didn't move.

"Are you trying to stare it down?" Sol asked, picking up a hefty rock and creeping closer. The snake, bent on Caucasian meat, was leaving its flank unprotected, or so it seemed.

"Where's your knife?"

"You can't kill a snake like this with a knife." With both hands, Sol raised the rock over his head. Still, their assailant paid him no heed.

"Why aren't you carrying a gun when we need one?"

Sol whipped down his stone with a force sufficient to crack the miserable road. But the snake had only been baiting him. This was Mexico; it wanted a Mexican. It was not in the rock's path, but rather, incredibly, was closing its teeth on the hem of Sol's faded blue jeans. Sol made the best possible move, which was to trounce its mid-section with his free leg. This caused the snake to lose its grip, and Sol scampered back, but he did so hastily and stumbled on an ill-placed rock. He ended up flat on his back.

Rearing up its slimy head and hissing with glee, the snake charged. Sol's heavy calloused feet wouldn't be armour enough. Park felt sick. Too late his friend was reaching for his knife when the snake made an unstoppable lunge at his exposed right ankle.

"Sol!" Park cried.

A gun exploded.

The snake tore into bloody halves.

Resetting the safety, Flynn slipped a small black pistol in his belt, covering it with the tail of his white silk shirt. Lying on the road, with his head twisted around, Sol asked, "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Flynn smiled the charming smile that made the girls sigh, and Park nauseous with jealousy. But he couldn't begrudge him this time. "I usually can't hit a Coke can at five feet," Flynn said.

Park regained the use of his legs and came over and helped Sol up. "That was close. Did he catch any flesh?"

Sol brushed off his T-shirt, and shook his head, his tough, external cool somewhat ruffled. Only Flynn seemed unshaken. Park couldn't believe the guy. Sol slapped Flynn's shoulder. "Thanks, man, I owe you one."

Flynn looked at his kill with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Already, flies buzzed about the remains.

"That's okay; I just won't chip in for gas on the way home."

"Fair enough."

"And I owe you one," Park told Sol.

"Yeah. Say you fix me up with Angie for a couple of nights and we'll call it even."

Park laughed, realising he was still shaking. "Only if I get Lena."

"You don't know what you're asking," Sol said. "Lena's worse than a snake. She's got nails along with teeth."

"Do you always carry a gun?" Park asked Flynn. They knew little about him: he was from England, had his own apartment, no family, drove an old VW, played tennis, spoke seldom.

"Whenever I'm in a foreign country."

California was a foreign country to Flynn. Sol snapped, "It's none of your business."

"It's no problem," Flynn said smoothly. "I'd tell you more, but there's nothing to tell."

Park didn't believe him. His marksmanship hadn't been blind luck. He was a practiced shot. Park wondered what Flynn had practiced for.

This was weird. Here he is on a fun-and-games weekend outing, and two of his buddies are carrying deadly weapons. "I didn't mean to pry," Park said.

"No problem," Flynn repeated.

"Well, I guess the old man must have seen the snake coming and was trying—" Park paused, looked around. "Hey, where is that guy?"

"Over there." Sol pointed in the direction from which the man had come. He had already reached the bluff of the neighbouring hill, and was disappearing over the other side. He must have run. "Man, that cat can move," Sol said.

"Did you talk to him?" Flynn asked casually.

"Sol did. He only spoke Spanish."

"What did he say?" Flynn asked.