When Pigs Fly (21 page)

“I’m wicked impressed,” the bald man said.

“As well you should be. Pull over there.” The driver ignored her again, and she kept tapping him on the shoulder. Carrick wondered if he and Brodie might be killed. Eventually they came to an abandoned Texaco station with a single pump and an ancient sign for Dr. Pepper—ten, two, four, the slogan said. They pulled in.

“What do you got for me?” The driver looked ugly and exasperated, a combination that Carrick found unnerving.

“Some aloe vera,” Brodie said, opening a small suitcase.

“You try to trick me, you’re dead. You flash a nail file and I’ll stick it in your throat.”

“I only use emery boards, young man. I hardly think they make a good weapon, especially against the likes of you. Now lean toward me. That’s a good fellow.” She touched the top of his head, and he winced. Then she gently applied a palm full of the lotion, stroking from his forehead to the base of his skull. He took a long, deep breath and let it out as she rubbed more aloe onto his temples.

“What’s your name?” Carrick asked.

Brodie spoke gently. “Answer my husband, please.”

“Zippy.” His voice softened.

“Mister Zippy,” Carrick said, “Are you from Boston?”

“Providence. I still got the accent, huh?”

“You do, and you say things like ‘wicked impressed’.”

“Zippy dear, you must be dehydrated,” Brodie said. “Have some water.” She handed Zippy a bottle of Poland Springs. He emptied it in a single gulp.

Carrick wanted to speak up and tell Zippy what a freak he appeared to be with that massive tattoo on his skull and the tattoos of naked ladies on his upper arms, but that wouldn’t achieve any desirable result he could imagine.

Zippy took the car keys from the ignition. “Are we all getting out?” Carrick asked.

“Only if you want to watch me water a cactus.”

“You have a bad sunburn,” Brodie said, reaching for her straw hat. “You’re going nowhere without a hat.”

Zippy looked doubtful, especially at the blue ribbon that hung over the brim, but he put it on his head. “You tell anybody I wore this, you’re dead, you understand?”

Carrick and Brodie placed their hands over their hearts and pledged to keep the hat a secret. Zippy adjusted the tilt of the hat, then went behind the building to relieve himself. Meanwhile, Carrick also felt great relief. “Quick,” he said, “where’s the spare key?”

“In my purse. Why?”

“It’s our chance.” He rummaged through her purse, which looked like the inside of a well-stocked Walgreen’s.

“We can’t leave him out here. It’s too hot. It’s too—nowhere.”

“Too bad. He might kill us, Brodie. Where are the cussed keys?”

“We can’t do that to him, Carrick. Haven’t you heard of the Stockholm Convention on proper treatment of captors?”

“As a matter of fact, no. You’re thinking of the Stockholm Syndrome, where prisoners identify with their captors.”

“He saved my life, you know.”

Carrick couldn’t find the keys inside the purse’s eleven compartments. He looked up in a panic and saw Zippy walking from the back of the building and zipping up his pants.

“I’m afraid he’ll end it, too.”

Mack and Cal had driven for hours, merging onto I-10 east of Phoenix and heading toward Superstition Mountain. “You could spread your friend’s ashes anywhere,” Cal said. “He wouldn’t know the difference.”

“I would,” Mack said. “Only the perfect spot will do.”

They drove past Superstition Mountain and followed the road to Tortilla Flat, population 6, where they stopped for dinner in a restaurant that had thousands of dollar bills pinned to the walls. Each bill was autographed by the tourist who had left it. Mack pointed out the one he’d signed months before. Cal was delighted. She dug into her purse and took out a two-dollar bill she’d held onto forever, signed it, then got Mack to sign it. Then they traveled narrow switchback roads while the setting sun glazed the landscape with a coating of crimson. After sundown, they reached a motel in Apache Junction, a few miles east of Phoenix.

“I’m not sleeping with you, Mack.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pay for my own room.”

“Fine.”

“Anyway, we hardly know each other.”

“True.” Though their names were both on the two-dollar bill now. Shouldn’t that count for something?

“Are you going monosyllabic on me now? Are you mad at me?”

“No and no.” They registered for two separate rooms. The desk clerk gave them an odd look as if to say they shouldn’t try to kid anybody with this two-room sham.

They headed for their rooms. “I didn’t like the look that guy gave us,” Cal said. “Will you be opening the urn tonight?”

“Might. I don’t want whatever is in there, though. It’s George’s.”

“Not even, say, a million dollars?”

Mack laughed. “That would give me pause, but it’s still not mine.”

She slipped the key into her door. “I need a shower and some rest. Maybe we can grab some dinner in an hour?”

“You’ve got a deal.” Mack went through the motions of opening the door to his room, then walked quickly down to his car. He drove to Wal-Mart and bought a rectangular plastic container, a can of coffee and a flashlight with batteries. Back in his room, he opened the urn.

“George, I hate to invade your space,” Mack said. Fluorescent light flickered overhead, little better than nothing. He flicked on the flashlight and took off the top.

The first thing that caught his attention was a string of pearls that he recognized as his mother’s. There was a small bottle of perfume and a package of emery boards with its plastic wrap broken. He emptied the urn into the flat plastic container and shook gently to level the ashes.

There was also a two-dollar bill with a cameo of Mack and Mary pasted over Jefferson’s face, a tube of Wet & Wild lipstick, a watch, a necklace, a gold ring and chips of bone sticking out from the ashen landscape. The inscription inside the ring bore the initials of George and his bride, with the date of their wedding. Everything else sitting on the ashes or poking through them looked like Mom’s. Mack closed his eyes for a few seconds, shaking his head. Poor sweet Mom confused George’s urn with a jewelry box. Dad had addressed the FedEx shipping label, certainly not knowing what else he was sending.

He shook the contents a bit more. A few pieces of paper surfaced, covered with gray dust. The telephone rang, but he ignored it. He pulled at the corner of one of the papers, which turned out to be a greeting card written in crayon and pasted with hearts.

Roses are red,

Storm clouds are gray.

You’re the best grandma in every way.

It was signed by Alyssha, one of Mack’s many nieces. They all had designer names.

The other piece of paper was a folded letter. The handwriting was Dad’s, and the date was December 1952 when he must have been in Korea.
Darling Brodie,
it began.
The wind is mighty cold, but the enemy’s guns are quiet tonight, and thoughts of you are keeping me warm. I’d give up all the riches in the world just to hold you again, because with you I would be rich beyond compare…

He set aside his Mom’s belongings and would find a way to return them to her later. Why on earth would Diet Cola care about this stuff?

He tipped the plastic container and poured the ashes and the ring back into the urn.

A third piece of paper dropped in. Mack reached for it, the last stone to turn over before he let George rest in peace.

Hmph. A lottery ticket, about a year old, the one Cal had mentioned. Could that be what the fuss was all about? Mack didn’t believe in the lottery. It was a state-sanctioned con, a tax on the poor, sucker bait for people who thought luck would wash their troubles away and bring eternal happiness. Sudden riches? You’d see ham hocks in orbit first.

No, that was too harsh. Mom and Dad played the lottery just for fun, a dollar a week. Harmless enough, he conceded. Maybe the fantasy was worth the dollar.

What would you do with a million dollars, Carrick?

Fly you around the world, my love. Then feed you sushi in a Japanese garden.

I don’t know if I’d like sushi.

Then we could eat pizza in Tuscany, escargot in the south of France.

Maybe I’d try the sushi. I’d get one of those bright kimonos and we could sit on our back deck in Lowell and drink hot sake and eat raw fish. When the children visited, we’d make them take their shoes off at the door.

Mack dusted off the ticket and slipped it into his wallet. He’d give it to Mom when he saw her again. No, if it was worth anything, Dad would know what to do with it. He’d give it to Dad.

“By now they know the van was stolen,” Diet Cola said. “This car, too.” They arrived at Mack Durgin’s house. The lights were off, but that didn’t matter because they weren’t going inside. He turned and snapped his fingers. “Elvis. The key.”

“The key to my Edsel?”

“No, the key to happiness. The key to your chastity belt. C’mon. Of course the key to your Edsel.”

“Nobody drives it but me.”

Diet Cola grabbed Elvis by the neck and said, “Okay, you drive. You break one traffic law and I will kill you.
This
car isn’t stolen, is it?”

Elvis shook his head and unlocked the Edsel. “I saved up,” he said.

“You’re a lying bag of beans,” Frosty said.

Diet Cola rode shotgun while he studied the GPS display. With the map that overlay the display, even a nitwit like Elvis could follow the retired cop and the cute broad. Assuming, of course, they didn’t know they were being followed and decide to move the GPS locator. No, that didn’t make sense. If Diet was Mack, perish the thought, he’d just switch cars and leave the locator behind. Then him and the broad would be free. But more likely they were on the run, headed up I-10 North. If Mack was any kind of a man he’d stop and shack up with what’s her face for the night, meaning Diet could catch them. But if he knew he had the ticket, why didn’t he just hop a plane from Tucson or Phoenix? A chill ran down Diet Cola’s spine. What if he did? The broad could have dropped him off so he could catch a plane, which would mean that Diet’s fortune was flying over America’s Heartland right now. Then the glowing dot would mean nothing except as a tease for Mister Karaoke Boy, who was dopily singing at the wheel.

Diet could not accept that possibility. His winning ticket would have flown away forever, along with his dreams of a beachside mansion where bottomless beauties fed him peeled grapes and jujubes directly from their tongues to his. No, if Mack Durgin was on the plane, Diet Cola might just as well be dead. But if he was still in the car with the broad, they could be planning an ambush.

But he had to try.
You gotta believe. Refuse to lose. Follow that dot.

“You guys look like somebody I know,” Zippy said as Carrick drove north. Brodie sat in the front seat, Zippy in the back. He touched her shoulder, and she flinched. “Are you from back East?”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Carrick told Brodie.

Zippy flicked a pen knife and pressed it to the side of Carrick’s neck. “I was making polite conversation. I could open you up like a tin can.”

“Ignore him,” Carrick said.

“You’re making an empty threat, young man.” Brodie’s eyes blazed. “We are going sixty miles an hour. You cannot hurt my husband without placing yourself at great risk.”

Zippy nodded. “You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. And you’re right.” He wrapped his arm around Brodie’s neck, indenting her skin with the blade. “Which coast?”

“East,” Carrick said. “Near you.” He slowed down and stopped on a soft shoulder.

“Oh, yeah. Lowell, Mass, right?” From Brodie’s surprised expression, he knew he was dead on. Carrick kept a poker face and looked at the road. “Do you know what justice is?”

“Let go of my wife,” Carrick said.

“Answer my question, pal. Do you know what justice is?”

“It’s a good whipping for an ingrate such as you,” Brodie said.

“Whew. Would you check out the nuts on this old bat! What’s your answer, Carrick, dearie?”

“I’m sure you plan to tell us, so why not get on with it?”

“Justice, it’s a rare thing. Like a Russian satellite crashing on your ex-wife’s house. Like, let me see. Like right after your boss fires you, he dies of a heart attack. How’s that one?”

“It sounds just fine,” Carrick said. “Now please take the knife away from my wife’s neck.”

Zippy closed the knife and put it in his pocket. “But here’s the best one for justice. Some butt-face borrows your girlfriend, steals your dope, and humiliates you. Are you with me? Then he practically kills you but you escape into the desert. You have nothing to eat or drink for hours. Rattlesnakes and wild pigs are all over the place. You look like a freaking sun-dried tomato, like one of those cartoon guys on his hands and knees in the middle of nowhere, just him and the sun and the cactus and the bleached cattle bones.”