When Pigs Fly (31 page)

No one could doubt Ace’s genius now. Leena was a very quiet drunk as he lay under the warm shower and let Ace lather up his body with spice-scented bath oils. “You can wash behind his tail,” Ace told Frosty. “I’ll borrow your electric shaver. He has wicked bristles on his chin.”

“That’s possibly not a good idea. It’s electric, and all the stuff is wet in the tub.” Frosty pulled back Leena’s tail and grimaced.

“Well, duh. Your electric shaver’s electric. Nice deduction, Sherlock.”

“I mean it’s not safe.”

“It’s only not safe if you’re not careful.” Ace picked the shaver up from the bedroom floor where it must have fallen for some odd reason. The casing was cracked, but otherwise it looked fine. Maybe Frosty just stepped on it.

In the bathroom he plugged the shaver into the wall socket and kneeled down at the side of the tub. He lifted Leena’s slack jaw and began to shave around the tusks. “See,” Ace said as the shaver hummed, “he’ll turn out good. How’re things going on your end?”

Leena let out a long, slow fart that reminded Ace of rotten eggs and banana peels aging in the sun. “Ohmigod, that’s so bogus,” he said as he covered his nose with his arm. The shaver fell into the water. The jolt opened Leena’s eyes and made his entire body go rigid. Ace figured the pig must have gone airborne; otherwise how did his ass hit Frosty in the face?

But it was over in an instant, because the plug fell out of the wall socket.

“I told you,” Frosty said.

“Crappy workmanship,” Ace said, looking at the shaver. He wondered if there was a warranty on the thing.

“I think the pig’s dead!” Leena wasn’t moving, his legs were straight as two-by-fours, and his eyes were gazing at the pink ceramic tiles on the wall. Frosty looked frantic. “You killed him, you stupid jerk!”

“No, he can’t be dead! We have to bring him back!” Ace lifted Leena and carried him to the bedroom where there was more space. He started pushing hard on the pig’s chest to get him breathing. “Come on, Piggy! Come on, damn it! Live!”

“You gotta do mouth-to-mouth,” Frosty said. “It’s the only way.”

Ace hesitated, but what could he do? This was all his fault. He knew it, and he knew he’d always deny it, but above all, he didn’t want a dead pig on his conscience. So he kneeled down again, opened Leena’s mouth—carefully, to avoid the tusks—and breathed into it. Frosty tried pinching the snout while Ace cupped his hands around the pig’s jaw to keep the air from leaking out. After a few minutes it just felt like a tragic waste of time. Ace began to cry, and his tears spilled onto the pig’s face.

Leena’s eyelashes flickered once, then stopped. Was there hope? Hope that Ace wasn’t a pig killer after all? He breathed in with new energy. Suddenly, he gagged on Leena’s awful, wonderful, minty-bile breath. The pig’s eyes came alive, he grunted, and he pushed Ace back with his snout.

“Hah!” Frosty said. “Reee-jected!”

If Diet Cola had known it would be so easy to escape from his hospital room, he wouldn’t have waited this long. The cop who had been guarding him lay unconscious on the floor with the king of all concussions if he was lucky. Diet stripped him of his Glock, his keys and his radio, and would have worn the guy’s uniform if the scrawny cop hadn’t been about four sizes too small. Nurses who saw him walk out with nothing but a hospital johnny, slippers, and a loaded pistol probably thought something was fishy, but he didn’t care.

“Stop right there!” A cop accosted him as he went out through the revolving door. Diet Cola wheeled and fired two slugs point-blank into the cop’s chest. The impact knocked the cop into a flower bed. There were two cruisers visible in the lot, and Diet ran to the second one, guessing it was the one he had the keys for.

He’d heard all about the stupid wedding plans at the Grand Canyon, and that’s where he expected to find the bastard who had given him the bogus ticket. Mack Durgin had the real lottery ticket, he was absolutely sure of that. Diet Cola turned on the siren and ran a red light as he raced northward. First order of business, Mack Durgin was going give him the ticket, and then he was going to suck lead. Then all the witnesses had to die. Diet would find some fat slob and take his clothes and his car. By then the cops would be chasing him down, but he would either get away or die in a ball of flame, which was pretty much all the same to him anymore.

Mack wasn’t happy that his parents were joining Zippy and Elvis and their girlfriends in a matrimonial mish-mash, but who was he to stand in their way? They all agreed that Williams was a fine place to stay the night before the wedding. Mack and Cal decided to stay in the same motel but with his-and-hers rooms.

Williams is a quiet town known for its proximity to the Grand Canyon and for old Route 66 that cuts through the downtown on its way from Chicago to Santa Monica. A few decades back, highway I-40 barreled through town, and the local economy hit the road. Route 66 had suffered indignities like that along its entire length, with some sections closing for good and others—like the stretch Mack strolled on—kept alive by the force of nostalgia.

He stopped in a souvenir shop that sold books, t-shirts, photographs, road signs, music, and assorted trinkets that had the Route 66 theme. What could he buy for Cal? The choices were certainly limited, and her tastes probably couldn’t be satisfied here. But he liked her—a lot, he realized—and he wanted some small way to say so. He settled on a charm bracelet with tiny images of Chicago, the Grand Canyon, an old ten-cent hamburger joint, the famous highway sign and the phrase “get your kicks on Route 66.” Of course she was too old and sophisticated for charm bracelets that might turn her wrist green, but the gift might bring out a smile, and she might aim that smile at him.

The motel was a half mile down the main drag, which was the famous old road. Down a side street, an old passenger train idled with smoke puffing from the smokestack on its engine as it waited for passengers to board for the scenic ride to the Grand Canyon. They would all take that train tomorrow: Mom and Dad, Elvis and Ursula, Juanita and Zippy, Mack and Cal. Ace and Frosty promised to get to the South Rim on their own, although Mack would have been happier if they did the nearly impossible and got lost.

At least Dieter Kohl was history. Authorities were still sorting out which charges they planned to throw at him, and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts wanted him for questioning in several assaults. Meanwhile, he was recuperating in a hospital until he was well enough to sit behind bars.

That evening, Mack and Cal ate burgers together at a smoky diner that had an old jukebox playing mostly Johnny Cash and June Carter. The waitresses had sheriff’s badges pinned to their blouses and wore holsters and fake six-guns on their hips. “I have something for you,” Mack said as he took a small white box out of his pocket.

“Oh, my God. No. I’m not ready for this.”

“Take it,” Mack said. “Open it up. Come on, it won’t bite.”

Their fingertips brushed each other as she accepted the gift. She lifted the top, saw the bracelet and laughed. Then she slipped it onto her wrist and aimed a smile at him. “Thank you. God, I thought you were offering me a ring.”

Johnny Cash was walking the line, but Mack’s laugh drowned him out for a few seconds until he saw Cal’s hurt expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I meant no offense. We’ve just been acquainted for two weeks.” She was so young and beautiful. Why would he think she’d ever accept a proposal from him?

“Exactly. We don’t really know each other.”

“Well said. I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

Cal caught her breath and looked into Mack’s eyes. “That hasn’t escaped my attention,” she said. “What’s up with that?” He reached across the table and took her hand, noticed the warmth and softness of her skin. She squeezed his hand gently and fixed her gaze on his face, and they sat without speaking. The waiter approached and quietly left a check. The walls seemed to absorb whatever was playing on the jukebox and reflect it into Mack’s ears as white noise. Other patrons became indistinct shapes, nondescript bit players in a dream. But Cal was quite distinct with her brown eyes and swept-back brown hair, her slender bare arms, her slender neck and lovely figure.
It’s been a long time since I’ve made a pass. Should I?
He knew what Mary would say:
You still have a life, Mack. Don’t be an idiot.
He blinked once, expecting her to be standing with her hands on her hips, but she wasn’t there.

Cal looked at him, her eyes saying
it’s your move, Mack,
as though she and Mary had been comparing notes. Mack softly kissed the back of Cal’s hand. If she pulled back, that would be that, but she didn’t. He gently pulled her arm, and they leaned across the table to each other. Her lips parted as though to whisper—

An empty chair scraped at their table, and Frosty sat down. “How you guys doin’? Ace is with me, but he’s taking a leak. You two playing spin the bottle?”

Mack’s dream evaporated. The music turned suddenly loud, the lights suddenly bright. Waitresses and patrons sharpened back into focus, and Frosty looked like a bleached pear. “We’re busy,” Mack said. “Go away.”

Frosty turned to Cal. “You give him some tongue, Cal. I’m sure he can get that up.”

“Leave us alone!” Mack snapped. He felt steam building behind his temples.

“No need for harsh. That’s way immature.”

Mack stood up and lifted Frosty out of the chair, up toward the tin ceiling. Frosty’s face flushed with fear. “I’ve had enough of you and Ace,” Mack said.

“But we’re your friends.”

“No you’re not. You’re just two punks I never arrested.”

The manager interrupted them. He looked like he could bench press Mack and Frosty together. “What’s the problem here, gentlemen?”

“None at all,” Mack said, letting Frosty down. “I was just giving my friend a lift.” Ace came out of men’s room and dried his hands on his pants.

“See? You admit we’re friends!”

The manager put his hand on Frosty’s shoulder. “You all right, son?”

Frosty straightened himself. “I think so. I won’t be pressing charges.”

“You might want to take your friendly discussion outside, gentlemen.” The manager’s warning look was enough for Mack, whose evening was already ruined. Cal gave Mack an enigmatic smile as he followed Ace and Frosty into the parking lot.

“We just thought you’d like to know Diet Cola’s completely ripshit at you,” Ace said. “Sounds like you conned him out of something.”

Mack scratched his chin while Ace and Frosty eyed him expectantly. “I shouldn’t tell you boys this. I hired a plane to spread my friend’s ashes over the Grand Canyon. There’s a lottery ticket hidden in the ashes.”

“A winning ticket?”

“Why else would he want it?”

“How much?”

“Diet Cola’s expecting a hundred million.”

“
And you threw it away?”

Mack shrugged. “It’s just a piece of paper to me.”

“God, no wonder he called you all those names!”

“Sticks and stones, Frosty. I’m not very sensitive.”

“If I was you, Officer Durgin, I’d worry about those sticks and stones.”

Ace and Frosty were back in their motel in Williams after a frustrating trip involving a wrong turn that got them almost to the California state line. Leena lay snoring on the bed, tongue out and drooling on the pillow, tusks gleaming from tooth whitener, eyelids fluttering, porky maleness evidently aroused by sweet pig dreams. Earlier they had shaved his body and oiled it with Johnson’s Baby Oil, and Leena must have thought he was the King himself. It was kind of odd that Leena had a plastic tag around his neck that said Poindexter, but then everything about the last couple of weeks was odd.

Ace ripped a Bud out of its plastic six-pack ring and handed it to Frosty. Finally they knew what they were looking for, and it was better than Ace had ever dreamed. With this kind of money he could buy a new car every year, rent himself a girlfriend, even give up stealing except for recreation.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Frosty?”

“Besides Durgin’s a putz? Besides he should have given us the ticket if he didn’t want it?”

“Yeah, besides all that.”

“Besides he’s a total idiot, I’m not thinking anything. You?”

“I’m thinking we go to the wedding, we find out where he dropped the ashes. Then bingo! We go get the ticket.”

“He went to the Grand Canyon. Isn’t that kind of big?”

“That’s negative talk, my man. It’s just a hole in the ground. We’ve gotta think success.”

The Grand Canyon stretched beyond the horizon, an endless patchwork of color that left tourists in awe. “Your parents are the handsomest couple in the whole park,” said Cal, who Mack thought looked mighty fine herself. Plus she had her hand on the small of his back. They stood at a South Rim railing and looked into Nature’s magnificent handiwork, multihued layers of sandstone with a river that patiently carved ever deeper. Through binocular lenses, Mack saw a doughty band of hikers and burros, tiny specks in a vast, deep oven. He handed the binoculars to Cal and pointed at the caravan below.

“They’ve done the easy part,” Mack said. “Coming back up is the killer.”