“That’s not in my jurisdiction,” he said. “The city limits are two – point – two miles beyond the rest area. Can you make it that far?” He grinned heavily.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to go to Baker for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about it.”
“Excellent seafood,” he said. “With a mind like yours, you’ll probably want the land – crab. Try the Majestic Diner.”
I shook my head and got back in the car, feeling raped. The pig had done me on all fronts, and now he was going off to chuckle about it – on the west edge of town, waiting for me to make a run for L.A.
I got back on the freeway and drove past the rest area to the intersection where I had to turn right into Baker. As I am proached the turn I saw . . . Great Jesus, it’s him, the hitchhiker, the same kid we’d picked up and terrified on the way out to Vegas. Our eyes met as I slowed down to make the corner. I was tempted to wave, but when I saw him drop his thumb I thought, no, this is not the time . . .
God only knows what that kid said about us when he finally got back to town. Get out of sight at once. How could I be surerecognized me? But the car was hard to miss. And why would he back away from the road?
Suddenly I had two personal enemies in this godforsaken town. The CHP cop would bust me for sure if I tried to go on through to L.A., and this goddamn rotten kid/hitchhiker would have me hunted down like a beast if I stayed. (Holy Jesus, Sam! There he is! That guy the kid told us about! He’s
back!)
Either way, it was horrible – and if these righteous outback predators ever got their stories together . . . and they would; it was inevitable in a town this small . . . that would cash my check all around. I’d be lucky to leave town alive. A ball of tar and feathers dragged onto the prison bus by angry natives.
This was it: The crisis. 1 raced through town and found a telephone booth on the northern outskirts, between a Sinclair station and . . . yes . . . the Majestic Diner. I placed an emergency collect call to my attorney in Malibu. He answered at once.
“They’ve nailed me!” I shouted. “I’m trapped in some stinking desert crossroads called Baker. I don’t have much time. The fuckers are closing in.”
“Who?” he said. “You sound a little paranoid.”
“You bastard!” I screamed. “First I got run down by the CHP, then that kid spotted me! I need a lawyer immediately!”
“What are you doing in Baker?” he said. “Didn’t you get my telegram?”
“What? Fuck telegrams. I’m in trouble.”
“You’re supposed to be in Vegas,” he said. “We have a suite at the Flamingo. I was just about to leave for the airport . . .
I slumped in the booth. It was too horrible. Here I was calling my attorney in a moment of terrible crisis and the fool was deranged on drugs – a goddamn vegetable! “You worthless bastard,” I groaned. “I’ll cripple your ass for this! All that shit in the car is yours! You understand that? When I finish testifying out here, you’ll be disbarred!”
“You brainless scumbag!” he shouted. “I sent you a telegram! You’re supposed to be covering the National District Attorneys’ Conference! I made all the reservations . . . rented a white Cadillac convertible . . . the whole thing is arranged! What the hell are you doing out there in the middle the fucking desert?”
Suddenly I remembered. Yes. The telegram. It was all very clear. My mind became calm. I saw the whole thing in a flash. “Never mind,” I said. “It’s all a big joke. I’m actually sitting beside the pool at the Flamingo. I’m talking from a portable phone. Some dwarf brought it out from the casino. I have total credit! Can you grasp that?” I was breathing heavily, feeling crazy, sweating into the phone.