‘Uh. Well.’ Hogan realized with dismay that he didn’t have the slightest idea how to conclude this encounter. ‘Take care of yourself.’
Scooter nodded. ‘You too.’
Hogan retreated toward the door, opened it, and had to hold on tight as the wind tried to rip it out of his hand and bang the wall. Fine sand scoured his face and he slitted his eyes against it.
He stepped out, closed the door behind him, and pulled the lapel of his real nice sportcoat over his mouth and nose as he crossed the porch, descended the steps, and headed toward the customized Dodge camper-van parked just beyond the gas-pumps. The wind pulled his hair and the sand stung his cheeks. He was going around to the driver’s-side door when someone tugged his arm.
‘Mister! Hey, mister!’
He turned. It was the blonde-haired boy with the pale, ratty face. He hunched against the wind and blowing sand, wearing nothing but a tee-shirt and a pair of faded 501 jeans. Behind him,
Mrs. Scooter was dragging a mangy beast on a choke-chain toward the back door of the store.
Wolf the Minnesota coydog looked like a half-starved German shepherd pup — and the runt of the litter, at that
‘What?’ Hogan shouted, knowing very well what.
‘Can I have a ride?’ the kid shouted back over the wind.
Hogan did not ordinarily pick up hitchhikers — not since one afternoon five years ago. He had stopped for a young girl on the outskirts of Tonopah. Standing by the side of the road, the girl had resembled one of those sad-eyed waifs in the UNICEF posters, a kid who looked like her mother and her last friend had both died in the same housefire about a week ago. Once she was in the car, however, Hogan had seen the bad skin and mad eyes of the long-time junkie. By then it was too late. She’d stuck a pistol in his face and demanded his wallet. The pistol was old and rusty. Its grip was wrapped in tattered electrician’s tape. Hogan had doubted that it was loaded, or that it would fire if it was . . . but he had a wife and a kid back in LA, and even if he had been single, was a hundred and forty bucks worth risking your life over? He hadn’t thought so even then, when he had just been getting his feet under him in his new line of work and a hundred and forty bucks had seemed a lot more important than it did these days. He gave the girl his wallet.
By then her boyfriend had been parked beside the van (in those days it had been a Ford Econoline, nowhere near as nice as the custom Dodge XRT) in a dirty blue Chevy Nova. Hogan asked the girl if she would leave him his driver’s license, and the pictures of Lita and Jack. ‘Fuck you, sugar,’ she said, and slapped him across the face, hard, with his own wallet before getting out and running to the blue car.
Hitchhikers were trouble.
But the storm was getting worse, and the kid didn’t even have a jacket. What was he supposed to tell him? Fuck you, sugar, crawl under a rock with the rest of the lizards until the wind drops?
‘Okay,’ Hogan said.
‘Thanks, man! Thanks a lot!’
The kid ran toward the passenger door, tried it, found it locked, and just stood there, waiting to be let in, hunching his shoulders up around his ears. The wind billowed out the back of his shirt like a sail, revealing glimpses of his thin, pimple-studded back.
Hogan glanced back at Scooter’s Grocery & Roadside Zoo as he went around to the driver’s door. Scooter was standing at the window, looking out at him. He raised his hand, solemnly, palm out. Hogan raised his own in return, then slipped his key into the lock and turned it. He opened the door, pushed the unlock button next to the power window switch, and motioned for the kid to get in.
He did, then had to use both hands to pull the door shut again. The wind howled around the van, actually making it rock a little from side to side.
‘Wow!’ the kid gasped, and rubbed his fingers briskly through his hair (he’d lost the sneaker lace and the hair now lay on his shoulders in lank clots). ‘Some storm, huh? Big-time!’
‘Yeah,’ Hogan said. There was a console between the two front seats — the kind of seats the brochures liked to call ‘captain’s chairs’ — and Hogan placed the paper bag in one of the cup-holders. Then he turned the ignition key. The engine started at once with a good-tempered rumble.
The kid twisted around in his seat and looked appreciatively into the back of the van. There was a bed (now folded back into a couch), a small LP gas stove, and several storage compartments where Hogan kept his various sample cases, and a toilet cubicle at the rear.
‘Not too tacky, m’man!’ the kid said. ‘All the comforts.’ He glanced back at Hogan. ‘Where you headed?’
‘Los Angeles.’
The kid grinned. ‘Hey, great! So’m I!’ He took out his just-purchased pack of Merits and tapped one loose.
Hogan had put on his headlights and dropped the transmission into drive. Now he shoved the gearshift back into park and turned to the kid. ‘Let’s get a couple of things straight,’ he said.
The kid gave Hogan his wide-eyed innocent look. ‘Sure, dude — no prob.’
‘First, I don’t pick up hitchhikers as a rule. I had a bad experience with one a few years back. It vaccinated me, you might say. I’ll take you through the Santa Clara foothills, but that’s all.
There’s a truckstop on the other side — Sammy’s. It’s close to the turnpike. That’s where we part company. Okay?’
‘Okay. Sure. You bet.’ Still with the wide-eyed look.
‘Second, if you really have to smoke, we part company right now. That okay?’
For just a moment Hogan saw the kid’s other look (and even on short acquaintance, Hogan was almost willing to bet he only had two): the mean, watchful look. Then he was all wide-eyed innocence again, just a harmless refugee from Wayne’s World. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear and showed Hogan his empty hands. As he raised them, Hogan noticed the hand-lettered tattoo on the kid’s left bicep: DEF LEPPARD 4-EVER.
‘No cigs,’ the kid said. ‘I got it.’
‘Fine. Bill Hogan.’ He held out his hand.
‘Bryan Adams,’ the kid said, and shook Hogan’s hand briefly.
Hogan dropped the transmission into drive again and began to roll slowly toward Route 46. As he did, his eyes dropped briefly to a cassette box lying on the dashboard. It was Reckless, by Bryan Adams.
Sure, he thought. You’re Bryan Adams and I’m really Don Henley. We just stopped by Scooter’s Grocery & Roadside Zoo to get a little material for our next albums, right, dude?
As he pulled out onto the highway, already straining to see through the blowing dust, he found himself thinking of the girl again, the one outside of Tonopah who had slapped him across the face with his own wallet before fleeing. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this.
Then a hard gust of wind tried to push him into the eastbound lane, and he concentrated on his driving.
They rode in silence for a while. When Hogan glanced once to his right he saw the kid was lying back with his eyes closed — maybe asleep, maybe dozing, maybe just pretending because he didn’t want to talk. That was okay; Hogan didn’t want to talk, either. For one thing, he didn’t know what he might have to say to Mr. Bryan Adams from Nowhere, USA. It was a cinch young Mr. Adams wasn’t in the market for labels or Universal Product Code readers, which was what Hogan sold. For another, just keeping the van on the road had become something of a challenge.
As Mrs. Scooter had warned, the storm was intensifying. The road was a dim phantom crossed at irregular intervals by tan ribs of sand. These drifts were like speed-bumps, and they forced Hogan to creep along at no’ more than twenty-five. He could live with that. At some points, however, the sand had spread more evenly across the road’s surface, camouflaging it, and then Hogan had to drop down to fifteen miles an hour, navigating by the dim bounceback of his headlights from the reflector-posts which marched along the side of the road.
Every now and then an approaching car or truck would loom out of the blowing sand like a prehistoric phantom with round blazing eyes. One of these, an old Lincoln Mark IV as big as a cabin cruiser, was driving straight down the center of 46. Hogan hit the horn and squeezed right, feeling the suck of the sand against his tires, feeling his lips peel away from his teeth in a helpless snarl. Just as he became sure the oncomer was going to force him into the ditch, the Lincoln swerved back onto its own side just enough for Hogan to make it by. He thought he heard the metallic click of his bumper kissing off the Mark TV’s rear bumper, but given the steady shriek of the wind, that was almost certainly his own imagination. He did catch just a glimpse of the driver — an old bald-headed man sitting bolt-upright behind the wheel, peering into the blowing sand with a concentrated glare that was almost maniacal. Hogan shook his fist at him, but the old codger did not so much as glance at him. Probably didn’t even realize I was there, Hogan thought, let alone how close he came to hitting me.