Meanwhile, the flatbed had turned out onto the highway and had come to a stop a hundred yards behind me. A dozen male farmworkers hopped off the back of the truck and rearranged themselves. They seemed amused at my predicament and called out suggestions in an alien tongue. I couldn’t really translate, but I got the gist. I didn’t think they were giving any actual pointers on how to change a flat. They seemed like a good-natured bunch, too weary from the short hoe to do me any harm. I rolled my eyes and waved at them dismissively. This netted me a wolf whistle from a guy grabbing his crotch.
I tuned them out and set to work, cussing like a stevedore as the flatbed pulled away. At times like this, I tend to talk to myself, coaching myself through. It was midafternoon and the sun was beating down on me. The air was dry, the quiet unbroken. I don’t know the desert well. To my untutored eye, the landscape seemed unpopulated. At ground level, where I sat wielding my crescent wrench, all I could see was a dead mesquite tree a few feet away. I’ve been told that if you listen closely, you can hear the clicks of the wood-boring beetles that tunnel through the dead wood to lay their eggs.
I settled down to work, letting the isolation envelop me. Little by little, I became accustomed to the stillness in the same manner that eyes become accustomed to dark. I picked up the drone of an occasional insect and noticed then the foraging warblers catching bugs on the fly. The true citizens of the Mojave emerge from their lairs by night: rattlesnakes and lizards, jackrabbits, quail, the owl and the Harris hawk, the desert fox and the ground squirrel, all searching for prey, angling to eat each other in a relentless predatory sequence that begins with the termites and ends with the coyote. This is not a place I’d want to unroll my sleeping bag and lay my little head down. The sun spiders alone will scare you out of ten years’ growth.
By 3:20, I’d successfully completed the task. I rolled the flat tire around to the front of the car so I could hoist it into my trunk. I could hear a foreign body rattle around inside, a rock or a nail by the sound of it. I checked for the puncture, running my fingers around the circumference of the tire. The hole was in the sidewall-a ragged perforation not quite the size of my little fingertip. I blinked at it, feeling chilled, not wanting to believe my eyes. It looked like a bullet hole. An involuntary sound escaped as I was overtaken by one of those rolling shudders you experienced as a kid on leaving a dark room. I lifted my head. I surveyed the countryside. No one. Nothing. Not another car in sight. I wanted out of there.
I hoisted the tire and shoved it into my trunk. Swiftly, I gathered the jack and my crescent wrench, moved around to the driver’s side and got in. I started the engine and rammed into gear, pulling back onto the highway. I drove faster than I should have, given the condition of my spare, but I didn’t like the idea of being out there by myself. It had to have been the guy in the pickup truck. He’d passed me just as the blowout occurred. Of course, a rock might have caused the damage, but I couldn’t think how it could have penetrated the sidewall, leaving such a nice neat hole in its wake.
The first service station I passed was out of business. The gas pumps were still standing, but the windows were broken and graffiti, in a garland, had been sprayed along the foundation. Local advertisers were using the supporting columns for their poster art and a real estate company announced in bold print that the property could be leased. Fat chance.
On the outskirts of Niland, at the intersection of Main Street and the Salton Highway, I found a small station selling one of those peculiar brands of gasoline that makes your car engine burp. I put some air in the spare tire and dropped off the fiat.
“I’ve got some business to take care of at the Slabs,” I said. “Any way you can do this in the next hour and a half?”
He studied the tire. The look he gave me suggested that he’d come to the same conclusion I had, but he made no comment. He said he’d pull the tire off the rim and have it patched by the time I returned. I was guessing I’d be back by five o’clock. I didn’t want to imagine myself out in the desert once the sun went down. I gave him a ten for his trouble and told him I’d pay for the repair when I got back. I hopped in my car and then leaned my head out in his direction. “Where’s the road to the Slabs?”
“You’re on it,” he said.
I took Main to the point where it becomes Beal Road, approaching Slab City this time with a sense of familiarity. I felt safer out here. There seemed to be more people about at this hour: an RV pulling into a site, kids being dropped off in a snub-nosed yellow school bus. Now the dogs were out, leaping joyously at the sight of all the children home from school. When I reached Rusted-Out Chevy Road, I turned right and soon Agnes Grey’s blue trailer appeared just ahead. I parked short of the place and pulled my tools out of the backseat. Thoroughly paranoid by now, I took out my little Davis semiautomatic and tucked it into the waistband of my blue jeans at the small of my back. I grabbed an old cotton shirt and pulled it on over my T-shirt, gathered up the lumber, the padlock, and the latch, and approached the trailer on foot.
The gremlins were in residence. I could hear the murmur of their voices. I reached the front door, unable to avoid the gravel crunching underfoot. The voices were silenced instantly. I leaned against the frame, peering in at an angle. For all I knew, I’d get whacked with a two-by-four. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the dreadlocked creature I’d spied earlier that day. A second scummy face appeared beside the first. I’d been informed by the neighbors that one was the boy-chick and one was the girl. I was guessing this one to be male, but I truly couldn’t discern any sex-based differences. Neither had facial hair. Both were young, with the unformed features of cherubs, tatty mops on top, ragged clothes below. Neither smelled any better than Agnes had.
The boy and I eyed each other and swelled up in the manner of apes. So ludicrous. We were both the same size-five six, neither one of us over a hundred and twenty pounds. Little banty-weight toughs. One possible difference was that I was willing to kick the shit out of him and I didn’t think he was prepared to do likewise. With a glance at his companion, he rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets as if he had all day. He said, “Hey, Poopsie. What the fuck are you doin’ here?”
I felt my temper flash. My nerves were already on edge and I didn’t need any aggravation from a little punk like him. “I own this place, ass eyes,” I said snappishly,
“Oh really? Let’s see you prove it.”
“No problem, Poopsie. I’ve got the deed of trust.” I pulled the gun out of my waistband and held it with the barrel up. It wasn’t loaded, but it looked good. If I’d had my old Colt, I could have cocked it for effect. I freely confess-while I can intimidate little boys, I’m not that good with the grown ones. “Get lost,” I said.
The two of them fell all over each other trying to scramble out the back. The trailer shook with their trampling feet and then they were gone. I ambled down the passageway and peered into the bathroom. As I suspected, they were using a hole in the wall as an emergency exit.
The first thing I did was board up their escape route, pounding nail after nail into the flimsy bathroom wall. Then I used a handheld drill to set the screw holes for the hasp I was mounting. I can’t say I worked with any astonishing skill, but I got the job done and the physical labor improved my mood. It felt good to smash things. It felt good to sweat. It felt good to be in control of one small corner of the universe. As long as I was here, I did a quick search, looking to see if there was anything of Old Mama’s left. I couldn’t find a thing. The cupboards were bare, closets stripped, the various nooks and crannies emptied of her possessions. Most of them had probably been sold at the flea market on the road coming in.