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This excerpt is from Chapter One. Jake is having an argument with his
sometime girlfriend, Carley, about his refusal to grow up…
She went about the business of leaving, adjusting her clothes and
fussing with her hair and makeup. She started to say something a couple of times
but stopped. Finally, she kissed me and left.
In the shower, I tried to put her words out of my mind. It wasn't easy. What
she'd just told me – what she'd been telling me all along – made some sense. I
wasn't getting any younger. There was more to life than poker and drinking and
wild women. Everyone needs someone special in their life. And deep down, at some
level that rarely saw the light of day, I knew all that. I just wasn't sure I
was ready to admit it to Carley – or to myself.
For the past twenty-five years, I'd lived life my own way and done whatever I
wanted. I'd salvaged what I could from a failed marriage and a family scandal
and went forward. I wasn't one of those people who sat around pissing and
moaning about what had happened to them or blaming society or being the middle
child. None of that crap. I picked up the pieces, got on with it and never
looked back.
But lately, especially with Carley, I was becoming aware that my version of ‘the
good life' wasn't going to last forever. Nor was it preparing me for the future.
The job of being Jake Marley hadn't come with a 401K plan. While playing a few
hands of poker with the boys on Saturday night was fun, it can't, according to
Carley, compare with holding hands during a Tuesday matinee with someone you
really care about.
Was she right? Was there anyone out there that was worth changing for? While I
wasn't sure Carley was enough of a reason, I also knew I didn't want to live my
life devoid of such intimate pleasures?
I shifted my focus to Whitney's call. We were going for it next Saturday. One
more week! That made me nervous and excited at the same time. This was such a
big deal that I couldn't help but be nervous.
Hank’s neighbor is the old man who runs a junkyard. W. E. Buggs and Hank
live on the same piece of property. Hank frequently works at the junkyard
parting out cars for Buggs. Hank’s relationship shows a different side of Hank,
one that Jake can not understand or appreciate.
W. E. Buggs seemed as old as New Mexico. He'd never lived anywhere but the house
in the middle of his junkyard, except for his many years in the army when he
toured the world. W. E. said people had told him in recent years to drop
"Junkyard" and use "Recycling Center." "But it is a junkyard," he had responded.
And that's what the sign said: "W. E. Buggs - Junkyard." It was carefully
spelled out in weathered pieces of mesquite. When you first saw the sign it was
hard to see what it actually said. It just looked like pieces of twisted wood. I
had carefully constructed the artwork years ago for W. E.'s birthday.
A six-foot-high fence decorated with hubcaps fortified the junkyard. The hubcap
fence had been there for as long as I had known him. I once asked him how many
years it took to build the fence. "I'm still building it," he'd answered. And so
he was. Whenever a junker would come in with hubcaps W. E. fancied, up on the
fence they'd go. If a patron came looking for a particular hubcap, he could
point to the exact location where the matching hubcap could be found.
W. E. was sitting up on his porch as I made my way through the skeletons of
dilapidated cars. He was busy picking on an old guitar. As I approached, I could
hear the chords to an old Robert Johnson blues song being soulfully played.
As was his nature, W. E. ignored me until I had reached the shade of the porch.
I wiped my brow with the back of my hand and waited a moment to see if he would
greet me first. I placed a carton of eggs on a small table next to the old
guitar picker. He responded with a stream of tobacco juice that cleanly cleared
the porch rail. Then he looked up at me.
I greeted him first. "W. E."
"Hank."
"That Robert Johnson?"
"You know it is." The old man squinted at me with one eye. "You should be
wearing a hat in this sun."
"Brought you some eggs."
"Eggs. I can see." W. E. sounded irritated that I'd pointed out the obvious.
"You know I got chickens around here," he growled.
Yeah, he had a couple of old Barred Rocks that scratched around the junkyard. If
they laid any eggs, it was anyone's guess where. And if you found an egg, there
was no telling how old it was.
"Ya didn't need to bring a full dozen. I can only eat so many eggs.
Cholesterol."
This made me laugh. "How do you know there is a full dozen in that carton?"
"'Cuz you always bring a dozen." W. E. plucked a few more notes.
"And they'll be gone in a couple days." I responded in a monotone, not rising to
the old man's bait. He would eat eggs twice a day and feed a couple to his dog.
This is the original first chapter of the book (now the beginning of
Chapter Five). It is Jake’s Sunday morning wake-up with Karen. He alternates
between being suspicious of her and enthralled with her…
My first conscious thought of the day was that my head was racked with pain. My
second conscious thought was that I wasn't alone. A woman was in bed with me.
Carley? No, that couldn't be. Not after last night. Then who?
Okay, Jake, I told myself, it's time for a look, time to put the puzzle
together. I half-opened my eyes. They hurt, too. How much had I drank? Slowly,
ever-so-slowly, I started turning my aching head.
I've been told that there are lower life forms that depend on their ability to
move slowly, carefully and quietly. It's how they hide from larger animals or
stalk smaller ones. I couldn't help but think that they would have been
impressed with the way I inched my head to the left, trying to get a look at my
companion.
For a while, it seemed like I wasn't getting anywhere. I wondered if the earth
and I were rotating – or was it revolving – at the same speed, making it a
physical impossibility for me to ever catch up.
Then, finally, she came into view. Her hair first. Blonde. Sort of. Fallen-down
blonde hair, half covering her face. Not Carley. But who?
I thought that might be a blessing in disguise. In these Sunday morning
encounters, one person always wound up disappointed. Mostly, it'd been me. I was
the one who vowed to be more selective next time. I was the one who muttered
"got-to-leave-can't-stay-for-breakfast-call-you-later" pulling my pants on as I
headed for the door.
Usually. But not always. There had been a time or two when I'd have made
breakfast, lunch and dinner, quit my job – or got one, whatever she wanted – and
written bad checks all across New Mexico just to get her to stay awhile.
She stirred. She rolled toward me. Her arm slid up and rested on my chest. For a
brief moment, the sort-of-blonde hair parted and revealed her beautiful face.
My eyes trailed the contours of her body. Her breasts were full, her waist was
slim and her stomach flat. The sheets guarded the rest.
Just as I noticed I was getting hard, her hand slowly traced a path from my
chest to my stomach to just beneath the sheets.
"Look who's awake…" she murmured.
Ishray and Duke are two of Hank’s friends that show another side of
Hank, one readers might be a little surprised by.
It had been almost two years since I'd been in the One Hand Clapping bar. The
place was as wild and strange as the characters and stories in Anthony Burgess'
books. A more appropriate name might have been A Clockwork Orange. The bar was a
long and narrow room, with a single row of six booths running its length. A
dozen or more high stools were pushed up against the bar, which curved just
before it reached the front door and ended at the wall. This was a place for
serious drinking, not a tourist hangout. Not a thing had changed since my last
visit. Ishray still owned the place and manned the bar and Duke was still
working out of the last booth. A couple of transient-looking guys were having a
shot of rotgut and sitting in the lone pool of sunlight near the door.
Otherwise, the place was empty and dark.
"Hank," a voice from the back of the bar called me before I could dial again.
"Come on out here. You've been on that phone long enough."
I hung up the phone and retrieved my quarter. I'd come here specifically to meet
with Duke, so I figured I ought to keep my appointment.
Duke shook my hand and said, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while, buddy. Not
since that time we went huntin' down 'round Cibola."
I gave Duke a nod that I remembered and followed him to the last booth. Duke
always sat so he could keep his eye on the door. I was facing an old
flower-patterned curtain covering a doorway to the kitchen. Ishray, the
owner/bartender, caught Duke's eye and gave him a wink. No one would be
bothering us. If anyone tried to sit at the end of the bar or in the next booth,
Ishray would tell them, politely, that they couldn't. And there weren't too many
people who argued with a 280-pound, six-foot-eight black man with a shaved head,
and a smile that revealed a diamond in one of his front teeth. I also knew
Ishray kept a baseball bat behind the bar to settle any arguments. I had seen
his one-handed swing put an immediate end to several brawls. I could see a big
smile on his face.
Duke wasn't really a friend, not a close one at least, but he always greeted me
as one. He was more of a business associate from my past life. I trusted Duke. I
had known him for almost as long as I had known Jake. The man was razor thin,
but looked like he could slit your throat faster than you could yell "help." He
wore his black hair long, slicked straight back in a ponytail that reached past
his shoulders. His moustache curved around the corners of his mouth and there
was a tuft of beard on his chin. A dangling crucifix hung in his left earlobe.
To complete his look, Duke always dressed in black, giving him a sinister
appearance.
"Hank, I'm a little surprised to see you in here today. Amigo, you really should
get a cell phone. Everyone’s got one." Duke smiled, showing smoke-stained teeth.
He raised his left hand and groomed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger
as he studied me. An oversized briefcase sat in the middle of the table. Duke
slid it up against the wall, flipped open the top and tilted it slightly to
reveal its contents to me. "I'm a little low on stock today. You know – short
notice." He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe if you'd mentioned what you wanted
when you called." He punctuated with a smile.
I looked at the display of guns. There were several automatics, a couple large
revolvers and some cheap "Saturday Night Specials." |
