Cyclone Rumble Page 3

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  Lawson and T-bone stood on the porch, sucking the last couple of desperate hits off a joint. T-bone snorted the roach, while Lawson mounted a Husqvarna Viking and fired it up. He clamped down on the hand brake, cranked the throttle, and kicked up a whirlwind of dirt and rocks. When the bike started to fishtail, he released the brake and rode like hell into the open desert. T-bone did a one-handed wheelie, while chugging a fifth of Old Grand-Dad, as he blasted by us and disappeared into Lawson’s dust. Morgan followed, going nowhere. The Three Stooges. I threw a rock at a lizard and cursed my brother. Then I threw a rock at his truck and cursed his asshole friends.

  I double checked the tie downs on the Norton, turned Morgan’s ’49 Chevy around, and put the hammer down. Old truck pitched and rolled as I purposely slammed through potholes. When I got back to the highway, I turned north and spent the next hour chugging along in Morgan’s piece-of-shit truck trying to tune in a decent AM radio station. Just outside of Barstow, a smooth talking country boy on the local station told me it was ninety degrees at two o’clock, Friday the 28th of June.

  I made the eastbound transition to Highway 40 and took the first exit east of Barstow, County Road 1712. Barreling down the off ramp, I stomped on the brake pedal about fifty feet from the stop sign. The brakes disappeared and my foot smashed against the floorboard. Frantically pumping the brake pedal, I crammed the shifter into second and popped the clutch. Rear end locked up, old truck shuttered, tires screeched, and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. I skidded through the stop sign with my hand smashed against the horn. When I came to stop at the centerline of the two lane county road, I was looking to my left, checking for any southbound traffic, and the blast from an air horn lifted me out of my seat. A forty-ton Peterbuilt hauling low-grade ore from the McCord Mine passed my front bumper, missing it by less than a foot. The driver held his hand out of the window, flipping me off, as he passed under the highway and turned left onto the westbound onramp.

  “Damn—that was close.”

  I cranked the steering wheel left and followed the truck under the highway. I passed the westbound onramp and rolled to a stop at the frontage road. Straight ahead to the right was the High Desert Trailer Park. That’s where Morgan and me lived for five months while he worked at the mine. Harper O’Neal stayed there too. Harper was my best girl in Barstow.

  Across the street to my left was Tubby’s. It was like most truck stops. Positioned parallel to the highway, with a fifty-foot neon sign, it had the usual oversized fuel islands and industrial looking repair shop. Best part about Tubby’s; it had a great diner, The Tubby Tease Cafe. All the ladies working there were really nice, and the food was good. I spent most of the time we lived in Barstow hanging out at the lunch counter.

  I rolled across the intersection and hung left into Tubby’s. I tapped the brake pedal a couple of times, just to make sure they were still working, and then took a slow cruise around the back of the diner to where all the big rigs were parked. The parking lot was packed. I passed about fifty semis, parked side by side, as I made my way slowly toward the back of the lot. I spotted the cinder-block pumphouse in the northwest corner and squeezed Morgan’s truck between the pumphouse and a telephone pole, just like he told me.

  “What a piece of junk.” I jumped out of the truck and slammed the door. I dropped the tailgate, pulled out the narrow wooden ramp, and then untied the Norton 650. After I lined the back tire up with the ramp, and made sure I was headed straight, I sat there for a minute getting psyched. I was about to do a blind side kamikaze down the ramp when I got a hand from a three hundred pound freight hauler named Bubba wearing a wife beater t-shirt and a greasy Cornhuskers baseball cap. Bubba told me to step aside, and I watched with my mouth open as the Good Ole Boy lifted the Norton out of the truck and set it gently in the dirt, like it was nothing. Bubba slapped me on the back, like Bubbas do, and told me I ought to try the Early Bird Special. That’s what he was going to do.

  After I rolled up the tie down ropes, I checked the glove box for a smoke. There weren’t any cigarettes, but my flaky brother did have a couple of past due speeding tickets and a travel brochure for the Hawaiian Islands. Under the papers I found a pad lock. Slamming the glove box, I stepped away from the truck and kicked the door shut. I scanned the parking lot looking for a place to stash the Norton. My brother is out of his mind if he thinks I’m not going to go say hi to Harper.

  I noticed the metal door on the old pumphouse had slide bolt with padlock eyelets, but no lock. When I looked inside, there was plenty of room to stash the Norton. I grabbed the padlock out of my brother’s truck, rolled the Norton inside the old pumphouse, locked up, and pocketed the Masterlock key. I combed my hair in the side-view mirror, tucked in my t-shirt, and beat feet for the diner.

  I was up on my toes when I sailed through the back door and into the diner. I gave the Truckers Only Section a quick glance, and when I didn’t see Harper, I turned up the hallway that led out to the Family Area up front. As I pushed through the spring-loaded double doors, it was like a blast of Benzedrine. The high-output fluorescent lighting, designed to perk up the weary traveler, and sunrise-orange Naugahyde upholstery, set against polished black and white linoleum floors, all trimmed in chrome, made Tubby’s the kind of place you could sit and drink coffee all night. A row of booths lined the front, and when it wasn’t too crowded, I’d sit by myself beneath the cantilevered widows, and watch the cars and trucks head west on the open highway. Some were on the interstate going to L.A.; others were on the road to dreams.

  I spotted an open stool at the counter and grabbed a seat next to a chubby guy, wearing a huge Aloha-print shirt, and an autographed Dodgers Cap. He was shoving chicken-fried steak in his mouth and crying to the guy next to him about how he lost all his money in Vegas. He was sure his old lady was going to throw him out for good—This time. When he called out for more ice tea, Harper came through the kitchen door holding a jug of ice tea and two pots of coffee, decaf and regular.

  Dressed in nice fitting jeans, and a white sleeveless western shirt, Harper O’Neal was the kind of girl who looked like she belonged on a horse. Kept her butterscotch hair pulled back in a sassy little ponytail, held taught with an ordinary rubber band. And she had eyes like a clear morning sky, bright and hopeful. All I really knew about Harper—she was from Texas—and she had the smile to prove it.

  “Ice tea—coming right up,” she said with a subtle twang.

  All the single men at the counter stopped eating and watched while Harper graciously topped off the guys ice tea. She asked him if he needed anything else, and was just about to tell me she’d be right back for my order, when her mouth dropped open.

  “Duffy James Allison!”

  “Nobody calls me Duffy.”

  “I’ll call you Duffy if I want to young man.” Harper dropped the beverage containers on the counter and came around with her arms open wide. I stood up and gave her an awkward hug. Standing there with a silly grin on my face, looking at the floor, I felt like a dufus, until she touched my arm and I looked up.

  “I’m so glad to see you. I was beginning to think I’d never see you, or Morgan, ever again.” She punched me in the arm like a girl. “I can’t believe you left and didn’t say goodbye.” She looked past me and asked, “Is your brother here.”

  “No. And I’m not supposed to be here either. So if he shows up later, don’t say I was here.”

  “Why not? Has your brother forbidden you to talk to me?”

  “Not in so many words, but he sure is pissed at you? He thinks you’re the reason he got fired from the mine. I tried to talk some sense into him, but Morgan’s got a thick skull.”

  “That’s a load of horse manure,” she said, shaking her head in protest. She smiled. “Not the part about Morgan’s thick skull, that’s absolutely true.”

  “It’s like steel reinforced concrete.” I rapped my knuckles against my skull. “You need a jackhammer and a blow torch if you want to get through
to him sometimes.”

  Harper nodded her head, like she knew exactly what I meant. “Besides, that’s not why he’s mad at me. He knows darn well that I didn’t have anything to do with his getting fired.”

  “He sure acts like that’s the reason. Why else would he be mad at you?”

  Harper crossed her arms and took a deep breath. She was about to tell me ‘It’s a long story’, when a whisper of a voice coming from a booth by the front door called out for more ice tea.

  “You stay right here,” Harper said, while gently pushing me back in my seat. She gave me the evil eye and pointed an accusatory finger, “Don’t you dare leave. I’ll be right back.”

  Balancing two coffee carafes in one hand and a big pitcher of ice tea in the other, she moved across the room with the strength and confidence of an accomplished horsewoman. Stopping at a booth occupied by an elderly couple, Harper set the coffee down and asked about their day. The silver-haired little old lady lifted a shaky hand and touched Harper on the wrist. She told her they were on their way to Anaheim. Their granddaughter had given birth to a little boy, and now they were great grandparents. Grandma told Harper how much she looked like Grace Kelly in the movie High Noon. She said it a couple of times and then called to her husband, seeking confirmation. Old guy looked up, gave Harper an inquisitive squint, nodded his head in agreement, and went back to slurping his soup. Harper gave the little old lady a kiss on the top of her head and then moved along the booths supplying refreshments, like it was a Sunday barbeque. She was charming the socks off a little boy in an Engineer Bill outfit when Dessie, my second best girl in Barstow, came over and bopped me on the back of the head.

  Dessie was tall and bony, always looked a little tired, smoked too much, and had a heart of gold. She always gave me double portions, and if I were broke, she’d feed me on the cuff. Standing like she was going to kick my ass if I didn’t give her the right answer, “Now just where in the hell did you disappear to? Better make it good mister.”

  “I was abducted by aliens.”

  “You look like it with that hair,” she said, ruffling my blond mop with the palm of her hand. “Doesn’t look like they fed you too good on that spaceship either. You want something to eat.”

  “Double cherry pie and a tall coke.”

  “You better have yourself a sandwich first. We’ll talk about the pie later.”

  “I might be a little short.”

  “Honey—all the men I know are a little short. I’ll put a burger on your tab.”

  Dessie went around the counter, stuck her head into the kitchen pass-through window, and called in my burger. She loaded one arm with four platters full of food, and somehow lifted a round drink tray, holding it above her head like a French Waiter. When Dessie came back around the counter, Harper came up from behind me and rested her elbow on my shoulder.

  Dessie said, “I got it now sweetheart. Thanks for staying late and helping out—you’re a life saver.”

  “You’re very welcome. I was happy to help.”

  Harper filled a couple of fountain glasses and then led me over to an open booth by the front window. She leaned across the table and looked me square in the eye. “What’s going on? I haven’t seen or heard from you in almost a month. I’ve been really worried about the two of you. What happened?”

  “What happened?” I scratched my head for a second. “I don’t know what happened. I thought you could tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know what happened. I’m asking you Mr. Allison. I went to work one Saturday morning, and when I came back, you and Morgan were gone. You couldn’t come see me and say goodbye?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. The day after I graduate from high school, Morgan came home early from work and told me he’d been fired. He had a couple beers, jumped on his bike, and took off. He showed up the next morning around ten and tells me to get my stuff together—we’re leaving. I tried to slow him down, but he was stinking drunk and pissed at the world. I didn’t want him driving. So I figured I better stick with him. I didn’t think we were actually going back to San Pedro for good.”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  She sipped her 7-Up through double straws and looked into me, like she thought I might be holding back information, and if she stared hard enough, I’d crack under the pressure.

  “What did Morgan tell you?”

  “The only thing he’ll say is that you’re the reason he got fired. If I dig any deeper, he just gets pissed off.”

  Harper looked satisfied with my answer and relaxed, sliding back in her seat. She checked the time on her delicate Art Deco wristwatch. “Is Morgan coming to pick you up later?”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. Are you signed up for college yet?”

  I hesitated for a second. I didn’t want to tell her about the fight I had with Morgan, and how I might be forced to enlist if I couldn’t find a job.

  “You are going to college, aren’t you? You’d better. You’re too darned smart to end up driving a truck or working in a factory.”

  “You’re too darned smart to be a waitress.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a waitress.”

  “You’re right. My mom supported us being a waitress. But she didn’t have a choice. She had two boys when my dad was killed, and she needed to put food on the table. You have a choice.” I gave her a smartass look. “So tell me again, why are you still working here?”

  She took a deep breath and sighed. “That’s a long story Duffy.”

  “You always say that when you don’t want to answer a question. You’re my best friend in Barstow. Why is it I don’t know anything about you? I told you my whole life story over a bowl of peach ice cream, but I really don’t know anything about you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes it is. All I know about you—you’re from Texas, and you decided to stay in Barstow because you needed time to think. Anytime I ask you why, you change the subject, and we end up talking about me.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Okay Mr. Smarty Pants—ask me a question?”

  “I asked you one time if you owned a horse back in Texas. You told me it was a silly question.” I gave her my best Perry Mason look, “Miss O’Neal, remember, you’re under oath. Did you own a horse back in Texas?”

  “No. It’s still a silly question.”

  “Didn’t you live on a ranch?”

  “Dallas is a very sophisticated city. I lived on a tree-lined street in the Highland Park District. It’s not the wild west.”

  “I thought for sure you were a cowgirl.”

  “I am a cowgirl. I’m a cowgirl with a pink VW ragtop.”

  “See what I mean—you never told me you had a car.”

  “It’s in the garage at my stepfathers house.”

  “I didn’t know you had a stepfather. When I asked about your mom and dad…”

  “I said it was a long story?”

  “You said it was complicated. What else don’t I know about you?”

  “Ask away,” she said. Falling against the back of the booth with open arms, she assumed a melodramatic pose. “My life is an open book.”

  “Why are you living in Barstow?”

  “That’s a silly question. You know why.”

  “I know this: four months ago a Greyhound Bus heading to Texas, with you on it, broke down just outside of Barstow. The bus was fixed the next day, yet you’re still here. Why? Barstow is a dump. You don’t belong here. Actually—nobody belongs here, but especially you.” I leaned across the table. “Did you embezzle funds from your job, like Janet Leigh in Psycho?”

  “No.”

  “Are you on the run from gangsters?”

  “No.”

  “Were you involved with a married man?”

  She stuck her index finger in the 7-Up, hooked a piece of ice, and threw it at me.

  “Who are you Har
per O’Neal? And why are you living in this God forsaken town?”

  She took a deep breath, like she’d had enough. “I told you Duffy; I needed time to think.”

  “You told me you needed time to think. You didn’t tell me why.”

  She shook her head, like she’d really had enough. “I need to freshen up. Why don’t you come over to my place and have some peach ice cream? I want to know what you, and that brother of yours, have been up to.”

  “After I eat,” I said as Dessie plopped down a big cheeseburger, with a double order of fries.

  “You eat. I’ll go back and freshen up. I’ll meet you at the trailer. You do remember where it is? The High Desert Trailer Court.”

  “Don’t be smart.”

  Harper winked and walked away. Dessie slipped into her seat and lit a cigarette.

  I asked, “How old is Harper?”

  “I don’t know exactly, twenty three, twenty four, something like that. Why?”

  “Is that too old?”

  “Too old for what?”

  “Oh I don’t know—I was just thinking about something my brother said.”

  “Where is that no good brother of yours?” Dessie looked a little miffed. She inhaled a deep dose of nicotine and then pointed out the window toward Harper, who was walking across the parking lot. “That no account brother of yours owes that young lady a big apology.”

  “What’s up between Harper and my brother?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Harper and Morgan.”

  When it dawned on me, I must have looked a little stupid. I sure felt stupid. “Harper and Morgan. You mean like boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “It was a little more adult. And the fact of the matter is, and don’t tell anyone I said this, but they never even kissed. Although you’re a-hole brother did make a clumsy attempt, which blew up in his face, and resulted in his immature reaction. The boy owes Harper an apology. And I really wouldn’t care to talk to him until he does.” She looked at me like I was the densest person on the planet, “You really didn’t know?”

  “I’m beginning to believe I don’t know anything about Harper O’Neal.”