Road to Nowhere

by Jake Steele

 

Twenty miles on the Yankee side of the Mexican border, Jack Radley stood on the scorching asphalt and stuck out his thumb. Sweat stung his eyes as he squinted at the July fireball suspended in the cloudless sky. His destination didn’t matter; he only wanted to outrun his anger and free himself from the garrote of depression. Damn little mattered the past six months. Not since Anna, his bride of one year, wrapped her mouth around his police revolver and fed herself a .357 round.

Last night he hitched a ride on a produce truck and rode it out of the Mexican border town of Sonoita. Dinner was served up by a vending machine at a Texaco; pressed ham on yesterday’s bread, wrapped in cellophane. A desert night wind forced him to sleep in the stench of the men’s room at a roadside rest stop.

A cheap bus ticket to somewhere beyond Phoenix would’ve allowed him to bypass the intense heat of the Arizona desert. But the eyes of a senorita in a Sonoita bar said she needed the money more than he did. She had Anna’s eyes, dusky and sad and filled with the same beauty that haunts his memory. Truth is, he needed her more than money; Tequila helps a man see what he wants to see.

On the highway since dawn, he waited for his first ride. He’d eaten only the dust kicked up by the back-draft of an endless convoy of tractor-trailer rigs and countless cars that buffeted him when they zoomed past. Hitchhiking allows a man too much time alone with his thoughts. Twice over the past month he’d contemplated ending his misery with a leap into the path of a westbound Freightliner.

 

Half-mile in the distance, two motorcycles crested the hill and cruised toward him. Translucent heat waves rose from the blacktop and distorted their images into a shimmering dance. Arm extended, he waggled his thumb. What the hell, he thought, a ride on the back of a hog is better than fried brains on the roadside.

The cycles slowed and rumbled past. Brake lights flashed and the bikes stopped fifty yards ahead. He grabbed his duffel bag and jogged toward them, but stopped when the bikes growled to life and burned a U-turn in the highway. Both riders flipped the middle finger when they shot past. He gawked in disbelief. What’s your problem?He thrust his arm in the air and returned the gesture. Screw you, punks. Like I need your freakin’ grief.He spun on his heel and headed back down the road.

The roar of accelerating Harleys spun him around. What the hell’s this? Chrome handlebars reflected the sun’s glare, he averted his eyes and stepped onto the shoulder. A dust cloud exploded when the hefty rider steered his machine onto the dirt shoulder and bore down on him. Shit! what the…Panic. No time to think. Nowhere to run. Muscles taut by fear, he leaped for the ditch, stumbled through a thorny cactus and rolled to a stop face down in the dirt. He grabbed a fist-sized rock, scrambled upright and glared up the embankment.

The motorcycles were parked on the shoulder, the leather clad riders loped down the slope towards him. The lanky one with the red beret carried a coil of rope, his shorter, beer-gutted compadre twirled a thick length of chain. Bastards! What’s their beef? 

The heavyset one looked familiar. Shit. He’s the guy I won fifty-bucks from shooting pool at the El Cid Cantina yesterday. He focused on the twirling length of chain. What kind of jerk would run me down for a lousy fifty bucks?  Five years as a cop taught him sore losers carry a grudge like a suitcase fat with misery. And nothing sets right with them until they unpack. But he carried his own bag of anger and guilt. Anna’s selfish act destroyed everything right in his life. He didn’t see it coming, wasn’t there to help. He didn’t stop her. His agenda never included trouble, but adversity had found its way into his life. If these punks wanted to dance, he’d oblige.

The lanky one took a wide stance to his right, slapped the coil of rope against his leg and stared with dark, disdainful eyes. Red embroidery spelled the name Paco on the breast of his black leather jacket.

Jack shifted his gaze to the chain twirler to his front and stared into ice colored eyes, close-set in a bullfrog face. His chalky skin was rough and red-blotched by the sun.

The Frog rocked on his boot heels. “What say, poolshooter? We meet again, eh?”

“My lucky day.” He tightened his clammy hand around the rock. “Did I take up too much of your road?”

“Screw you, smart ass. You ripped off my money.”

“Hell I did. You lost it.”

“Bullshit, you took it and ran like a chicken-shit out the back door.”

He recalled the biker’s anger when he sank the eight ball, grabbed the money off the table and refused a rematch. A gut feeling told him the fifty could bankroll into trouble, so he ambled toward the head and opted for a window exit.

 “I did you a favor. You would’ve lost again.”

Froggy’s eyes narrowed. “Cocky bastard.” He stepped closer and shoved a finger in
Jack’s face. “You’re a pool hustlin’ hotshot”

Jack knocked the hand away. “Nope. Just better than you.”

Paco stepped closer. “Quit screwing around. Let’s take what we want. Do the punk and get outa here.”

Jack raised the rock and glared at Paco. “Nobody’s taking a damn thing. Back off, asshole. This is between me and the fat boy.”

The chain cracked across his shoulder. Paco stepped up and sank a fist in his gut and slammed the other against his ear. Jack fell to his knees. Twice he felt the lash of the chain across his back then a boot kicked him to the ground. He covered his face and the world turned hazy and numb…then black.

He woke with his face pressed into the hot sand and remained still. Shit. How long have I been out? Pain throbbed through his back and ribs. Where are they? Eyes closed, he listened and heard the chirp of Cactus Wrens, the occasional whine of tires on the highway. Nobody will stop; they never do.

An attempt to move met resistance, arms were stretched and tied behind his back, ankles bound. Damn It. He squirmed and tried to look around, then froze at the crunch of approaching footsteps. A boot struck him in the hip and shoved him onto his back. Bright sun forced his eyes to a squint, through the haze he saw his attackers.

The frog squatted and slapped his face. “Where’s your smart mouth now, poolshooter?”

He gritted his teeth.

Paco paced around him and spit. “We gonna kill him?”

Froggy shook his head and laughed. “No need. The desert’ll kill him.” He pointed to a dead Mesquite tree. “Drag him over there and sit him up.”

They grabbed the rope around his ankles and drug him towards the tree.

“Bastards, what the hell do you want?” He kicked and struggled, then winced from the pain of rocks gouging into his back and shoulders.

Propped against the tree trunk, he strained against the rope and glared. Miserable punks. If you’re going to kill me, then do it.

Paco dumped the duffel bag on the ground and kicked the contents around. Froggy picked up a wallet and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Guess I won the bet, huh, poolshooter?”

 “Well, look at this.” Paco held up an 8x10 photo in a dog-eared folder. “The dude’s carrying a picture of a fine looking honey.”

Froggy grabbed it. “Hey, mama…not bad. Who’s the bitch, hotshot?”

“Leave it alone.”

“Listen to the tough guy. Must be his old lady, eh, Paco?”

Paco laughed. “No way, man. That fine chick ain’t married to this loser.”

Froggy ran his tongue over the photo. “Man, I’d do this sweetie all day long. Hey, poolshooter, where can I find this honey? I’ll treat her to a real man.”

“Shut up,” Jack yelled. “Do whatever you’re gonna do and go away.” He averted his eyes. Do anything, but damn you, leave Anna out of this.

Paco whistled. “Man, check out her sweet mouth. Bet she’s givin’ head to all the homeboys cause ol’ loser here’s never around.”

Froggy snorted and his laughter rang in Jack’s ears. He pushed against the ropes. Two minutes alone with your fat ass is all I want.

“Hey, Paco. Know what? I don’t think her mouth’s big enough for me. I might choke her.” He grabbed his crotch and snorted out another laugh. “But I can fix the problem.”

He knelt and held the photo two feet in front of Jack’s face. “Look at the pretty lady, hotshot, and I’ll show ya how I fix the problem.”

Jack glanced at Anna, then directed his glare at the smirk on the bullfrog face.

Froggy pulled a pistol from his belt and pressed it against the mouth in the photo. The resonant crack of the gunshot muted Jack’s startled yell.

Jack slumped and shut his eyes. Everything he’d tried so hard to suppress flooded his mind in waves of images: the happiness in her smile on their wedding day, then the sadness in her eyes, the pills, finding her gunshot body in their bedroom. The casket, closed forever, descending into that dark hole. Wanting to be with her. A scream he couldn’t stop burst from inside him.

Paco grabbed Froggy’s collar. “Hey man, this guy’s freakin’ nuts. Let’s blow outa here.”

Froggy tossed the gunshot photo in Jack’s lap. “Adios, poolshooter.” He unleashed a wicked laugh and headed for the motorcycles. “See ya down the road.”

Jack muttered through clenched teeth. ”You bastards better ride and never stop. If I find you, I’ll kill you.”

He stared at the mutilated photo. “Damn you, Anna. Why did you do it? Why? Is it my fault?” Tears filled his eyes and the photo blurred. “I should’ve been home more…should’ve known how troubled you were. But the job…the damn job demanded so much. Anna, can you hear me? I’m sorry!”

Ignoring his injuries he fought against the rope until exhaustion reduced his efforts to a futile struggle. His dry tongue brushed parched lips, eyes drooped and his head fell to his chest.

The blare of a horn jarred him awake. A battered green pick-up bounced to a stop in front of him. The driver’s door creaked open, a man stepped around the truck and Jack strained to focus on a man old as his father.

The burly man approached him and cocked his head. “You alright, young fella? You ought not be out in this heat...It’ll kill—” His jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be horse whipped.” He pulled a pocket knife from his baggy overalls, knelt, eased Jack forward and cut the wrist ropes. “What in hell’s kitchen happened to you?” He cut the ankle bindings and Jack kicked away the rope.

Jack rubbed his wrists and smacked his dry lips. “Water?”

“Water?” The strangers silver brows shot up. “Yeah, sure…hell, yes I got water.” He scrambled to his feet. “Stay right there.”

He managed a weak smile. Where the hell would I go?

The man grabbed a jug from the truck and hustled back. “Here, drink up. It’s ice cold.”

After several gulps, Jack poured the icy water over his head and gasped when it ran down his neck. He took another swig and wiped his mouth. “Lucky you stopped. Thanks.”

The man tipped back his straw hat. “Figured you bein’ dead or alive was a coin flip.” He stroked a white moustache. “Blasted heat kills maybe twenty a year. Mostly illegals crossing the border hunting work. What the hell you doing out here?” 

“Hitchhiking.”

“Rough way to travel, son.” He thrust out a meaty hand. “Name’s Lester McCoy. Let’s gather your stuff and get you outa God’s oven.”

He reached out and grabbed the hand. “Jack Radley.”

Back in the truck, Lester fired the engine. “I’ll give you a lift far as Yuma.”

“Which way’s Yuma?”

Lester tilted his head in the direction the bikers went. “’Bout two hours.”

“Yuma’s fine.”

They pulled onto the highway and Lester stuffed a wad of tobacco in his cheek. “What happened back there?” He glanced over. “Taint none of my business for sure, but I’m a nosey old coot.”

Settled back in the seat, Jack sipped the water and told him about Froggy, Paco and the pool game in the Mexican border town.

“Them boys are a bad sort, Lester said. “Wouldn’t be surprised they’re smuggling drugs outa Mexico. Happens all the time ‘round here.”

“Yeah, well, I hope they choke on it.”

Lester shot him a side glance. “You’re lookin’ to find them boys, ain’t ya?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Anger’s a loaded gun and revenge is the devil’s bullet, son. You hunt those boys down and you’re same as them, not one shade of light different. Best think twice. Let the sheriff  handle it.”

A pain shot through his ribs, he groaned and squirmed in the seat. “Nothing to think about.”

“Well, son, if you’re lucky, you won’t find ‘em.”

I’ll find them. No matter what…I’ll find them. He leaned his head against the window and watched the monotonous landscape of sand hills and scrub oak roll past. Saguaro cactus stood a sentinel’s watch over the badlands. His angry thoughts drifted to Anna and how frail she was. Always dependent upon on him for her strength. Maybe suicide was the only solution you could see. But, damn, sweetheart, it was wrong. You took a part of me with you and I hate you for that. Anger is spreading like a cancer inside me. I can feel it, Anna.. Right now I want to kill a man and if I don’t let it go of this angerit will devour me.

Lester broke the silence. “So, what’s a strapping young man like yourself doing hitchhiking? You a drifter? Or you got a job someplace?”

He sucked in a breath and blew it out. “Had a career once. But it swallowed me, took me away from everything important. Caused me nothing but grief.”

“Then a man has to dust off and take another road.  Driftin’ ain’t the answer.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, and forced a thin, cursory smile. “It’s time I found the right road.”

The old man yawned and stretched his back. “We’re ‘bout ten miles outa Yuma. I can run you by the Sheriff’s office if you want.”

“Thanks, but no. I don’t want to hang around.”

“Suit yourself. You’re welcome to spend the night at my place. Ain’t much, only me and the wife. The spare bed sags, but Martha’s chili and enchiladas are good as it gets.”

He nodded. “I’d appreciate the hospitality. I won’t cause any problems and I’ll be gone in the morning.”

He slumped in the seat and succumbed to the collar of depression choking his thoughts. What am I going to do? I’m broke. How the hell can catch up to those bastards when I’m on foot?

They crested a hill and descended into the valley. Half mile ahead, a picnic area was nestled in scattered Mesquite trees, next to a rock outcrop. The sun glinted off something shiny in the rocks.

Jack sat upright. “Slow down a bit.”

The truck slowed. “You see somethin’?”

“Thought so.” He pointed. “Up ahead in those rocks.” His fist clamped. It has to be them. Come on…come on. Show me something. Let me see those SOB’s.

The truck cruised by and Jack caught a glimpse of a Harley tucked against the rocks. He slapped the dashboard. “There’s a motorcycle. Pull over, Lester.”

“Easy, son. Lots of them cycle things on this road.”

“No. I’m guessing it’s them. I gotta check. Pull over.”

He shrugged and stopped at the side of the road. “How we gonna do this, son? You gotta a plan?”

“It’s not your fight.”

Lester’s tired eyes stared at him, then he turned away. “Okay, I’ll wait here. But if you’re not back right quick, I’m coming after you.”

Jack stepped out and leaned in the door. “You have anything like a crowbar, a tire iron?”

Hands tight on the wheel, Lester stared out the windshield like a man who didn’t want to answer. “Against my better judgement, but, yeah, I got somethin’.” He flipped his thumb. “Back of the seat.”

Jack pulled a double-barrel, 12 gauge shotgun from behind the seat. “Shells?”

Lester’s callused hand popped open the glove box. “Sorry, three’s all I have.”

“Three more than last time.” He loaded two shells in the breech and shoved the extra in his pocket. I’m coming boys…and it’s my turn at bat.

Crouched, he jogged along the ditch beside the highway. At the outcrop, he stopped, listened and recognized Froggy’s snorting laugh.

He skirted the boulders and tracked their voices until he was certain they were behind him. Back pressed against a high ledge, he peeked around the edge and saw them twenty feet away, drinking beer and eating. Froggy sat cross-legged on the ground, Paco stood with his back against a tree.

He raised the shotgun tight to his shoulder and sited down the barrel. Got you bastards. His finger tightened on the trigger, then he closed his eyes. No. Not like this. Before you assholes die you’re gonna know why.

Jack stepped out, elevated the gun and fired one barrel into the tree branches above their head and rushed forward. Both men jumped and whirled around.

Froggy’s eyes bugged in shock. “What the hell?”

Jack leveled the shotgun. “Come on tough guy, give me a reason.”

“Look, man.” Froggy held out his hands. “We were joking around.”

“Yeah, so am I. Let’s hear you laugh now you sick son of a bitch.”

Paco spit. “We should’ve killed him.”

“Life’s full of regrets, punk.” He pointed the 12guage at Froggy. “Your gun, fat boy. Left hand, fingertips only…toss it slow and easy. Do it!”

The gun came out and Froggy tossed it.

When Jack glanced at the gun Paco lunged. He sidestepped, swung the shotgun and cracked the butt into the side of Paco’s head. Then he whirled, planted his foot and slammed his boot heel into Froggy’s face. Blood squirted from his crushed nose. Paco stirred, attempted to rise and Jack kicked the man’s exposed ribs.

He straddled Froggy and glared down. “You’re a waste of air you fat pig.”

“You don’t have the guts, poolshooter.” Froggy’s bloodied face distorted into a snarl and he started to laugh.

Jack pressed the shotgun tight against the laughing mouth, then forced the barrel tip past the teeth. The laughter turned to a gag.

His finger tightened again on the trigger, his focus narrowed until all he saw was the gun, the mouth and the fear in the eyes. Then he saw Anna, like he found her in their bedroom. His finger fell away from the trigger. What am I doing? Lester’s right. If I kill him, I’m no different than him and all the rest of the scum. He blinked away a tear. No different than Anna.. What the hell have I done to my life?

He yanked the barrel out. “You’re right. I don’t have the guts.”

The green pick-up bounced around the corner, skidded to a stop and Lester piled out wielding a tire iron. “You okay, son?”

Jack backed away. “Yeah. Everything’s cool.”

Lester scratched his head. “Now what?”

“Have any rope?

“Yep, I got rope. Back of the truck, under the spare.”

Jack loaded the extra shell, handed the shotgun to Lester and headed for the truck. “Keep an eye on ‘em.”

Lester chuckled and spit through his teeth. “Can’t hardly miss from here. Even without my glasses.”

After he tied them to the tree, Jack strolled over to the Harleys parked by the rocks and dumped both sets of saddlebags on the ground. His wallet fell out along with six large bags stuffed fat with white powder.

“Looks like you boys are carrying illegal cargo.”

Froggy squirmed. “Not ours. You best leave the shit alone. It belongs to a big man in LA.”

“Guess you’ll have to explain why you lost his drugs.” He retrieved his wallet, loaded the powder back into the saddlebags and heaved them into the back of the truck. “Lester, it’s time to go.”

Lester nodded. “Sure as hell is.”

Half way to the truck, Jack stopped and grabbed Lester’s arm. ”Got a match?”

“Match?” He rifled through his pockets and pulled out a matchbook. “Sure do. Why?”

“One more thing to do.” He took the shotgun, propped it over his shoulder and strolled back to the bikers.

“Hey, frog face. Remember your problem with the photograph?”

Froggy’s face went blank and he strained against the rope.

“Well, I have a problem too.” He stretched his back and pointed toward the rocks. “It’s those damn Harleys over there. They tried to run me down.” He turned and walked toward the bikes. “But, I have a solution.” He leveled the shotgun, fired one barrel into one bike, pivoted and blasted the second. The scent of gasoline from the split fuel lines permeated the air. He removed the gas caps, backed up, flipped a lit match and smiled when both motorcycles erupted in a ball of fire.

He strolled back to the truck and slid the shotgun behind the seat. “Guess you’re outta shells, Lester.”

They pulled onto the highway and headed for Yuma. Jack sat quiet, fingers locked to control the tremble in his hands. On the other side of town, Lester turned onto the dirt road that led to his farm. He glanced over. “You okay, son?”

Jack wiped his hands on his pants and sighed. “I almost killed a man back there.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shrugged. “I could have.”

Lester reached and patted his shoulder. “Don’t think you could. You seem a better man than that.”

Jack stared out the window. “Maybe I can be. I’m tired of being angry.”

After dinner, Jack sat with Lester on the porch steps. The heat of the day lingered, but a cool breeze blew in off the mesa, stars in the Arizona night sky twinkled like a far away city.

Lester took a swig of his beer. “Where to now, Jack?”

Jack rolled his neck and rubbed a bruise on his cheek. “Have to get off this road to nowhere and back on the road of life.”

“Any ideas?”

“First I’m heading home to Seattle. Need to have a talk with a lady I left behind and see if I can straighten myself out.”

“Good luck, son.”

“I’d like you to do me a favor.” Jack picked up a rock and hurled it into the night. “You know the sheriff?”

“Best part of twenty years.”

“Tomorrow, take him the saddlebags of drugs, explain what happened and where those boys are. I’m sure there’s enough evidence to stick them.”

Lester nodded. “Good as done.”

The next morning Jack walked down the dirt road leading from Lester’s farm. He glanced at the fireball rising on the horizon and pulled a small photo of Anna from his wallet. “I never should’ve left home.” The confident smile he’d almost lost returned to his face as he stepped onto the asphalt and stuck out his thumb.

 

Previously published by Future’s Mystery Anthology Magazine.

 

 

Jake Steele lives in Arizona where he writes in a variety of genres. His short stories have been published in Futures Mysterious Anthology, Concho River Review, Detective Mystery Stories, Quill & Pen, Centaur Magazine, The Advocate, Short Stuff and Vignettes. He was awarded Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest Creative Writing competition.