Josh Stallings - Beautiful, Naked and Dead

The timing on the suits showing up at the Cock’s Roost was right. Maybe they found an address book, or maybe they made Kelly talk. The speed kicked in, giving me that rough jangle I knew so well. If the suits were looking for Cass, it meant I was on the right track. The sun rose over the barren countryside. On the dirt shoulder I poured the last of the Seagrams into a cup and chased two more tabs with it. It wasn’t enough to get me drunk, just enough to take the edge off the speed. In a pasture beside the road a bunch of lazy cows watched me. Driving on, I bypassed Reno taking highway 80 toward Battle Mountain. I followed the signs up a small county road to the Eagle’s Nest. Just before the brothel I turned up a dirt road and parked in the tall pines. Dressed again in my jeans and tee-shirt I climbed a small scrub covered hill. Laying on my belly, I looked down at the Eagle’s Nest through a pair of army surplus binoculars. A tall chain-link fence surrounded a two-story farmhouse that looked like it might have been built at the turn of the century. The dove-gray paint was peeling. A large porch covered the front. It was around eight in the morning and I couldn’t see anyone moving inside. The sun felt warm and good on my back as it filtered down through the pine boughs. An hour later, I watched a muscular young man water the lawn and pull some weeds out of a rose bed up against the front porch. He pushed a hand mower across the grass. It was all so Norman Rockwell.

Four hours later, I awoke to a large crow cawing in the tree above. The sun overhead burned into my eyes, sending sparks exploding into my brain. There is nothing quite as much fun as a speed hangover. My entire nervous system felt toasted and I could taste something like burned wires in the back of my throat. I focused on my watch, it was one o’clock, I struggled to get my bearings. I was on my back on the hard packed dirt, I could feel pine needles in my hair. I had been in the middle of a dream I couldn’t shake, as if it was still overlapping the waking world. Kelly and I were riding my Norton in the Mexican countryside. I could feel her arms around me, the warm air rushing past us. As I continued to wake the dream broke down into fragments too small to hold onto. Kelly and I played in the surf on an empty beach. In the sand she turned to kiss me, but somehow she changed into a young Lebanese mother. Blood rolling from her chest she fell into the surf.

The only cure for this sort of craziness was forward movement. Popping a couple more whites I rolled over and scanned the brothel. A few cars were in the parking lot, a late model Toyota, a couple of pickups, and a Jeep. Blue-collar cars, transportation for the working class. An hour later, a red 1971 Cutlass convertible pulled in and four teenagers piled out, laughing and horsing around. They rang the bell and waited with nervous glee. To call the older woman who opened the door for them buxom would be an understatement. She was opulent. Even from a distance I saw she had the kind of curves that little boys dreamed about and grown men sighed thanks watching her sway by. A short time later a man in a khaki gas company uniform left in the Toyota. Two cowboys arrived in a bondo patched pickup. Whenever a new car arrived I could see movement behind the curtains, but I couldn’t see any faces. The sun set behind the mountains and the temperature instantly dropped. I shivered, waited and ate some whites to keep my edge on.

At eight o’clock I climbed into the Crown Vic, put on my suit and headed down to the parking lot. There were more pickups than sedans in the small, half-full lot. Buzzed in I walked up the pea gravel path. Under a propane heater in a porch swing a young girl in a teddy was drinking and talking to an equally young cowpoke. I was met at the door by Mrs. Altman in all her curvy glory, up close I could tell she was pushing sixty, not that it mattered, she was timeless and knew it. Instead of a lineup, she took me around the parlor, introducing me to the girls. It was a wide pleasant room, with club chairs and overstuffed sofas. As I looked from face to face, I realized I had no idea what Cass looked like. She could be any one of these lovelies, maybe not the Chinese girl, unless she was adopted. I suddenly knew with certainty that my mad rush to find Kelly’s sister had one gaping flaw.

After I met all the girls, Mrs. Altman led me to an old oak bar stretching the length of the room. A cute gal in jeans and a shirt tied just under her breasts poured me a stiff bourbon. Around the room there were several other men, some at the bar drinking, others sitting chatting with the girls.

“So, big feller,” Mrs. Altman said, “you see any fillies that strike your fancy? No need to be shy, we run a nice friendly house.”

“Actually, um, I was looking for a girl a buddy told me about…” effecting my nervous first-timer act.

“Well, you tell me her name and I will make sure you’re taken care of,” she said with a big easy smile.

“I think her name’s Cass?”

Her smile remained but I could see a steel door slam shut behind her eyes. “I’ve never heard of a girl by that name, are you sure he said she worked here?”

“Yeah, but to be honest he drinks a bit and may have gotten it wrong.”

“Guess he did. What sort of girl are you looking for, maybe I can find some one to fill your desires. Do you like young? A girl-next-door blonde? Black widow brunette? Wild redhead?”

I looked at the floor, feigning shyness. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. My wife left me last year and I…” I gulped my drink.

“Why don’t you just have another drink, get comfortable. You decide on a girl, you just let me know. Or go talk to her, they won’t bite, not unless you ask them to.”

In the mirror behind the bar I saw her talk to a weathered-looking working cowboy. He glanced over to where I was standing and then disappeared up the stairs. If I had unlimited funds I might have taken one of the girls upstairs to find out what I could. But I knew she was there, I could feel it. I finished my drink and decided to come back when the place was empty, plead my case then and hope they believed I was a friend not foe. As I walked back down the path I felt eyes on me, turning I looked up, the porch was empty. I scanned the windows on the first floor, I could see movement in the parlor but no one looked out so I moved up to the second floor bedroom windows. A lace curtain fluttered and for the briefest of moments I saw her. Dark curls framed a round lovely face that I knew so well. Kelly was looking down at me, the ghost of a dead friend, her eyes calling me to come for her. Then she was gone leaving only a small ripple in the curtain. Logic and the desire to have it be her fought in my head. I stumbled back, it was as if the ground under my feet had gone to jello. I wanted to run back into the house. I wanted to find Kelly there safe, but life doesn’t work that way. The dead don’t rise up to greet you.

Too much speed and not enough sleep will twist your mind. I knew a trucker once who was driving in the fog, he hallucinated a ship sailing in front of him. He kept driving and plowed into a yacht that had fallen off another rig. I guess the moral of that story is don’t trust your eyes except when you need to. Trick is, knowing when that is. Was I so fixated on finding Kelly’s past that I was seeing her in the shadows?

My headlights pierced the silky blackness of a moonless night. As I rounded a corner I saw headlights speeding up behind me, bearing down on me. I mashed down the gas pedal. The monster V8 roared to life. I took a corner in a four-wheel drift, sliding across both lanes, then punched it and the Crown Vic straightened out. Behind me the lights came on, unrelenting. Suddenly they disappeared as I flew over a small hill. The asphalt was pocked with potholes so I dropped down in speed. No need trashing my suspension if they’d given up. Suddenly, in front of me a red Chevy pickup truck bounced up onto the road. It locked its breaks and stopped, blocking the road. In a squeal of burning rubber I skidded to a stop inches from the truck. I was scrambling for reverse when my driver’s side window exploded showering me with chunks of safety glass. Before I could react the weathered cowboy had my door open. With a mighty pull he had me dragged out and on the ground. A younger man stood by the truck aiming a hunting rifle at me. Trying to get up, my shoulder rippled with pain as the cowboy hit me with the axe handle he had used to bust out my window. A powerful blow struck my gut and I went over, my face grinding the pavement. I curled into a ball, hoping to reach the.38 in my boot holster then I heard a rush of wind and rolled just in time to have the hardwood miss splitting my skull. Reaching my pistol I pulled it and rolled up onto one knee but before I could aim, he hit my arm with a blow that made it go numb. The.38 skidded across the pavement and under my car. He swung again at my head, I ducked quick enough to take the force on my neck. Pain racked my body. I fell onto my side and threw up. The axe handle touched my face, twisting it so I looked up at the cowboy.