Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

“The fucking exploiters and spies.”

“Oh, them. No, we’re just friends of Danny’s uncle.”

“IRS,” the artist said, counting on his fingers. “County sheriff. Welfare. Repo man. Child support. Which is it?”

“Look, I’m not after your friend at all. Danny left two hundred bucks in an envelope marked Coyote and his uncle wanted him to have it. Nobody cares what it’s for-drugs, loan, work, whatever. Screw it. We tried. We’ll buy dinner at the Sardine Factory instead. Let’s get out of here,” Paul said, turning to Nina and nudging her off the bar stool.

“Wait.” Two’s strong hand grasped Paul’s arm. “So it was money after all? Let’s see this envelope.”

“She has it.” Paul nodded casually toward Nina.

She opened her mouth and closed it. Opened it again. “I tossed the envelope,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out ten twenties she had just received from the ATM and flipped the edges like a deck of cards.

“Lies,” said Donnelly. “Don’t tell them anything.”

“Oh, be quiet, Donnelly. You oughtta ease up on the controlled substances,” said Two, which brought on a hearty laugh from his compadres .

“But-”

“I said shut up. You hear? These nice folks come here to do a good deed. So shut the hell up.” He glowered at the artist, who stroked the gray soul-patch on his chin rapidly a few times and then got off the bar stool and walked out without a backward glance.

Two said, “He oughtta get some sleep. Now. About getting Coyote his money.”

“Coyote come in here regularly?” Paul asked.

Two shook his head. “Could be weeks before he stops by again. He has a younger brother he takes care of and I don’t think he likes leaving him alone.”

“How old?”

“Twelve, maybe thirteen? Less said about that kid, the better.”

“Big-time screwed up,” One stated.

“Screwed up how?” Paul asked. “Drugs?” Drugs were on both their minds at the moment.

Cowboy Three squeezed his little eyes littler, and snorted. “Drugs might have helped that kid. I’m afraid it’s probably too late to get him anywhere near normal.”

“You should meet Nate. Then you’ll have the full picture,” said One.

“Does he come in here?”

“Not hardly. You’d have to go out there to the tent to see them both, probably. But if you do that, watch it. Coyote keeps a pit bull.”

“Yeah, a real friendly animal,” said Cowboy Three, adjusting his hat back on his head. “Just like us.” That made all three of the men at the bar laugh. Hopping off his stool, Cowboy Two doodled a map on a napkin for Paul and Nina. “Go back to G-16 where it goes left around Sycamore Flat back to town. You want to take a right there instead, onto Arroyo Seco. He lives up a dirt road in Wood Tick Canyon. It’s a long way.”

This time Nina drove. She kept the air conditioner blasting on her arms while Paul dozed on the seat beside her. He slid back and forth, first against her, then against the side door as the road zigzagged around the canyons and hills of the Paloma Ridge. When they came to the main turn, she woke him up. “I need you to navigate. Pull out that map the guy gave us, okay?”

“Hey, I’m still alive,” he said, opening his eyes.

“You don’t trust my driving?”

“Of course I do or I wouldn’t let you drive.” He found the map in his pocket and studied it. “It’s irrational, this need I feel to scream when you take a blind curve fast, so I close my eyes to keep the peace.”

“So you’re letting me drive? I’m not taking a turn at the wheel as an equal?”

“It’s just a figure of speech. Lighten up, babe. I had a brainstorm when we were talking to the cowboys. Remember the one who was talking about Godzilla?”

“No. You thought of something about Coyote?”

“No, this is another verse for our monster song.” He sang in a deep growl:

I am Godzilla-and you are Tokyo

I am Godzilla-and you are Tokyo

I just can’t help it-I’ll try not to bite

I’m gonna lay waste-to you tonight

“They’ll love it at the Grand Ole Opry. Speaking of turns,” she said, “is there a turn coming up?”

It should have been right there, although almost an hour of searching nearly convinced them otherwise. The snarl of dirt roads ended in gullies, fences, boulders, and debris. They finally located the right turn, exactly where the map showed it.

“How did we miss it?” Nina said, taking the pitted road too fast, irritated and tired, feeling as dusty as the road. As the afternoon progressed it had only grown hotter. They finally spotted a distant gray tent in a clearing up ahead. Nina parked. Paul jumped out of the car, closing his door silently while Nina pulled socks out of her bag and put them on along with her hiking boots. She also pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, unsnagged her rolled-up sleeves, and buttoned them tightly at the wrists.

“Why are you doing that?” Paul asked her. He had forgotten already.

How infuriating, that he had no such cares. “You can’t see it? Paul, this forest is crawling with it.” Poison oak swarmed up the trunks alongside the road, crossing on the Spanish moss from tree to tree. Clumps of it framed the road and flourished all the way up the hills around them.

They walked up the road toward the clearing, cautious, both wary of the pit bull. Paul held a thick branch. Nina stopped.

“What’s the matter? You see something?”

Long black shadows of the late afternoon made the road ahead look like something out of a fairy tale, where threatening beings wavered, waiting for them, and trees creaked and whispered as they walked by. The silence, aside from the hysterical buzzing of insects, seemed total.

“Know something? I have no idea where we are,” said Nina.

“I’m looking forward to getting the hell back to the river. You can shake your stuff at the Bucket for me alone.”

“I don’t like it here,” Nina said, slapping a mosquito that had crept up underneath her sleeve.

The heat rose up from the road, suffocating in the stillness.

“You want to wait for me in the car?”

She visualized herself in the Mustang, alone with her imagination in this atmosphere. “No.”

“Well, then. Ready?” He waited until she started up again.

An old Chevy van blocked the entrance to the clearing. They walked around it, peering inside. Nina’s heart jumped. It looked like she imagined a kidnapper’s van might look, filthy tan, paneled, full of ratty bits of rug and trash. “Ugh,” she whispered. “Paul, the Cat Lady thought she saw a beige van.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking. Hold my stick.” He brought out his penknife and, glancing at the motionless flaps of the tent, quickly scraped something behind the front fenders into a baggie.

A boy in a plaid lumberjack shirt walked across the muddy meadow toward them, cap pulled low, head down, limp animal hanging by its ears loosely from his left hand, stick in his right, a day pack on his back. A dark stain made a blot over the pattern on the front of his shirt. As he got closer, Nina could see the animal was a skinny gray jackrabbit.

“Who are you?” he asked. Shaking hands didn’t seem like a good plan, so Nina smiled and said, “I’m Nina Reilly and this is Paul. I’m a lawyer. And you?”

“Nate. A lawyer helped my mother once. Look what I have.”

“You shoot it?” Paul said. He was looking for a weapon.

“Trapped it. Trapped it and wrapped it.”

“Make a good dinner,” Paul observed, as if he and Nina routinely ate dead animals for dinner, which they did, but Nina didn’t want to think about that right now.

“My brother makes stew.” He looked confused. “Used to. Not anymore.”