John Adams - Wastelands - Stories of the Apocalipse

Ginny sighed and got out. Barbed wire surrounded the yard behind the shop. The yard was ankle-deep in tangles of rope and copper cable, rusted unidentifiable parts. A battered pickup hugged the wall. Morning heat curled the tin roof of the building. More parts spilled out of the door. Possum made a funny noise, and Ginny saw the Dog step into the light. A Shepherd, maybe six-foot-two. It showed Possum Dark yellow eyes. A man appeared behind the Dog, wiping heavy grease on his pants. Bare to the waist, hair like stuffing out of a chair. Features hard as rock, flint eyes to match. Not bad looking, thought Ginny, if you cleaned him up good.

"Well now," said the man. He glanced at the van, read the legend on the side, took in Ginny from head to toe. "What can I do for you, little lady?"

"I’m not real little and don’t guess I’m any lady," Ginny said. "Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. You open for business or just talk?"

The man grinned. "My name’s Moro Gain. Never turn business away if I can help it."

"I need electric stuff."

"We got it. What’s the problem?"

"Huh-unh." Ginny shook her head. "First, I gotta ask. You do confidential work or tell everything you know?"

"Secret’s my middle name," Moro said. "Might cost a little more, but you got it."

"How much?"

Moro closed one eye. "Now, how do I know that? You got a nuclear device in there, or a broken watch? Drive it on in and we’ll take a look." He aimed a greasy finger at Possum Dark. "Leave him outside."

"No way."

"No arms in the shop. That’s a rule."

"He isn’t carrying. Just the guns you see." Ginny smiled. "You can shake him down if you like. I wouldn’t, I don’t think."

"He looks imposing, all right."

"I’d say he is."

"What the hell," Moro said, "drive it in."

Dog unlocked the gate. Possum climbed down and followed with oily eyes.

"Go find us a place to stay," Ginny said to Del. "Clean, if you can find it. All the hot water in town. Christ sakes, Del, you still sulking or what?"

"Don’t worry about me," Del said. "Don’t concern yourself at all."

"Right." She hopped behind the wheel. Moro began kicking the door of his shop. It finally sprang free, wide enough to take the van. The supply wagon rocked along behind. Moro lifted the tarp, eyed the thirty-seven tins of unleaded with great interest.

"You get lousy mileage, or what?" he asked Ginny.

Ginny didn’t answer. She stepped out of the van. Light came through broken panes of glass. The skinny windows reminded her of a church. Her eyes got used to shadow, and she saw that that’s what it was. Pews sat to the side, piled high with auto parts. A 1997 Olds was jacked up before the altar.

"Nice place you got here," she said.

"It works for me," Moro told her. "Now what kind of trouble you got? Something in the wiring? You said electric stuff."

"I didn’t mean the motor. Back here." She led him to the rear and opened the doors.

"God a’Mighty!" Moro said.

"Smells a little raunchy right now. Can’t help that till we hose ’er down." Ginny stepped inside, looked back, and saw Moro still on the ground. "You coming up or not?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?" She’d seen him watching her move and didn’t really have to ask.

"Well, you know…" Moro shuffled his feet. "How do you figure on paying? For whatever it is I got to do."

"Gas. You take a look. Tell me how many tins. I say yes or no."

"We could work something out."

"We could, huh?"

"Sure." Moro gave her a foolish grin. "Why not?"

Ginny didn’t blink. "Mister, what kind of girl do you think I am?"

Moro looked puzzled and intent. "I can read good, lady, believe it or not. I figured you wasn’t tacos or dangerous drugs."

"You figured wrong," Ginny said. "Sex is just software to me, and don’t you forget it. I haven’t got all day to watch you moonin’ over my parts. I got to move or stand still. When I stand still, you look. When I move, you look more. Can’t fault you for that, I’m about the prettiest thing you ever saw. Don’t let it get in the way of your work."

Moro couldn’t think of much to say. He took a breath and stepped into the van. There was a bed bolted flat against the floor. A red cotton spread, a worn satin pillow that said Durango, Colorado, and pictured chipmunks and waterfalls. An end table, a pink-shaded lamp with flamingos on the side. Red curtains on the walls. Ballet prints and a naked Minnie Mouse.

"Somethin else," Moro said.

"Back here’s the problem," Ginny said. She pulled a curtain aside at the front of the van. There was a plywood cabinet, fitted with brass screws. Ginny took a key out of her jeans and opened it up.

Moro stared a minute, then laughed aloud. "Sensory tapes? Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch." He took a new look at Ginny, a look Ginny didn’t miss. "Haven’t seen a rig like this in years. Didn’t know there were any still around."

"I’ve got three tapes," Ginny explained. "A brunette, a redhead, and a blond. Found a whole cache in Ardmore, Oklahoma. Had to look at ’bout three or four hundred to find girls that looked close enough to me. Nearly went nuts ’fore it was over. Anyway, I did it. Spliced ’em down to seven minutes each."

Moro glanced back at the bed. "How do you put ’em under?"

"Little needle comes up out the mattress. Sticks them in the ass lightnin’ fast. They’re out like that. Seven-minute dose. Headpiece is in the end table there. I get it on and off them real quick. Wires go under the floorboards back here to the rig."

"Jesus," Moro said. "They ever catch you at this, you are cooked, lady."

"That’s what Possum’s for," Ginny said. "Possum’s pretty good at what he does. Now what’s that look all about?"

"I wasn’t sure right off if you were real."

Ginny laughed aloud. "So what do you think now?"

"I think maybe you are."

"Right," Ginny said. "It’s Del who’s the droid, not me. Wimp IX Series. Didn’t make a whole lot. Not much demand. The customers think it’s me, never think to look at him. He’s a damn good barker and pretty good at tacos and drugs. A little too sensitive, you ask me. Well, nobody’s perfect, so they say."

"The trouble you’re having’s in the rig?"

"I guess," Ginny said, "beats the hell out of me." She bit her lip and wrinkled her brow. Moro found the gestures most inviting. "Slips a little, I think. Maybe I got a short, huh?"

"Maybe." Moro fiddled with the rig, testing one of the spools with his thumb. "I’ll have to get in here and see."

"It’s all yours. I’ll be wherever it is Del’s got me staying."

"Ruby John’s," Moro said. "Only place there is with a good roof. I’d like to take you out to dinner."

"Well sure you would."

"You got a real shitty attitude, friend."

"I get a whole lot of practice," Ginny said.

"And I’ve got a certain amount of pride," Moro told her. "I don’t intend to ask you more than three or four times and that’s it."

Ginny nodded. Right on the edge of approval. "You’ve got promise," she said. "Not a whole lot, maybe, but some."

"Does that mean dinner, or not?"

"Means not. Means if I wanted to have dinner with some guy, you’d maybe fit the bill."

Moro’s eyes got hot. "Hell with you, lady. I don’t need the company that bad."

"Fine." Ginny sniffed the air and walked out. "You have a nice day."

Moro watched her walk. Watched denims mould her legs, studied the hydraulics of her hips. Considered several unlikely acts. Considered cleaning up, searching for proper clothes. Considered finding a bottle and watching the tapes. A plastic embrace at best, or so he’d heard, but a lot less hassle in the end.

Possum Dark watched the van disappear into the shop. He felt uneasy at once. His place was on top. Keeping Ginny from harm. Sending feral prayers for murder to absent genetic gods. His eyes hadn’t left Dog since he’d appeared. Primal smells, old fears and needs, assailed his senses. Dog locked the gate and turned around. Didn’t come closer, just turned.