Working for Uncle Jim and staying at his house in Palm Valley free of charge meant that I’d saved up enough money to get me to Mississippi—after that, I didn’t really care what happened to me. I was also counting on Gus letting me stay with him while he showed me the ropes. For the next few nights while I blasted through Arizona and New Mexico, I stayed in cheap motels and ate out of gas stations. I’d calmed down a bit, getting used to being by myself again, a vagabond, a gypsy. I had time to think, to figure out what I needed to do and how I was going to do it. I tried to remember some of the stuff my parents had taught me when I was growing up, everything before the accident.
But even with all that time to let my thoughts fly and the flat, khaki-colored scenery of Texas zooming past my open window, I was reduced to a thick syrup of nerves when I saw the looming skyline of Dallas approaching. Gus lived just outside the sprawling mess of a city. He was close, which meant revenge was closer. I barely made my way through the crazy drivers and congestion before my heart tried to leap out of my throat. If Gus said no, what would I do? There was no school for grifters. I was inexperienced and raw and I wouldn’t stand a chance in the big bad world.
Just after noon, I pulled the Chevy down a lonely street in cattle country, the smog-covered buildings of Dallas in the distance. There was only one house down this way, a dark brown one-level with a wrap-around porch. A small fishing boat was parked on the groomed lawn, a red pick-up truck in the driveway. Behind the house I could see a few rustic barns, and beyond that, the rust and white dots of Hereford cattle. A sea of waving grass did a 360 around me.
I took in a deep breath, made sure the makeup on my face was still acceptable, and got out of the car. It was hot as f**k and stunk like manure, yet somehow it was comforting and homey. I took that as a good sign.
Gus was quick to answer his door. I supposed he’d been waiting for me.
“Holy horseshit,” Gus said as he leaned against the door, a wide grin breaking his face in two. “You certainly don’t look like the wee Ellie Watt that I remember.”
The funny thing was, even though I’d been quite young the last time I saw him, he looked completely familiar. He had a jovial face punctuated by a bulbous nose, small dark eyes, and hairy as hell eyebrows. His hair was completely grey, on the long side and pushed back off his forehead. He had one hell of a mustache that hid his upper lip, something he always had. He looked shorter now that I wasn’t a kid, but he was still a good height with a fair amount of paunch on his stomach. Whatever work he had done for the LAPD had apparently been replaced with beer and donuts.
I held out my hand for him, feeling a bit shy. I wasn’t used to strangers, even though he was anything but.
He took it, giving me a quick and sweaty shake, before pulling me into him and slapping me once on the back.
“Good to see you, kid,” he said, holding me at arm’s length and looking me up and down. “You’ve got your mama’s eyes, that’s for sure.”
His voice was low and rough, like he ate cigarettes for breakfast. I had a sudden flash of being a girl and running on the beach in California, he and my parents relaxing on the sand and laughing about something, sharing a bottle of wine. Had that really happened? Did I really possess a normal childhood at some point, or were all my memories a lie?
“Well, come on in, sweetie, I’ve been expecting you.” He held the door open and I gingerly walked in, brushing my memories aside. The place was well-kept but had all the earmarks of a bachelor pad. There were muddy tracks through the linoleum-tiled kitchen, the art work on the walls consisted of landscape portraits that were probably painted in the 1970s, and the air smelled stale, despite high-powered fans in every room desperately trying to combat the heat.
We ended the tour on the back porch where a shiny barbeque and a few patio chairs stood among beer cans and ashtrays. Cattle called in the distance, the fields of tan spreading out for miles over gently rolling hills.
“How about we get you settled and I’ll start up some steaks for lunch,” he said, gesturing to the grill. “We’ll need to get our bellies full before we start getting to the bottom of this.”
I raised my brow, caught off-guard. “Bottom of this?”
“Sweetie,” he said with a grin, “I know there’s a good reason why you contacted me and came here. I’ve been waiting some time now to find out what it is.”
Ah shit. I guess I wasn’t very good at being subtle. Here I was, trying to learn to be a con artist and I was already failing before I’d started.
He slapped my shoulder. “Hey, I wouldn’t have been a very good cop if I wasn’t suspicious of everyone. You learn to spot the signs. You go get your stuff and make yourself at home. I mean it. I’m not going to kick you out, no matter what you’re going to tell me. If you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. Hell, I’m being honest right now. I don’t get a lot of company—you’re doing me a favor, too.”
And with that assurance, I headed out to the truck and started unpacking my stuff into his small spare bedroom, settling down into my next transitional life.
When I felt like I’d put just the tips of my roots into the room, it was time for lunch. He piled my paper plate with a thick, juicy ribeye and baked beans, food I’d missed out on over the last few days on the road.
“Don’t mind the paper plates,” he said, settling back into his chair and resting his feet on the railing. “Some days I don’t have time to do dishes, so I find this to be a hell of a lot easier.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I told him, and cracked open a beer from the six-pack he’d just put on the table.
We munched and drank in silence, enjoying the stiff breeze that occasionally came through, lifting my hair from my sticky shoulders. When I couldn’t handle working through any more gristle and my belly was full, I tossed the plate away and we got to talking.
“So, Ellie,” he began, belching unapologetically. “What’s your story? Why are you here?”
What was my story? How did I begin?
“Well, you know about what happened to my parents,” I started. “How they took to the road again.”
“Yes. I sure do. Though I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t emailed me. I haven’t talked to your parents since…well…”
His voice trailed off and I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about the accident. I think my parents lost a lot of friends around that time. Hell, they almost lost a daughter.