Alibi Creek Read online

  Art’s gathered a collection of down-and-outs, five o’clock happy hour patrons, rowdy ranch hands, well-behaved alcoholics drinking to maintain and women who went for one or all of the above. In a town of 396 residents, this meant about a dozen regulars and a fluctuating flow of customers, depending on the season. In the fall, hunters packed the place. During the winter, the odd truck driver took a lonely seat at the bar. Spring attracted those itching to get out of the house and summers were steady, with tourists adding a touch of awkward sophistication to the scene. Once a month, Art shoved the chairs and tables against the walls and couples scooted across the worn wood floor to the No Name Band’s rendition of classic country, the evening incomplete without at least a couple of brawls interrupting the two-stepping, women fighting as hard as the men.

  Walker snuck in with downcast eyes, ready to burst into laughter and shake hands, squeeze the old boys’ shoulders and pat the ladies’ bottoms.

  “You all watch yourselves,” Art yelled. “Don’t turn your back. A hardened criminal has entered our midst.”

  Walker made the rounds, some happy to see him, others turning away, and found Jo at the far end of the bar, face partially hidden by a puff of frizzy red hair, a half-full Manhattan in front of her. Expensive date.

  “Get off that chair, gorgeous, so I can swing you around.”

  She cocked her head.

  “And risk you tripping over a chair? I got osteoporosis.”

  “Nice welcome,” he said.

  She traced the rim of her cocktail glass with her finger and broke into a big smile that wrinkled her face.

  “Shit, Walker, you know I’m damn glad to see you. I’m so happy I’ll buy the first round.”

  “No way, darlin’. It’s against my principles to have a woman buy me a drink.”

  “You don’t have principles.”

  “Speaking of which,” he leaned close and breathed in her ear. “Let’s get out of here for half an hour, if you know what I mean.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and rested her hand on his wrist.

  “Oh, I hear you,” she said. “But you don’t hardly rate a D in the lovemaking department. That little pecker of yours is broke, or asleep, or dead, and you know it. Let’s not embarrass ourselves.”

  He straightened and shoved his shoulders back.

  “It worked good enough to produce two kids.”

  “Twenty years ago. With a hot, young wife.”

  Danielle.

  “I guess Lee Ann told you she’s back,” Jo continued. “Living in a trailer on Ross Plank’s ranch.”

  “Shit. No.” The very land he aimed to turn.

  “Maybe she didn’t want to be around for your reaction.”

  “I’d have found out sooner or later,” he said.

  “Later’s always better.”

  He took the stool next to her, signaling two fingers to Art.

  “Fill me in,” he said, lighting a cigarette, taking a drag, and placing it between her lips.

  But a small crowd had migrated toward him, gathering behind his back, asking questions. He turned around and launched into tales of prison life, how minimum-security incarceration was just that, but jail nonetheless. Hell, no, he wouldn’t have run the risk of walking away. Yeah, he’d made some good buddies, actually read a book about life in Mongolia. Nah, there were no riots. Lots of bitching, though. The food was about what you’d expect, maybe worse. Yeah, his cellmate, Pat, was pretty cool. Yeah, they got along. Did he repent? He’d have to think about that one.

  5

  SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 30, 2007

  HE CRACKED ONE EYE, THE tiny, square window carved out of cinderblock and Pat Merker’s snoring and farting on the cot beneath him absent. The sun shone like a floodlight across his jeans and boots. He shifted his feet toward the edge of the bed and squinted at the ceiling and over to a map of the world on the west wall. Except for removing the pin-up posters, Mother hadn’t changed his room since he was sixteen. Plastic horses posed atop the oak dresser with the loose drawers, awaiting riders, ready to trot off the edge seeking adventures. He rolled on his side, creasing cattle brands of Dax County ranches stitched onto a quilt by Aunt Stella, a Christmas present when he was eight. Dad’s leather chaps, now brittle, hung from a peg next to a bookcase crammed with prehistoric Mogollon and Anasazi Indian pottery, the bottom shelf cluttered with arrowheads and tools discovered while hunting or hiking the surrounding territory. As soon as he could get up, he’d take down that number 37 purple and yellow football shirt tacked to the wall, a reminder of the one season he’d played. He detested sports. The only things you got after you’d won were cheers and a bruised body, no profit in terms of cold hard cash. Mother’d be upset if he threw that shirt out, but hell, the poor gal wasn’t climbing out of that chair to dust his room ever again. Must be Lee Ann wielding a feather duster now.

  He groaned and sat up, sending thanks to the benevolent soul who’d delivered him to this bed without a scratch and left him fully dressed. Jo must have driven him home. Or Owen Plank. He’d sidled up to Owen and inquired after his dad’s health, saying what a shame Ross lived all the way over in Sierra Vista, far from his great grandkids and his home for over sixty years. Going into a nursing home! Now, that would take some money. The old man ought to consider selling his two sections.

  “Admit it, Owen,” he’d said. “Pack rats have been the only inhabitants of the house and barn for twelve years. Even if Ross eventually leaves you the land, wouldn’t you rather have the money now? Don’t you want to provide your Dad with the best care? Improve your own house in town? Renovating will take twice the work and double the cash if you wait until the old man dies. Man, it would be easy to sell a beautiful piece of property like that. As a matter of fact, a guy in Mesa, Arizona, has already expressed interest. For a small commission, I’ll handle the sale.”

  He’d said, “Owen, you don’t need a small ranch. You’re a townie with a regular job. How long has Saul Gann’s Construction kept you on as surveyor? Thirty-one years! Don’t you get enough of the outdoors traipsing all over the county peeking through that transit-level? How old are you now? Fifty-nine! I hear your grandkids are pretty smart. Don’t you want to send them to college? Maybe out of state? Time’s running out on your opportunity to do all the things you dreamed of doing with your own life. Buy an RV, a flat-screen TV. Book that cruise to Alaska. Take Rita to Vegas.”

  Fortunately, he’d been drunk enough or had sense enough to back off when Owen said, “Walker, I’m going to stuff your head in the toilet bowl and drown you if you don’t shut up.”

  He stumbled into the bathroom and threw cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth, ignoring his old toothbrush in the holder next to the matching soap dish. Mint toothpaste made him sneeze. A shot of whiskey was what he needed. In the dining room, he peeked through the china cabinet and opened the buffet, but with Lee Ann in charge, there wasn’t a drop in the house. He latched the cabinet doors and walked into the living room, approaching Mother from the side.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said.

  Her head turned a fraction, but not her eyes. The slightest crease crinkled her left temple.

  “Cardboard,” she said.

  “Now, I know you said, ‘cardboard,’ but I think you mean, ‘good morning, son, coffee’s in the kitchen,’ so I’ll help myself to a cup. I think you want me to have a full breakfast, but my gut’s in no shape to handle anything like that. Is Grace coming today, or does she still go to church regular? I imagine she and Lee Ann got a special deal with God for reserved seats. No need to answer—as a matter of fact, you don’t need to do anything but sit there and look as pretty as the girl you were when you married Dad. Course, I don’t remember that, but I’ve seen pictures. When you took me to school the first day of first grade, I was burstin’ proud of my mother. I even remember the skirt you wore, tiered, like something an Indian woman would wear, and the pink blouse. Grady’s mom was perky and Jessie’s mom was sharp, but you we
re downright pretty. That’s the only word to describe how you looked. And I see you that way today.” He kissed her forehead.

  Returning with a cup of black coffee, he scooted the ottoman and sat at her feet.

  “This stuff tastes like hydraulic fluid,” he said, making a face. “Lee Ann must have made it. Or Dee. When was it brewed? Last week? I swear we had better joe in the can. I’ll tell you all about it one day, but this morning, or is it afternoon, I’ve got to locate my truck.”

  He got up and dumped the coffee in the sink.

  “Mother, blink twice if you remember Owen bringing me home. Okay, blink twice if you heard Jo’s voice.” He bent over, peering at her face. “Well, what about waving your hand… that’s okay, darlin’. You were probably asleep, lost in never-never land, dreaming of the days when the house smelled of fresh bread right out of the oven. You bet I remember when you used to bake. Everything you made came out golden brown, rose to the perfect shape and tasted better than the fanciest pastries from a French bakery. Not that I ever been to France, but I can’t imagine anybody topping your cinnamon rolls or chocolate cake. And pies! I know you taught Lee Ann, but she doesn’t have the magic. Never did.”

  He crept behind the barn to the pigpen and jumped into view, ran up to Dee and hugged his shoulder, grabbed Scott with his free hand.

  “Mornin’, boys.”

  Dee stepped back.

  “It’s time you quit calling us ‘boys’, like we’re one unit,” he said, setting his bucket down. Scott turned off the hose.

  Walker cocked his head to the side, ran his eyes over each one, top to bottom. They were nineteen and twenty now, out of high school. Scott older and smarter, Dee taller and tougher. Scott lean, wearing glasses, a tee shirt, and baseball cap; Dee broad, in a denim shirt and weathered Milano cowboy hat.

  “Well, okay. I can see you aren’t boys anymore, but full-grown men with an exciting new enterprise.”

  “This is just something for now,” Scott said. “I’m off to college in January.”

  Dee said, “I’m staying. School’s not the only place to prove you’re smart.” He nodded at Scott. “He’s promised to come back for butchering at fall break, perfumed in formaldehyde from dissecting frogs.”

  “Better ’n cow shit,” Scott said.

  “I admire you boys. Oops. Excuse me! I admire you, Scott and Dee. Pigs are a whole other trip. Myself, I’d rather travel with cows. But, a good pork chop is hard to beat.” He leaned back and stuck out his stomach, drawing circles on it with his palm. “I can just about taste that chubby one on the end.” He picked up the bucket and dumped the feed over the fence. “Let’s finish up and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Not me,” Scott said. “I’m helping Mom clean out the flower bed this afternoon.”

  “I’m your man,” Dee said.

  “Good. We’ll use your truck. Mine’s at the bar.”

  “Always an angle,” Dee said.

  His pickup was right where he’d left it, key in the ignition. They drank a beer. Dee said as long as he was in town he might as well stop by Ginny’s.

  “Talk about an angle,” Walker said.

  He drank a couple more. Art grumbled about Sundays being dead. Hell, Sundays were always dead. Even drunks observed the Lord’s Day, staying home to avoid Bible thumpers recognizing their vehicles parked outside the wrong places.

  Driving back, he turned at the Alibi Creek Store and waved at the old geezers blistering their asses on rickety benches, whizzing by too fast to notice that they didn’t raise an eyebrow, stop mid-sentence, or wave back.

  The sign used to read “Plank’s Plot.” Now it looked something like “P n ’s ot.” Walker mouthed the words and bumped down the dirt road, turned north along the creek, crossed over to where the land leveled out, and followed fresh tire ruts between two round hills. On the backside of the south rise, a white trailer snuggled up to Ross Plank’s long abandoned ranch house. The Escondido Co-op would have hooked up her electric and some poor slob, trying to keep his eyes off her tits, had probably run a line to Ross’s well and connected a pipe to the septic tank.

  Some kind of insect seemed to be crawling inside his stomach, causing an itch he couldn’t scratch. A red light spun like a strobe around his brain, flashing warning…warning… She’d screwed up his life more than once, or they’d screwed up each other’s, and here she was squatting on property he intended to sell.

  He didn’t know what she drove now, but no vehicle poked its nose from behind any building, tree, or bush. Must be a couple of cats hiding out somewhere, no dogs. He walked around the trailer, tried the door, and stepped inside. The same ratty brown throw she’d knitted twenty years ago lay in a heap at the end of a beige couch. Christ, Danielle, throw the damn throw out. Though winter hadn’t announced its arrival, she’d be pulling the blankie over her ever-cold feet, stuffing her icy fingers between her thighs. On the fridge, cupcake magnets held pictures of their two daughters and their kids and he peered at each face, strangers to him now. That boy of Laurie’s looked the spitting image of him when he was a toddler. My, my. He and Danielle, grandma and grandpa. Married at eighteen. Couldn’t wait until they had sense, thought the party would never end. Two kids by the time they were twenty-one. Hands tucked inside his armpits, he bent forward. No men in the pictures.

  She still drank Corona, still kept the opener on top of the fridge.

  The trailer was a relic, built in the sixties, bedroom door missing, leaky bathroom faucet, peeling paint throughout, floor like a trampoline. Come November, she’d sure as hell need that ratty blanket against cold wind leaking through quarter-inch cracks around the windows. A longhaired black cat stared at him from the double bed, the covers drawn up haphazardly, pillows bunched together.

  “Meow,” Walker said.

  The top dresser drawer was open, some underwear and socks bunched together. This was shelter to a person without possessions, a person getting by, a person come home because every other option had been exhausted. He wished he could muster up some pity.

  A car door slammed and he walked down the hall to meet whoever it was climbing the steps.

  “I should have known,” she said, dropping a bag of cat food by the door.

  He sucked in a deep breath. She was even better looking than the woman who’d spit at his feet, taken each of the girls by the hand, revved the engine of her dinky, yellow Nissan and taken off fifteen years ago.

  Familiar, yet strange. Husky voice. Tall body shedding her purse, flinging her jacket on the couch. Graceful, though. He hadn’t remembered that, or maybe she hadn’t yet developed grace at twenty-seven. Her touch had always been light, a caress. When working animals and doing chores, the palms and backs of her hands had stayed soft, her slender fingers tipped with manicured nails. She’d been one to linger in the tub, pamper her body with lotions and scented soaps, color her fine hair platinum blond. Ranch women seldom bothered with cosmetics. Danielle outfitted the bathroom with a magnifying mirror rimmed with little lights. Tweezers, eyelash curler, liner, mascara, rouge, and lipstick littered the counter around the sink. Colorful ribbons, earrings, and necklaces dangled from hooks. Barrettes and rings filled the medicine cabinet. When she left, the bathroom was what changed most, swept clean of feminine indulgence.

  Maybe it had been worth it, maybe all that plucking, dabbing, and soaking had preserved her youth.

  “You look good,” he said.

  “You don’t.”

  He winked.

  “Still got the charm, though.”

  “Depends on your definition of charm. I see you’ve helped yourself to my fridge.”

  “Just one.”

  “I can’t wait to hear what you’re doing here.”

  He was about to say, “I was thinking of asking you the same question,” when it hit him. He smacked his hand against his forehead. She was letting Owen Plank plunk her in exchange for a place to stay.

  “Let’s catch up,” he said. “Tell me what you been doin
g all these years, give me details about the girls, what the grandkids are named, their ages.”

  “It’s a little late to be caring,” she said.

  “People change,” he said. “Where I been the last two years, a man does a lot of thinking.”

  “Walker, you’re a liar. I don’t believe a word you say.”

  “Well, you might be right. But then again, you might be wrong. I won’t say I missed you all this time, but I sure as hell ain’t lyin’ when I say I’m glad to see you right now.” He hung his head and shuffled his feet.

  “Don’t act pathetic.”

  She handed him another beer and he followed her outside. No cattle had grazed this land for twelve years and the bleached grass arched high. Scrub oak, brush, and piñon circled the base of the hill, like a fringe of hair on a bald man. The place seemed to whisper, its tranquility a secret only they shared. Halfway to the old barn they each grabbed an end of a toppled picnic bench, set it upright, and sat with their backs to the sun.

  “We did have some good times,” she said. “Long ago.”

  “Look here,” he said. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “You were such an asshole, though.”

  “I’d make a lot of folks happy if I changed my name to Asshole Walker.”

  “You should. From what I hear, most call you that, anyway.”

  “Now, listen. If you cooperate with my plans for this place, you’ll be sitting pretty for a long time.” He rested both elbows on his knees and glanced at her sideways, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

  “You probably can’t.” She threw him that look, the one that said she was ready to jump on an unbroken horse blindfolded and risk the consequences for the thrill of the ride. “Unless there’s a hell of a lot of money to be had.”