At four in the morning, Troy hobbled past the guard through the receiving doors of Saint Vincent’s Hospital. He had a crutch, a bottle of painkillers, his wallet, Edwin Ryan’s checkbook, a wad of money, and his comatose roommate’s clothes. Mobility was painful but in a few minutes, he reached the center of town. The Plaza looked like a discarded stage set, empty, gray, but fancifully picturesque. No one was out or about. A single cab sat outside the La Fonda Hotel. Troy knocked at the window and offered the driver two hundred dollars to drive him south.
For the first fifteen miles, he lay on the taxi’s backseat. Every mile that distanced him from Santa Fe and the law was a fluke, an answered prayer. If Charlene’s head flared in the car window, he replaced it with a picture of Ruby Ryan. Ruby, he could hate, no problem. But Charlene tugged on him in a different way. She’d soon be missed, then found. Somebody bright might connect the dots, especially if Ruby was available to testify about Charlene’s cousin’s car. Ruby’s word could send him to prison for life.
The highway dipped into the Rio Grande valley where the city spread in all directions, west across the river and mesas and east to the Sandias, the mountains that at sunset glow as pink as watermelon, their namesake. Troy got out at The Antler on Central Avenue, an easy place to sit unnoticed. What he liked about The Antler was what everyone liked. It never changed. Year after year, even the waitresses were the same. Hitchhiking between Texas and California had taken him there on numerous occasions. Although The Antler boasted many amenities for travelers, especially truckers, its greatest attraction was the best pie between Amarillo and Flagstaff.
Troy chose a booth under a velvet painting of a 1960 red Impala convertible, his all-time favorite ride. He removed everything from his bulky wallet: business cards, fake IDs, glossy photos of Christie Brinkley’s kids, receipts.
Among the chits was the name and phone number of an Albuquerque resident, a young man he befriended in a dust storm near Bakersfield. For thirteen hours, they were stranded in a parking lot in the middle of Nowhere, California. The dust storm was fierce, zero visibility, freeway traffic stopped. Every car had paint damage and pockmarks on its glass. Once the ordeal of waiting was over, the man’s car wouldn’t start. Sand in the carburetor, Troy diagnosed, and fixed it. Dom made him promise if there was ever anything he could do, Troy would call.
“I hope this is good,” Dom coughed sleepily into the receiver.
“Dominic, it’s Edwin Ryan, remember me?” As soon as Troy lied, he felt a surge of warmth. White lies, his mother called them. Like stories, they vanished into air. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Edwin who?”
“I fixed your car outside Bakersfield last year.”
“You saved my bass-ackward, man! It was the biggest favor anyone ever did for me in my entire life! But your name wasn’t Edwin, was it?”
“Did you call me ‘Troy’?”
“Yeah,” Dom said.
“Some friends call me Edwin, others Troy, goose bird, asshole, et cetera,” he chuckled. “I answer to all of the above.”
“Hope you aren’t stranded in Bakersfield?”
“I’m in your neighborhood. But I had a bad accident. I busted my knee. I lost my Land Rover. I’m a little disoriented from pain and painkillers. I know it’s early but I could really use a hand if you’re not busy.”
“I’m there, man,” Dom said.
Troy suggested breakfast at The Antler.
After handshakes and hugs, Dom read the breakfast specials.
“I’m a vegan, man,” he said.
Troy had forgotten what that was.
“I don’t eat meat or cheese or milk or eggs. I don’t wear leather. It’s about man abusing and killing animals. I’m against that.”
“That’s good.” Troy smiled across the table. “Good to have strong beliefs. But if man doesn’t kill animals, he’d probably kill a whole lot more men.”
Dom’s eyebrows knit together in a unibrow. “If man doesn’t kill animals, he’d kill more men,” he repeated thoughtfully.
Despite the pain and fatigue, Troy’s blue eyes twinkled with charm. “I’m contemplating here what’s most important on the food chain. Man or pig?”
“About the same,” Dom declared.
“If I was you, I’d think again.”
Dom ate his fruit salad and English muffin while Troy devoured eggs, biscuits, bacon, and pancakes.
“That was pleasant,” Troy said. “You know, hunger is a terrible thing. They say a man is only nine meals away from murder.”
“A cannibal?”
“No, I mean your ordinary guy who’s hungry enough to kill anything. Hungriest I ever been was lost on a patrol in Iraq for two days. That was almost nine meals.”
They leaned back in the booth under the airbrushed Impala.
“Thank you, Mr. Ryan,” Dom said.
“I was lucky you were home. This was supposed to be my vacation,” Troy snorted. “Trying to get out of those goddamn Blood of Christ mountains, I had a freak accident with my shotgun. Bam! Had to wait three hours for an ambulance to find me. They fixed me up at the hospital and I hitched a taxi ride here.” He rubbed his bandaged knee. “Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch!”
“I bet it does.”
“I can’t hunt. I can’t hike. I guess the next best thing is a beautiful fishing spot where I can recuperate. My dilemma is having to decide what beautiful spot to pick. You ever have that problem?”
With two jobs and courses at the community college, Dom hadn’t relaxed in months.
“Where would you lie around?” Troy asked him.
Dom was flattered. His opinion rarely mattered about anything. “Hawaii, no brainer.”
“You got that right. I used to spend lots of time in Maui. You been to Maui? You can walk into the center of the volcano. But no way my knee is going on an airplane, even first class. I couldn’t make it from here to San Diego.”
“That’s cold, man,” Dom said.
“I’m not giving up on my vacation. I hear great things about Idaho. Fishing in Idaho sound good to you?”
“I went there once with my pop.”
“I believe you mentioned that in Bakersfield. You said it was the last time you and your dad … ? Before he … ?”
“Yeah, pop and me caught some real beauties,” Dom choked up. “After that was when they found the cancer.”
“Good memories left in Idaho,” Troy said.
“It isn’t far by plane,” Dom suggested.
“Car’s better. I can stop and stretch. I can lie down in the backseat.”
“I guess you don’t want to be cooped up.”
Troy regarded the young man’s carefully brushed hair, his clean shirt, his stonewashed jeans, his white leather sneakers.
“It would be unbearable,” Troy said. “That’s why I need a driver. You know a kid with a car who wants to take a vacation? All expenses paid?”
“I wish I could help,” Dom said with longing. “It feels like I almost won the lottery.”
“You ever hear the expression, carpus diem? It’s more than an expression, it’s a philosophy of life.” Troy stared into Dom’s trusting hazelnut eyes. “I turned chances down myself. But then, I decided to seize the day. That’s what carpus diem means in Roman.” He inserted quickly, “Maybe you can say a good friend in Idaho got hurt? And you have to go up there and nurse him for a week or so?”
Dom’s eyebrows drew together in a dark hairy line.
“I can see lying disturbs you. That shows you’re trustworthy. But I’m not asking you to lie. I wouldn’t do that.” Troy ticked off the perks. “I pay gas, meals, motels. There won’t be camping. Plus a cash bonus.” Troy’s final appeal. “Isn’t it almost as bad as killing a cow to refuse an old friend in time of need?”