1990, thirty-one years old
Albuquerque was hot but at least it was a city, unlike the town we left in Arizona. A motel bed called to my aching body, but it would have to wait. On the ride there, I stewed over Juana and the vision and Trevor’s anger. After I hung up with Trevor, I called Lisa to tell her I wasn’t going to be home by Sunday before calling David at home. He was, not surprisingly, pissed. Thankfully, Clay and Smith managed to get the Brown son’s bail lowered, but that did little to appease David. There was really nothing David could do though, and he knew it. I was a partner, and I got more leeway than low-levels at the firm.
I was more worried about my experience with Juana. Had it been a dream? If so, what did it mean? I hadn’t done well interpreting the meaning of symbols in texts in literature class. I didn’t imagine I would be able to figure out the psychedelic dream I’d had the night before.
Then there was Trevor. We’d been dating for two years, but about eight months ago, he’d moved in, with the hope that it would make us closer. I had been fine living separately, but Trevor was not. He wanted us to be emotionally and physically closer because I wasn’t giving him enough intimacy when we lived separately. He’d even said that I treated him like a “booty call boyfriend,” which meant I was faithful to him but only wanted him around when it fit my needs. I hadn’t wanted to break up, so I invited him to move in. Maybe that hadn’t been a good idea. The only reason I felt bad about our last conversation was because I knew Trevor was a good guy with good intentions. I wasn’t used to people worrying about me and I wasn’t sure how to come to terms with that.
Jackson and I pulled up to Good Café and parked. It was the kind of place where two Harleys, a drug-dealing biker, and, well, me wouldn’t fit in. The patrons were the creamy types with polo shirts and button-ups, cowboys that didn’t work on a ranch, and old white ladies with soft blue hair freshly permed by the salon.
I hopped off the bike and stretched my arms behind me, my left hand pulling on my throttle hand, which burned from strained muscles. Jackson got off his bike and grabbed a cigarette from his pocket immediately. I had once smoked, but I stopped ten years ago. Seeing the cigarette between Jackson’s lips reminded me that his teeth would soon yellow before rotting.
I wanted to get to the motel as soon as possible, so I headed straight in, not bothering to wait while Jackson lit his cigarette. I looked around hoping I could pick out whoever it was Dodge wanted me to meet..
“That’s him.” Jackson tapped my shoulder and pointed to my right. His touch burned through my shirt, past my skin, and left a mark on my bone. I grimaced thinking how I’d once liked him touching me. He blew out the smoke near my face and I made a sound of disgust before quickly walking to a white man who sat in a booth.
He wore a chunky silver watch with turquoise stones and a bolo tie with a black leather string that circled around the collar of a white short-sleeved button-up shirt. His fingers bore silver rings inlaid with red and turquoise stones. A silver pendant of a hawk held the tie together at his chest. The turquoise accents on its silver wings glittered in the light as they flapped back and forth.
I walked toward the man. When he finally caught sight of us, he frowned and looked sideways at those sitting near him. He wasn’t the only one. The other patrons stared at me with my boyish haircut, but most eyes went to Jackson. He looked greasy, wore leather, and flew his colors; all things that signaled trouble.
I sat opposite the man, on the edge of the booth. Jackson nodded his head for me to move over, but I pretended like I didn’t notice. He muttered something I couldn’t hear and spun to grab a chair from a nearby table.
The man stopped him midturn by saying, “You’re not staying.”
Jackson paused. “Mr. Sand, I’m Jackson, I’m supposed to—”
The man interrupted him with a wave of his hand. He leaned slightly toward Jackson so that he wouldn’t have to talk too loudly.
“I said you’re not staying. Go wait outside.”
The words weren’t even directed at me, and I felt the sting of them. I knew Jackson did, too. No matter how nonchalant he played it, Jackson wanted to reign over Dodge’s route. He’d been vying for a route of his own since he was a kid, something that would make him a “real” Lawless member. Not interacting with the client during their first meeting wasn’t a good sign.
Jackson looked at me, but I pretended once again not to notice. He shook his head and muttered curses under his breath as he walked out the door. I smirked and looked at the man in front of me. He didn’t seem as amused as I was because a scowl remained on his face.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello,” he replied very formally.
Time stretched uncomfortably. I had to say something. But what? The hawk’s wings on Mr. Sand’s bolo tie fluttered again and made me think of something I’d been wondering since I’d walked in. “What’s with all the Indian jewelry?”
The man’s brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that?”
I shrugged. “Just a question.”
A waitress appeared with two glasses of water and set them down. He waved her off. It was the kind of gesture that said they knew him well here.
Mr. Sand hmphed and said, “My mother was part of the Santa Ana Pueblo.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the home of the Tamaya people.”
“So, like a reservation?”
He grimaced. “The Pueblo people call them pueblos.”
I took a sip from the water. “You’re like half Native American then?”
Mr. Sand narrowed his eyes. “You make it sound like you don’t believe me.”
“I—I—Uh . . .” His hair was light, his eyes green, his skin as pale as the rest of the folks in the diner. “I just assumed . . .”
His eyebrows narrowed. “Dodge said you were a lawyer.”
I sat up a little straighter. “I am.”
“Ain’t lawyers supposed to be smart? I got to be dark-skinned, shirtless with a tomahawk in my hand, to be Indian to you?” He said “Indian” like he despised the word.
My face turned hot, and it was hard to swallow. He was right. Skin tone wasn’t a clear-cut indication of ethnicity or race. I was living proof of that. Most people didn’t realize I was half white. I shifted uncomfortably in the booth. Not to mention, I’d used the term “Indian” instead of “Native American” or more specifically “Tamayan.” Mr. Sand had made it clear what he thought about that. I fucked up. Had a day with the Lawless brought out those stereotypical thoughts I’d fought so hard to get rid of? Shit. I had to make this right.
I took a deep breath. “I apologize.” I paused. “Of all people, I should know better. I’m sorry.”
“You should,” Mr. Sand huffed.
“Again, I’m sorry.”
He studied my face for a few moments, then sighed. “It’s fine. I’ve heard worse.” I was sure he had, but even so I was still mortified by my careless statement.
Mr. Sand took a drink and looked at me expectantly. I took a drink of water and looked around, then back at him. The moments ticked off.
“So . . .” I said.
“So, what?”
“What am I doing here? Do you have something to tell me or . . . ?”
He fumbled with his watch. “Why would I have anything to tell you?”
I leaned back in the booth. “I don’t know. They said Dodge wanted me to meet you.”
“And you think I know why? That boss of his called me a few days ago to tell me Dodge is dead, and I have to meet you if I want to maintain my deal.”
“That was it?”
“Yes.”
I took another drink of water. Mr. Sand did, too. The weird silence crept in again.
“I didn’t even like Dodge,” Mr. Sand blurted out.
I chuckled. “Who did?”
Mr. Sand tried not to smirk and continued, “It was hell trying to work with him those first few years. When he found out about Carlos—”
“Carlos?”
“My boyfriend,” he replied.
Shit. I could guess where this was going. Dodge was homophobic. Big time.
“What did Dodge do?”
Mr. Sand placed his hands around his water glass. “Carlos is a cook here. We were talking on the side of the building one day when Dodge arrived. Carlos had his hand on my arm for two seconds too long and Dodge saw it and blew up on me.”
He took a quick drink of water. “Made a huge scene. Called me a fag in front of everyone, and other unmentionable words.”
“Sounds like Dodge.” I shook my head.
“I guess you would know. Everyone knows about Carlos and me, but as long as we don’t show affection in public, the people here are polite.”
Next to us sat a man and woman in their seventies. The woman chewed her eggs slowly and looked past her husband’s head.
“What happened after that?”
“The next time we were supposed to meet, he was a few days late. Pissed off my customers.”
For a moment, I had forgotten Mr. Sand dealt drugs.
“Then when we did meet, he was always quick to hurry away and made sure to get in some demeaning word each time.”
“He’s such a dick,” I said.
“Was.” Mr. Sand smiled. I did, too.
I looked at my glass. “So, what? You kept working with him?”
He nodded. “Too much trouble to find someone else, and we had a good deal.”
“But he called you all that shit. Didn’t you get tired of it?”
Mr. Sand’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. “Of course, I did. But most suppliers think the same way, some are even worse. If it wasn’t Dodge, it would have been another small-minded macho asshole.”
I didn’t doubt it, but I grimaced at the thought of Mr. Sand being harassed for who he loved.
“I chose my career, and I knew what I was getting into. Dodge thought I’d take it, but I didn’t. There were a few times we almost got to blows.”
“Oh shit,” I muttered.
“I’ve been boxing since I was five, and I’m good with a knife. There isn’t much that can scare me. Least of all Dodge,” he said coldly.
Shit. Dodge was scrappy, but he wasn’t much of a fighter. Mr. Sand had the kind of steeliness that Billy had. I had a feeling that Dodge wouldn’t have stood a chance against Mr. Sand.
Mr. Sand leaned back in the booth. “But things changed. A few years ago, he stopped.”
“What do you mean he stopped?” I asked.
He picked up his glass like he was going to take a drink and paused. “I didn’t notice it at first. It started out slowly, until one day, I realized he had stopped calling me names. Then the next few times, he stayed around a bit longer. Eventually, we were having meals together.”
Mr. Sand took a quick drink. “Then one day he asked how Carlos and I met, and I nearly fell out of this booth.”
I shook my head. “Dodge would never. No way.”
Mr. Sand chuckled. “Never figured it out myself. I’m not one to ask too many questions, so I took it in stride.”
Homophobic Dodge becoming friends with a man who’s gay? Couldn’t be.
“Was he high?”
He smiled. “Couldn’t tell. He was still kind of a jackass.”
I smirked. Of course, he was.
“So how did you get caught up with Dodge? All this?” I twirled my left hand and lifted my eyebrows.
“You mean, why do I do what I do?”
“Yeah. I don’t remember Dodge meeting with people like you back in the day.” Mr. Sand didn’t take shit, but he wasn’t particularly sketchy or scary. If I saw him on the street, I’d think he was a straitlaced, upstanding citizen of society. Hadn’t I said something similar about Juana?
Mr. Sand shook his head and smiled. “There you go again with your assumptions.”
“Wha—” I raised my hands, confused.
“There is good money in selling pot, and I make my own hours,” he said. “Plus, I don’t have to worry about anyone firing me because I’m dating Carlos.”
He was right, but selling drugs seemed like a risky job nonetheless if you asked me. I merely responded with “true” before taking a drink.
Mr. Sand watched me closely.
“What?” I asked.
“He talked about you a lot.”
I looked down at my water.
“It started out slow with stories about you as a kid. He’d say, ‘My Raqi once did this or that’ and for the longest time I thought you were a boy.”
My stomach turned at the thought of Dodge telling stories about me.
“Nope, definitely not a boy,” I said sarcastically.
Mr. Sand looked thoughtful. “When you walked in here, I did wonder . . . Maybe Dodge warmed up to me because you—” He raised his eyebrows.
I shook my head. “No, I’m not—”
“It would make sense.”
“Trust me. I’m straight.”
Mr. Sand held his hands up. “Okay, okay.” He chuckled. “I’m just saying, the only women round here with hair that short—”
“A hairstyle doesn’t make you a lesbian any more than wearing turquoise jewelry makes you Native American.”
“Touché.” Mr. Sand laughed.
Nothing about Dodge’s sudden change of heart with Mr. Sand made sense. For that matter, nothing about this entire Grieving Ride had made sense. What had happened to make Dodge less of an ass?
Mr. Sand interrupted my thoughts. “He talked a lot about you.”
“You said that already.”
“Want to know what he said?”
I looked away and shrugged.
“It was mostly about how well you knew bikes. The way you were better than boys at everything. He said you could outride them all. And you were smart.”
My lips twitched, trying not to smile.
“He was a little torn about you being a lawyer. A little proud and a little disappointed. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind.”
Mr. Sand leaned forward, so that the ends of his bolo tie laid on the table. The hawk pendant flapped its wings harder.
“He even brought a newspaper clipping about some case you’d won for one of his friends. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”
I scoffed. “Was it the one about Ray slicing some guy’s throat or Hammond kicking some guy into a wheelchair?” As I said it, my mouth became hot, which was usually a precursor to vomiting. It took two deep breaths through my nose to make the feeling disappear.
Mr. Sand paled. “No, another case, I think.”
I shook my head. “Who’s proud of someone who gets guilty men off? Twisted son of a bitch.”
Mr. Sand didn’t seem to know how to respond.
“This is why—” Acidic vomit shot up my throat, but I swallowed it down quickly.
“This is why,” I began again, “I didn’t speak to him for thirteen years.”
Mr. Sand tilted his head. “Thirteen years? Really?”
I nodded.
“The way he talked about you, I would have thought y’all had Sunday lunch every week.”
I couldn’t do this anymore. I stood up quickly, startling Mr. Sand.
“I, uh, got to go,” I said.
“What—Okay, well—” He didn’t seem to know where to place his hands, and even moved to stand up, then sat down.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. I paused, unsure of whether to shake his hand or not, so I settled on nodding once and walked to the front doors. I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Sand pinched his eyebrows together as he raised his glass to his mouth, unaware that it was empty.