MY DAD DOESN’T WANT ANYTHING to do with you,” Jo said. “He isn’t going to let you dump a trailer out at his place.”
“Well, I’ll park it behind your house then,” Walker said.
“No.”
“Just until I find a buyer.”
“N. O.”
“No” seemed to be the word of the day. Walt said no, even though he owned thirty-six square miles of useless range over-run with chamisa and tumbleweed. Conrad, chairman of the County Fair board, said no, even though they needed extra storage space for fold-up tables and signage. At the bar, Art said no, even though the garbage-strewn, vacant lot out back provided a home to nothing but a rusted ’64 Dodge.
“I don’t see what it would hurt,” Walker said. “Give me another Corona. I’ll have it sold in two days.”
“It’s a piece of shit,” Art said.
“Exactly. Goes right along with every other piece of shit in this town. I promise you, within two days someone will think they’ve lucked out on the bargain of a lifetime.”
“Trouble with bargains is, there’s always a reason. And whoever figures out the reason for this one will be coming after you. And where will you be? Here. I don’t want trouble.”
“Jeez, talk about putting a downspin on a venture. There’s nothin’ wrong with that trailer. Danielle’s been living in it for months. Toilet flushes. Thermostat kicks on. Water runs in the taps. A country palace, man!”
Art rested both hands on the bar and leaned forward.
N.O.
At the motel, he found Danielle turning a swivel chair to the right and left with her big toe, reading a fashion magazine.
“Listen, darlin’,” he said, pushing two twenties with two fingers across the counter. “Plans for the trailer haven’t quite solidified yet. I want you to be comfortable tonight, so book yourself a room.” She kept her head lowered and raised her eyes without closing the magazine. He got the message—a creep was ruining her day spewing a load of bullshit. He understood without a doubt that number 16 would be hers alone, no visitors, no guests, and no roommates.
“I’ll stay in the trailer,” he said.
What to do with the damned thing. Driving out Forest Road 47 in search of an out-of-the-way spot with easy access to stash it, clouds popped up over the mesa in puffy, puppy-like formations. Woof. Here comes an elephant. Galoomp. Galoomp. Man, don’t let it rain. There ain’t one thing in life guaranteed, but whoever directs the weather, let that sun break through for the next few days. Let it shine and shine and shine, elevate the spirits, make the world sparkle!
The road climbed and leveled out high above the valley. He got out to take a leak, wilderness around and below; in the distance the two round hills on Plank’s place and the parallel tree lines along the creek, their gold leaves beginning to fade from brilliant to bronze. He opened the glove box and took out the quitclaim deed and held it over his heart, ran his tongue over his lips and kissed it. Smack. Tomorrow evening Keith Lampert would arrive. The following morning they’d meet, come up here and sniff the air, bask in the silence, spot some wildlife, sigh with the splendor of the vista and descend to where the big, blazing cottonwood marked Ross Plank’s homestead, right there.