Case File: Bright Sun (Case Files of Newport Investigations) Page 7

  As I walked across the room I counted 20 square tables about three foot square with four chrome-framed chairs surrounding each table. The area to the right contained the jukebox and a small raised stage about eight by eight feet in size. The area in front of the stage had a small dance floor made of thin wood parquet squares. I stepped up to the bar and sat on one of the stools to the left of the old man working on the beer. Nothing happened. I looked over at the old man drinking his beer and nodded. He nodded back and then looked back at his beer. After what seemed like an eternity the man behind the bar tipped his stool back onto four feet and stood up, folding his newspaper. He looked at me and said, "Hi bud, what'll it be?"

  "Got any Corona?" I said.

  "Sure. Ain't got no lime to put in it though. Connie ain't got to the store and we're out," he said. He raised the lid on an old fashion beer cooler under the bar and pulled a bottle of Corona out of the chilled water. He opened the bottle and sat it in front of me.

  "Need a glass?" he asked.

  "No thanks," I said.

  I laid a five dollar bill on the bar in front of me and he picked it up turned to the cash register behind him. He turned back a few seconds later and laid three dollars and two quarters in front of me.

  "You ain't from around here, are ya?" he asked.

  "No, I'm not,” I said, “what gave me away?"

  "I know everyone from around here and you ain't one of them," he said smiling.

  "Actually, John at the Motel in town said you might have a room or cottage for rent."

  I picked up the bottle of Corona and took a long drink. The temperature of the beer was just above freezing and stung all the way down, just the way I like it.

  "How long you goanna stay?" he asked.

  "Could be a couple of weeks, could be a couple of months. I work in California and the job is shut down because the building was condemned. Last earthquake put some big cracks in the floor and the walls and the city is afraid that the roof is going to fall in on everyone. I go back to work when the building is finished," I said, putting a good touch on an improvised lie that rolled off of my tongue like water.

  "Well, we have some rooms on the side. All of them have baths and small kitchenettes and a bedroom," he said, leaning over the bar and resting on his forearms.

  "What's the rent?" I asked.

  "50 dollars a week including clean sheets twice a week and we'll clean," he told me.

  "Done," I said.

  I pulled some money out of my pocket and sorted $200 dollars out of the pack of bills and laid it on the bar. "Let me pay for a month to start," I said.

  I picked up my beer and took another drink. The temperature had risen a few degrees and the sting from the cold only lasted about half way down. He picked the money up and turned around to the cash register again. A minute later he turned back to me and laid a receipt down in front of me. It listed the amount and said that a room was mine for a month and had the date I needed to pay again if my visit lasted longer than that.

  "My name's Ray," he said, sticking his hand across the bar to me.

  "Ed," I said, taking his hand and shaking it.

  The thing I discovered about men in Arizona is they know how to shake hands. Men in California come in about three styles. Some have a handshake that makes you feel dirty because it feels like you have a piece of wet tissue in your hand. The second group shakes hands like a salesman. They try to force your hand palm up by extending their hand palm down which is a definite dominance gesture. The last group tries to crush your hand while they try to prove their manhood. Personally, I prefer shaking hands with women in California to most of the men. Men in Arizona for the most part are not into playing games. They either like you or not, no games.

  "Connie," Ray yelled, looking to his right.

  The wall at the far end of the room to my left had a pass-through in the middle and a closed door next to it. A head stuck itself through the pass-through.

  "Whadya need sugar?" A plump face topped with a short blond perm asked.

  "We got a renter. Get one of the keys and bring it out," Ray said to her then turned to face me. "Connie serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day."

  "What times does she make them?" I asked.

  "Whenever someone wants em," he said looking somewhat confused. "This ain't California." he said, suddenly smiling. I smiled back and knew that I had arrived.

  The room was larger than I would have imagined it to be. The door leading into the room opened on the left side of the front wall. The entry was into the small kitchenette, which contained a sink; small under counter refrigerator, and four-burner propane fired stovetop. A small Formica topped table with two mismatched vinyl chairs stood in front of the counter. Cabinets hung from the ceiling above the counter. The room was about 12 feet wide and 16 feet in length. The kitchenette gave way to a bed and sitting area with the bed on the right wall and a desk and wooden chair on the left. At the end of the room an open door was centered in the wall and a cast iron claw-footed bathtub was visible. The room was warm, dusty, and somewhat stuffy. I stood in one spot and looked around.

  "There's a swamp cooler on the roof that's controlled by this here switch," Connie said, indicating what looked like a light switch on the wall next to the door at the front of the room. “It isn't much but I think you'll find it comfortable," she said handing me the key to the room.

  It was getting on toward noon and my stomach was starting to grumble especially since all it had in it was a bottle of Corona.

  "When does lunch start?" I said to Connie, accepting the key she handed to me.

  "As soon as you can get back to the dining room," she said, smiling, "what would you like?"

  "About a half-pound burger with a big slice of onion, a side of fries and another bottle of Corona."

  "About 15 minutes, OK?" She asked turning and stepping through the door.

  "That's just about enough time for me to have another beer before lunch," I said, feeling good.

  -15-

  Lunch was wonderful. I ate at the bar with the old man to one side and Ray and Connie on the other side. Connie is a compulsive talker and a poor listener so I was able to get clued into the local gossip. By the time I finished lunch I had gone through three beers including the one I drank while Connie was cooking the burger which was almost, but not quite burned and had just the right amount of grease remaining on the meat. Meat cooked without grease remaining on it is mostly tasteless. A Mexican restaurant featuring no lard dishes opened once in Newport Beach. The refried beans were made without lard, as were the tortillas. Everything they served tasted like cardboard and they were out of business within two months. Animal fats are what give meat it’s flavor and Connie, like Jimmy, was excellent at leaving just the right amount of grease on the food.

  About 2:00 I excused myself and paid my bill. I wanted to move my gear from the Motel to my new place. But, my first job was to unload the Harley.

  "That's it for me," I said, standing up, "I have to get my bike off of the pickup and get the rest of my gear out of the Motel in town while I'm still somewhat sober."

  "Hell Ed," Ray said, putting the ever present bar towel down on the beer cooler. He walked around the end of the bar and headed for the front door and looked over his shoulder at me and said, "You’ll need some help, get on out here and I'll help you."

  I dropped the tailgate on the bed of the Ford and pulled the custom ramp out and fixed it in place. I then jumped up on the bed and unfastened the straps holding the rear end in place. Last to go were the two straps holding the handle bars and compressing the front shocks. I pushed the bike back until the rear wheel started down the ramp. Ray grabbed hold of the rear swing arm on the bike and the rear turn signal stalk.

  "I've got it Ed," Ray said, "push it on back and I'll guide it down the ramp."

  I pushed the bike back and held on tight because five hundred and seventy five pounds can get real heavy real fast. I kept pushing the bike back and took a deep
breath once the front wheel started down the ramp. Ray managed to keep it from dragging me too fast down the ramp. Without him I probably would have wound up being pulled on top of the Harley as it fell off the side of the ramp. I hoped I didn't have to off load the bike by myself anytime soon. I pushed the bike over in front of my room and slid the ramp back into the bed of the Ford and closed the tailgate.

  "Thanks Ray," I said, holding my hand out.

  "Don't mention it Ed," he said shaking my hand, "Hell that made me thirsty. I think I'll have a beer. See you later on son."

  Ray turned and went back inside the road house. I got into the cab of the pickup and started the engine.

  -16-

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Motel and stopped in front of my room. I ran up the stairs and opened the door. My stuff was still mostly in the tote bags and the only thing I had to get together was yesterday's dirty clothing and my toilet articles, a fancy term for toothbrush, razor, floss, and deodorant. I carried the gear bags down the stairs and tossed them into the cab of the truck.

  I drove the truck around the Motel and stopped in front of the office. I got out and entered the small reception area. Raj was standing behind the counter. I walked up to the counter and stuck my hand out.

  "I trust you found the accommodations at Roadhouse 66 quite satisfactory?" Raj said, sounding like an English gentleman and shaking my hand.

  "Yes, they are quite satisfactory," I said to him, "Ray and Connie are nice people. Thank you for introducing me."

  "I will prepare your bill," he said, keying something into the computer terminal on the counter. "I may see you at the Sunday swap meet at the Roadhouse this week-end." Raj said, handing me the statement. "Shall I put this on your card?"

  "Please," I said, "There's a swap meet at the Roadhouse?"

  "Oh yes, every Sunday if there is no rain. Of course, around here it only rains in the late spring or early summer during the monsoon season."

  Raj tore another slip off of the computer printer, folded it, and then slid it across the counter to me.

  "Connie's Sunday breakfast is almost as famous in Kingman as is lunch at Big Buc's barbecue."

  "Sounds like I'm going to have to try both."

  I took the folded slip and folded it once again and stuck it in my pants pocket. Raj offered his hand.

  "Once again, it has been a pleasure having you stay at our establishment. We will see you this week-end," he said with the ever-present smile.

  -17-

  I returned to the Roadhouse a little after 3:30 in the afternoon. My room was still stuffy and the television only received three channels all UHF. All were rebroadcast from the top of the Hualapai Mountains just to the west and south of Kingman. One of the channels was from Las Vegas, one from Flagstaff, and the 3rd from Needles California.,

  I decided to take a ride on the motorcycle up old Highway 66 and see what the country looked like. The tank was about a third full, which meant I had about a gallon and a half of gas, not a whole lot. The closest gas station was four miles north on route 66 on the Hualapai reservation. Ray told me not to piss off the old man running the station because he would refuse to sell gas to anyone whom he did not like, and it was easy to get on his bad side.

  The temperature was hovering around 80 degrees so I decided not to wear my bike jacket but I did dig my new helmet out of my equipment bag. Jimmy had bought me a new helmet, white in color, with a custom air brushed painting of a beaded headband and feathers on both sides. I was reluctant to wear it at first because it looked more like a work of art than a motorcycle helmet but Jimmy said as long as the artist was alive I could get another.

  I kicked the Harley to life and pulled away from the Roadhouse. I actually prefer European twins or Japanese four cylinder bikes. The Harley is a twin cylinder but both cylinders fire on the same revolution. Only one piston rod on the Harley actually connects to the crankshaft. One piston rod acts as the master rod and the 2nd rod attaches to the first. This creates an imbalance in the engine because the 2nd cylinder firing about 13 degrees behind the 1st only adds to the condition. The upside of this arrangement is that the engine has a great deal of torque. Most large single cylinder motocross bikes have more torque than a twin of the same engine displacement. The engine displacement of the Harley Sportster is about 883 CCs and the torque produced is about the same as if it were a single cylinder instead of a twin.

  The bike also vibrates a lot and anyone who can ride a thousand miles in ten hours on a Harley either has a dead ass or an aftermarket seat and rubber motor mounts.

  I settled the bike at about forty miles per hour, snapped on the throttle lock and leaned back. Now I could enjoy the country scenery. About three miles up the road I passed a sign notifying me I had entered reservation land. A few mobile homes were scattered about on the west side of the road and some cattle grazing on the east side. After climbing a gentle rise I topped out and started down the other side. I spotted the gas station about a half-mile ahead on the left or west side of the road. As I got closer I could see a faded Texaco sign hanging from a pole in front of the station.

  I unsnapped the throttle lock then clicked down a gear on the bike. The one thing Harley has going for it is its throaty sound. No other bike in the world sounds like a Harley. Traffic in either direction was nonexistent so I glided over to the left side of the road for the last hundred yards before pulling onto the packed dirt and gravel driveway of the gas station. I parked the Harley next to one of two pumps. I glanced at the pumps and saw that there was "Hi-Test" and "Regular", no three pumps with a mid-range fuel being sold here.

  An old man dressed in faded jeans and scuffed tan lace-up work boots sat on one of two armed wooden chairs in front of the gas station office shack. I thought of it as a shack because it looked like a good 3.2 earthquake would have probably knocked it over. An old dog of questionable heritage lay asleep in the doorway. The old man wore suspenders and a red and black plaid shirt. His hair was iron gray and pulled together in braids hanging on either side of his head. He had a broad face and a large hawk bill shaped nose that appeared quite prominent on his face. The only thing he was missing was a hat. Almost all of the men I saw in Kingman wore hats. Most wore baseball caps but a large number wore cowboy hats. I walked over to the empty chair and sat down. I pulled off my sunglasses and helmet. The old man was watching me while I did this. I hooked the sunglasses on the neck of my shirt and put the helmet down on the ground next to the chair I sat on. The old man stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a wooden kitchen match. I waited while he puffed life into the tobacco and threw the match away.

  "Good afternoon Uncle," I said, nodding my head, "how are your bones doing today?"

  His eyes looked over at me first then his head slowly turned to match them. That can be a scary gesture, which I believe is coded into the genes of predators and prey. Eye movement does not give position away, physical movement does. The average city person tends to move their eyes and head at the same time. Street warriors, overly aggressive personalities, and dominant "A" types tend to move their eyes first. Not one person in a thousand would have looked at that old man and thought him dangerous but they would be mistaken.

  We maintained eye contact for what seemed like a long time then he looked straight ahead again and exhaled a puff of smoke. The silence went on for what seemed to be another minute or so before he spoke.

  "My bones are just fine, how are yours?" he asked. The ice was broken and he was all right with speaking with me.

  "Is there gas for sale today?" I asked, not trying to establish eye contact again. This also is coded into predators. Once a relationship is established and the dominance issue is settled, the need for eye contact is gone.

  "That is what I sell, gas. If there was no gas I would not be here sitting in the heat and we would not be talking." I could tell that he was finished speaking so I got up and walked over to the pump marked "Hi-Test". I had not seen a mechanical pump with a crank on the side to
reset the last transaction since I was in my teens. I grabbed the small crank and turned it and watched the amount of the last sale rotate around to all zeros. I removed the cap on the Harley and rested the nozzle in the tank opening. I turned back to the pump and saw a lever on the side and guessed I had to rotate it over the opening that had contained the pump nozzle. I twisted the lever and once it clicked into place the pump came alive and the hose quivered against the nozzle. I picked up the nozzle handle and squeezed it, allowing a thin stream of gasoline to start flowing into the tank of the Harley. I didn't have to worry about overflowing the tank because the pump only delivered about two gallons a minute.