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                                             CHAPTER THREE

                                                   The Plunge

8:40 a.m.

The Paley Plunge shimmered under a desert breeze that funneled from the west through the main entrance of town. The water's silver sparkle reflected the nagging veil of rain clouds. Reggie, hands stuffed in his pockets, stood at the water's edge, gazing across the 200-acre lake, while trout snapped at the surface of the water and woke the day.

In his memory, the dog attack returned like a Sam Peckinpah movie–in slow motion.

He had discovered blood pouring from a puncture wound in his left forearm as he reached the road at its ascension from the Cady Mountains. Pressing it with his hand, he had followed the road up to the bluff and back to the motorhome hidden in the gulch. He drove the motorhome with its lights off to the highway, found the narrow dirt road through the Cady Mountains, and carefully headed to the eastern side of The Plunge in the dark. His crew still slept as he parked the lumbering vehicle rear-first between the trees and waited for light.

He watched the lake for two hours. That fat creep was making him wait. Probably can't tell time.

The motorhome door swung open. Out stepped his partner, I.Q. Sonneborn, yawning. Nerdy as Pee Wee Herman, but smarter than anybody Reggie had ever known. He never had a friend as smart as I.Q., probably never would again, so keeping him had become important. For a lot of reasons.

Wearing only red pajama bottoms, I.Q. squinted at the sky and fanned himself.

"Humidity's high. I predict precipitation. Where are we?"

"The Plunge."

He looked around the camp. "When did we move?"

"Last night."

"I slept like Dracula."

"And look like him."

I.Q. rolled his eyes. "Mayor's son meeting us here? What’s his name–Josh?"

"Yeah." Reggie nodded towards the motorhome. "She up yet?"

I.Q. snorted. Then he saw the bandage on the inside of Reggie's forearm. "What's that?"

"Nothin’."

He threw his hands in the air. "What happened?"

"Nothin’."

"Arms don't spring leaks all by themselves, Reg–what happened?"

"I took care of it, okay? Get dressed. Before the women swarm us."

"Funny guy."

"Cook us breakfast or something."

In the motorhome, I.Q. collected eggs, Jack cheese and thick bacon from the refrigerator. He greased the omelette pan with butter while Reggie sipped instant coffee at the fold-down table and watched out the window.

"Reg, when are we going to find out how big a burn we're doing?"

"You’ll know when I know."

There was a pause, then I.Q cleared his throat and said, "What’s the split?"

"You’ll know when I know–stop asking questions."

I.Q. broke eggs into the pan and when ahead asked, "What about the, uh, technical considerations?"

Reggie wondered if I.Q. had once again run miles ahead of him. He was supposed to lead this operation, but I.Q.'s brain never stopped thinking, calculating. Reggie liked having him around for this, but running miles behind someone who was supposed to look to you for leadership was embarrassing.

"What technical considerations? I told you to stop asking questions."

"Just silly things," he snorted, "like covering the smell. These chemicals are pungent. And I don’t want to be running into hardcore crews out there. How’re we defending our lab?"

"Defend it? Who's going to know?"

"Don't be naive, Reg–"

"What the hell did you do before? You said you knew all about this shit."

"I do," I.Q. assured him. "But nothing big. Biggest meth burn was three pounds. Home-kitchen lab with towels stuffed under the door so my brother's landlord downstairs wouldn't smell it. The last time it didn't work out. I went home, Greg got busted." He shook his head. "I told him not to go anywhere. Soon as he opened the door, the whole neighborhood thought Union Carbide moved in upstairs."

Reggie thought about it. He had trouble thinking about solutions. He didn't even know where the lab was going to be set up.

"I'll figure it out," Reggie said. And he would.

"I don't expect they want some three-pound burn, do you? You know, we could buy the chemicals in Texas with just a driver's license–no questions asked–and do our own thing."

Reggie banged down his coffee cup. "You don't get it! I hate the dope business! I’m not doing little batches here, little batches there, and I don't want to sell this shit. That's how your ass ends up in jail with somebody bigger and meaner than you poking it."

Raising his voice an octave, I.Q. whined, "So why're we here?"

"Damn bikers can have the crank business. I want one score. One big score. And profitable. Then we get on with better things in life. Everybody I know who's made this shit has got down in the bag. Once in the bag, you're dead." He tipped his head at the back of the motorhome. "Look at her. Screwed her up."

I.Q. took a deep breath, let it out. "Mostly my fault."

"Shit, yeah. Like you shoved it up her nose with a gun to her head." I.Q. shrugged, folded the pancake of egg over melted cheese and neatly topped it with curly bacon from the other skillet. "I don't have the contacts anyway," Reggie continued, "and I don't want them. We need the mayor; he needs me."

"Us," I.Q. corrected and slid the omelette onto a paper plate. "Why Josh do the burn?"

"Look, partner, Paley don't want to do business with bikers–even if it’s his own blood–know what I'm saying?"

I.Q. set the plate in front of Reggie and watched him stuff the steaming eggs into his mouth. "When it's over, Reg, what're we going to do?"

Reggie swallowed slowly. Clearing his mouth with a slug of coffee, he pretended to think to give himself time to dredge up the right answer. "When it's over. Well. You and me...we’ll take some of the money–not all of it–some of it. Find us a good script–hell, maybe I'll write one myself–and we'll do what we always said we'd do someday. Make a movie. Independent producers. " He liked the idea, the more he thought about it. It was once just a dream. But they could make it really happen.

"You're not just saying that?"

"Do I lie to you? Ever?"

"No."

"Okay then. If I say that's what I want to do, that's what I want to do. You think I want to get dirty toys for rich scumbags like Chris Paley the rest of my life? We're too smart for that life."

I.Q. nodded, poured Reggie more hot coffee. Reggie heard something outside and brushed aside the curtain.

"He's here."

"Who's here?" the girl in back groaned. Wearing a Laker's t-shirt and white cotton panties, Jackie Weldon stood in the doorway, stretching and twisting her torso to wring out nearly twenty-four straight hours of sleep.

Reggie couldn't look at her. She was pathetic.

The Jeep CJ-5 was swarmed by the dust it rode up in. The man behind the wheel wore a green long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans and a black Stetson in too good of shape to be worn by someone who actually worked outdoors. He'd never seen this man before. Right off, he didn't like it.

"Stay here," he ordered Jackie. "Make her eat something," he said to I.Q. and went out to meet the man.

The driver stood six-foot tall and outweighed Reggie by thirty pounds, putting him around two hundred. His face was flat and oval, his nose puckered from too many punches and the scars over his eyes made tracks across his eyebrows. An ex-pug.

Slowly he swaggered to Reggie. He tipped the brim of his hat back and said:

"Morning."

Reggie stood up straight. "Who the fuck are you?"

He smiled with just his upper lip. "Fuck who's takin' you to see Josh Paley."

"Supposed to be here himself."

"Somethin's come up."

"His I.Q. I hope."

The pug clipped his nose with a thumb and returned a meaningful grin. "He's waiting."

"Where?"

"East of here."

"Never take rides with strangers."

"Name's Bear Adams." He scanned the sky. "Gonna rain one of them rare rains out here. Better get you a coat. I'll wait." He climbed aboard the Jeep.

Reggie liked him. For one thing, he didn't think he could beat him in a fight. But he didn't trust him. Not somebody with an animal name.

"Stay here," he told I.Q. "Don't go into town. Stay put. Watch her. She's out of shit."

I.Q. nodded and handed Reggie a windbreaker. Kid was psychic. Reggie joined Bear Adams in the Jeep. Adams said nothing during the entire drive over a winding dirt road that headed east of Paley. They drove across a kidney-shaped dry lake, tires throwing up white clouds of dust behind them. Reggie wondered, What if this's some kind of set-up? Josh Paley's one flipped-out son-of-a-bitch. Too stupid to know he's crazy and too mean to be told. He wished he had a gun.

Twenty minutes into the ride, bouncing along the road, hanging on for dear life, Reggie saw a wavering form in the distance. As they got closer, tucked between two barren hills, he saw a small hangar attached to a white Quonset hut. An orange airsock fluttered over the hangar. A landing strip. But where could anything land? A small plane's landing gear was too wide for the rough, narrow road. Adams skidded the Jeep to a stop in front of the Quonset hut and turned off the engine. Somewhere in back came the punching chug of an engine. A generator.

Adams rapped on the corrugated steel hut. A voice told them to come in.

Cautiously, Reggie followed Bear into the hut. Inside it was humid and smelled of urine, beer and grease.

It was split: one side living-quarters and workshop; the other side the hangar. A three-wheeled flying contraption with a varnished wood propeller, set on a triangular frame, with one seat and a control stick, was parked in the hangar. The furniture in the hut could have come from a den of gorillas. Springs and padding erupted through the stained, peach-colored upholstery of what had been a couch in a previous life. A Formica-top dining table and four unmatched chairs took up the middle of the room. A large scale and beer cans cluttered the table.

Josh Paley didn't look up when he said: "Sit."

The area between the table and the hangar was a work station. Peg board walls, mechanic's tools randomly hung on hooks over a work bench. Josh Paley, an obese, bald man with a red beard cascading down his chest, a bushy red mustache and eyebrows that curled at the corners, worked on the engine of a black and chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

"I said sit," Josh growled, ratcheting a spark plug.

The windows were painted white, except for a tiny corner left clear for an eye to peek out and see what was coming across the desert. Under the window where the room met an unfinished, Sheetrock-walled bedroom, Reggie spotted a shotgun leaning in the corner.

Reggie sat at the dining table. Josh's back was to him. His greasy jeans slipped down off his rump.

"Let's get to it. I don't care sit here looking at your butt crack."

Josh swivelled around, looked at him, wiped sweat off his face with his hand and wiped it on his shirt. He weighed at least 350 pounds, but Reggie knew he was quicker. He wasn't about to take his crap again. His father, the mayor, even said he didn't have to take his crap. But when the mayor wasn't around, Josh could be mean, obstinate and dangerous.

"What's up?" Reggie asked impatiently. We on?"

Josh wheezed. "We got b-i-z-n-e-z. Business."

Reggie glanced at Bear Adams, who was helping himself to a cold beer. Adams' shoulders shook as he laughed silently by the Playmate cooler.

"Why didn’t you meet me at The Plunge?"

Josh set the wrench on the motorcycle seat, stood up, grunting explosively. He hiked up his pants, turned to Reggie.

"I was busy, you little shit."

He wasn't wearing his "colors," but Reggie made out the dirt lines that marked the edges where his sleeveless Levi vest would have been worn. The front of his faded black t-shirt was splattered with mustard. Crusted food dappled his beard.

"Busy. You busy? Busy like in b-i-z-z-y?"

Josh hesitated, scratched his forearm where the letters DFFL (Drugs Forever, Forever Loaded) were tattooed over a skull and crossbones. Tattoos decorated both arms.

"You mouthin' off, you little shit? I'll kill you, you mouth off to me. Snap my fingers and break your fuckin' neck."

"Gotta learn to snap your fingers first."

He took a step towards Reggie. A German Iron Cross earring in his left ear jiggled. He drew back his lips on a brick-pile grin. Before Josh could get closer, Reggie got up, leaped over a pile of trash, grabbed the shotgun, snapped it open. It was loaded. He tucked the butt under his armpit and aimed it at the burly biker's chest.

"I'm crappin' in my jeans," Josh said.

Reggie sniffed. "Smells like it."

Bear approached with a beer, popped the tab and drank, then he sat himself down at the dining table.

"I don't like you, you little shit," Josh growled.

"I’m not talking to you. I want to talk to the mayor."

Bear and Josh connected eyes and a grim communication passed silently between them.

"It’s me or nobody," Josh said. "I'm in charge."

"Look, man, details have to be ironed out–and you don't look the type who does ironing."

"You got no say."

"Yeah, I do."

"Not if you want in, shithead. I got the contacts and the chemicals."

"I got the cook."

Reggie didn't buy his line. Chris Paley wouldn't put this asshole in charge of anything–at least not on his own.

Josh twisted the wrench in his hand. "Can't talk to the mayor....But when Lucilva gets back"–humiliation seemed to wash over him–"talk to her if you have to."

So that was it. She was in charge. That surprised him. Reggie grinned. "I don't mind." And he didn't.

Lucilva Paley was a thirty-three-year-old knockout. Wasted her brains and beauty taking care of the mayor's private affairs. From the first time he'd met her, he wished there wasn't this business relationship with her father. Paley paralyzed Reggie's attraction to her by espousing good judgment over results. That first meeting with her, he was nervous, loitering there in the den of their high-beamed ranch house, frozen in time by her witchy beauty. They were introduced. He blurted, "Howdy," a greeting completely foreign to him but seemed, at the time, to be the appropriate thing to say. She had smiled, arching her eyebrows at him. He had watched her leave the room, but his attention was yanked back by Chris Paley's corpulent face staring back from across the room, shaking his head in warning as he lit a cigarette.

Startled by the realization that Josh or Bear could move on him, Reggie returned to the here-and-now. Bear yawned. Josh worked on his hog again.

Reggie turned a chair around and sat down with the back of the chair against his chest and the shotgun across his thighs.

"Tell me the deal," Reggie said.

"Hundred pounds."

"Where?"

"Use the hangar. Take a good look at it. Tell your genius what he needs to know to do it right and do it quick."

"When?"

"Let you know."

"What about security?"

"Bear and I'll be around."

"What if I don't want you here?"

"Tough."

"Yeah, for you. No spectators."

"Who the fuck says I want to watch?"

"What about Lucilva?"

"What about her?"

"When do I talk to her?"

"Let you know. Now get the fuck out of here."

Progress had been made. He knew how much speed and where to cook it. Speculatively, he studied the room.

"So what is this place?"

"My home, asshole."

"Hmm." Reggie stood up. "Daddy won't let scum in town, huh?"

From the other side of the hog, Josh rose from a squat, and caught Reggie off-guard by hurling a wrench into his chest. The force of the blow knocked him backwards, his finger pulled the trigger on the shotgun, jarring his arm, and blasted the TV to video-hell.

Bear scrambled to his feet. "What the fuck!"

Reggie snatched a box of shells from a two-by-four stud in the wall behind him. Before the ringing in their ears stopped, the shotgun was loaded. The pain in his chest was excruciating. If they new he was hurt, they'd take advantage of the situation, so he took short breaths to keep his lungs from expanding.

Josh heaved angrily. "I swear, I'm gonna fuck you up, Thomas! I swear it! You'll wish you never heard of me!"

"Already wish that." He turned the shotgun on Adams. "Keys to the Jeep." Bear hesitated. He lowered the shotgun to Bear's crotch. "I'll blow it off."

Josh nodded. Bear tossed Reggie the keys.

He made his way along the wall, stepped over shards of glass on the cement floor and opened the door to the hut.

"I'll mention the wonderful hospitality to the mayor."

An instantaneous downpour of rain echoed through the Quonset hut. Sounded like a subway train rushing overhead. Josh laughed, his mouth a pink hole in his red beard.

"Can't talk to the old man." He glanced at Bear, then back to Reggie.

"He'll talk to me," Reggie said.

"Give it a try, shithead. Buried him two days ago."

Thunder clapped.