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                                                     PART THREE
                                  Saturday, August 23, 1987

                                    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

                                            Intercourses

12:05 a.m.

"Stuff drives me crazy," Bear Adams complained in his deep voice, his feet propped up on the oval dining table with the clutter of dirty dishes, silverware and beer cans from their meal four hours ago. Adams dipped his index finger in his glass of water, jammed it up his nose and rotated it back and forth before withdrawing it. "Stuff blows in behind us when we come across Broadwell. Covers everything. Dry as chalk dust."

Across the table, slunk drunkenly over his empty plate, I.Q. wiped beer foam from his mouth, belched, excused himself and muttered: "What's Broadwell?"

"That dry lake you rode across to get here from Paley."

Bear swabbed out the other nostril with his wet finger. His nose had been broken and punched to where it looked more like a cheap door knocker than a nose. And his fingers, Reggie noted, were like little fat sausages. Made for a tight fit.

"Know what it is?" I.Q. asked.

Adams sniffed and shrugged.

I.Q. giggled woozily, set down his beer. He wiped a finger across the table, covering it in white powder and held it up. "Borate of lime."

"Lime?"

"Lime. Druggists call it borax. Laborers called it baking soda. Desert dealers used to call it cottonball crude."

From his seat at the table, facing the front door, Reggie let go of his anxiety over confronting Josh Paley long enough to be amazed, again, by the incredibly unimportant details I.Q. stored in his head.

Lucilva rose from the battered couch that faced the spot where the TV had been before Reggie blasted it.

"Can you make a lot of money with small quantities?" she said sarcastically, discovering her cigarette pack on the dining table, poking her finger inside to find it was empty.

"No," I.Q. answered. "But it's good for other things."

Reggie caught her staring at him. She checked her watch. I.Q. slowly explained, "When you tan leather–"

"I never tan leather," she snapped back. "Anyone smoke?"

"Okay," I.Q. said, "when they tan leather, they use borax as a neutralizer."

"Where the hell's the ashtray?" she said, distractedly searching the room. "It had butts in it."

"And it's used in the production of alloys. It made nickel-plating a quick, practical process."

"Hmm," she responded, glancing at Reggie.

Why is she looking at me like that?

"Oh, I forgot!" I.Q. said, snapping his fingers. "Good meat preserver, too!"

"Ivan," Reggie said, trying to draw his attention.

"And you know what?" I.Q. belched as he recalled delightedly. "I think– I'm not positive–but I think borates are used in water softeners–I could check into–"

"Ivan!" Reggie snatched away his glass of beer.

I.Q.'s eyes rolled to the center of their sockets. "Jesus, Reg," he slurred, "you scared me."

Lucilva cracked: "Man knows his borates."

Adams chuckled.

"Sorry," I.Q. said quietly, "it's the beer."

Lucilva paced from the couch to the connecting door between the hut and the hangar, folding her arms as she walked, a sure sign to almost any human that this person was terribly bored and anxious. And she was right to feel that way, because alcohol turned I.Q. into a tiresome game of Trivial Pursuit. It didn't help that Josh was late with the chemicals. Maybe he wouldn't show at all.

Reggie rose, took his plate to the sink, a plastic bucket filled with water, then entered the hangar, trailing a disturbed feeling that this whole deal was way out of his league. Lucilva had offered ten percent. Reggie wanted twenty. They agreed on fifteen. He wished there was another way of making one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars. He opened the door to the motorhome. Lucilva came up behind him.

"Mind?" she said flatly. "Maybe you can find me a cigarette in there."

Reggie settled back on his bed, flipping off his tennis shoes, and said: "This won't work."

"What do you mean?" she replied, looking through the cupboard. "We haven't started yet."

"The less people we have out here, the better. I can't have Josh and everybody hanging out here, coming and going, or the San Berdoo Sheriffs will pick us out. There's pretty good cover, but it's–"

"There's damn good cover. From the air, the place is practically invisible. No reason for anybody to fly over this place."

"But that air sock on the hangar. It's gotta go. Tells it's a landing point for something not on the maps."

"We have to know the direction of the wind to take off and land the–"

"Then don't take off and land! And where's the running water? You said you'd make it comfortable. This isn't comfortable. This is desert-rat slumming."

"What about the money?"

"I don't expect to see any money until after the stuff’s made and delivered. And that worries me, too."

"That's how it's done." She folded her arms, leaned against the counter and stared at the cabinets.

"When you're broke." Her astonished reaction quickly vanished. "Maybe Quinn's too dense to understand, but I knew exactly what you were saying."

"Don't read into it too deep," she said calmly. "Nothing the Paleys can't handle."

"The Paleys? You and Josh? Chris was Paley. He's dead. And something's happening. Political or what, I don't know–and I don't really care. Fact is, right now I think this big a meth deal is a mistake. There are Mexican nationals running around out here. DEA agents. Hell's Angels."

She came and sat on the bed. She could have sat on the other bed, but she didn't. Her hand rested on his thigh. "Scared?"

To an extent, he was. Josh Paley was scary. And the desert, it's emptiness, had its own horrors–for a city-boy. He didn't answer her.

"Let you in on something," she said. "This is the last assignment you'll ever get from a Paley. But I'm going to make it worth your while, whether you like it or not."

She heaved composure into her face. Reggie had no idea what was coming, until he felt her hand slither down between his legs and cup his crotch. Her other hand unbuttoned her red blouse. Their eyes locked in the action. Reggie didn't move. He urged to grab her and fearlessly strip her naked. He fixed on her eyes–cold and sexy–and her tongue wetted her lips. Her blouse opened. He glimpsed her flat stomach and became aroused. She suddenly kissed his mouth, forcing his lips apart with her tongue. He pulled her down onto him, clamping his legs around her hips. His hand wriggled under her bra, pushed it over her breasts, exposing them. He pulled his mouth from hers, caught his breath. His chest heaved painfully where her brother had hit him with the wrench.

Lucilva sat up, kneeling over him. Reaching back, she unsnapped her bra, threw it off, stiffened her back, sucked in her flat stomach and unsnapped her jeans. Reggie watched the zipper spread apart on light blue panties.

Reggie swung a leg over her, got up. He snapped off the overhead light, removed his clothes and rejoined her in his bed. When he pressed up beside her, she was warm and naked.

She rolled on her side, her back to him. At first he thought things had stopped, that she'd changed her mind. Then he felt her long-fingered hand reach back, grasp his erection and pull him close to where she wanted it.

Reggie reached over her. He palmed her breast and kissed the back of her neck through her hair. She moved her buttocks against his erection, ran her hand down his hip.

A strange evil carried him through the passion.

* * *

The glass beakers rattled in their boxes. Lucilva wasn't lying beside him when he awoke at one-thirty in the morning to what he thought was an earthquake. The vibration became a rumbling. The rumbling grew to a vicious, mechanical roar. It meant only one thing: Josh had arrived. The noise was too loud for just one hog.

The shotgun! He leapt from the bed, staggered groggily to the broom closet, reached behind a sponge mop and felt the cold barrel of the 10-gauge. But he decided to leave it.

Instead, he started to dress. One leg in a pant leg and the door burst open.

"They're here!" I.Q. exclaimed.

"Where's Lucilva?"

"Outside."

"Sounds like a damn tank division."

"You're not going to believe this."

And he didn't. Coming across the desert in the darkness were several jerking, bouncing beams of light from at least a half dozen hogs and three trucks pulling trailers. The dust swirled around the lights, making it look like a shiny fog creeping through the night. The hogs followed the trucks, revving their engines to keep up the RPMs.

Reggie stepped up beside Lucilva. Her hair was still in disarray. She turned to him, held up her hand.

"Don't say anything."

"About what?"

"About that," she replied, pointing to the hogs and trucks.

What a relief, Reggie thought. Then he said: "The more the merrier?"

She was stone pissed. "He's got his head up his ass."

"Real secret operation we got here."

"I asked you not to say anything."

From a few yards away, Bear had been listening. He rolled his eyes at Reggie. Even with only the one outside floodlight on, she must have seen in his face that Reggie wondered if Lucilva was slightly embarrassed about this breach of common sense, because she pointed a finger at him and said:

"We don't have the same mother. Remember that."

As the hogs drew near, Reggie's sense of security began to disappear. These were Hell's Angels. They were a completely different animal than the friendly fences and thieves he was used to dealing with. For Hell's Angels, violence was the first rule of order. Hopefully, his fears were only the haunts of every biker movie he'd ever seen. Why would Josh bring them out here before a burn? He didn't know. What mattered right then was that the one man on this planet he wanted dead was coming with enough bodies around him to put an indefinite hold on anything Reggie designed in the way of justice for Jackie's rape.

On either side of him were two monsters with long hair and beards–Bigfoot and Biggerfoot–riding in jeans and their sleeveless "colors," one wearing a blue bandana with a white skull and bones on the front across his forehead. They all looked like they rode with their hands over their heads, but they were really reaching up to the goose-neck handlebars. Long extension forks thrust their front wheels six feet forward, making the bikes appear to be set back on the fat, rear wheel like a beast ready to lunge. They repeatedly revved their engines in cacophonous blasts and a symphony of loud sputters.

"I'll be back," Reggie said, shoving his hands in his back pockets. Lucilva ignored him. Bear watched him head for the motorhome and gave him a knowing grin.

Inside the motorhome, he fought the urge to lock the door. What if someone tried to come in? They'd think he was chicken or something. And he wasn't chicken. Not even close. He was...exercising good judgment. Yeah, that was it. If he had to fight one of these guys for some unexpected reason, he'd do it. But there was no good reason to run out and meet the dragon. Let the dragon come to him.

He loaded the shotgun, leaned it against the wall beside the door.

Now what? If I stay in here, Lucilva will think I'm...hiding.

A knock on the door sent Reggie through the roof. He wiped sweat from his forehead. "Yeah?"

"It's me."

Reggie opened the door. I.Q. climbed up, closed the door and spotted the shotgun.

"What're you doing in here with the door locked?"

"Do I look like a damn welcome wagon?"

"No, but–"

"I got nothing to do out there. So I'm in here. I'm in charge of the kitchen crew. That's you, me and one other guy. That's the extent of my job here. You, me and one other guy."

"Make it Bear," he said eagerly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "He's smart. I like him. He's going to teach me to fly."

"Talk about it later," Reggie insisted, parting the curtains on the rear window. Through the main hangar door, he watched the six bikes, one with a woman on the back, and three pick-up trucks, each pulling a horse trailer, circle the gravel area to the left near the rattlesnake cages. They parked randomly, engines sputtering down, dust and borax rolling out of the light and into the darkness.

Over Reggie's shoulder, I.Q. said: "Holy–."

"Be cool," Reggie said. Be cool yourself.

"What're they doing here?" I.Q.'s words shivered. "I don't need them."

Josh appeared from the laughing, jangling, motley bunch of Angels, moving his huge body like a man with a destination. He came straight for the Pace Arrow, walking right by his sister, who barked and wagged a finger in his face.

The fat dragon had come to the kingdom. A flash of fear rushed over I.Q.'s face.

"Take the shotgun," Reggie ordered. "Get up front. Pull the drapes. Shoot him if you have to."

"Shoot him? Shoot him?" I.Q.'s eyes grew wide. His mouth remained wordlessly open. He took the shotgun. "Why do I have to shoot him?"

Reggie grabbed his arm, twisted it, and kept his eye on the door. "If he comes at me again, if it looks like I'm going to eat it, waste him." He pushed him away.

"With a shotgun? I might miss and hit you!"

"I'll get out of the way, now get back there!"

I.Q. backed into the front of the motorhome, pulled the curtains closed between the front driver's area and the rest of the vehicle, and peeked through the break.

Reggie heard him at the door. Josh's wheezing arrived before he did–his breathing sounded like a burring cello.

Reggie swung open the door. Josh stood at the bottom of the steps. His eyelids drooped. The smell of alcohol and sweat wafted up into Reggie's face.

"I kicked your ass once this week, shithead, you want it kicked a second time?"

"What do you think," Reggie snarled back.

"Don't spread lies. I'll say this one fuckin' time: I didn't touch your little bitch. I rode up, heard a scream, walked up the hill in the fuckin' rain. She wasn't in this thing when I got to it. Walked back down, talked to my sister. When I came out, you came around the house with her. You know the rest. Your face looks like shit."

"You didn't see her?"

"You fuckin' deaf or stupid? No. It was dark. Mud up to my ass. Lucilva told me you went up to see about the scream. I thought it was a great opportunity to kick your ass for taking my shotgun and Jeep and just being the fuckin' dirtbag you are."

Reggie didn't want to believe him. But if he had raped her, would he care if Reggie knew it? He wasn't in the least afraid of Reggie.

"You cut in on my business when you started kissin' my old man's ass. Everything you got him, I could've got him."

"Chris called me. I had nothing to do with it."

"Doesn't matter, shithead." He turned to the front of the motorhome. "Tell Dennis to get the keg out and start unloading the trailers," he said to someone. "Guns go over there in the lower cabinet." Guns? Reggie thought, as Josh turned back to him. "Yesterday, you made me look bad in front of Bear. Don't ever do it again. Get business done. You and your side-prick do what you're told and I'll figure out later whether you live or not." He unzipped his fly, took out his stubby penis, and pissed on the motorhome steps. When he finished, he chuckled and walked off, pulling up on the back of his drooping jeans.

Reggie slammed the door and watched out the rear window. Josh accepted a beer from a stocky, black-bearded Hispanic kid in his mid-twenties. A skinny, small-breasted woman with short salt and pepper hair and a face with more holes than a dart board, jammed her hand in the Hispanic kid's back pocket and spoke to Josh.

The others, eight in all, stood around one of the trucks with a keg of beer on the hood and drank. Lucilva, smoking a cigarette vigorously, leaned against the inside wall of the hangar watching them.

"What did he mean?" I.Q. said from behind him. Reggie turned to find him haphazardly pointing the shotgun in his direction. He thrust the barrel aside.

"Watch it, man."

Slowly, I.Q. set it down on the bed. "Did he...did he rape Jackie?"

"I thought he did."

I.Q. looked away, turned in a circle, scratching his head. "Why didn't she tell me?"

Reggie could've said something nice, like She didn't want you to be upset about it or She didn't want her pain to be your pain. Instead, he said:

"Wash the piss off the stairs."