Then the cliffs were surrounding him and the highway was snaking through a canyon, into the mountains, and his van was no longer the tallest thing on the desert floor, no longer a moving target, and he slowed down as he rounded the second curve.
Already the thunder was fading, moving farther away, and ahead there were no flashes of lightning.
There were dark clouds over McGuane, but no rain, and when he pulled into town some twenty minutes later, the van’s windshield had already dried off and his heart rate was finally back to normal.
Gregory drove directly to the café, parking in the middle of the steep back alley. Paul was over in Safford, taking care of some personal business, and the café was empty save for a newly hired teenage busboy and a minimum-wage female clerk, who were standing with their heads together at one end of the counter. They jumped apart as if struck the second he entered the room, and he could not help smiling at their obvious guilt as he asked, “Where’s Odd?”
“Mr. Morrison went home,” the girl explained. “He told me to tell you to call him as soon as you got back.”
“Thanks.” Gregory walked into Paul’s office and dialed Odd’s number. He told the handyman he’d gotten the relays, and Odd promised to be by “in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Gregory walked out and poured himself a cup of regular, straight coffee before going back and unloading the van. The clerk and busboy were now in entirely different parts of the café, she wiping down the counter and he sweeping out a windowed corner, and if Gregory had not known better he would have thought they did not even know each other.
Odd arrived soon after he finished unloading, and they got to work. They finished putting in the relays, then tested everything, running the lights and checking the sound system, Odd croaking out an old Jimmie Rogers song as they tried out the mikes. Everything worked, everything was in order, everything was ready to go, and as a few late-afternoon patrons trickled in, the two of them began putting away their tools.
“I guess that’s it, then,” Odd said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a blue bandanna.
Gregory nodded. “I guess so.”
The grand opening of the new and improved Mocha Joe’s Café had been postponed twice already due to what they were euphemistically calling “technical problems,” but it looked like the third time was the charm, and if no disasters struck, they should be ready to roll tomorrow night. A local band, Montezuma’s Revenge, was now scheduled to be the inaugural act, but there was still going to be an hour of open mike between sets, and the sign-up sheet Paul had posted on the wall next to the stage had fifteen wannabe performers listed.
Gregory would call Paul later, tell him everything was ready, and tomorrow they’d go through the last-minute preparations, and then it would be showtime.
He was excited. There was a twinge of disappointment that the physical work was over, but that was more than balanced by the fact that, starting tomorrow night, Mocha Joe’s would be McGuane’s only legitimate entertainment venue.
And it was all his doing.
He had come up with the idea, bankrolled it, seen it through, and now he would get to see the fruits of his labors. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of professional accomplishment.
And it felt good.
Odd shut and locked the door of the maintenance closet. “Got any plans?” he asked.
“Not to speak of.”
“Wanna get a quick drink?”
Gregory smiled. “You read my mind.”
“Come on. I’ll buy.”
“No. I’ll buy.”
“Deal.”
They went out through the back door, got in the van, and Gregory drove the half a block to the bar. On the way, he described his close encounter with the lightning.
“I’m glad I was in a car when it happened,” he said. “I read that it’s supposed to be the safest place in a lightning storm because the rubber tires ground you.”
Odd snorted. “Tell that to Bill Daniels.”
“Who’s Bill Daniels?”
“He was driving that same stretch of road in a lightning storm four or five years back. A lightning bolt hit his windshield, smashed the glass, tore off his damn head and melted his neck to the car seat. Those sonsabitches are powerful. Pure energy. And if they can crack a tree like you saw, a windshield ain’t nothing to it.” Odd grunted, shook his head. “They had to identify Bill by his wallet. Only, his wallet was soaked with his own blood and shit. Sure wouldn’ta wanted to be the one to do that.”
Gregory was silent, thinking about how close he’d come to death.
“I wouldn’t worry none about it, though. Chances of something like that happening are astronomical. And if it already happened once on that stretch of road, the odds of it happening again are—”
“About the same as being hit by lightning?”
Odd grinned. “There you go.”
He parked the van in front of the bar, and the two of them walked inside and ordered beers.
“I didn’t know milk drinkers were allowed in here.”
The voice came from the darkness next to the rest rooms, and the hackles rose on Gregory’s neck as he squinted into the gloom, trying to will his eyes to adjust. A harsh laugh spat out from the cowboy-hatted figure emerging into the dim light. It was Chilton Bodean. Gregory hadn’t seen Bodean in decades, but he recognized him immediately. Two years ahead of him in school, the bully had made his first year of junior high a living hell.
“Long time no see, Tomasov.”
Gregory felt a pacifying hand on his arm. “Ignore him,” Odd said. “The guy’s nothing but a drugstore cowboy, a fucking Rexall ranger.”
But Gregory didn’t want to ignore him. In his old enemy’s terminally belligerent face, he saw the expressions of the men who had made fun of his father all those years ago, and he turned to face Bodean. “Are you talking to me?”
The mocking smile faltered. Clearly, the bully had just wanted to goad him, make fun of him, had not intended for it to escalate beyond that, but Gregory wasn’t about to back down. There were a lot of old scores to settle here, and he was in the mood to dispense with them once and for all.
Bodean quickly regained his equilibrium. “How goes it, milk drinker?”
“Chil,” the bartender warned.
“Ignore him,” Odd repeated.
“Say that one more time,” Gregory told him flatly. “And I will kick your fucking ass.”
The other man clearly didn’t know what to do. He remained in place, smiling, but the smile had been on his face for too long and was already well past strained. Gregory did not look away, did not blink, kept his eyes on Bodean’s face.
“You have anything else to say to me, Chilton?” Bodean backed down. He looked away, strutted up to the bar, attempting to retain what little dignity he had left, gave the bartender a bill, and said, “Keep the change.” He did not look at Gregory as he pushed open the barroom door and walked into the light.
Gregory felt good. He exhaled, his muscles relaxing, and he sat down on the stool next to Odd and took a long swig of beer. He’d dreamed of fighting back against that bully every day of seventh grade, and now that he’d confronted him, he experienced a strange sort of peace, an easy, calming sensation that was not quite like anything else he had ever felt. It was for his father as much as for himself that he’d pushed back hard when Bodean tried to make fun of him, and though his father had always remained philosophically opposed to even the threat of physical violence, Gregory felt good about what he’d done and told himself his father would approve.
Odd shook his head. “ ‘Milk drinker.’ That’s one you don’t hear too often anymore.”