Above the Law Read online

  It was five o’clock by the time we finished the deal. I counted out the cash, 225 crisp hundred-dollar bills, and he signed over the papers. We had a beer to celebrate. His suggestion, I didn’t want to offend him. I was the only company he was going to see for weeks, except for the boy who delivered his groceries. He watched as I ramped the classic motorcycle into the U-Haul, strapped it down, and secured the doors. He wasn’t happy, but he was philosophical about it.

  “Ride ’er good.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  We shook hands. It felt like I was shaking a rattlesnake, his skin was so dry and tough. I climbed into the truck and started driving home.

  If I had been smart and checked the weather before heading back to Santa Barbara, I’d have known I was heading for trouble. But I didn’t. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, so flush with excitement over his newest possession that he’s oblivious to everything else. With images swimming in my mind of a man and his motorcycle, which would be the envy of every biker he knew, navigating back-country roads, I slipped a Coltrane CD into the truck’s stereo and motored along, grinning like a madman.

  The sandstorm came up without warning. All of a sudden the wind arose with the force of a tornado, sweeping up the entire terrain and sending it into the air in a monstrous cloud that was extending clear to the horizon on all sides.

  I was trapped. Worse, I was imperiled. I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me. Driving was going to be nearly impossible, but I couldn’t simply park here and wait it out. Some eighteen-wheeler on a schedule and a mission could come barreling out of the gloom and flatten me, and there was no shoulder to pull onto; on either side of the road there were steep ditches, four or five feet deep, built to catch runoff during heavy rains. I’d seen those movies about sandstorms, Lawrence of Arabia and The English Patient. I don’t know if California sandstorms are that brutal, but the thought of being buried under forty feet of sand and suffocating to death was extremely frightening.

  Even with the windows rolled up as tight as I could get them, the sand sifted in, pinprick needles biting at my face and hands. It’s an old truck, the rubber weather-stripping is cracked and brittle. The wind was howling, it felt as strong as those pictures you see of the Gulf Coast being flattened by hurricanes. And it was deafening, a banshee-singing, the sound almost human-like; now I know why people in the Sahara think storms like these are accompanied by demons, shaitans, the devil in the wind.

  My only option was to inch forward, headlights on high beam and flashing lights blinking, until I found a safe haven. I started off, inching along at five miles an hour, guiding by the yellow line in the middle of the road. I ejected Coltrane and fiddled with the radio, trying to get some news of what was going on, but there was only static. All I could hope for was that somewhere up ahead, close, there’d be an oasis. Filling station, motel, restaurant, any port in this storm.

  I’d driven about ten minutes when I saw the car off to the side, nose down in the drainage ditch. It was a small car, a Honda or a Toyota—with the almost zero visibility, I couldn’t tell. Whoever had been driving it had lost control of the steering and been blown off the road. It would be easy to do; the gale-force wind was coming every which way. My truck is heavy and solid, but steering it was really hard, partly because the trailer I was towing was fishtailing back and forth like a bullwhip. I, at least, had lots of ballast; still, just fighting the wheel for ten minutes had my forearms burning. And I’m in shape. A small car like that, one extra-strong gust would pick it up and drop it anywhere it wanted to. Already, sand was drifting over it, starting to cover it. In ten or fifteen minutes it would be buried under a mound of sand, invisible from the road.

  Stopping was suicide. Every minute I dawdled out there lessened my chances of surviving. But if there were occupants stuck in that car, not stopping was tantamount to being an accessory to murder.

  I pulled as far off to the side of the road as I could without risking losing traction and going over. I keep flares under my seat. I reached down and grabbed a handful, and a box of matches with them. Still sitting in the relative safety of the truck’s cab, I put on my full-face helmet. (For some quirky reason that I didn’t even remember, but was thankful for now, I’d brought both my helmets, the brain-bucket and the sensible one, which has a full visor.) I pulled my jacket collar as tight as I could up against it. Lastly, I pulled on my motorcycle gloves. Holding the flares in one fist, I lit them simultaneously. As soon as they caught, I jammed open my door and jumped out.

  One step out of the truck and I was blown back ten feet. It was like I was in a wind tunnel. I’d never encountered weather this hostile before. Holding on to the side of the truck and bracing myself against the wind, I fought my way to the back, where I jammed my flares against the back tires. I didn’t know if anyone coming my way would see them, but at least I’d given them a chance.

  I worked my way to the front of the truck and rested for a minute. The wind was blowing dead down the road from behind me, so while I was in this position, I had some protection. Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I looked over at the car in the ditch. Already, in just a few minutes, it was almost invisible from the coating of sand that was cocooning it. If I had come by five minutes later, I would have driven right by it.

  Taking a deep breath, I broke for the stranded car. As soon as I left my cover, the wind picked me up and lifted me clean off my feet, flipping me onto my side, hard, and I felt the rough tarmac as I scraped along it. I’d have a strawberry tomorrow from my shoulder to my hip. It’s the same kind of roadburn you get when you go down on your motorcycle. I’ve had them, they’re painful as hell.

  Staying low seemed to work marginally better, so I crawled the rest of the way across to the car. Sliding down the embankment, I brushed some sand off the side window, enough to look inside.

  Three pairs of eyes stared back at me. Women’s eyes, wide with astonishment, fear, and relief I’m sure they had figured this was it, they were going to die out here in this godforsaken place.

  Between their pushing and my pulling, we pried the driver’s-side door open. They were young, dressed skimpily, tank tops and jeans. Not enough clothes for out here this time of year. They had all been crying, their faces were smeared with makeup and dirt. But thanks to the Good Samaritan, they were alive.

  “Grab hold of each other arm to arm,” I yelled into the wind.

  They grabbed their wallets and backpacks and we formed a human chain and worked our way up the ditch to my truck. They all piled into the cab along with me, slamming the doors against the biting sand. We were all scrunched together, two of them jammed up against me and each other, the third sitting on the shotgun sitter’s lap. You couldn’t have shoehorned another body into the little cab.

  I pulled off my helmet, and we took a look at each other. Then they were all trying to hug me at the same time, almost hysterical in their gratitude.

  I waited a minute for them to calm down, then we exchanged stories. They were college students, UC Riverside. They had been in Phoenix, visiting the sister of one of them, and had decided to take the scenic route home, stopping at the Spa in Twentynine Palms for a night. They had heard that a Santa Ana might be coming, but no one could imagine anything like this. It was like driving in a whiteout combined with a tornado.

  They had been in the ditch for almost an hour. Initially, they had debated about getting out and walking, but that seemed more suicidal than staying where they were and hoping help would come. As time passed, their hopes faded, slowly at first, then faster. They thought they heard a few cars and trucks passing—in the howl of this wind you couldn’t be sure of hearing anything—but as far as they knew, mine was the only car who had seen them.

  “Or stopped to see if there was anyone inside.” Said with anger by Marilyn (from “you know who”—she smiled—“my mother’s idea”). She was sitting next to me, in the middle. Pretty, a voluptuous cheerleader’s body topped by a classic Irish face and a full head of dar
k auburn hair.

  They were all pretty. Which meant nothing to me, particularly at this moment.

  “If you hadn’t stopped, we would have died.” This from Pauline, the lapsitter.

  I didn’t know what answer to give them. There was none, because it was true.

  “You’re not going to die now,” I assured them (and myself). “We’re going to find someplace where we can wait this out.”

  I started the truck and put it in gear. We inched forward. The needle on the speedometer was barely registering, but we were moving, that was the important thing. I hoped nobody coming upon where I had stopped would be spooked by the flares I’d left behind. I wasn’t about to go back and get them.

  We lucked out. The Brigadoon Bar & Grill was less than a mile up the highway from where I’d rescued the girls. We were almost by it before we saw it, but, man, what a welcome sight! I jerked the truck against the wind and skidded into the gravel lot, pulling into an empty parking spot. Several vehicles parked along the front—a few cars and pickups that looked local, a Dodge minivan with bumper stickers advertising every attraction west of the Mississippi, a Lincoln Navigator, and two boxy motor homes with Utah plates. Bracing ourselves against the storm, the girls and I ran for the entrance and staggered in.

  The place was one big, barnlike rectangle. Dark wood, rough-paneled walls, black-and-white-checked linoleum floor that rippled from years of seepage. Opposite the entrance was a long bar, with an impressive old back-bar behind it against the wall. This was a serious drinking place, judging by the quantity of the bottles stacked on the shelves. Lots of bourbons, blended whiskeys, and vodkas. A few token bottles of wine, the corks stuck in them for God knows how long, sat in a corner. Several beer taps adorned the bar, in front of which were a row of red Naugahyde-covered stools. High-backed booths, covered in the same Naugahyde, aligned the front and side walls, with freestanding tables in the center. In one corner sat a classic Wurlitzer jukebox circa 1955, and a TV, tuned to a local station, was mounted halfway up the wall. Like a few other old bars I’d come across in my travels—Barney’s Beanery in Los Angeles being one well-known example—old California license plates going back to the 1930s had been hammered onto all the walls, wherever there was an inch of free space. Your basic roadside tavern.

  In the short moment it took to get from my truck to the entrance, the storm had blown a coating of fine sand over all of us. We looked like pieces of chicken that had been dipped in bread crumbs. The sand had penetrated under my shirt as well, making my skin feel like it had been rubbed with a Brillo pad. Shaking off as much of it as I could, I looked around.

  There were over a dozen people in here, not counting the bartender, cook, and waitress, who, although chronologically somewhere in her middle age, looked like she’d stepped out of an old Robert Mitchum B movie, the ones where the good girls are bad and the bad girls are worse. She had a friendly smile, though, warm and welcoming.

  “Here’s another litter the cat dragged in,” she exclaimed with gusto. “You girls look like you’ve been put through the wringer,” she went on, looking at them more closely.

  “We were stranded out there,” Marilyn told her.

  “Luke rescued us.” This from Jo Ellen, the third girl.

  The waitress gave me the once-over. “A good man is hard to find,” she informed the girls.

  “The voice of experience?” Marilyn asked, winking at her. Marilyn was the boldest of the three, the ringleader who could get them into trouble, if the opportunity arose.

  “Definitely,” the waitress responded in a tone of hard-earned wisdom. “How’s it blowing out there?”

  “Bad,” I replied. “The roads’re about impassable now. Couple more minutes, nothing’ll be moving out there.”

  “Well, you made it to here, so you’re okay. We’ve got plenty of food, the TV works, and we just pumped out the septic, so we’re prepared for the long haul.”

  The cook called out from the kitchen, “Order up, Deedee.”

  She left to take care of business. While the girls, who’d brought their packs with them, retired to the ladies’ room to clean up, I checked out the others who were sheltering from the storm. A few of them looked like regulars—men who drink in bars like this one; the others were refugees, like us. A family sat at one of the big tables in the center of the room, chowing down on cheeseburgers and fries: mother, father, two little girls, and a little boy, all big and blond like their parents. They reminded me of people I’d known from the upper Midwest, Scandinavian stock. They seemed to be holding up well, considering the circumstances. In a booth, nursing beers, were three middle-aged men who looked like upper-management executives, even though they were casually dressed. On the way to or from a hunting or fishing trip, I guessed. The remaining outsiders, the motor-homers, were three older couples who sat at two pushed-together tables, talking earnestly, eating large meals, laughing quietly at each other’s jokes.

  Considering how lousy things were outside, everyone seemed to be in decent spirits. Most of them had been here when the storm had struck or had been close, minutes away. The conscientious ones had listened to the weather station and had been warned that the storm was coming. Like the girls and me, they were grateful to have found a refuge where they could wait out the storm in comfort.

  I approached the bartender. “Pay phone?” I had to call Riva, let her know I was all right.

  He shook his head. “Phone lines are out. Got a generator and a propane backup in case we lose our gas and electric, but no phone. I’d let you use mine, but it’s dead, too. Sorry.” As if to make amends for my disappointment, which he had nothing to do with, he plunked an old-fashioned glass on the counter. “First one’s on the house. Name it.”

  After what I’d been through, a drink was what the doctor ordered. “Johnnie Walker Black?”

  “Ice?”

  “Neat’s fine.”

  He took down a bottle from the back bar, poured generously. I sipped—it burned going down, the good burn. I raised my glass in toast.

  The girls, having changed their tops and generally freshened up, emerged from the bathroom. They flopped into one of the free booths. Marilyn patted the empty seat next to her, an invitation to sit down.

  “I’ve got to get something out of the truck,” I said. “Order me …” I glanced at the menu. The specialty of the house was chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes, country gravy, and choice of two veg. Not today. “A western omelet easy, hash browns, sourdough toast. And coffee.”

  “You’re going back out? That’s crazy,” Marilyn said.

  I swallowed the rest of my drink. “If I’m not back in an hour, send the St. Bernards.”

  The wind was howling as badly as it had been earlier, maybe worse. Large drifts were forming against the sides of the restaurant and the vehicles. Even bigger ones were pyramiding in the parking lot and on the highway, creating sand dunes.

  I fought my way to the truck, yanked open the door, and grabbed my cell phone out of the glove compartment. Dropping it into my pocket, I fought my way back to the safe harbor.

  The highway was shut down. Nothing was going to be moving until the storm was over and the road was cleared; at least overnight, maybe longer. We were stuck in Brigadoon, home of the high desert’s best chicken-fried steak.

  Riva’s voice on the telephone was thick with relief “I’ve been worried sick. This storm’s all over the news. Is there a television where you are?”

  “Yes.” I hadn’t paid it any attention. Looking up at it, from where I was standing at the bar, I could see pictures of sand blowing. If I didn’t know the storm was right on top of me, I would have thought they were shots of the Sahara.

  “They say it’s the worst sandstorm ever recorded in California,” she said. “It’s not supposed to stop until late tonight or tomorrow.”

  “I believe it.” Looking outside, I couldn’t see anything, not the cars in the parking lot, the highway, it was all sand. It was evening now, but it could
have been high noon, there still wouldn’t have been any sunlight. I explained where I was, the circumstances of getting here, a quick description of the Brigadoon and my fellow stranded pilgrims.

  “Sounds like you’ve got it made.” In the background I could hear Bucky making impatient noises. It was dinnertime, she had been in the middle of feeding him when I called. “Three college babes hot for your bod and a well-stocked bar.”

  “This is true.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself and don’t get too drunk.”

  “I can do that.” That was the last thing on my mind, either of those possibilities.

  “Here, talk to your son.”

  Bucky’s voice sang to me. “Daddy, when are you coming home?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “I love you, Daddy. Come home now.”

  “I love you, too, sweet boy. I’ll be home just as fast as I can.”

  Riva came back on. “It sounds like you won’t get home until tomorrow, if then.”

  “I guess. Even after it stops, the roads’ll have to be cleared.”

  “Don’t push it. Be safe. And cautious.”

  I’ve been known to take risks against the odds—but being a husband and father is very tempering against that. “Of course I will.”

  “Okay, then. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, before I hang up. Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Buy the motorcycle.”

  With everything else going on, I’d forgotten about that. “Yes. It’s outside in the trailer, even as we speak.”

  “It was worth it, then.”

  “I guess.”

  We said our good-byes and hung up. Everything was okay now. It was only a storm, and I had shelter.

  “You know what’s a bitch?” Deedee the waitress said. She was sitting on a bar stool, shoes off, rubbing her stockinged feet.