It’s not a great feeling.
Bron steps out of the bank into the blinding sun, trying to adjust to the notion of being practically penniless. He spots Gonzalo riding his battered two-wheeler down the middle of the street. Gonzalo spots Bron and skids to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. He reads Bron’s expression.
“?Qué pasa?” says Gonzalo. “?No dinero?”
Bron jerks his thumb back toward the bank. “You know Mister Sanchez?”
“Se?or Sanchez? Sí.”
“Well, he’s a real stickler for rules.”
Bron tugs out the lining of his pockets like a clown. At least he’s trying to keep a sense of humor about it. If he expected a challenge, Crane has definitely delivered. But what now? He can’t hike out of here. He’d be buzzard meat within an hour. So, what now?
“You need a place to stay—no money?” asks Gonzalo.
Bron thinks for a second. “You know a place?”
Gonzalo pops a wheelie and circles his hand in the air, like Lawrence of Arabia leading a charge.
“Se?or! This way!”
The town motel is located a block beyond the gas station, tucked behind a small warehouse. It’s just a one-room office with seven tiny units lined up across a tiled courtyard. Decades of desert sun have faded the colors to pale pastels. A wooden walkway runs in front of the units, widening in the center to a common deck with a few lounge chairs and umbrellas.
The Four Seasons, it’s not.
Gonzalo lays his bike down and waits for Bron to catch up. Bron rounds the corner and looks up at a blinking neon sign, Motel Alvarez. Below it is a wooden panel with a single word: VACANCY.
Gonzalo holds the door open. Bron walks into the dimly lit office. The manager is at the front desk, leaning casually on a dog-eared leather register.
Of course. It figures.
Hello again… Grandpa.
Chapter 9
OH, MY God!”
Who knew a simple shower could feel this good? Bron turns slowly under the flow as sweat and sand wash out of his hair and every remote nook and cranny of his body. The pipes creak and the water never gets past lukewarm, but no matter. Right now, lukewarm is heaven. Worth every penny of the forty-dollar-per-night room fee, reluctantly waived by Grandpa—but only until Bron can dig up some actual cash. Worry about that later. For now, this is bliss.
As Bron steps out of the shower, there’s a knock on the door. He wraps a towel around his waist and peeks out through the peephole. It’s Gonzalo, bearing gifts.
“?Hola, Se?or Tyler!”
Through the half-open door, Gonzalo hands Bron a pair of faded cargo shorts and a few STP T-shirts. Then a pair of rubber sandals.
“Hope they fit,” says Gonzalo.
“Thanks, Gonzalo. They’ll be fine. Really. Thank you.”
“Give me your clothes,” says Gonzalo. “I’ll get them cleaned for you.”
Bron wraps his sweaty slacks, shirt, briefs, and socks in an extra towel and hands them over. Gonzalo tucks the packet under his arm and runs toward the office building. He calls back, “Ready ma?ana! On the house!”
Bron has never been crazy about kids. They’ve always made him uncomfortable. But he has to admit, this one is a real find.
He slips on the shorts and T-shirt, hangs up the wet towel, and flops onto the bed for the only thing better than a nice warm shower—a nice long nap.
His eyes close… he starts to drift off… Minutes pass… maybe hours…
And then, suddenly:
“All I do is WIN, WIN, WIN…!”
The pumping sound of DJ Khaled wakes Bron with a start. And it’s not just the music. It’s the sound of two strong male voices singing along with gusto. The bed is so close to the window, Bron can roll over and peek through the blind slats.
“What the…?”
The music is blaring from the deck out front. Sitting there in facing lounge chairs are two guys in bathing suits, shirts open, both wearing Ray-Bans. On the deck between them is a portable speaker connected to an iPhone. Resting on their chests—outrageously large cocktails. In the real world, Bron would think about picking up the phone to complain about the noise. But this is not the real world. Also, there’s no phone.
Bron emerges tentatively from his room, rubbing his eyes against the late afternoon glare. The two guys look up and whip off their sunglasses at the same time.
“Oh, no!” says one. “We are so rude!”
“Wow. Sorry. We didn’t realize there was anybody else here!” adds the other. “Apologies for the concert. Really, man… so sorry.”
Bron’s fellow guests look like a pair of All-American quarterbacks—with a swagger to match. They’re immediately friendly, charming, and irresistible—totally comfortable in their own skin. From the look of them, they appear to have life figured out. Even here.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Bron. “I’m Tyler.”
“I’m Timo,” says the one with the blond crew cut and the elaborate angel tat on his chest.
“Luke,” says the one with the artfully shaved dome. He points to his nearly empty glass. “Drink?”
Bron can still feel the road dust in the back of his throat. He pulls an extra chair from his room onto the deck. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
Luke rolls out of his lounge chair and gestures toward the end of the row. “Tyler, allow me to escort you to libation central!”
Weaving a bit, Luke leads the way to Unit 1. He opens the door and waves Bron in. “After you, sir…”
The room is a mirror image of Bron’s, but with one major addition. Sitting on the dresser is a world-class, kick-ass margarita machine. Luke pats it lovingly.
“We don’t go anywhere without it.”
As Luke dumps a bucketful of ice cubes into the stainless-steel contraption, Bron glances over at the bed. In a room this small, there’s no way to miss it. Rumpled and slept in—with two pairs of guys’ jeans lying on top of the sheets. Okay. Got it.
After the ice, Luke dumps in what looks like an entire fifth of Patrón. Then a whole bottle of bright green liquid. He presses a button. The room lights dim for a second.
“Go, baby!” says Luke, rubbing the machine like a genie’s bottle.
The device gives off a powerful grinding noise that quickly evens out to a loud hum. Luke steadies the heavy-duty glass pitcher as it fills with a greenish slurry. He shouts above the sound…
“What brings you here, Tyler?”
Bron shouts back. “Long story.”
“No kidding. Same here. We were on our way to the coast. Transmission blew. Car’s in the shop down the street—waiting for parts.”
“Could be a long wait.”
“Tell me about it. Ten days far. And… here we are!”
Bron and Luke rejoin Timo on the deck, all three now equipped with super-size beverages. Luke hoists his glass: “To strangers in a strange land.” Clinks all around.
Bron puts the glass to his lips and tastes his first blast of the concoction: killer sweet and sledgehammer strong. It tastes soooo good—ice and booze blended to a frosty citrus slush. He should sip, but he slurps.
“What business you in, Tyler?” asks Timo.
“Computers,” Bron says. Close enough. And at the moment, nobody seems all that interested in career résumés anyway.
“That’s cool,” says Timo, lowering his shades.
“Very cool,” says Luke, doing the same.
Bron tucks his feet under his chair. Suddenly he feels a slithery touch just below his ankle. He leaps up, spilling half his drink and knocking his chair back. A tiny lizard skitters from under the chair and off across the deck. Luke and Timo tilt their sunglasses up and watch the critter disappear around the corner.
“Western whiptail!” shouts Luke.
“No way,” says Timo. “That’s a desert spiny.”
“Whiptail.”
“You’re nuts! Spiny!”