Old Mr. No Opinion.
2
Plainville Airfield sat in scrubland on the outskirts of the tired little city it served. There was a single runway, which Ralph thought horribly short. The pilot applied full braking as soon as the wheels touched down, and unsecured objects went flying. They came to a stop on a yellow line at the end of the narrow strip of tar, no more than thirty feet from a gully filled with weeds, stagnant water, and Shiner cans.
“Welcome to nowhere in particular,” Alec remarked as the King Air lumbered toward a prefab terminal building that looked as if it might blow away in the next high wind. There was a road-dusty Dodge van waiting for them. Ralph recognized it as the wheelchair-accessible Companion model even before he saw the handicap plate. Claude Bolton, tall and muscular in faded jeans, blue work shirt, battered cowboy boots, and a Texas Rangers gimme cap, stood beside it.
Ralph was first off the plane, and he extended a hand. After a second of hesitation, Claude shook it. Ralph found it impossible not to look at the faded letters on the man’s fingers: CANT.
“Thank you for making this easy,” Ralph said. “You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.” He introduced the others.
Holly shook his hand last, and said, “Those tattoos on your fingers . . . are they about drinking?”
Right, Ralph thought. That’s one piece of the puzzle I forgot to take out of the box.
“Yes’m, that’s right.” Bolton spoke like someone teaching a well-learned and well-loved lesson. “The big paradox is what they call it in AA meetings down here. I first heard about it in prison. You must drink, but you can’t drink.”
“I feel that way about cigarettes,” Holly said.
Bolton grinned, and Ralph thought how odd it was that the least socially adept person in their little party was the one who had put Bolton at ease. Not that Bolton had seemed really worried; more on watch. “Yes ma’am, cigarettes is a hard one. How you doing with it?”
“Haven’t had one in almost a year,” Holly said, “but I take it a day at a time. Can’t and must. I like that.”
Had she actually known all along what the finger tattoos meant? Ralph couldn’t tell.
“Only way to break the can’t-must paradox is with the help of a higher power, so I got me one. And I keep my sobriety medallion handy. What I was taught is that if you get wantin a drink, stick that medallion in your mouth. If it melts, you can take one.”
Holly smiled—the radiant one Ralph was coming to like so well.
The side door of the van opened, and a rusty ramp squalled out. A large lady with an extravagant corona of white hair rolled down it in a wheelchair. She had a short green oxygen bottle in her lap with a plastic tube leading from it to the cannula in her nose. “Claude! Why are you standin around with these people in the heat? If we’re gonna roll, we should roll. It’s getting on for noon.”
“This is my mother,” Claude said. “Ma, this is Detective Anderson, who questioned me on the thing I told you about. These other ones are new to me.”
Howie, Alec, and Yune introduced themselves to the old lady. Holly came last. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Bolton.”
Lovie laughed. “Well, we’ll see how you feel about that when you get to know me.”
“I’d better go see about our rental,” Howie said. “I think it’s that one parked by the door.” He pointed at a mid-size dark blue SUV.
“I’ll lead the way in the van,” Claude said. “You won’t have any problem followin along; not much in the way of traffic on the Marysville road.”
“Why don’t you ride with us, honey?” Lovie Bolton asked Holly. “Keep a old lady company.”
Ralph expected Holly to refuse, but she agreed at once. “Just give me a minute.”
She beckoned Ralph with her eyes, and he followed her toward the King Air as Claude watched his mother turn her chair and roll back up the ramp. A small plane was taking off, and at first Ralph couldn’t hear what Holly was asking him. He bent closer.
“What do I tell them, Ralph? They’re sure to ask what we’re doing here.”
He considered, then said: “Why don’t you just hit the high spots?”
“They won’t believe me!”
That made him grin. “Holly, I think you handle disbelief pretty well.”
3
Like many ex-cons (at least those that didn’t want to risk going back inside), Claude Bolton drove the Dodge Companion van at exactly five miles an hour under the speed limit. Half an hour into the trip, he turned in at the Indian Motel & Café. He got out and spoke almost apologetically to Howie, who was behind the wheel of the rental. “Hope you don’t mind if we have a bite,” he said. “My ma sometimes has problems if she don’t eat regular, and she didn’t have any time to make sammitches. I was afraid we might miss you.” He lowered his voice, as if confiding a shameful secret. “It’s her blood sugar. When it goes low, she gets fainty.”
“I’m sure we could all use a bite,” Howie said.
“This story the lady told—”
“Why don’t we talk about it when we get to your house, Claude,” Ralph said.
Claude nodded. “Yeah, that might be better.”
The café smelled—not unpleasantly—of grease and beans and frying meat. Neil Diamond was on the jukebox, singing “I Am, I Said” in Spanish. The specials (which weren’t very) were posted behind the counter. Above the kitchen pass-through was a defaced photograph of Donald Trump. His blond hair had been colored black; he had been given a forelock and a mustache. Below it someone had printed Yanqui vete a casa: Yankee go home. At first Ralph was surprised—Texas was a red state, after all, as red as they came—but then he remembered that if whites weren’t the actual minority this near to the border, it was a close-run thing.
They sat at the far end of the room, Alec and Howie at a two-top, the others at a bigger table nearby. Ralph ordered a burger; Holly ordered a salad, which turned out to be mostly wilted iceberg lettuce; Yune and the Boltons went for the full Mexican, which consisted of a taco, a burrito, and an empanada. The waitress banged a pitcher of sweet tea down on the table without being asked.
Lovie Bolton was studying Yune, her eyes bright as a bird’s. “Sablo, you said your name was? That’s a funny one.”
“Yes, not many of us around,” Yune said.
“You come from the other side, or are you natural-born?”
“Natural-born, ma’am,” Yune said. Half of his well-stuffed taco disappeared at a single bite. “Second generation.”
“Well, good for you! Made in the USA! I used to know an Augustin Sablo when I lived way down south, before I was married. He drove a bread truck in Laredo and Nuevo Laredo. When he came by t’house, my sisters and I used to clamor for churro éclairs. No relation to him, I suppose?”
Yune’s olive complexion darkened a bit—not quite a blush—but the look he shot Ralph was amused. “Yes, ma’am, that would have been my papi.”
“Well, ain’t it a small world?” Lovie said, and began to laugh. Her laughter turned to coughing, and her coughing turned to choking. Claude thumped her on the back so hard the cannula flew from her nose and fell into her plate. “Oh, son, lookit that,” she said when she had her breath back. “Now I got snot on my burrito.” She resettled the cannula. “Well, what the hey. It came from inside me, it can go right back. No harm done.” She chomped.