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THE OLD CAR ROLLED down the highway into the late Saturday morning. The car was about thirty minutes out of Phoenix, headed north to Flagstaff on Interstate 17. It was just passing through the sparsely populated community of New River and starting up the long, steep climb to the top of the mesa at Sunset Point. To say that the car was old serves only to describe her age, nothing more. It was the beginning of the summer of 1972 and the car was almost forty years old. The driver was not. Behind the big steering wheel sat a young man of seventeen, setting out on what he excitedly anticipated would be another gratifying summer. His name was Clayton, Clay to friends and family, and he loved summer. He loved all vacations away from school, but summer was, without question, by far the best. Summer was long enough that there was no anxiety about it ending as it was just beginning. One week of spring break was fine; two weeks over Christmas was better; but summer was timeless and it was his. The old car was a 1934 Plymouth Coupe, dark forest green, with big curved Gullwing fenders that sloped back into wide running boards along the sides of the car,
Chapter 2-Clayton
CLAYTON WAS SOMEWHERE AROUND average height; five feet, eight inches tall. He weighed only a hundred and forty-five pounds, but his muscular frame made him look bigger. Wrestling, training for wrestling and working construction gave him his build. The muscles on his shoulders were big, making his shoulders look broad. He had a thick, almost barrel chest, a very big neck and a ridiculously small waist. He carried most of his weight in his upper body; his hips were slim and his legs, except for being rock hard, would have been called skinny. But the feature that most stood out were his arms; wrestling made for big hard arms. One of his wrestling buddies said that they were gnomes or some other missapportioned creatures out of fairy tales. Clayton did one hundred pull-ups in sets of twenty every day. He did fingertip pull-ups, using the top of the door trim at home till all of the trim in his house was loose and his mother yelled at him to quit. His daily routine in the off-season included hundreds of sit-ups, v-sits, and push-ups of every type. He worked his arms so much that his triceps looked like bricks and were as hard. His head was round and covered by a thick, curly wave of blondish brown hair that he left, modishly, uncut in the off-season. When he let his hair grow, it would on-
RUDY VALENCIA WAS STANDING just past the northbound I-17 on-ramp from Cordes Junction with his thumb out. His red backpack was on the ground beside him, leaning against a mile post marker. Almost everything he had in the world was in that backpack; everything except the six thousand, seven hundred and sixtytwo dollars he had squirreled away in several locales around the country that he routinely frequented in his travels. Rudy was permanently on the road. Except for a three-to-four-month stay in Jamaica each year, Rudy was rambling. The money in those accounts was the result of moving weed from the West Coast, where it was cheap, to the East Coast, where it was expensive; at least a sixfold increase in street value. Rudy thought of himself as a businessman, an entrepreneur, and his profit margin was beyond unreal. You could buy a lid of pot on the streets in California for ten dollars and you could sell it in any city in the Northeast for sixty dollars. Rudy routinely bought several pounds of Mary Jane for eighty dollars a pound, cleaned it, and broke it down into two-fingered lids, which he sold for sixty dollars each. His gross take was eight hundred to nine hundred dollars per pound, a thousand percent profit.
Chapter 4-Winslow
US 66 WAS THEN and is still the main street through Winslow. Clayton pulled off at the first convenience store they came to, and Rudy went in and bought a case of cold beer. They proceeded east about halfway through town before Rudy directed Clayton to turn north into a residential area. After a couple more turns, they pulled up in front of an old Fifties-style, square-built block home that was painted light blue with a big front veranda. As they were getting out of the car, a tall, lanky, long-haired guy came bounding out of the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind him with a bang. Goddamnit, Rudy, its about time you got here, the man was saying with a big smile as he loped up to Rudy, who was coming around the old car. You said you were going to get an early start, so we expected you hours ago. When the two met, they gave each other a hug and Rudy turned to Clayton and said, Jason, let me introduce you to Clay. He picked me up at some wide spot in the road called Cordes Junction and saved my ass. Clayton stepped up to Jason and shook his hand, but before he could say anything, Rudy started talking again. Clay is also the owner of this fine automobile, and
Chapter 5-Randy
CLAYTON WOKE UP THE next morning all cozy in the bed. His head was a little groggy, not unlike a hangover, but a hell of a lot more pleasant. No headache for one and no queasy stomach for two, but definitely a slow noggin. He lazily stretched and scooted around in the covers. Man this bed feels nice, he thought as thoughts of last night emerged into his consciousness. He reached across the bed for Mary, thinking she might be up for the same, you know, a little of the ole one-two, a bit of the ole in-and-out, but she wasnt there. Clayton realized as he felt around that she must already be up without waking him. He sat up and looked around, then checked his watch. Jeez, its already past eight. He rarely slept past seven and was usually up before six. Christ, Ive gotta get on the road. He jumped out of bed and quickly threw on the same clothes he was wearing the night before. Having to wear yesterdays clothes kind of creeped him out; it had been a long, hot and sweaty drive up from Phoenix. He paused before pulling on the underwear and weighed his options; day-old drawers or go without? Aw, fuck it!
BILLY SMITH WAS OBVIOUSLY the project foreman. He was standing in the middle of the road giving out work assignments to the waiting crews when Clayton drove up in the old car. Clayton got up very early on Monday morning and headed out at five-thirty. He figured he would stop at any sizable construction site and just ask if they needed any labor for the summer. The worst that could happen is that he would be told no. The first project he came to appeared to be a housing subdivision consisting of about fifty houses, lined along both sides of a single street. He figured that he might as well start there. He saw a man standing in the middle of the street leaning on the side of a black pickup truck, giving orders to individuals and groups of men. Clayton turned the corner onto the street full of workers and slowly drove up. The man was in his late twenties, six feet tall, red hair, sun burnt with a freckled face. Billy looked over at the old car and at the kid behind the wheel and said, What the fuck, over? Clayton
Chapter 7-Rianna
CLAYTON WAS BONE-TIRED from his first week at work. But he was also very self-satisfied that he had made it through. Next week was going to be harder still, but it would get better. He knew from the past summers experience that the first week was always the toughest and that, sometime in the second or third week, his body would adjust and that he would stop thinking about how tired or how hot he was. All in all, it was nice to have a couple of days off. That was when summer freedom really began. Randy was already up when Clayton hobbled into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and maybe a bite of breakfast. He hobbled because his feet and ankles hurt. They hurt last year at the beginning of the summer. He knew that they, too, would get better with time, but right now they fucking hurt. Seriously annoying! Hey man, how about some tennis this morning, round about eleven oclock? Randy asked, completely ignoring Claytons debilitated state. Clayton, Randy and Lucy, Randys current main squeeze, had stayed up playing music the night before till Clayton nodded off on the recliner around half-past nine.
ONE AFTERNOON, AFTER WORK, Clayton was driving the old car over to his Uncles house in the northeast part of Albuquerque. He and Randy had agreed to come over and help remove a hedge row of old, overgrown bushes. Randy had reported to a different job site that day, so the two were driving separately. It had been a long, hot and especially hard day. Clayton had spent the whole day digging out footers in preparation for a concrete pour in the morning. Digging with a shovel all day was hard duty, but Clayton didnt mind. He enjoyed the repetitious nature of the work; he could lock himself into a rhythm and, once his muscles settled into the job, he could turn his mind loose to daydream. Time passed quickly and before he knew it, the day was over. He was tired and dirty with sweat mixed with dust, and his muscles were sore. He was heading north on San Pedro and had stopped at a traffic signal. A traffic engineer would have designated San Pedro as a minor collector or local collector road. It had only two, extra wide, lanes. Along the west side, older homes fronted onto the road, with driveways, mailboxes, and front yards with an offset sidewalk. On the east side, newer housing developments
HEY CLAY, I THINK maybe you werk for me, Ricky said one afternoon, as they drove back from a remodel job they had been working on. Wow, Clayton thought with mixed feelings of pride and apprehension. What do you mean, work for you? You know, I werk for me. I contractor. I have contract with Lou to do job. I no werk for heem. I do contract werk. See this truck? Pretty good truck. Es mi truck, mi tools, todo es mio. I werk for me. THERE IT WAS; WHAT Ricky was saying was that he was living the American dream. In America, a man could make something of himself, if he worked hard enough and had ambition. This was a time when nobody really cared if a man had legal status. A time before the crazy years, when politics was going to create problems where none existed. In the crazy years to come, politics would be about manufacturing issues intent on dividing the country, not uniting it. Divisive social issues, wedge issues, wedgies, atomic wedgies. A wedgy was a locker-room prank where the perpetrator grabbed the back of the
Chapter 10-Maureen
CLAYTON ARRIVED AT THE apartment at ten after six and found a very pensive Randy. Goddamnit Clay, we are gonna be late. The movie starts at seven-thirty and weve gotta leave and collect the girls in twenty minutes. So get your ass in the shower and get ready. Im on top of it, Clayton replied over his shoulder as he scurried down the hallway, to his room, yanking off his shirt over his head as he went. You dont have to tell me twice. He was as excited about tonights date as Randy was, but for different reasons. Randy was taking out Lucy, his main squeeze. A great gal, but Randy had been dating her for a while and he was much more interested in, and really didnt want to be late for, the movie, The Godfather, the hottest flick in town. Clayton, on the other hand, was excited about the gal he was taking out. Maureen was her name and all week he couldnt think of anything else. HE HAD SEEN HER walking through the crush of bodies at the activity center of the social club his cousin belonged to on Sandia Base. The club was holding a teen
Chapter 11-Work
CLAYTON LIKED TO WORK. He liked getting up early, before sunup, and going to work. He liked being at work; the sights and sounds and the feeling of making something. He liked the physical side and the tired sense of accomplishment at the days end. He smiled inwardly at the way his muscles ached a little when he flexed and stretched them; way better than a gym workout. The only thing that bothered him was that his feet and ankles often hurt after a long day, which, if one could, one would readily skip that aggravation. Fucking bird legs, really his ankles were skinnier than a dogs dick. Calves were okay, medium-size and solid, but his ankles were toothpicks; fucking genetics. Clayton worked for three weeks on the remodel job, assisting Ricky with the demolition. During that time Clayton got to know Ricky, and his respect for the little Mexican grew. One of the first things he had learned about Ricky was that he had come up from Mexico on a work visa. He had been in the States for six years, had bought a house and had almost saved up enough to bring his wife and two children north. After the three weeks, he and Ricky had become good friends. Ricky respected the gringo kid, who really
AT THE END OF THE DAY, Randy and Clayton grabbed their lunch pails and their drink coolers and headed to the old car. They stowed everything in the trunk, in front of the rumble seat, and fired up the old car for the trip home. As usual, the engine doesnt catch and the starter motor quickly runs down the battery. Clayton had, wisely, parked the car on a slight incline to make it easier to push start. Push starting the old car was quite easy; you just had to get it barely rolling and the large tires would create a significant enough torque to turn the old engine over. How about those two nerds playing strip poker with a hot chick? Clayton opened. Can you fucking believe it? Randy responded with a mock-exasperated tone. You met her? Clayton asked hopefully. Yeah, I did better than that, I got her number. Theres that grin. Thats my boy! Fucking Randy never failed to get a girls number. Clayton once saw Randy jump out of his car at a stoplight to ask a pretty girl in the car waiting at
JULY 4 WAS ON A Tuesday, which gave ample opportunity for an extra-long, four-day weekend, but the construction industry rarely opted for such extravagances. Time is money; construction companies only make money when projects are worked on. Same goes for the subcontractors, who perform piecework such as framing, sheet rocking, plumbing, electrical, and the like. Especially, the same goes for the workers who get paid hourly and cant afford losing eight or more hours of pay to lie around an extra day. Many companies didnt give holiday pay, and most subs, who work for themselves, didnt either. CR Bailey did pay eight hours for the Fourth, but you had to work the Monday before, which was okay with Clayton. That particular Monday was an especially good day. The workday before a holiday always seemed to be light and airy, hell, even joyful, just like being at school the day before a vacation. It had started to rain in the morning and the crews that worked outside had to knock off. But Clayton and Randy were working through a punch list that required them to be on the inside of a number of homes that were just about to be final-ed, ready for the owners to occupy. They were installing cabinet and drawer hardware and laying down beads of
Chapter 14-July 4
SERGEANT ALBERTO APODOCA, Al to his friends, came into the precinct station at five forty-five Tuesday evening. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought to himself, fucking Fourth of July. I hate this shift. It gets worse every year. At six oclock, on the dot, he briefed his squad. I dont have to tell you men its the Fourth of July. Next to Halloween or Cinco de Mayo, this night sucks to be a peace officer. So, stay on your toes; anything can happen tonight. Expect lots of drunks; some of them may be armed. Work together when approaching anybody that appears to be inebriated. As he stood at the podium, he thought to himself, Please, no more than three shootings tonight. He didnt have the manpower to station at shootings, waiting for homicide detectives, while his city or his piece of the city erupted into euphoric party craziness. Watch yourself and watch out for each other, he admonished his men as he closed the briefing. Sergeant Apodoca was a fourteen-year veteran of the Albuquerque police force and had seen enough Fourths from his patrol car to fill a career. This one was going to be one the department would be talking about for a long time. As he climbed into his patrol car, he
THEY DROVE EAST THROUGH the neighborhood, keeping off the major arterial streets. Before they got to Pennsylvania Avenue, the next major north-south arterial, they came up behind IHOP, located on Menaul a little under a mile east of Sambos. Clayton and Vinnie dropped Randy off behind the restaurant and then circled back around through the subdivision, so that they could come out on Menaul west of the restaurant and drive east past it, as before. Randy walked out to Menaul, about a block east of the restaurant, and started to go west on the sidewalk. If their timing was right, Randy would be walking in front of the restaurant just as the old car came idling up. But it wasnt and there was a wrinkle they had not accounted for: the front door into IHOP was at the center of the restaurant, facing Menaul, right where the scene was staged to unfold. As Randy approached the restaurant, he could see people going in and coming out the front door, departing from and returning to the sidewalk; his sidewalk, his stage. As Randy got closer to the front door, the old car came idling up and Vinnie was just starting to emerge onto the running board when four college-age girls
Chapter 16-Home
THE OLD CAR ROLLED along the highway, heading west in the early hours of the morning, chased by the sunrise. The light of the impending dawn was just starting to peek over the horizon behind the young man at the wheel. The young mans name was Clayton, Clay to his friends and family, and he was going home. The road ahead was still cloaked in the pitch-black darkness of the night, pierced only by the faint glow from the shiny chrome headlights of the old car. As Clayton settled into the long drive, he listened to Mungo Jerry croon In the Summertime, and his head began to swim with thoughts of the summer that had just passed; an unconscious smile spread across his face. But then his thoughts became interrupted by the slow, but inexorable, march of the sun behind him. The sun continued its steady rise; still hanging well below the horizon behind him, but more and more of the scenery around him began to be revealed. In the half-light, the period in the early morning when the sun has not yet crested the horizon in the east, but everything is becoming illuminated from the wash of the suns rays over the curvature of the earth, Clayton began to see land forms out in the dark night; gray silhouettes at first, then slowly turning into blue-gray shapes.