Pomona Queen by Kem Nunn

Author:Kem Nunn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

SEVEN

Doubtless a little search would bring to light old fences or buildings anywhere in the Valley, or stones upon the mountains, still bearing the inscription, “We Sell the Earth.” No one who lived within forty miles of Pomona in the late eighties . . . will forget R. S. Basett and his cheerful, indefatigable, hustling ways, as he burst into town and began to sell pianos and other musical instruments, sewing machines and everything else, but especially real estate.

—F. P. Brackett

Dan Brown exited the freeway at White Avenue. They were headed in a southerly direction when Ardath began to bang his head against the side of the van. Dan Brown ignored him for half a mile before adjusting his rearview mirror the better to see him with and saying, “What the fuck.” Ardath responded by banging his head once more against the metal wall. Dean looked at him for the first time since climbing over his legs. The man was cradling an arm, rhythmically bouncing his head off the interior wall. “It’s my fucking arm,” Ardath said at last. “Fucking Buddy got me on his way out. I think the bastard is broken.”

Dan Brown pulled off the street and into the lot of a Union 76 station. He parked near the restrooms and got out. He walked around to the rear of the truck and opened the door. Ardath got out slowly, still holding his arm.

“Jesus Christ.” Dan Brown said. His voice sounded flat and far away in the empty lot. Dean stared into the metal wall before him. He heard Ardath scream and turned to see Dan Brown inspecting his arm. “Chuck,” Dan said. “Come here and check this shit out, man.”

The bearded man groaned and shook his head. He got out of the truck and walked around to the back. Dan Brown was laughing. “He thinks it’s broken,” Dean heard Dan Brown say. “The motherfucking bone is sticking out of the motherfucking skin.” Dean thought of looking himself, then thought better of it. Then he thought of something else. He was, for the second time in less than an hour, alone in the truck. This time the engine was still running. When he looked toward the dash the ruby eyes of the suicide knob winked at him in the station’s pale fluorescent light. Dan Brown’s keys dangled from the ignition. The engine idled smoothly. Dean’s head throbbed in time with the engine. He looked toward the lot from the open door. Ardath had begun to pace, still clutching his arm. He was moving away from the van, toward a lone phone booth. The other two men moved with him, their backs to the van. It was a motherfucking invitation is what it was and Earl Dean knew an invitation when he saw one. Many came, he thought, few were chosen. He moved between the bucket seats and eased himself behind the wheel. He eased the truck into gear. And he dumped the clutch.

* * *

He was watching them in the rearview mirror.

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