“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!”
Back and forth they go, laughing. Whiptail. Spiny. Whiptail. Spiny. Bron rights his chair and settles back down, his brain becoming comfortably numb. His head is swimming with the booze and the great lizard debate and, in a nonsensical way, how good it all feels. Warm. Relaxing. Friendly. Before he knows it, there’s a refill in his glass. Then another. Jesus.
Hours pass. As the shadows deepen, strings of multicolored year-round Christmas lights pop on, outlining buildings and fences up and down the street. Kind of pretty, especially because it’s all kind of blurry. The last thing Bron sees is Luke and Timo doing drunken hip-hop moves on the deck. The last thing he hears is the pounding of the music from the speaker:
Got money on my mind, I can never get enough…
Chapter 10
TYLER BRON is 170 pounds of dead weight—out cold and snoring. Timo holds his ankles, Luke has him under the armpits. They carry him the ten yards back to his room and set him gently on the bed. Luke slips Bron’s sandals off and places them neatly on the floor.
“I wasn’t planning on this part,” says Timo.
“I’m not the one who mixed the drinks,” says Luke.
They head toward the door, but Timo has a thought. He goes back and rolls Bron onto his side. “Just in case he pukes,” he whispers. Luke gives a quick thumbs-up. They slip out and close the door softly.
As they walk down the wooden walkway toward their room, hands on each other’s shoulders, Luke says, “Okay, he’s down. Are we done?”
But… he’s not talking to Timo or to anybody else in sight. He’s talking into thin air. But talking to whom?
Chapter 11
SPOOKY. REALLY spooky.
I’m watching a hi-def feed from a camera on the motel deck. Everything’s in night-vision mode now. Very Zero Dark Thirty. Luke and Timo look like two glowing ghosts moving along the porch toward their room.
Daisy is standing near the monitor, wearing a nearly invisible Bluetooth headset. As usual, she does the talking.
“That’s it for tonight, guys. Thanks.”
I give myself a little pat on the back. God knows I won’t get one from her. I have to admit, Luke and Timo are perfect. Daisy couldn’t have done a better job with the casting. Now Tyler Bron has a couple of bros—just the way I wrote them.
Chapter 12
DAMN, THAT’S good weed!
The trim brunette in a peasant skirt leans against a stucco wall outside her place of employment, which is definitely a smoke-free environment. It’s a beautiful day, and getting mellower by the minute. She looks up into the cloudless sky, takes another deep drag, then exhales an impressive plume, which is carried away on a light desert breeze.
Whoa. Not too much now. Need to be on point. But the sky is so beautiful…
Ding, ding, ding!
Shit! It’s the bell from inside. She takes a final puff, stubs out the joint carefully against the wall and sticks it in her pocket. She brushes her hands briskly over her top and skirt to make sure no ashes linger, then straightens her name tag.
WILLOW BAILEY, LIBRARIAN.
Inside, Tyler wanders past neat rows of wooden card catalogs and stacks of neatly filed books. In a tiny space labeled KID’S CORNER, colorful beanbag chairs surround a low table scattered with oversize picture books and stuffed animals. Bron’s head is still throbbing from last night, but this morning he’s a man on a mission. He calls out toward the back of the room…
“Hello? Anybody here?”
Willow pushes open the door from the back hall, shifting back, shifting back into professional mode.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s just me today,” she calls out. And then, as she rounds the corner into the main room, “Hi, there. I’m Willow. I’m the librarian.”
Okay, Bron thinks to himself, this is no dowdy book checker. Young, hip, cute. Maybe a little… spacey.
Okay, Willow thinks to herself, this is no local cowboy. Tall, polite, attractive. Definitely a little… sunburned.
“How can I help?” asks Willow. “Looking for anything special?”
“Hi. I’m Tyler. I just got here yesterday, and to tell the truth, I’m not even sure how I got here, but anyway… I need some help connecting with the world.”
“Oh,” says Willow, “like… self-help?” She brightens. Right up her alley. “Chakras? Meridians? Inner power? That sort of thing?”
“No, no. I mean connecting. Actually connecting… digitally.”
“Oh.” Willow’s expression falls just a little.
“Please tell me you have a computer,” Bron says.
Willow recovers and gives Bron a don’t-be-silly look. “Of course we have a computer. It’s in the back…”
They walk past a row of well-worn encyclopedias and a wooden pedestal holding a huge Spanish–English dictionary. Following a step behind, Bron can’t help but notice the sway of Willow’s hips. And her bare feet. And the rings on her toes. Making small talk with attractive young women has never been Bron’s forte, but he gives it a shot.
“Can I ask you something?” Bron says.
“
Sure.”
“What’s the story with this town? Is it actually on the map? Does it even have a name?”
“Nada.”
“Nada? Nothing? You mean… it doesn’t have a name?”
“No, I mean Nada is the name. Before 1940, this was just desert. Then they started mining for uranium here, for the Manhattan Project. They put up some Quonset huts, built a few buildings and bars and some hangars outside of town. Thing is, they never found any uranium. Not a speck. So the scientists called the place “Nada.” Their little joke. These days, nobody really calls it anything. It just kind of… is.”
Willow stops at a small study carrel in the back of the room and makes an adorably awkward “ta-dah” motion. Behold… the computer! A Dell desktop model—from the mid-1990s. The boxy monitor sits on top of a CPU with two slots for floppy disks. Over nearly three decades, the cabinet and keyboard have gone from beige to brownish. A museum piece for sure.
“Wow,” says Bron, “I think I used one of these once… in high school.”
“Well,” says Willow, “it doesn’t get a lot of use here. So I’m sure it’s good as new.”
The space is tight, but even so, Willow is standing a little bit closer than necessary. Bron can smell the fragrance of herbal shampoo radiating from her hair. And something else? Can’t be. He must be imagining it.
“All right then,” says Willow, clapping her palms together. “I will leave you to it!”
“Do I need a password?” Bron asks.
“Nope. Already logged in.”
Bron sits down at the ancient machine and clicks the only browser icon on the screen: AOL.
Nothing. Then… Ssssssssssssss Boing, Boing, Boing! Click.
“Dial up. Of course,” Bron mutters to himself.
Somehow, back at her desk, Willow overhears him.
“Need help with the technology back there?”
“Nope,” Bron calls back, “I think I’ve got it.”
The download time is glacial. Excruciating. Ten whole minutes for Bron to view his company website, where he discovers that he has taken a leave of absence.
He taps out the password for his company email. “Address disabled.” He tries Google Mail. His account is gone—vaporized. Same with LinkedIn, bank and brokerage passwords. Everything.
Impressive, Bron thinks. Crane has really thought of everything. In the digital universe, Tyler Bron no longer exists. No timeline. No profiles. No history. Just the now.
He rolls back in the chair and lets out a long breath. His old world is gone, but what’s left? When he asked Crane to write him a life, this is not what he had in mind. Not by a long shot.
Willow is at the front desk reading a reflexology book as Bron emerges from the back.
“All good?” she asks.
“Well,” says Bron, “I learned some things about myself.”
“Good for you,” she says. “Namaste.”
Just as he reaches the door, Bron has a thought. He turns. Willow looks up and smiles. Pretty.
“One more question. Have you read any books by an author named Damian Crane?”
Willow gives it some thought, then shakes her head. “Nope. Sorry. Never heard of him.”
Chapter 13
SONOVABITCH! GODDAMN hi-tech crap!”
Pico Fuentes, proprietor of Pico’s Auto Repair & Body Shop, is pissed off big-time. He heaves a repair manual into the wall on the other side of the garage, barely missing the passion-red Mazda in the repair bay.
Pico is sixty-five and feeling every day of it. He’s old enough to remember when cars were really cars, with vent windows and ashtrays and hood ornaments… and carburetors. He really misses carburetors. Now it’s all electronic fuel injection, oxygen sensors, and on-board diagnostic protocols. He’s got the hood open on a 2006 Dodge Dakota and he might as well be staring into the goddamn space shuttle.
The last thing he needs right now is visitors. But he’s about to get some.
Oh, no. Please. Not again. They’re back. And now with a third one?
“Pico, my man! ¿Qué pasa?” calls Luke.
“We’re here to check on the patient!” says Timo.
Today, for the first time, Bron tags along. It’s his first visit to Pico’s since he rolled into town with Grandpa and Gonzalo two weeks ago. Seems like about two light-years.
As Bron steps into the garage with his buddies, he gets smacked with the odors of grease and oil and, to be blunt… of Pico. The temperature in the shop is pushing ninety, and those overalls haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a while. Pico is a big guy with a burly beard. Reminds Bron of a pre-diet Zac Brown. But a lot less cuddly.
“See for yourself,” says Pico with a snarl. He waves a meaty hand toward the drive train and rear differential on the floor.
“Your toy isn’t gonna fix itself. I still need parts. And the boys over in Miyoshi are taking their sweet time.”
“Almost a month now, Pico! How much longer?” asks Timo.
Pico shrugs. “Talk to Tojo.”
Luke walks over to the Miata and runs his hands soothingly over the hood. “Patience, baby, patience…”
“You boys can stroke your sweetheart for as long as you want,” says Pico, “but I got an emergency case here.” He opens the door to the Dakota and turns the ignition switch. A sad little click comes from the engine compartment.
“Damn it!”
Pico grabs a hand-held engine analyzer off his worktable and leans under the steering column to find the data port. With his bulk, it’s not a pretty sight. He’s breathing hard. Sweating hard. He extracts himself from the cab with a mighty heave, grunting like a walrus. He stares at the readout and tugs at his beard like he’s trying to pull it off.
“This code makes no goddamn sense!”
Bron is transfixed by the analyzer. His brain is alive and firing. This is the first piece of true twenty-first century technology he’s seen in two weeks. He feels compelled to touch it.
“Mind if I take a look?” he blurts out.
Pico gives the pale gringo a dubious stare. “You know trucks, amigo?”
“I know electronics… a bit.”
With a suspicious look, Pico hands over the greasy device. Bron takes the unit eagerly and presses a few buttons. He walks to the front of the truck and instinctively grabs a socket wrench. He hesitates, then nods toward the engine.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
“Go nuts,” Pico says, “but if you fry anything, it’s your ass.”
Bron leans over the engine compartment. With a deft touch he unbolts a black plastic dust cover, exposing three huge plastic connectors, each with a thick bundle of multicolored wires. Bron pops the connectors free one at a time.
He studies the wiring pattern, his mind clicking a million miles an hour. He follows a red wire as thin as a blood vessel. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and probes gently into a tiny socket. He plugs the wiring connectors back in with three satisfying snaps. He turns his head to the side and calls to Pico.
“Try it now.”
Pico reaches inside the cab and cranks the ignition key. The engine fires up. Luke and Timo lean back on the Miata and applaud.
“Bad connection in the PCU,” Bron says. “The analyzers don’t always pick it up.” He closes the hood. “My name’s Tyler, by the way.”
“Drinking buddy of ours,” says Timo, proudly.
“Well, I say he’s a goddamn wizard,” says Pico. He looks at Bron. “Appreciate the help.”
Luke gives the Miata one last pat. “Okay. Show’s over. Let’s get a beer.” Bron, Luke, and Timo head out of the garage. “Put a rush on those parts, okay, Pico?”
“Like I told you—I already did.”
“Then maybe put a rush on the rush.”
“Maybe next time, buy American,” says Pico. Then, “Hey… Tyler.” Bron stops and turns.
“You looking for a job?” Pico wipes his hands with a greasy rag. “I could use somebody who knows these goddamn
computers. The pay sucks and so do the hours.”
Tyler starts to laugh—but wait a minute. He now owes Grandpa about six hundred bucks for lodging, not counting the complementary breakfasts. He’s been letting Luke and Timo pay for sandwiches and beer, along with depleting their supply of tequila and margarita mix.
This is crazy, Bron thinks. I’ve never worked for anybody in my life. Never even applied for a job.
But the thing is… he actually needs the money. He can’t believe what he’s saying until he actually hears the words come out of his mouth: “Absolutely. When do I start?”
Chapter 14
The next night
Tyler peels off his overalls and hangs them on a hook behind the office door. He scrubs as much of the grease off his hands and forearms as he can in the utility sink and heads out of the garage. He presses the button of the heavy overhead door so that it closes behind him, leaving a solitary work light casting a dim glow over tool chests and the still-dismantled Miata.
One oxygen sensor replacement. Two power-train control module adjustments. And three old-fashioned oil changes. Not a bad day’s effort. And it actually felt good to work with his hand instead of his head for a change.
It’s eight o’clock. The Christmas lights are on up and down the street, but Bron heads for the brightest light around—the neon sign over the Desert Diner, smack in the middle of town. His stomach is growling—and with a cash advance from Pico on his eleven-dollars-an-hour wages, the billionaire can finally pay for his own dinner.
The diner is small—about the length of a train car, with a row of booths along the window side and a counter facing the kitchen. Nothing here has been updated since the 1950s, except the jukebox in the far corner, which was updated a couple of decades later. Mixed in with the sound of clanking plates and the buzz of conversation, Bron can make out the bouncy chorus of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”
The place is packed. In fact, it looks like just about everybody in town is here. The handwritten sign up front reads, PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. WE’LL FIND YOU EVENTUALLY. Bron takes a small table just inside the door, which gives him a view down the entire length of the place.