Desert Places (Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite Series 1)

The man smiled and took my brother’s hand. “I guess we’ll be heading on, then. Hoping to make Yellowstone before midnight. The kids are just wild about that damn geyser.”

“Have a safe trip,” Orson said. The man crossed the road and climbed back into his van. My brother waved to the kids in the backseat, and they giggled and waved back, delighted. As the van drove away, I watched its taillights begin to fade in the rearview mirror.

The next car was close now. It slowed down before it passed us, then pulled over onto the shoulder on our side of the road, stopping just ten feet from the front bumper of Orson’s Buick. From a black Ford pickup truck, one of the enormous new models with a rack of blinding KC lights mounted above the cab, a large man with a substantial beer gut hopped down from behind the wheel. He left the truck running, and the headlights fried my eyes. A country ballad blared from the speakers, and as the driver walked unsteadily toward Orson, I could tell he was drunk. Two other men climbed down out of the passenger side and approached my brother, too.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Orson said as they surrounded him. Each man nursed a pinch of dip crammed between his teeth and bottom lip. The two passengers wore cowboy hats, and the driver held a ragged Redskins cap, his long hair, tangled and greasy, hanging in his face.

“Something wrong with your car?” the driver asked. He spat into the road, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and wiped his hand across his black tank top, which had a blue-and-silver Ford emblem across the front. He hadn’t shaved recently.

“Don’t know,” Orson said. “I was hoping someone would stop who had a little mechanical expertise.” The two passengers dissolved into a drunken giggle, and the driver glanced over at them and smiled. Their teeth were gray and orange from excessive dipping, but regardless of the men’s deficient hygiene, not a one looked older than thirty.

“Where you from, boy?” one of the passengers asked.

Orson assessed the tall, skinny man on the far left and smiled. “Missouri.”

“You a long way from home, ain’t ye?” he said, then took a sip from his beer can.

“Yes, I am,” Orson said, “and I’d appreciate your help.”

“It might cost you something,” the driver said. “It might cost you a whole lot.” He looked at his buddies again, and they all laughed.

“I don’t want any trouble, now.”

“How much money you got?” asked the heavyset man standing in the middle. With dark, bushy sideburns and a hairy belly poking out between his black jeans and white grease-stained T-shirt, he looked so hideously disheveled, I imagined I could smell him through the windshield.

“I don’t know,” Orson said. “I’ll have to go get my wallet and see.”

Orson stepped cautiously by the driver and headed for the trunk, smiling and winking at me as he passed my window. I heard the trunk open, followed by the sound of rustling plastic.

The driver caught me looking at him through the windshield.

“What in the goddamn hell you looking at, boy?” he said. Orson walked by my door again and stopped on the right side of the hood. The three men stared at him suspiciously, though too drunk to notice that he now wore black gloves.

“Your friend’s gonna get his ass whupped if he keeps staring at me.”

“He’s harmless,” Orson said. “Look, I could give you twenty dollars. Would that be sufficient?”

The driver glared at him, dumbfounded. “Let me see your wallet,” he said finally.

“Why?”

“Motherfucker, I said give me your wallet.” Orson hesitated. “You stupid, boy? Wanna get your ass kicked?”

“Look, guys, I said I don’t want any trouble.” Orson let the fear ooze from his voice.

“Then cough up your wallet, you dumb shit,” said the obese middle passenger. “We need more beer.”

“Will you fix my car?” The men broke into laughter. “I have more than twenty dollars,” Orson pleaded. “At least look under the hood and see if you can tell what’s wrong.”

Orson moved to the front of the Buick. Reaching through the grille, he pulled a lever and lifted the massive hood. Then he returned to where he’d been standing, on the right side of the car, near me. I could see nothing now but my brother, still talking to the men.

“Just take a look,” Orson prodded. “Now if you guys don’t know anything about cars…”

“I know cars,” a voice said. “Stupid city f**k. Don’t know shit about shit, do you?”

The Buick squeaked and sank as if someone had knelt against the bumper.

“Check the radiator,” Orson said. “Something’s causing the engine to overheat.”

The car shifted again. “No, on the inside,” Orson said. “I think something melted. You have to get closer to see. Move, guys. You’re in his light.”

A muffled voice said, “I don’t know what in the f**k—”

Orson slammed the hood. The two passengers shrieked and jumped back in horror. Blood speckled the windshield. Orson lifted the hood once more and slammed it home. The driver sprawled momentarily against the hood, squirting the windshield as he sank down into the dirt.

“Get the shotgun!” the fat one yelled, but no one moved.

“Don’t worry about it, boys,” Orson said in that same timorous voice. “I have a gun.” He pointed my .357 at the two men. “I hope you aren’t too f**ked up to know what this is. You,” he told the slender man, “pick up your buddy’s head.” The man dropped his beer can. “Go on, he won’t bite you.” The man lifted it off the ground by its long, grimy hair. “Right this way, boys,” Orson said. “Walk around the side of the car. That’s it.” The men walked by the driver’s door, and Orson walked by mine. I turned to look through the back window, but the trunk was open. He’d never shut it.

“I’m sorry about the wallet.…”

“In you go,” Orson said. The car didn’t move. “Do I have to shoot you both in the kneecaps and drag you in there myself? I’d rather you not bleed all over my car if it can be helped.” When the hammer cocked, the car suddenly shook as the men climbed clumsily into the trunk.

“Stupid, stupid boys,” Orson said. “It’d have been better for you if you’d all three looked under that hood.” He closed the trunk.