Summer 2010
This coming Tuesday, June 22nd, is publication day for SNOWBOUND, my fourth novel. I'll be at Maria's Bookshop tonight at 6:30 for those of you who live in the Four Corners area of the Southwest:
Maria's Bookshop
960 Main Avenue
Durango, CO 81301
970-247-1438
June 22, 2010, 6:30 p.m.
Instead of blathering on about SNOWBOUND, I'm just going to share with you MY favorite section. Be warned...it's violent and mean-spirited, and if that isn't your thing, well, what the #@$% are you doing reading my newsletter???
Here's all you need to know. Javier is not a nice man, and he's just kidnapped a woman named Rachel. But he's got a long drive ahead of him, and he needs some coffee to get him through the night. Yes, Javier is a psychopath, but like many of us, when he goes into a coffee shop, he just wants coffee, regular black coffee, and these days, it's just not that simple anymore...
***
From his place in line, Javier had a view through the storefront glass, saw the woman was no longer draped unconscious in the front passenger seat, but struggling to sit up.
A customer collected her drink, the line shuffling forward.
The next couple ordered lattes and items from the pastry case, beside which he now stood, watching the hands of the heavyset barista reaching for two pieces of crumb cake.
He glanced outside, the woman looking down, having probably noticed what he'd done to the seatbelt.
Next customer, a truck driver.
"Just coffee, darlin."
Good man.
Then a woman after some high-end water, a twenty-second transaction, swipe of the credit card, Javier feeling a jolt of anticipatory excitement at the caffeine coming his way and getting back on the road again as that redneck with the braids loved to sing.
Just a family ahead of him now—Mom and Dad, teenage girl, young boy who'd been stealing glances at Jav ever since he'd walked into the store.
Dad: coffee.
Boy: hot chocolate.
Girl: latte.
Javier glanced at his Escalade, saw the front passenger side window sliding down.
Mom: "I'll have an iced, skinny, venti, ten-pump chai latte, hold the whip."
Javier glared in the general direction of the register as a tremor of murderous irritation pulsed between his temples.
The barista, grinning, said, "Could you say that one more time, and just a tad slower."
"Iced. Skinny. Venti. Chai latte. Ten pumps. Hold the whip."
"I have to charge you for the extra pumps."
"That's fine."
"It's my second day, so let me be sure. When you say skinny you mean—"
"Non-fat milk."
The barista grimaced, bracing for the deliverance of bad news. "We just ran out."
"Oh, no." Mom slumping in devastation as Javier calculated that his BP had risen to 130/90, the tips of his ears tingling.
"We have two percent."
"How about one?"
"Sorry."
"What if you made it with water?"
"Water?"
"Instead of steamed milk."
"Um, I've never heard of doing that, but I guess I could. You're the customer, right?"
It wasn't going to stay inside like he hoped, and he knew enough about himself to know if he just stood there watching the fuse burn down, he'd end up doing something combustive and reckless, like that time in Juarez.
Javier opened his mouth, not to say what he really wanted, just to cool himself off, a quick pressure release to get things back to baseline.
"Have you ever tried coffee?" he asked brightly, the family turning as one to see who'd spoken. Javier smiled, felt the hate exuding through his teeth, hoped it overshot them. "They have their Anniversary Blend available tonight. And all you have to say is, ‘Anniversary Blend, please.' None of this complicated ordering. And do you know what? All the barista has to do is take a cup, or a mug if it's for here, and fill it up. And then you are done and the next person can order."
"I'm taking a long time, aren't I?" Mom said. "I'm sorry."
"This is your favorite drink?"
"Guilty as charged. I have two chai lattes a day."
"Ah."
"May I buy your coffee? For the inconvenience?" He couldn't tell if she meant that she was really sorry, or that he was a giant asshole, but he admired her for treading the line so well, even as he despised her.
"No, thank you."
***
A family emerged from Starbucks, carrying a tray of drinks.
Rachael leaned over and hung her arms out the window, resting her chin against the strip of weatherproofing. She raised an arm, let it drop with a bang against the door.
The adults had already passed by without noticing her.
She raised her arm, let it bang again. The young boy glanced back, and when he saw her, he stopped, his eyes narrowing.
Help me. He cocked his head and stared at her, Rachael's face lying against the door, milky, cross-eyed, sweating.
"Help me," she mouthed.
The boy approached the door.
"Help me," she whispered. "I'm not supposed to be here."
"You look funny," he said. "What's wrong with your eyes?"
Rachael fought to keep them from rolling back in her head.
"Donnie, let's go pal! You're holding up progress!"
"Dad, there's something wrong with this woman!"
Oh thank you. Thank you. Rachael on the brink of losing consciousness again, the heroin raging through her blood. She lost the boy to swirls of trailing light, made her eyes bring him back into focus. He looked to be Devlin's age, and now a man was standing beside him, looking down at her, his brow furrowed up. He was soft and round, a young father yet to shed his baby fat, filling out his khaki shorts and yellow polo shirt. His mouth was moving but it took her a moment to connect the movement of his lips to the sounds they made.
"...need a doctor or something?" Get me out of here. "...person who's driving you inside?" Oh God. Please. "...can't understand a word you're saying."
The brown-skinned, blue-eyed man who'd taken her walked up behind the boy and his father.
Rachael tried to lift her eyes from his boots—they appeared to have been fashioned from the pebbled black and yellow skin of Gila monsters.
The boy said, "What's wrong with her?"
Javier smiled. "It's a personal matter, son." He stepped between them and gently lifted Rachael's head off the door, kissing her cheek as he did. "Let's go back to sleep now, honey." Rachael moaned, fighting him with everything she had, which wasn't anything. He opened the door, raised the window, shut the door. When he turned back around, the boy and his father were still standing there. The window lowered again.
Rachael said, "Help me," and groaned loud enough for everyone to hear.
"What's going on here?" the boy's father asked.
Javier sighed, looked down for a moment, studying an oil stain on the concrete.
"What's going on," he said finally, "is that my wife is addicted to heroin. She's loaded right now. This far," he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, "from a lethal overdose. I'm driving her to a detox program in Salt Lake."
"Oh, I'm sorry. That must be so difficult."
"It is. I can only take it a day at a time."
"We're sorry to have disturbed her. Come on, Donnie."
"But she asked for help, Dad."
Javier squatted down, stared at the boy.
He'd already identified all of the exterior cameras.
"I want you to remember this night always," he said. "Because that," he jerked his thumb back toward the window as Rachael banged her arm against the side of the door, "is what drugs can do to you."
"God bless," the boy's father said, and he took his son by the shoulders and guided him back toward a minivan parked on the far side of the gas pumps.
Javier climbed behind the steering wheel of the Escalade. He looked at Rachael, slumped forward into the dash.
"Do you have any idea what you just did?" he said.
***
Inside the minivan, Rick Carter was distributing the Starbucks beverages to his wife and children. He had a long night of driving ahead of him, and with a little luck and no delays, they'd arrive in Albuquerque some time tomorrow afternoon.
He'd just swallowed his first sip when he heard a knock at his window.
He turned, saw the man from the Escalade standing there, felt a small knot blossom in his stomach. For half a second, he debated just putting the car into gear and pulling away.
"What do you think he wants?" his wife asked.
"Guess we'll find out." He lowered his window several inches. "May I help you?"
Javier glanced at the children in the backseat, at the man's pretty wife. The car smelled of Starbucks.
"Do you have a cell phone with you?" Javier asked.
"Yeah, do you need to—"
"Have you called Nine-one-one?"
"Um, no, why would—"
"You're sure?"
"Look, I don't understand what you're—"
Javier jerked the door open and shot the man in the face, two quick bursts into the backseat to silence the screaming, and stared at the woman who'd crushed her recycled cup in her left hand, the burning chai steaming off her fist.
"Enjoying your iced, skinny, venti, ten-pump chai latte, hold the whip?"
He shot her in the throat and shut the door.
Slipping the silenced machinepistol into his leather jacket, Javier strode back across the parking lot, confident that no one had heard or seen a thing.
***
Think about that next time you order that pumpkin latte.
Black coffee forever!
Have a great summer!
Blake