Above the Law Read Online Free Page B

safe. And cautious.”
    I’ve been known to take risks against the odds—but being a husband and father is very tempering against that. “Of course I will.”
    “Okay, then. I love you.”
    “I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
    “Oh, before I hang up. Did you?”
    “Did I what?”
    “Buy the motorcycle.”
    With everything else going on, I’d forgotten about that. “Yes. It’s outside in the trailer, even as we speak.”
    “It was worth it, then.”
    “I guess.”
    We said our good-byes and hung up. Everything was okay now. It was only a storm, and I had shelter.
    “You know what’s a bitch?” Deedee the waitress said. She was sitting on a bar stool, shoes off, rubbing her stockinged feet.
    “What?” Pauline asked. The girls had moved to the bar, where they had a better view of the television. The news was on: pileups on the freeway, a bank robbery in Palm Springs, and of course, the sandstorm, which got most of the airplay.
    “I can’t go outside to smoke, ’cause of this storm, and I can’t smoke in here, ’cause of the stupid antismoking lobby and the chickenshits up in Sacramento.”
    Marilyn told her, “It’s brutal.”
    My group had been in the Brigadoon for a couple of hours now, the last to find refuge. Nothing was moving outside; nothing human, anyway. Time passed slowly. We’d eaten, including decent blueberry pie a la mode for dessert (homemade). Most of us were sprawled out around the room, watching The Simpsons, which the kids had turned to, except for the motor-homers, who had brought a Scrabble game in with them and were playing a spirited four-handed game, and the executives, who were playing liar’s poker.
    A general torpor permeated the place. Wally the bartender, Ray the cook, and Deedee had joined the rest of us in the restaurant proper. We had nowhere to go and nothing to do, and plenty of time for both. I wished I’d brought a book along, but who knew?
    Pauline leaned across the bar and helped herself to a draft. For the last hour, since everyone had finished their dinners, Wally had stopped bartending and had come around to the civilian side. Those who wanted a drink got their own and dropped bills, honor-system style, into a jug he’d placed on the counter.
    The room was close—the windows were shut as tightly as possible and the air-conditioning had gotten clogged up from sand blowing into the filter. We were beginning to breathe each other’s air, smell each other’s body odors. Before dinner I had given myself a half-assed sponge bath with paper towels, but I still felt grimy and oily. It was getting to be a ripe environment and would get more aromatic before it was over.
    The towheaded boy heard the noise outside first. He’d gotten bored with watching television and was standing near the door, staring at the patterns of sand blowing against the window, like snowflakes in a winter storm.
    “Daddy, come here.”
    His father walked over to him.
    “Do you see that. Dad?”
    “What, Roger?” The man looked out the window.
    “I thought I saw something outside.” The boy pressed his face to a pane of glass.
    His father leaned in next to him. “No, I don’t see…” He paused; then: “What is that?” he exclaimed, loudly enough that it caught my attention.
    I walked over to them.
    The father turned to me. “I thought I saw something moving.”
    I leaned forward and joined him, our heads almost touching. Then we looked at each other, startled expressions on our faces.
    Sheer visceral reaction—I tore open the door and rushed outside, the father hot on my heels. It was murky black out, no moon, no stars: only sand, an endless blowing veil. I hollered into the wind, “Where are you?”
    From somewhere, a man’s ragged voice answered, “Here.”
    “Where?” I was staggering forward, blind, my hands stretched out in front of me.
    “Here,” the voice feebly called again, and as I looked in what seemed to be the direction it was coming from,