Flash of Spirit

By Robert Lawrence and Debra Williams

Action Adventure/Mystery - Follow the adventures and misadventures of kids from a small mining town in southeastern Arizona!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781631923494

Book preview

occupied...

CHAPTER I

"Black ribbon back roads, gentle and free, takin’ me places I yearn to be. Black ribbon back roads, simple narrow two lanes, gentle and free, leadin’ me places I want to be. Soft round shoulders, slow down curves, simple narrow two lanes gentle and free, leadin’ me places I yearn to be. Black ribbon back roads, gentle and free. Yes, this is KMBJ, the best of the best on your favorite FM radio station. That was Bobby Jay Lawrence, takin’ us home. Stay close for more of the best. Three in a row comin’ up.

Twenty-one what’s your location? cracked the radio.

Hey, Thelma, a casual voice with a slight western drawl responded. I’m thirty miles out of Bisbee, enjoying my favorite music, plenty of fresh air, endless blue skies. Have you made contact yet?

"That’s a Roger, Twenty-one. Meet the man at Milepost 10, inbound to town, on Lodestone Canyon Road."

Thanks, Thelma. I owe you lunch.

The dark blue SUV patiently wound its way through the snakelike highway towards Bisbee. The sun, low on the horizon, cast deep shadows across canyons punctuated by mounds of earth. Littered near each mound were rusted mining dinosaurs, hulking leftovers of an era long ago. Trees gently swayed as the air freshened. At Milepost 11, the vehicle slowed, then moved right to the weedy graveled shoulder, eventually halting at Milepost 10. The powdery dust swirled around the SUV and the waiting Bisbee patrol car. The driver’s door closed with a thud. Howdy Deputy ahh...

Deputy Brooks, Bisbee Police Department. What can we do for you?

Deputy Brooks. A fine drive into these mountains. Looks like rough terrain to be out and about on foot; beautiful just the same. Need some quiet assistance from your department, like I mentioned to Sheriff...

Ramos.

"That’s right, Sheriff Ramos. First, let me identify myself. Here’s my badge,

ID, for you to look over. Make sure I’m legit."

Thanks. Appears to be in order with the information we received from your office.

Next, I’d like a place to stash the car, change my clothes, and again ask for your help.

No problem, Deputy Brooks continued, leave the vehicle on the dirt road behind me. Lock it. Give me the keys. We’ll impound it behind the station, and you can pick it up when you’re ready.

Great! That works.

As you requested — nails, hammer, boards, paint and brushes are located in the dumpster behind the museum on ...

Got it. I studied a street map.

Change clothes?

No problem, Deputy. I’ll duck behind that creosote bush.

Fifteen minutes later the newcomer, overnight bag stuffed with his old clothing, returned with a slight grin, opened the plainappearing SUV’s door, and tossed in the bag.

Well, mister, you’ll certainly standout and blend in all at the same time around our fair city. Lock up your ride and hop in. It’s a short jaunt, just five miles into town.

Well sir thanks, but no thanks. Might as well start the show now. I’ll just hoof it. These sandals need some wear and tear.

Deputy Brooks returned to the squad car, radioed the dispatcher for a tow truck, and drove towards town to resume his regular patrol. The newcomer scuffed his way down Lodestone Canyon Road, left thumb in the air, the other hand jammed in the pocket of his loose-fitting overalls.

* * *

The late afternoon monsoon chewed through Tucson clearing the air. A taxi splashed through shallow puddles slowing near the curb. The cabbie turned in his seat facing the rear, Here we are, mister. I’ll grab your bags. The driver’s door slammed shut, as the passenger and a small dog emerged from the backseat.

Rumpled and travel-worn the passenger reached back into the cab. Picking up a slim briefcase, hat, cane, and leash, he talked to the Chihuahua. Alright, Nugget, stretch your legs, go potty. Good boy, he whispered.

I think you’ll be in good hands, the driver walked toward his passenger and coughed out his words. Maxie sells quality vehicles. Besides he’s my brother-in-law. That’s thirty bucks. Bags are on the sidewalk. Should‘ve charged you extra for the overstuffed monster. What’cha got in there, rocks?

Come on, Nugget. Let’s meet Maxie. Buy our transportation. We need to shake off that long flight. No barking now. The leashed dog tugged his owner in a different direction, then followed him onto the used car lot.

From top to bottom, Maxie Gleason was the picture of a used car salesman. Rotund belly overhung his disappearing leather belt. A cowboy hat, striped sports coat, Hawaiian print shirt, maroon pants, white deck shoes, and no socks completed his car salesman attire. Step up, mister. A bold handshake gripped his new-found customer’s hand. Frankie tells me you’re looking for a heavy-duty van. Well, yes sir, have several that will fit the bill, Good boy, that Frankie. A really good boy.

After searching twenty minutes, Nugget picked the vehicle by lifting his leg on the rear tire of a battered delivery van. I’ll take this one. said the customer. Start the engine please, turn on the lights, signals. Hmm, tires are worn. Back door’s wide enough for easy loading. Sturdy enough for heavy stuff. Let me drive it. After a short spin around the block, the vehicle parked in front of Maxie’s office, where serious price negotiations took place.

Cash talks to me mister. Cash. Say, didn’t get your name, said Maxie. The bartering went on for another half-hour, and was settled with a cash payment and a gold lump suspended on a slim chain. Herman Melville signed the sales receipt, loaded the dog and his bags into the ageing delivery van and drove away. Well, Nugget, the driver peered at his four legged companion. Another famous author has signed a sales slip. Couldn’t use Mark Twain with that guy. But, ha, ha, I bet he never read Moby Dick!! The van turned sharply into the driveway of a twenty-four hour self-storage business. It backed up to a large storage unit and stopped.

The driver yawned, opened the van’s doors and the over-head door to the storage room, flipped on lights and began to transfer the boxes from storage to the van. Nugget, I’ll need lots of coffee to stay awake for our drive to Bisbee. Here, he said, drink some water, eat a snack. I need you to keep me awake besides this big cup of black coffee. Even during our never ending plane ride, I still couldn’t sleep.

An hour later and fully loaded, the van squatted low in the rear and high over the front wheels. The driver placed the dog on the passenger’s seat and walked around the nose of the van. Tossing his wrinkled jacket, hat, cane, and briefcase towards the back, he climbed onto the driver’s seat, buckled up, slammed the door, and cranked the engine to life. Turning out of the storage facility, the overloaded van belched puffs of blue smoke sputtering down the road.

Long, fast eighteen wheelers flicked their lights while passing on the high speed interstate highway. The heavily loaded van crept along the outside lane, rocking as the big highway freighters passed it with ease. I don’t care Nugget, the driver yelled, we’re on the way. Those big trucks can honk and pass all night long. Just have to keep my eyelids open for the right exit. He reached for a cold, half-full cup of coffee. Taking little sips of his bitter drink, he tried hard not to spill any on his lap. Already his internal time-clock was wearing down. He replaced the coffee cup on the console, rubbed his eyes, and slapped his face red. Further down the freeway a large green highway sign read: Bisbee Exit 2 miles. O.K. Nugget, our exit in four minutes. Looks like twenty-two miles, but I’m almost sure it’s just two miles to our turn-off. He blinked. The van wandered left then right, and then slowed up the exit ramp, stopping with a lurch at the Bisbee turn-off.

Well Nugget, I’m glad we rented that hole-in-the-wall store in Bisbee. Last month is like a blur in my memory. Loading, unloading, flying half-way around the world. Using different names and fake I.D. helped, but we’re almost to a resting stop. The van turned off the exit ramp and headed onto a two lane road. A faded road sign lit up by headlights read: Bisbee 50 miles. Solid white lines along the edge of the pavement, and a glowing yellow stripe were the only indications of the road’s boundaries. More sips of coffee, but the instrument panel grew dim, and the driver’s eyes began to wander as the van straddled the center line, drifted right then left. Nugget barked as the vehicle spit up rocks along the narrow shoulder. The van jerked left, slowed somewhat on the flat curves of the road. I’m with it, Nugget. Don’t worry. I’m in control. Another half-hour. We’ll park. Open the shop. And just flop on the floor. A giant yawn grew over the driver’s face, as he again over-corrected the van. He attempted to sip coffee, but his eyes left the road.

The weaving grew worse as the van careened down the road. The van cut curves longer on the outside, shorter on the inside. Tree limbs scraped the outsides, balding tires kicked up small pebbles. The van barely slowed. He cheered at the 10 mile road marker.

Unexpectedly, a silhouette jumped out from the roadside on a downhill slope. The van swerved toward the now illuminated figure. The headlights blinded the roadside figure as he raised his left arm to shield the light. He appeared dead center to the out-of-control van.

CHAPTER II

Clump, clump, clump. The thudding noise vibrated throughout the small white wooden-framed house. Slightly muffled by the hallway carpet, the clumping became louder as it moved throughout a clean but overcrowded living room. A wiry old man snored deeply in a frayed recliner as Beto tried to tip-toe through the living room. Slam, slap, complained the screen door as Beto clumped past his gum-chewing, telephone–to-ear sister sitting on a breakfast bar stool in the kitchen.

Beto, Beto! María scolded. Come back right now! No helmet, no rollerblading! I’m calling Mom, Beto! María was out the screen door in a flash, phone cord pulling her back, screeching her lungs out with alarming clarity.

Beto bounded off the porch. In mid-air with knees flexed, he flew by piles of rusted mining equipment, slammed down on the rear concrete walkway and cruised out the backyard chain link gate. Circling sharply to the left, he pumped up the sidewalk, jumped to the porch, and re-entered the white, clapboard house with a bang.

"Abuelo, Abuelo! Por favor,Mi helmet. It’s in our bedroom!"

"Mijo, my bones are old! his grandfather reluctantly groaned, pushing his body up from the recliner. Wait there. María, stop screeching! He’s een front. Don’t call tu madre. I’ll get the hard hat. ¡Yjuela! Dios mío ¡Muchachos, muchachos! Rollerblades!"

Helmet, hard hat, he muttered. "Aquí...Cuidado mijo."

Gracias, abuelo, ¡Adiós! Beto wheeled about, the silver helmet secured, blue pads and gloves attached to the right body parts, and rolled down the steep hill of Clawson Canyon. The shadows and morning light shining between buildings flickered on Beto’s moving body like old time black and white movies. The Iron Man statue flashed by, then Castle Rock, the Lyceum, the County Building, and Castle Rock Inn. He then pumped up Subway Street towards Bisbee High, coasted down Howell Street past the yellow and green Copper King Hotel with spit-polished Harleys militarily parked in front. Steeper still, the street angled right past the Brewery Steak House and Old Miners Café. The early summer morning air was fresh with a slight tint of ozone from last evening’s thunderstorm. The rushing air flapped Beto’s worn-out Sun’s team jersey as his knees peeked out through worn jeans.

Rounding the corner near the Bisbee Museum of Mining and History, Beto spied Trey and Levi, his two friends, across the street on the pot-holed parking area near Lyne Plaza. Straddling well-worn mountain bikes, they yelled and waved at Beto to join them.

Is your mom at work? Levi asked.

Yeah. Let’s see if we can get her to cook up some chorizo and eggs. I think the tortillas are already made. Give me a tug!

Beto latched onto the bikes’ seats. Trey and Levi took him up Lodestone Canyon Road to delicious smells of breakfast at Tía Carmen’s

"Ay! Los three amigos!" exclaimed Mama, peering over Tía Carmen’s screened back door as the noisy parade came to a halt.

"Don’t lay your bikes in the alley, mijos. Put them close to the wall. She turned to Carmen, ¡Tres chorizo con huevos para los amigos!"

The narrow restaurant was divided into two distinct sections; the back kitchen and the dining room. A 1950’s style Formica counter bordered by chrome pedestal stools with gray-white swirled vinyl covers separated one part from the other. A dining table and four matching chrome and vinyl-covered chairs were perched on a small platform at the front of the restaurant. The large window was bordered with gold leaf and layered with red and green paint, announcing Tía Carmen’s Gourmet Mexican Diner, and its hours of operation. Booths lined the opposite wall. On each table pale green cut glass vases sprouted festive pastel colored paper flowers.

The boys picked up their paper plates and plastic utensils as they marched assembly-line fashion through the kitchen, around the counter, and directly toward the picture window at the front of the restaurant. Each plate contained warm, moist flour tortillas, green salsa, and spicy Mexican chorizo mixed with scrambled eggs.

You’ve been feeding them all summer, complained Carmen.

"¡Cállete! Boys need energy. Besides, they’re good boys. And always hungry, said Mama. Are the frijoles ready for lunch and the mole for dinner?"

The boys ate ravenously as they peered through the plate glass window. Lodestone Canyon Road was barely alive with light traffic. Shop owners across the street were just arriving and turning their Closed signs over to Open. Bisbee was awakening from its evening slumber and yawning into another day.

Whoa! Check out the guy, I think, across the street, burst Levi.

It’s an A with arms and legs. Way cool! said Trey.

"¡Mamá! ¡Tía! ¿Qué es? ¡Mira, mira! What is it?" yelled Beto.

"Oh, he just came into town a week ago. He wanted me to pay him three dollars to advertise the restaurant. He puts the ads on his sign board. Then he carries the sign board around town. He needs money to eat. I gave him a burrito and agua. He has two A sign boards- a long one for weekdays and a short one for Saturday and Sunday. He must get tired. I see him put the sign down a lot, explained Mama. Maybe we’ll advertise, then maybe not. We’ll see," explained Mama.

The A sign turned. Attached to one side of the turquoise painted wood frame were advertisements from several of Bisbee’s businesses and restaurants. Through a narrow slit for visibility, two eyes shifted left and right as the human billboard slowly moved across the alleyway and up the concrete curb. Scuffed sandals slowly guided the A sign man down the narrow sidewalk, while two arms in a threadbare shirt gripped wooden crosspieces and carried the contraption to the next corner stopping place.

Through a mouthful of breakfast Trey muttered, What a way to earn meals. I hope he has a license or permit. My dad might have to discuss the town rules with him. At least he’s trying to earn his way. Man, this breakfast is great!

"Who moved in below the