Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(17)

“Who would run away from him?” Skippy snorted. “He provides her with everything her husband couldn’t.”

Dingo frowned. “But one day someone left the front door open. She got a ride here into town and went to an old phone booth.” His voice turned mysterious, full of Rod Serling foreboding. “No one knows who the two women were who came to this very bar, but they talked a few hours, then left. Mahalia went back to Cornucopia, but from then on they allowed her to live freely.”

I said, “It’s not such a wonder that they have to drag women by force, what with all the men constantly disappearing.”

“Not a big mystery,” said Skippy, “when they keep sending the real qualified men to the Texas compound.”

“Yeah,” I said, “where is that compound, anyway? People keep just saying ‘Texas.’”

“No one seems to know,” said Dingo, the light from my laptop screen lighting up his face as we sat at the bar. I’d been letting him use mine but had plans to buy him his own. I’d even found an adult ed class, some community college satellite that was on my way to the mine. He could start in a few days. It was a whole new world for Dingo, a place where he could see galaxies, extraterrestrial planets, papers that some astronomer named Neil DeGrassse Tyson had written. He was quite intelligent, with a good mind for math. It made me wonder what talents the other Lost Boys were squandering. Contrary to Dingo’s protests, I knew that at least some of them lived in squalor, with no tools to live in the outside world. I would know. I’d been there in my youth too. If it wasn’t for the Assassins of Youth picking me up off the ground, literally some of the time, I would not be sitting here writing this now. In many ways, I’d been a lost boy myself. That was probably why I had such empathy for Dingo. “It’s all very mysterious.”

“You’re just a damned thief from the wrong side of the tracks, like all of them other surplus boys,” said Skippy.

Dingo said snobbily, “We prefer the term Lost Boys. And not all of us are thieves. Some of us have made good. Pulled ourselves up by the bootstraps. I don’t even do drugs. They don’t agree with me.”

“And I’m giving him a job, a real job.” I even slapped Dingo on the shoulder. The poor weak guy nearly pitched forward onto my laptop keyboard.

“You are?”

“You are?” echoed Skippy. “At the mine, hauling rocks?”

“No.” I was starting to become irritated with the crusty old bartender. He was a deep gold mine of information when he was in a good mood, but he sure made nasty attacks against anyone who didn’t fully follow Chiles’ protocol and twaddle. If I was going to work for Chiles making good on these gun contracts, I knew I had to get used to people like that. “Prospecting for our club.”

It was heartening, the way Dingo’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Really? You think I can do that?”

“Sure, why not? Of course, eventually we’ll have to return to Bullhead City.”

“Bullhead City? I’ve never been there!” Dingo said it as though I’d mentioned Vegas or San Francisco, a place of glamor.

Skippy was skeptical. “Your Prez going to want to take him on as Prospect? Can’t really picture this weak, feeble kid riding a hog.”

Dingo said, “Don’t call it a hog unless you want to get rolled.”

“I’ve already put a call in to him. If we’re going to be spending all this time up here, we need Prospects. Everyone needs Prospects. We can’t be expected to polish our chrome by ourselves. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” said Dingo. It was a pleasure just seeing his joy. It made me feel good about myself in a way I hadn’t felt in a long ass time.

“Okay. Papa Ewey has to approve it and it has to go on the table for the club’s vote, but I don’t see why not. You’ve already proven yourself useful.”

“Oh yes? How?”

I proceeded with caution. Knowing Skippy’s hardline stance on all things Cornucopia, I couldn’t expect him to be rational about anything that went on out there. Dingo had a much more level headed view. “You know a lot. You’re wise beyond your years. Like, where’s Reed Smoot?” I asked. “I keep hearing his name, but have never seen the guy.”

“Reed Smoot’s not in Texas,” said Skippy, not wanting Dingo to know more than him. “He’s dead.”

Now my jaw hung low. I didn’t even get a chance to ask Skippy what he meant because the shadowy figure of a Cornucopian woman moved on the other side of the filthy front window. Of course at the sight of a woman’s shape, all conversation was dropped.

“A woman,” marveled Dingo.

“Ah, that’s just Mahalia Warrior. She’s an octoroon,” said Skippy, as if that oldfangled word described all there was to know about her. “She comes into town sometimes. She’s president of the Relief Society, so she has business here.”

Dingo elbowed me. I’d confided in him that I had a bone on for the saucy, shapely woman. Why not? It was a harmless obsession, something to pass the time while I sat in the mining office making spreadsheets of tonnage, gross and net. Breakiron didn’t even know about my puppy love—just Dingo. It puffed him with pride to be privy to such trashy gossip. “Your lady, old friend. Your lady.”