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"Pine Box, Arizona"
May. 25th, 2022 03:09 pm"Pine Box, Arizona"
8/29-8/30/1997
I.
Two cars pulled into the parking lot of the MOUNTAIN VIEW MOTEL with its six shabby rooms arranged in a discouraged row under a canopy. The older vehicle was a tan Chevy Malibu with a few dents and some rust. Parked at the other end of the gravel lot was a new black Lincoln Continental gleaming as if freshly waxed by hand. As if on cue, the drivers emerged simultaneously and stood staring at each other as tensely as two growling dogs claiming the same turf. In the late afternoon sunlight, they cast long exaggerated shadows.
As he closed the door to the Chevy, Job kept his right hand near the lower edge of his denim jacket. The soft leather holster was just visible where it was attached to his belt. Job seemed to be in his early forties, a tall lanky man with a weatherbeaten face and a few day's growth of beard. He was wearing boots, faded jeans and a light blue work shirt under the denim jacket. A black Stetson was pushed back on his head. Job's blue eyes were narrowed so that they could hardly be seen as he glared at the other man.
Quietly stepping away from the Lincoln, Seraph kept both his hands at his belt, thumbs tucked inside the loops. Shorter than Job, more solidly built, Seraph was an older man with curly greying hair and a hooked nose over a remarkably predatory mouth. His eyes could not be seen behind the mirrored sunglasses. Appropriately for his shiny new car, Seraph was wearing a tailored black suit and tie, with vest and matching fedora, all with thin chalk lines. He returned Job's steady gaze for a few moments.
"Obviously, we need to talk," Seraph announced quietly.
"Do we? I suppose. Truce for a meeting," said Job in a monotone.
"Truce for the meeting." The older man lowered his hands and started moving toward the walkway that ran the length of the motel. A few wooden lawn chairs were scattered at intervals and he placed his hand on the back of one.
Moving as slowly and deliberately as if defusing a bomb, Job strode over and stood behind one of the chairs. He stuck a thin black cigar in the corner of his mouth and scratched an old-fashioned wooden match on the chair, lit the cigar and tossed the match toward the gravel before carefully lowering himself to sit in the chair. "Fancy meeting you here, Seraph."
"Pine Box, Arizona. Funny name for a town," the older man said. He took off his fedora and fanned himself with it. The air was hot but dry, and the low humidity made a big difference in comfort. "The founder must have been a coffin maker, you figure?"
Job hissed smoke from the corner of his mouth. "It can't be a coincidence two fellas in our trade show up here at the same time. We must be after the same prize."
( the rest of the story )
8/29-8/30/1997
I.
Two cars pulled into the parking lot of the MOUNTAIN VIEW MOTEL with its six shabby rooms arranged in a discouraged row under a canopy. The older vehicle was a tan Chevy Malibu with a few dents and some rust. Parked at the other end of the gravel lot was a new black Lincoln Continental gleaming as if freshly waxed by hand. As if on cue, the drivers emerged simultaneously and stood staring at each other as tensely as two growling dogs claiming the same turf. In the late afternoon sunlight, they cast long exaggerated shadows.
As he closed the door to the Chevy, Job kept his right hand near the lower edge of his denim jacket. The soft leather holster was just visible where it was attached to his belt. Job seemed to be in his early forties, a tall lanky man with a weatherbeaten face and a few day's growth of beard. He was wearing boots, faded jeans and a light blue work shirt under the denim jacket. A black Stetson was pushed back on his head. Job's blue eyes were narrowed so that they could hardly be seen as he glared at the other man.
Quietly stepping away from the Lincoln, Seraph kept both his hands at his belt, thumbs tucked inside the loops. Shorter than Job, more solidly built, Seraph was an older man with curly greying hair and a hooked nose over a remarkably predatory mouth. His eyes could not be seen behind the mirrored sunglasses. Appropriately for his shiny new car, Seraph was wearing a tailored black suit and tie, with vest and matching fedora, all with thin chalk lines. He returned Job's steady gaze for a few moments.
"Obviously, we need to talk," Seraph announced quietly.
"Do we? I suppose. Truce for a meeting," said Job in a monotone.
"Truce for the meeting." The older man lowered his hands and started moving toward the walkway that ran the length of the motel. A few wooden lawn chairs were scattered at intervals and he placed his hand on the back of one.
Moving as slowly and deliberately as if defusing a bomb, Job strode over and stood behind one of the chairs. He stuck a thin black cigar in the corner of his mouth and scratched an old-fashioned wooden match on the chair, lit the cigar and tossed the match toward the gravel before carefully lowering himself to sit in the chair. "Fancy meeting you here, Seraph."
"Pine Box, Arizona. Funny name for a town," the older man said. He took off his fedora and fanned himself with it. The air was hot but dry, and the low humidity made a big difference in comfort. "The founder must have been a coffin maker, you figure?"
Job hissed smoke from the corner of his mouth. "It can't be a coincidence two fellas in our trade show up here at the same time. We must be after the same prize."
( the rest of the story )
