The Goods in the Trunk
By Jonathan Haeber

The forecast called for a hot day. Dennis was sitting in the sweltering arid air of the Nevada desert. He was nudging the knobs of a Grundig radio, tapping in a clockwise motion, but there were no stations out there.

Around him stood jumping cholla, prickly pear, and agaves. Sage grouse roamed the dry washes for any seeds left behind. It was hard for him to imagine that over 500 years prior humans chose to live in this Great Basin of heat within mud-plastered adobe and among the dwellings of cliffs. No wonder they became cannibals.

Dennis gave up on his radio and enjoyed his solitude in the shade while he waited for the orders to be given. In the distance he saw a hawk, circling the sky in search of rodents.

Someone strolled to the back of his hammock and slapped him with the green cup of an army-issued cap.

"What a day, eh, Dennis?"

"Hmmuhmmm…" It was, but Dennis didn't feel like speaking. His mouth became drier with each breath and bits of skin were peeling off of his lips.
Dennis thought Major Cleever was crazy. He never said so, but sometimes he saw the man's eyes look no place in particular, in an absent gaze as if Cleever was out in the battlefield of the Second World War.

The Major handed Dennis a cold brew. Dennis snapped open the lid with a flick of a wrist.

"Is everything going as planned?" He asked the major.

"Yes, and thank God. The delays seemed to have no end. Environmentalists and locals have been fighting to close us down," the major downed the last of his beer in a single sip. "Nothing like a cold beer on a hot day."

***

Margie was fixing breakfast in bed for her latest stray. He was more handsome than the others, but the man really needed a shave. She slid across the tile of her kitchen in her slippers and stopped herself by grabbing onto the railing of the stove. She cracked two eggs over the skillet and watched them fry on the Teflon surface-spatters of oil and smoke rose in clouds.

The alarm on the oven was beeping; the biscuits were done. She pulled them out and doused them in bacon-infused gravy, slapped it all on a plate, and gracefully waitered into her bedroom where Dan was sleeping silently.

He looked so peaceful; she almost didn't want to wake him. How this man could commit such a crime was beyond her imagination. Margie set the plates on the nightstand and took her time climbing into bed.

She stealthily slid over his torso and straddled him. She wondered what he was dreaming at the time as she blew hot air across his neck and ears. She felt beautiful around this man-this dangerous man-who had killed, and she felt powerful on top of him. He would never kill her while he was erect. Was he dreaming of her? He spoke no words, but she heard him mumble something, or perhaps moan. She couldn't make out the words or the meaning. She leaned down to kiss him above his right brow, and his eyes hesitatingly drew open.

"Mornin' Dan," she said, trying to alleviate the awkwardness of the moment. "Forecast calls for a hot day today."

***

Officer Sheldon was sitting in the office of the Nevada Highway Patrol. He sipped from coffee-stained cup; he must have had thousands of cups of coffee from it. He really needed a new one. Maybe tomorrow he'd stop by and grab one at the drug store.

"Sheldon," the Lieutenant walked in. "We have an escaped convict. The fax just came in. Dan Ridgeway-arrested in '52 for the murder of two truckers out on Highway 95."

"Do we have a D.O.F.?"

"He was headed towards Utah, but the checkpoints at the border never picked him up. Here's a descrip, mug shot, and plate info," a fax sheet floated to his desk. "The guy stole a Cadillac from a casino boss. He's got balls."

Sheldon walked up to the coffee machine and poured another cup. He went to the back of the station and hopped into his patrol car. He turned on the radio, nudging the knob for his favorite station. Static. Static.

He finally found the weather.

"The Tupperware top of hell is coming off today,"

Damn metaphorical weathermen. Get to the point.

"Forecast calls for a high of 127."

***

I sat behind a glass wall. Safe from the elements, inside of an air-conditioned, airtight enclave. It had been almost a year since the previous test. With each year came more red tape, congressional debate, environmental concerns.

The new technology was years ahead of our cold enemies to the East. Most of the military personnel were given leave. They weren't told why, but I'm sure a lot of them knew.

"What will today tell us, sir? What questions will it answer?"

"It will ask more than it tells," I said, trying to sound deep.

Thousands of feet underground was the object of my affection; I had spent years constructing the tin can of potential energy. Thank God for the Manhattan Project. Without it, I wouldn't know what to do.

"Are all entrances patrolled?" I said. "Checkpoints at every dirt road?"
"Yes, sir."

I extracted a Cuban from my humidor and burned the tip. The sweet odor of the island wafted through the room.

"Then let's begin."

***

"A hot day, eh?" Dan queried. "Hot in so many ways. I need to get out of here, Margie. They'll find me."

"What do you need me to do?" Margie ran the tips of her red nails across his chest, sending chills up his spine.

"Keep a low profile. Don't let any of your nosy friends see me. I need to find a way out."

"They probably have staties at every major highway."

Dan tore her away from him and hopped off the bed, zipping his jeans. He threw on a white t-shirt and tied his boots from the foot of the bed.

"Hide these," He said, throwing an orange jumpsuit at her.

Margie knew how temperamental Dan could get. She'd known him long enough to acknowledge that even she could push his buttons.

"I made you breakfast."

Dan grabbed the plate from the nightstand and briskly walked to the fridge. He drank the orange juice from the carton and slammed open the back screen door. His eyes searched for passing cars or staties on the stakeout. Nothing and nobody was around. He was safe, for now.

***

Good thing this tin can has AC, thought the officer. He merged onto Highway 95 and listened to the reports on his scanner.

Dan Ridgeway was still at large. Apparently, he had ties with the owner of the Cadillac. Everyone knew Boss Mikhailov, a casino mogul and racketeer.

I'd better find him before Mikhailov does, Sheldon said to himself. Then again, why should I care what happens to the idiot. Mikhailov has probably taken care of him already.

Sheldon was a highway patrol officer for 11 years. Not much happened in the Nevada desert. Most of the time he spent his shift at the local chicken ranch. He knew where the best were. Mikhailov owned his favorite one, the Rooster's Coop, and prided it as the "#1 VD-free venue outside of Vegas."

Hester was Sheldon's favorite. Her fiery hair was as glossy as her lipstick, and from those lips he heard the Russian belle whisper things women had never told him before, things that made him want to screw her until the next morning. And often he did, but she charged extra for that. Mikhailov took care of that, though. He took care of his favorite staties.

The rooster parked his patrol car at his coop and knocked on the door.

Mikhailov greeted him.

"My friend. So pleased to see you again! Come in, comrade."

"Keeping tabs on your girls, Mikhailov?"

"No officer, it is my customers that I watch."

"Where's Hester?"

"I don't need your dick thinking for you now, friend. Someone has my car. Aren't you going to uphold the law?"

"I thought you already did," Sheldon's eyes nervously searched the house. It was empty. Even Mikhail's own henchmen were gone; they were always by his side. "Where are your goons?"

"They're out searching for the pinhead who stole my Cadillac." Mikhailov never looked so furious. Something important was in that caddy. "Hester is yours if you catch that prick. Kill him; make it look like you had to. I'll take care of investigation."

"I'll see what I can do."

***

"Dan! You left the door open. It'll get hot in here." Margie slowly creaked it closed, but his hand stopped the edge before the door shut.

"Get the gun, Margie."

She ran into the room, and pulled the .357 out of the drawer. It was a drill she'd repeated a number of times in the past for the many men she took under her aegis. All of them were caught. Dan was the most recent.

Dan wrenched the gun from her hands and informed her of the plan.

"Let's leave through the garage. You take the Cadillac, and I'll take the pickup," he said. "Let him pull you over. When he questions you, say that you bought the car under-the-table from me. You didn't know it was stolen."

Her heart was beating. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She felt the opposite of the power she held over Dan earlier. She felt fear, and it was exhilarating.

Margie ran into the garage and heard the door slam on a black sedan behind her. She opened the garage door and saw the men run back into their car. She sped out of the driveway and kept driving. 40, 60, 66, 80. She couldn't stop. She wanted to, but the fear overtook her. She kept driving as the hot breath of Nevada singed her hair.

***

Officer Sheldon was humming some tune that Hester had once sung to him as he drove along the deserted roads. Hester would be his dessert; all he needed to do was capture the main course. A Ford pickup was ahead of him, cautiously driving at a tortoise's pace.

Hurry up old man, I have a job to do.

The pickup began speeding up. Something seemed awry. Sheldon gunned it and pulled alongside. Ridgeway was in the car.

Holy shit!

Ridgeway was breezing down the road at 90 before Sheldon could plan his capture. He could have some tire spikes placed a few miles down the road, but he didn't want his law enforcement colleagues to get involved. Mikhail's hand had not quite taken hold of some of them.

Ridgeway pulled off on the dirt road that led into the Nevada test range. Even Sheldon couldn't get clearance to follow him. The test range was off-limits. It was in the federal jurisdiction. Ridgeway must have known that.

***

It was 120 degrees in the shade. Dennis and Major Cleever were on their third beer.

"Not much longer until the fireworks show." Cleever said. His eyes were staring into the nothingness that would soon be a spectacle.

"Who could ever say that the Earth isn't alive," added Dennis. "Out here, it just needs a little help, that's all." They both laughed.

A pickup pulled up to the checkpoint.

"I'll take care of this," said Cleever. "Sit. Drink your brew," the major walked up to the Ford. "Sir, this area is restricted. Please turn around."

Ridgeway drew Margie's gun and fired at Cleever, point-blank. Dennis threw his beer down and started towards the guard tower to call for help. Ridgeway shot him before he made it out of the hammock.

The cold beer dripped upon the hot sand and Ridgeway drove past the checkpoint into asylum and immunity.

***

Margie knew something was wrong when bullets were fired at the Cadillac. These weren't feds or staties. They wanted the car; Dan was deceiving her. Forget that bastard. She pulled over to the side of the road. The black sedan skidded to a halt in the gravel behind her.

***

As Chief Engineer, I had the privilege of hitting the switch. I felt powerful as I grasped my hand over the key. With the turn of the switch my billion-dollar tin can would displace tons of earth and send a cloud as high as Everest. It was a moment of satisfaction. My cigar was almost done; the room was stinking with the smell of Cuba. For me, the Cold War would never be warmer.

***

Sheldon saw the bodies of Cleever and Dennis lying in the desert-warm blood, cold beer, hot air, cold murder. He could follow Ridgeway without detection. Hester would be his. He hopped into his car and drove into oblivion, retracing the tracks of the pickup truck.

***

I turned the key and flipped the switch. The lights in my fortress went out. A flash, like lightning, heralded my nuclear summer.

***

The patrol car lurched skyward. He was riding on the earth like it was a mechanical bull in a cheap bar. It was so hot. He was burning.

***

Margie saw the earth rise, like hell blowing its top. It growled in rage and took lives with it. She saw the shockwave reach a hawk in the distance. The hawk dropped to the ground like a brick. The goons ahead of her looked in awe and gestured crosses across their chests. After that, they shot Margie. As she lay there paralyzed by lead, she saw the goons take a bag out of the trunk. And then the lid closed.