A Million Heavens by John Brandon Page B

I was picking up on that.”
    â€œEveryone’s got to make a cozy place, don’t they? Whatever way they can. You got your ways, I got mine.”
    The gas station owner was impressed. The kid was like a plucky raccoon poking back at an old bear. The gas station owner tried to think of something else to say, something to confuse the kid, but then the gal came back out from the restroom, a placid look on her face. The kidbroke the chocolate bar and gave the gal half, and she nuzzled his cheek. She said goodbye to the gas station owner and then the kid held the door open for her. The gas station owner watched the pair all the way to their car, leaning into each other and gnawing on their candy, but neither looked back at him. He lowered himself back down onto his stool and then sat still, his back straight, nothing moving inside the station except settling dust.
MAYOR CABRERA
    He sat in the basement of the motel he ran, the Javelina, watching a movie about a mayor who slaughtered all the new people who moved to his town. The psychotic mayor looked like Colonel Sanders, and this was making Mayor Cabrera hungry for fried chicken. Fried chicken wasn’t something he cooked himself, and Lofte’s lone restaurant didn’t offer it.
    The motel had two guests, two single men, and they were probably settling in for the night. They wouldn’t bother Mayor Cabrera. He wanted fried chicken but his nose was full of the scent of elk stew. He was sick of elk stew. The mayor on TV was holding a big cookout in the town square. Whenever he spoke loudly, addressing the crowd, his accent got Southern. The whole premise of the movie, to Mayor Cabrera, rang false. As mayor of a small town, you needed every new citizen you could get. You would never murder your own tax base, your own economy. If there dwelled within you homicidal urges that could not be suppressed, you would drive a couple towns over to do your killing.
    Mayor Cabrera’s town, Lofte, was in trouble. Two guests? The business at the Javelina told volumes about the health of the town, and two guests in a night was not enough to break even. Mayor Cabrera didn’t want to be mayor anymore. Being the mayor of a healthy town was one thing, but being in charge of a doomed town, going down with the ship and barely being compensated for it, was another. Usually being mayor didn’t mean much more than sitting at the head of the table during town council meetings. The other members kept the budget, brought items up for votes.Soon enough, though, Mayor Cabrera would be called upon to lead. He would be looked to.
    Mayor Cabrera stood and stirred the elk stew. He took his shirt off and sat back down in his undershirt. Mayor Cabrera wore button-front shirts adorned with Western scenes because out-of-towners seemed to like it. For town meetings or when the occasional Turquoise Trail bus tour came through, he even donned a cowboy hat. No one could pin down Mayor Cabrera’s ethnic background, not even him. He had some United States Indian in him and some Mexican Indian and some regular Mexican and probably some regular American. Lofte, which was mostly poor white, had elected him, he believed, because they considered his murky blend of heritage to be perfectly New Mexican.
    The psychotic mayor in the movie was spying on a young couple playing tennis, licking his lips. Maybe the mayor was a cannibal. Maybe he was going to have another cookout and feed the townspeople their neighbors. The phone rang and Mayor Cabrera picked it up and said, “Javelina.”
    â€œI’m in nineteen. I was wondering what the story was on room service.”
    â€œThat’s a very short story. Your best bet is the diner down the street.
    They’re usually open till midnight. Or maybe eleven.”
    â€œI’m watching this movie. I’m kind of in for the night. You don’t have anything down there? Any food I could buy off you?”
    â€œI have some stew I