Billie
The next day, Carter and Billie walked to a big box store that was close to the motel and stole another car. Billie teased him about choosing a hot pink Corvette that would have been about as subtle as a fishing lure, but in the end, they decided on an older Mercedes.
Billie unscrewed the license plates from a few other cars so they could switch them up and keep the cops off-balance, and when she was done, Carter showed her how he hotwired the car so she could do it herself if it came to that.
“This'll be a pretty useful skill in Mexico,” Carter told her with a wink. “The cartel boys are always willing to fork over a few bucks for stolen cars. We probably won't need to, though. Once we meet up with Hazmat and Oiler to split up the shares from all our jobs, we should be able to live pretty well down there.”
They rode for most of the day, singing along to the radio. They only stopped twice—once to get gas and switch out the license plate again, and once to grab some fast food from a drive-through.
As the small towns and highways gave way to desert roads, Billie daydreamed about what it might be like to live in Mexico. She imagined the cool blue waters of the Gulf, Spanish-built cathedrals, adobe homes and haciendas, and dusty street markets filled with colorful characters.
And how long would they be there? Certainly long enough to rub elbows with some of the cartel people, based on what Carter had told her. Probably long enough for her to get a decent tan and pick up some of the language.
Finally, Carter took the car down a narrow side road and drove for another hour until they found a rusty chain-link fence. It seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon.
Carter parked the car next to the fence, cutting the engine. “We'll have to walk from here,” he said. “Don't worry, it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get there.”
“Is it safe to leave the car here?” Billie asked.
“Sure. No one ever drives out this way, since most people don't even know there's anything out here. And planes and helicopters tend to steer clear of the air around here, too. Something, uh, tends to fuck with their instruments when they do, ha,” he said with a strange smile.
They walked across a rocky patch of desert for almost half an hour until Billie saw something metal glinting in the distance. “Is that what we're looking for?”
Carter shaded his eyes with his hand, following her gaze. “Yeah, that's it.”
But as they got closer, Billie kept rubbing her eyes, convinced she must be seeing some kind of mirage. The structure they were approaching was a corrugated metal shed that looked roughly the size of a port-a-john.
“You're kidding, right?” she asked. “That thing barely looks like it'll fit both of us inside. Are you sure someone actually lives there?”
“Trust me,” Carter said. “It's a lot bigger than it looks.”
Billie rolled her eyes. “If I had a nickel for every time a guy's told me that before...”
Carter laughed. “Come on. You'll love this.”
They walked up to the tiny building, and Billie saw that the door looked like reinforced steel, with no handle to open it from the outside. There was a small intercom next to it, and a security camera was mounted above it.
Carter blew a thick layer of dust off the intercom, then pushed the button.
“Is this the part where the little guy with the funny mustache pops out and tells us that no one gets in to see the Wizard?” she asked.
“You're not far off,” he replied.
A moment later, there was a blast of static from the intercom, followed by a quaking, raspy voice.
“Well, is that Hazmat there with you, or is it Oiler? Either way, they're a damn sight prettier than you let on when you described 'em.”
Carter chuckled. “I had to split off from the other two. This is Billie. You'll like her.”
“And you brought it?” the voice crackled.
“You really think I'd show up empty-handed, old man?”
A creaky laugh emanated from the intercom. “I guess you'd better be comin' in, then,” the voice said. There was an odd metallic clanking and grinding sound on the other side of the door that lasted about twenty seconds, and then Billie heard a series of locks clicking and rattling.
Then the door opened, revealing a man who looked like he was in his seventies. He had a pair of goggles pushed up over his thinning white hair, and his beard was long and scraggly. He wore a set of long underwear and a pair of threadbare bunny slippers.
“Pleased to meet'cha, Billie,” he said, extending a liver-spotted hand. “My name's Buzzard Malloy. Reckon you oughtta hurry up an' come inside—there's a coyote that prowls 'round out here. I calls 'im Beauregard. He likes me 'cause I feed 'im, but he ain't been properly introduced to y'all yet, hah!”