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The Hide-Away
A tiny provincial airport in the desert north of Tucson. The land was flat and sandy, creosote and cactus. Loose volcanic rock that looked like it fell there red-hot yesterday. A litter of jackrabbits bounded off on the side of the road. They arced away through the arms of a giant prickly pear, its spiked pads bordered with the bite marks of wild desert pigs. 8 am. It was a strange place for someone to need a cab.
There was no sign of life at the airport. A few airplanes sat quiet on the tarmac in the blowing dust. I got out of the cab and the heat hit me. It was like taking a mouthful of air from an incinerator. My eyes dripped and my sinuses felt like I had sniffed pure bleach.
I saw the sign for the tiny airport restaurant, THE HIDE-AWAY, and opened the heavy metal door. Inside it was a little cooler. A big black guy was sitting at the bar alone watching a television with the sound turned off. No one else was there. He heard the door open and downed a full beer in a long drink. Then he turned and came toward me.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Shitty,” he said.
He climbed in the cab and told me an address in Tucson. Front seat. I didn’t make a thing about it. I knew he wasn’t going to like the price of the fare, but didn’t ask him if he had the money. I trusted him.