Operation Fireball

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The car’s headlights picked up a raw-ribbed coyote slinking across the highway. It turned its head and grinned slaveringly at me as I drove past. Just beyond the lean beast I saw the route marker. The sign on the shoulder of the road indicated that California Route 395 continued straight ahead to the north. Route 190 branched off to the right, toward the northeast. I turned right.

A lighted phone booth five hundred yards along Route 190 stood out like a ship’s beacon. I pulled off the road near the booth and considered my next move. The slow disappearance of daylight had eroded my confidence proportionately. The trip that had seemed like such a good idea that morning now felt considerably less than that. An unannounced visit … and especially after the circumstances of our separation …

I leaned across the front seat and opened the glove compartment. My knuckles brushed aside the Smith & Wesson.38 special in the compartment as I dug out a small, pucker-string leather bag filled with quarters. I got out of the car and walked to the phone booth. There was a moon, expansive but not full. Atmospheric dust haze gave it a blood-red hue.

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