Read the book: «Broken Promise: A Solomon Creed Novella»

Chapter 1

Solomon Creed walked east, away from Arizona and all the complications that spilt blood tends to bring. He kept to the minor roads and travelled mostly at night, dodging the traffic and the sledgehammer sun, sipping water from a plastic gallon jug he’d found crumpled in a roadside ditch outside Bisbee.

He tipped it up now and drank the blood-warm water until the jug was empty. He could fill it again at the next gas station, or diner, or truck stop. Water was not a problem. You could pick up water for free if you stuck to the roads. But not food. Food you had to pay for, or take what you could find, baked and rancid by the side of the road.

On day one it had been a cottontail that had been clipped by a car then limped off to die in the shade of an ephedra bush. He’d skinned and gutted it using the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle then roasted it over a small fire coaxed from mesquite straw using the same bottle and the sun’s fierce rays. Day two was a rattlesnake he’d disturbed in a storm drain while taking shelter from the rising heat. It had struck from the shadows, the rattle coming at the same time as the fangs. Solomon had felt the minute shift in air pressure and twitched out of the way, catching it behind the head, grabbing its tail then cracking it like a bullwhip, so sharp that it snapped the head clean off. He had drunk its blood, the bitter warmth soaking life back into his tired muscles, then gutted it and chewed slowly on its cooling flesh. He had a fleeting memory of doing something similar in a different desert, but like most memories regarding himself, it was gone before he could catch a hold of it. He had sat cross-legged, in the dusty dark, licking snake blood from his fingers and sucking the warm, viscous contents of the leathery eggs the mother had been laying. That had been thirty-six hours ago now. The only things that had passed his lips since were air and water so hot from the jug you could brew tea with it. But there was something up ahead, something carried on the wind and getting stronger with each step he took. It was the smell of hot grease and salt, fried potatoes and ham, eggs and coffee, and his stomach rumbled in response whenever the wind shifted. He had smelled similar at every greasy-windowed truck stop he’d passed along the way and had always got no further than the parking lot, the need to catch another ride and put distance between himself and Arizona stronger than his hunger. But Arizona was four days, hundreds of miles and a state and a half behind him now. And his legs ached and his stomach growled and the thought of another road-kill meal washed down with plastic-tasting water made him feel sick to his empty stomach. The problem was no longer urgency, it was economic. Because a sit-down meal with seasoning and sauces, and iced-water on the side, would cost money and the only coin he had to his name was a single, worn-down quarter he’d found by a city limits sign a hundred miles or more back.

He reached into the pocket of the pale suit jacket he wore and palmed the quarter, rolling it over his knuckles as smoothly as he rolled the problem of his poverty over and over in his mind until he saw a skinny tower rise up ahead on the eastbound side of the I-10. Red neon letters burned on the side spelling out ‘BOBBY D’s EATS’, and an arrow buzzed below it, pointing down to a one-storey building surrounded by dusty cars and big rigs.

Solomon left the highway and walked through lines of trucks with confederate flags and the silhouettes of pneumatic women on their mud-flaps. He passed a boarded-up gas station with decommissioned pumps and a printed sheet of paper taped to the door announcing that the place was due to be sold at auction on July 21st along with some land. He had no idea what day it was but the diner was still open and cooking food, which was all that mattered to him right now. He dropped the empty gallon jug by the door and stepped inside.

A bell tinkled above his head and a couple of sets of eyes peered up beneath the brims of battered caps before returning to their plates of food, finding their steaks and ribs more interesting than the tall, dusty dude who had just blown in. There were maybe fifteen guys spread out in a place that could easily seat eighty. Not exactly busy but busy enough for what Solomon had in mind.

He took in the room, his senses overwhelmed after so long spent outside on wide, empty roads. Booths lined three of the walls and a long counter stretched along the fourth, ending at a dusty display cabinet displaying Indian beads, souvenir caps and T-shirts with the slogan ‘A gift from Broken Promise, Texas’ stitched across them. A sun-faded photograph hung above it showing Native American symbols – eagles and moons, stick horses and arrows – carved into the rough ochre walls of what looked like a cave. People were reading newspapers or chatting in groups. No one was looking at their phones. A sign by the cash register explained why. ‘We don’t got free Internet so don’t ask’, it said. Perfect, Solomon thought, and headed over to the counter, feeling the greasy air and the tickle of stolen glances on his skin.

Low conversations murmured and blurred with the tinny whine of a country and western song. The clatter and sizzle of the kitchen and the smell of grease and the salt-sour odour of unwashed bodies hung thick in the air. He pulled out a stool from the middle of the counter and savoured the exquisite relief of sitting after so long on his feet. He stretched his legs and arched his back. The menu was painted on the wall behind the counter, the blue paint of the lettering faded and cracked by age and heat. There were dollar bills pinned to the wall too, marked with messages from the people who’d left them – ‘Big Bear blew thru’, ‘This buck stops here’, ‘Bobby D’s – best breakfast in West Texas’. A plastic tumbler clacked down on the beaten metal counter and iced water rattled into it like rocks into a bucket.

‘If it’s on the wall, we got it. If it ain’t we don’t, so don’t bother asking.’ The waitress was tall and whip-thin, black-blue hair pulled into a ponytail and skin like caramel against the ice-cream pink of her uniform. Her name badge said ‘Hi I’m Rita’.

‘Is Bobby D around?’ Solomon asked.

‘Bobby D’s dead,’ the woman said flatly.

‘Then who’s the owner?’

She fixed him with her green eyes. ‘If you got a complaint or you’re fixing to sell something I ain’t interested. And if you’re looking to buy you’re a day early. Auction’s tomorrow morning.’

She had Irish eyes, though her honeyed skin showed her people had been here far longer than any European. ‘You’re the owner,’ Solomon said.

She shrugged. ‘Until tomorrow I am.’

‘Then why didn’t you ever change the sign?’

The water jug came to rest on the counter and Solomon thought about the river of iced-water that must have flowed from it over the years, a river that would end tomorrow with the fall of an auctioneer’s hammer.

‘Don’t need my name on the place to know I own it,’ she said. ‘And new neon costs money I ain’t got. You going to order something or not? There’s a cover charge either way.’

‘Actually I have a proposition,’ Solomon said, loud enough to draw the room’s attention. ‘A wager.’

Rita stared at him like he’d just cursed. ‘Gambling’s illegal in the state of Texas.’

Solomon nodded. ‘In general, yes, but not if it’s classed as social gambling.’

The green eyes narrowed. ‘And what would that be?’

‘It’s a bet undertaken in a private place such as this, with an element of skill involved, not just chance, where the only person to receive any benefit is the winner of the wager, meaning the house takes no cut.’

Rita nodded. ‘Sounds fancy. You a lawyer?’

Solomon shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so? You don’t know if you’re a lawyer but you’re giving me chapter and verse on the law regarding gambling in the state of Texas?’ She shook her head. ‘Sounds off to me. I ain’t interested, mister. You let me know when you’re ready to order.’ She turned and walked away, banging the water jug down hard on the end of the counter before disappearing through the old-style saloon doors into the kitchen.

Solomon’s stomach growled again in response to the smell of food hanging in the air and he took a long drink to try and silence it, the coldness flooding through him and the ice chips bumping against his lips. It would have been better for him if Bobby D had still been around. Men were easier to hook where wagers were concerned, their egos making it hard for them to back down from another man’s challenge. Maybe he’d have to take his chances out on the road again, find another diner that wasn’t owned by an Indian warrior princess with Irish eyes.

He drained his glass, placed it down on the counter ready to leave and felt the air shift and thicken to his left as someone moved closer. Then a low voice laced with nicotine and coffee murmured, ‘What kind of a wager?’