The north-westerly winds are often times brutal in the springtime, and today they had been howling all afternoon. It was around five and I was gladly heading home to Lake Tahoe from Reno on I-80. Unfortunately, business had taken me to the east end of town where the open fields allow free rein of tumbleweeds and scattered trash. In tornado fashion they whirled in a dust bowl obstructing my view.

In an instant my antique '67 Datsun 2000 picked up and shifted a lane. Skillfully, I corrected and resumed my fantasy, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Dinner plans, more truthfully, after dinner plans, were giving me a rush. I envisioned the setting, instinctively starting from the bed scene, which I viewed as dessert, and then working forward to dinner. Lobster. The main course was my responsibility, and two coral-colored tails nestled safely in a cooler behind the seat.

The car swerved sharply to the left almost ripping the steering wheel from my grip. With the ear-splitting sound of flapping rubber, there was no mistake as to what had happened. I fishtailed to a halt on the gravel-lined shoulder, adrenaline pounding through my veins. As I flung open my door, a semi honked, its suction almost dragging me into its path. There, through a wake of swirling sand, lay the dead black hunk of my once new Pirelli. With jaw set, I hopped back in the car. My leather seated refuge bucked like a bronco, while I grumbled and reached for the cell phone.

The office number rang. "Starr Investigations, may I help you?" the recording cheerfully chimed.

"June. It's Toni. I got a flat just east of Reno and I'm stuck. The wind's howling. Hurry and call me back!"

I hung up, disgruntled. My sister should have been manning the phones. It was only four. I tried her cell, and then I called our cohort, Sandy.

"San, it's Toni. I've got a flat in Reno off South McCarran. I couldn't get a hold of June, so I bet you two are off sleuthing together. Anyway, call me back. Hurry!" I added.

I laid down the phone, and on cue my stomach began its time-for-dinner rumble. I checked my watch. Darn! Sitting around waiting for return calls was out of the question. I had plans, important ones.

The car had been steadily rocking, the gale force winds showing no sign of relief. I had no other choice, so I stepped out, shielded my eyes, and appraised the amount of rubber on the rim. It was sufficient, I thought, for a short distance. With my decision made, I started the car and crept slowly along the tow lane to the off-ramp and down to the side street below. All the while I fought a sinking feeling.

Sand blasted the windows as I turned the corner, and deep run-off ditches forced me to idle farther down the deserted road. Fortunately, a slight shoulder provided what I thought was an adequate place to change the tire. I squeezed over as far as I dared and cut the engine.

Gusts rocked the car like a carnival ride. I checked the time again, rubbed my forehead, and reached for the phone. I redialed June and then Sandy, prayers unanswered. As I tried to call my date, the phone started its galling low-battery beep. I plugged it into the console, planning to call after I'd fixed the tire. I took a deep breath, opened the car door and held on. This wasn't going to be fun.

Leaning forward at a forty-five degree angle, I fought my way to the trunk lid. The howling turned into a sharp whistle, as I set the latch and reached for the spare. The joke was on me. It was soft to the touch. I pried the tire iron out of its rusty clasp and went through the motions. Soon the spare was teaming with the three remaining Pirellis. At least that should get me to the next service station, I thought. Slamming the trunk lid, I slipped around the car, the wind blasting me into the roadway.

He looked away from the street as he stretched unsuccessfully for his cell phone.

"Damn it," he mumbled. It was haphazardly perched on his duffel at the foot of the passenger seat. He reached again. The tips of his fingers caught it, and swish, down between the door and bag it slid. "Damn it!"

He glanced up, swerving in the intermittent gusts. Racquetball had taken longer than he'd figured. The beer with his partner had added another half-hour.

She'll be angry. Damn it! he thought, envisioning her creased forehead, pursed lips, and the haughty I-knew-you'd-be-late-again look. She always has an attitude!

With one eye on the bag and one eye straight ahead, he reached again, fingertips a fraction from their mark. "There we go."

Thunk! The car jolted. "What the hell?"

Rubber streaked the road as the brakes ground the car to a halt. He craned his neck to see. Uncertainty turned to speculation, and he lifted up in the seat to get a better look. Sweaty palms were wiped on trouser legs. Tentatively he cracked the door, and using the getaway stance he stepped part way out. It was then that his gaze settled on the object lying in the dirt.

"Oh -- my -- god!"

He jumped out and nervously glanced up the street, and then back down. There were no cars, no witnesses. He clutched the door handle, inner struggle like lead in his shoes. It certainly wasn't integrity that impelled him to swing around and run back to her body.

"Are you okay? I'm so sorry," he cried, apology lost in the wind. He peered at her neck, her carotid pulsing rhythmically. His eyes swept her body. It didn't look like anything was broken.

Escape frozen by indecision, coupled by memories of too many crime shows, spurred unnecessary reason. The scenario shifted into a fictional plot as he began devising the perfect scheme. He had to move her quickly -- get her into the car.

One moment he was looking at a rather slender woman, her face covered with a dusty layer, and the next, he was struggling with what seemed twice the weight. Hurriedly, he dragged her by one arm along the asphalt, opened the rear door, and shoved her bruised body to the floor. Into the smooth pigskin he lurched. In sheer panic he cranked the engine and floored the gas pedal. The sharp spray of gravel against the wheel wells accompanied the screech as he accelerated down the road.

"This could ruin my whole life!" he cried, his mind searching every crevice of his six-figure brain for a plan. Soon, a broad smile punctuated the dimples on his meaty face. He'd let someone else find her. They could take her to the hospital. It would be their story. "The Mini-mart," he whispered, scanning the road ahead.

The billowing dust cloud engulfed him as the door flew open and he half trotted into the small liquor store. In moments, he emerged with a brown bag and took a large swig before driving on. When the familiar truck stop appeared in the distance, he nodded and pulled the silver-blue Marquis slowly into the potholed parking lot, rolling to a stop behind a series of navy blue garbage containers.

He peered into the back seat and let out an audible sigh. She was still out cold. With a quick scan, he proceeded. Quiet. I must be quiet, he thought, unaware of the juke box blaring Love Me Tender from the Vagabond Bar. One tug and her body slid off the plush carpet into the dusty grit. With detachment he propped her up against the cold steel of the dumpster and aimlessly poured the Bacardi, still in the brown bag, down her smudged shirt. A faint tributary of rum ran its course out of the corner of her mouth, dampening her left breast pocket.

He turned to leave and then glanced back, pleased with his creation. His eyes were drawn fatefully to something on the ground. Opportunity had struck a chord. There, stuck under the corner of the dumpster, lay a cardboard hand-scrawled sign. He snatched it up and slipped it under her arm. The rearview mirror reflected the scene as he drove away. The sign read New Mexico, PLEASE!

They were sitting at the counter in the diner, yellow Formica flaunting memories of a '60s hang-out. The juke box still held 45s of oldies that brought up recollections of heartache: first time loves and, later, friends lost in Vietnam. Names were scratched into chrome molding to pay tribute to the conquests of youth. Seats of matching yellow Naugahyde, split and cracking with age, stood proud, patched with silver-gray duct tape to protect the discolored stuffing from being picked at by unbridled children. It was still a hot spot. The diners still wore t-shirts with rolled up sleeves, but now their hair was scarce and streaked with gray. Instead of Mustangs and Impalas, the parking lot was lined with Peterbilt, Kenworth, and Mack trucks.

He was devouring a plateful of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, while his new friend was challenging himself to an all-you-can-eat spaghetti feast.

"Where ya headed?" he said, mouth full. A bit of vermicelli found wings and soared, as if on course to the edge of the other man's plate.

"California. Bakersfield." He slurped up another juicy bite, dripping gravy on the countertop, and continued, "I-5: Fresno, Sacramento, Portland, and Seattle's the last drop."

He pulled his plate over the spill and shoveled another bite of potatoes in on top of the meatloaf he'd barely chewed. Tipping his watch he caught the time, and then refocused on his plate. "How 'bout you?"

"Albuquerque." Accompanied by a sucking sound, a trail of noodles disappeared.

"Must have quite a load."

"Yeah," was all the other man said.

After the bearded man finished three plates of spaghetti and two baskets of bread, he pounded down the remainder of his mug and slapped a ten on the counter. "Long stretch of road ahead. Take care now," he gestured and walked out.

He passed through the double doors and saw a flash of setting sunlight off the chrome on his rig. Those familiar chills zipped up his spine. He'd named her Gorgeous Joe when he'd first laid eyes on her, in memory of a hooker he'd known on the route from Reno to Missoula. Gorgeous Joe was teal blue metal flake with white pin-stripping: a Model 378, 3406 Caterpillar 550HP, 18 speed. His heart was pledged to her alone now. He grinned. In the fading light something caught his eye over by the dumpster. His smile faded as he sauntered over to take a look.

"Whoa," he said. "What do we have here?" He knelt down beside the young woman lying in the filth. "Pew! Been hittin' the bottle have ya, youngster? What's that?" he said, picking up the sign. "Well, kiddo, you're in luck, I'm headed there myself. How'd ya like a lift?" He chuckled. "Now, won't you be surprised when you wake up and find yourself in Albuquerque!"

The rum bottle was tossed in the trash, and he lifted her like a loved pet, tenderly and with ease. "I bet you'd fancy a cozy bed, instead of this hard ground." He laid her gingerly on the double bed behind the cab. She groaned, and he patted her on the calf reassuringly, then closed the door.

Around midnight he peeked through the window into the sleeping area. She hadn't stirred. "Must be on quite a bender. Don't blame ya, Darlin'. Looks like you don't even have a bag."

The route took him down through Nevada and east into New Mexico, the road an old friend. He'd passed this way many times before, and after twelve hours of driving he was ready for a rest. At the next station, he pulled in.

After Gorgeous Joe was gassed up, he peered through the outer cab window at his guest. Still sleeping. I thought you'd be up by now, he thought. We'll hit the Starlight Motel and you can sleep it off where you are.

Later that night the Perterbilt was parked along the rear of the motel's lot. The driver paid his tab and checked his passenger once again. Her breathing was deep and he figured she'd be out way into the morning. He smiled, shook his head, and headed to the room. To the aroma of week-old cigarettes, he slipped into a deep sleep, dreaming of the intrigue of the situation that awaited him in the dawn. Life was generally a solitary affair and he'd enjoy the company of someone new.