Part 34 (1/2)

”Why you being so nice?” I asked.

Warren shrugged. ”'Cause Karen Wetterau? n.o.body was ever nice to her.”

14.

There was a barn out back, about three hundred yards from the rear of the motel, past a blighted grove of bent or broken trees and a small clearing dyed black with motor oil. Warren Martens propelled his wheelchair through decayed branches and the mulch of a few seasons' worth of unraked leaves, the litter of nip bottles and abandoned car parts, and the crumbled foundation of a building that had probably died somewhere around the time Lincoln did, as if he were riding atop a lane of fresh blacktop.

Holly had stayed back in the office in case anyone showed up here because the Ritz was full, and Warren led me out the back and down a wooden ramp toward the sagging barn where he stored the contents of abandoned units. He got ahead of me in the grove, pumping those wheels until the spokes hummed through crackling leaves. The leather back of his chair had a Harley-Davidson eagle sewn into the center and b.u.mper stickers affixed on either side of the bird: RIDERS ARE EVERYWHERE; ONE DAY AT A TIME; BIKE WEEK, LACONIA, NH; LOVE HAPPENS RIDERS ARE EVERYWHERE; ONE DAY AT A TIME; BIKE WEEK, LACONIA, NH; LOVE HAPPENS.

”Who's your favorite actor?” he called back over his shoulder as his thick arms pumped the wheels over crackling leaves.

”Current or old-time?”

”Current.”

”Denzel,” I said. ”You?”

”I'd have to say Kevin s.p.a.cey.”

”He is good.”

”Fan of his since Wiseguy Wiseguy. 'Member that show?”

”Mel Profitt,” I said, ”and his incestuous sister, Susan.”

”Well, all right.” He tipped a hand back and I slapped it. ”Okay,” he said, getting excited now that he'd found a fellow cine-geek out here in the dead trees. ”Favorite current actress, and you can't say Mich.e.l.le Pfeiffer.”

”Why not?”

”The babe factor's too prevalent. Could skew the objectivity of the poll.”

”Oh,” I said. ”Joan Allen, then. You?”

”Sigourney. With or without automatic weapons.” He glanced over at me as I caught up, walked alongside him. ”Old-time actor?”

”Lancaster,” I said. ”No contest.”

”Mitchum,” he said. ”No contest. Actress?”

”Ava Gardner.”

”Gene Tierney,” he said.

”We might not agree on specifics, Warren, but I'd say we both got impeccable taste.”

”Ain't that the truth?” He chuckled, leaned his head back, and watched the black branches roll overhead. ”It's true what they say about good movies, though.”

”What do they say?”