I crossed the state line at last, and as far as I knew it would be my last felony for the day.

The dark Ralpheus didn't look at me-- he peered at me. Without so much as a word, the crooked little man had chilled my blood when he'd tipped those glasses down to simply peer at me for a second from his gold Thunderbird back in the Aztec Motel's parking lot. His helper, Pacatos, had said little more as he handed me the keys to the Blue Barbarian with his brief statement before they'd rolled away: "You have no air in your spare tire." I just nodded, becuase I thought I knew what that meant.

Three days earlier it was, Bart the high desert treasure-hunter had his maps out, and was detailing my upcoming task. I was about to make a journey, and as usual I was told very little about my business: I would take the truck to a motel somewhere in the Valley of the Sun where Ralpheus would pick it up, then he would bring it back, whereupon I would drive the vessel for two days back to the hideout and park it. It paid well, so I didn't ask too many questions.

I'd learned a lot from old Bart, the pirate adventurer who was sending me on this solo journey. Bart had shown me another map, and he'd explained a new theory that he'd been tossing around. According to his theory, there were "nets" set up along the interstate highway system-- electronic ways to detect large sums of cash by reading the magnetic strips in the currency, and that this would prevent large shipments of cash, like drug money, from leaving the country unapproved. Bart had supposed that he'd found a purpose for those little magnetic strips in the bills, and he nearly danced as he explained.

"Why do you suppose those strips are there? Ten grand aboard an American car… nothing! Why… a hundred grand? No alarm. But a semi loaded with a hundred million cash? That's the kind of heroic number that'll ring a bell, and get some radios cracklin'!"

Drawing a quick circle around a major hub of interstate highway, he looked to make sure I was seeing. "They'll throw out their net right here, you'll see a utility van idling on each side of the stream, and they know if you're going on a holiday, or if you're trying to start a new business, or if you are in their business."

Bart was probably right, he knew those highways well, and if the lawmen wanted a share of his treasure, then he wanted to know how they had found it to begin with. Bart had discovered that the law would do just about anything for a peek into his trunk. "They just want their cut, and they have nothing else to do out there on the interstate all day."

I decided as I embarked that I didn't want to see any utility vans no matter why they were parked there along the shoulders, IF they were parked there, and I didn't want to see any lawmen at all: I took the scenic route. I swung high up through the aspens, where a little snow still lingered, and then finally plunged back down into the heat, and two days later I was at the Aztec Motel waiting for Ralpheus.

"There's no air in your spare tire." Here was another thing that I'd learned from old Bart. Back when he and Ralpheus had first become acquainted, Ralpheus would haul around several kilos of weed packed into bricks and stuffed into his spare tire. Then the sly Ralpheus would let the air out of the tire so that if a lawman pressed the valve for a sniff, he'd get nothing. Now that Bart and Ralpheus were working in statues and artifacts, their weed-smuggling stories may not seem relevant, but there's more! Once Bart had told me of a time that the slimy Ralpheus had secretly stuffed a wad of heroin-- a life sentence worth-- into Bart's engine compartment before a trip, and then later down the road insisted on helping with Bart's troubled craft: something blocking the intake it turned out.

The spare tire. I could see it back there in the rear-view mirror as I climbed back out of the valley. I had a long way to go, and had no choice now but to roll like a tumbleweed back as far as could get before dark, and it would be the scenic route again. Would that put me back into the mountains before daylight began to fade? I couldn't hurry, so all I could do was ease down that desolate highway like I hadn't a care. I was now on the old original 'Route 66', and I was just beginning to get my kicks when I spotted the first car I'd seen in forty-five minutes, way up ahead, shimmering in the desert heat. The spare tire shivered a little behind me, and as the car approached and finally came into view, I saw that it indeed was a lawman, way out here with nothing to do, flying through the desert like he owned the place.

It's tradition-- nay, it's customary to be so courteous-- when driving on a lonesome country highway-- to do the 'finger wave' as you pass another traveler. A 'howdy' of sorts, friendly like. I knew this, but when I saw the lawman's official finger do that wave it was too late for me to return it. He flew past and I drove on. Cursing myself for my apparent rudeness, I sped up a little, and in my rear-view mirror was first the bouncing spare tire, and then the cop car, and I watched and waited for his brake lights, but he finally vanished again into the desert's mirages and flickering waves of heat.

What kind of person wouldn't be happy to see a nice policeman in the middle of a desert? Why would I be so unfriendly as to not even nod a hello? Ahead at the '66 Diner and Inn' I found that they had a room, and I dragged the spare tire in with me and my bag, drawing the curtains tight. I waited in the dark room full of highway scents for a while, and eventually wandered over to the diner. It was closed. It was four o clock in the afternoon-- I should be driving right now! Hearing the haunting roar of an approaching car though, I scurried back into my room, hoping that the Blue Barbarian parked in front of the room was hidden well enough. This was what I fretted over until dark, and eventually I did sleep.

With an early start the next morning, I plowed through the diesel air and hit the open highway again driving non-stop with no more lawmen in sight. Ten hours later I made it back to the hideout, right before dusk, with the Blue Barbarian, it's spare tire, and a growling stomach. Bart heard the truck coming up the drive and was smiling on the porch as I pulled in. I was not smiling.

Inside, Bart had something on the wood stove that he hurried back to, and I began explaining the trip, and Bart still smiled until I got to the part about the spare tire, and his spatula stopped. He looked at me with some surprise.

"O Paul, you took off on a three thousand mile journey without checking your spare tire first." Bart laughed loudly now as I stared, and he coughed as he continued.

"It's partly my fault for not telling ye that it was flat, I'd noticed, but I plain forgot that detail in all the fuss. Nay, Paul… I can tell you be itchin' to know what you've been up to all week, and I aim to tell you now that you be back safe and sound." Bart set the skillet off to the side of the range and chuckled again.

"That second gas tank on the Blue Barbarian, the one that never gets any gas, that's where your load was stowed o Paul… it was but only forty-five thousand dollars in cash, twas slithering Ralpheus's share from that last Mother Mary statue. On your terrifying return, you carried back nothing but air in your spare tire… and not even very much of that!" Bart laughed again, he was very amused.

"This is why I kill you last o Paul… you trust the universe, and the universe appreciates it, while ye don't trust the crooked Ralpheus, and I appreciate's you for that. You be a good hand indeed." Bart chuckled again and put the skillet back on the fire, whistling an old Little Feat tune in between chuckles.

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thanks as always for reading along with this fictional tale of high desert pirates and adventure, stick around for who-knows-what next, and be sure to comment below if you feel like it, or if you know that Little Feat tune, or if you would like more pirate stories, or just anything

@therealpaul