Hotshots Read Free

horse grazed in the field behind the house. It could be seen through a place where a tree forked between two fences. There was a double-wide next door and a radio tower down the street. That’s what made it affordable; some people prefer a tidier neighborhood, but a street where every house is identical makes me feel trapped.
    The house’s renovations had been a case of real estate nearly precipitating divorce. The husband had done the work and when he finished his wife had refused to move to the North Valley. He saved his marriage by selling me the house. I smoked three cigarettes on the way to the title company. It was a good house, the price was right. The problem wasn’t the property. The problem was ownership—of anything. When you rent an apartment, you can shut the door and walk away. When you own a house, it’s always on your mind. Still, the papers got passed. Then I went to my house, sat down on the brick floor, and wondered how I was ever going to fill the space.
    Over the weekend the Kid helped me move with his pickup. Nature has a couple of laws about moving, and all of them applied. One: You’ll end up arguing with whoever it is that helps you. Two: You always own more than you thought you did. (I could remember when everything I had fit in the back of a hatchback.) Three: You either have far too little or far too much to fill the new space. Four: When it’s over, you swear you’ll never move again. I had four rooms but barely enough furniture to fill two. The Kid was heading for the second bedroom with an armload of empty boxes when I stopped him.
    â€œThey can go in the garage,” I said. “That’s what garages are for.”
    â€œWhat are you going to put in this room?” he asked.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI like it that way.” For some people an empty room is a canvas waiting to be filled up, but to me it resembled an open window or a rental car with unlimited mileage and a full tank of gas. I prefer things that remain unfinished.
    â€œOkay.” He shrugged.
    He took the boxes out to the garage, set up the TV in the other bedroom, poured me a Cuervo Gold, popped open a Tecate, and called it a day.
    â€œTo your new house, Chiquita,” he said, tipping his beer.
    â€œThanks,” I replied.
    He lay down on the bed to watch “Walker, Texas Ranger,” his favorite bad TV show. Chuck Norris had killed four bad guys aboard an airplane and was about to take a dive when the Kid fell asleep.
    â€œYou awake?” I punched his shoulder, but he groaned and rolled over. The house would have to wait until morning to be broken in. Moving had tired the Kid out, but it left me too wired to sleep.
    By now Chuck Norris was diving for the good guy who had been free-falling for several thousand feet. As he swam through the air, grabbed the guy, and popped his chute, I snapped the show off, found Nancy Barker’s tape, and inserted it into the VCR.
    It was a channel 12 special investigative report on the Thunder Mountain Fire. Kyle Johnson, wearing his trademark suspenders, conducted an in-depth interview with a homeowner who lived near the South Canyon, a middle-aged guy named Ken Roland who had a silver ponytail and a diamond earring in one ear. He was a Californian turned Coloradan, one of those who had fled the formerly golden state. Some Californians end up in New Mexico, more end up in Colorado. Wherever they spread out across the West they increase property values. Compared to California prices, most Western real estate is a Third World bargain.
    The camera focused on his trophy home, which was the size of ten houses like mine or one medium-sized hotel. Not a spark had marred the expanse of his cedar-shake roof. The house bordered on a wilderness area and was reachable by a ten-mile dirt road in a Blazer or Mercedes-Benz jeep. It was a private and remote retreat that many people would covet. Kyle Johnson, channel 12’s