Chapter 12: The Plan
At eight o'clock Sadie slid into the corner booth with a cardboard tube under her arm and a laptop bag over her shoulder. Gus was already there with two coffees. He had also, Sadie noticed, shaved.
"You're staring," he said.
"You shaved for a map meeting."
"I shave every day. Some of us have standards." But his ears went pink, which told her everything.
She unrolled the first map across the table. It showed the desert east of Juniper Flats, a red line curving through it like a scar.
"That's the bypass as drawn," she said. "Four lanes, limited access. See where it crosses Route 77?"
Gus leaned in, squinting. "It doesn't."
"Right. It jumps it on an overpass and keeps going. No ramps, no exit. From the state's point of view, Juniper Flats doesn't exist."
"Charming."
"Now this." She unrolled the second map. A blue line branched off the red one, looped in a neat teardrop, and rejoined it. A small box sat beside the loop, labeled in her hand: EXIT 41.
Gus tapped the box with one finger. "Mile forty-one."
"Yours is the only town for thirty miles in either direction. The traffic engineers hate admitting it, but an exit here actually pencils out. Truck volumes, safety data, emergency access. I ran the numbers three ways."
"And the heritage thing?"
"Heritage-stop designation." Sadie pulled out a form dense with print. "If the café qualifies, the state puts up brown signs on the highway. Historic roadside business. It doesn't stop a bulldozer by itself, but it makes demolishing you a public relations problem, and developers hate those more than they hate lawyers."
Gus read the form slowly, lips moving. "Says here the business has to be operating continuously for forty years."
"How long has the Blue Coyote been open?"
"Forty-three. Elena's father started it. We bought him out in eighty-nine." He looked up. "Huh."
"Yeah. Huh." She smiled. "He'd get a kick out of this, wouldn't he? His café on a brown highway sign."
Gus's expression softened. "Elena's father built that mural with a house painter from Tucson and a case of beer. He told every customer the coyote was winking at them personally." He shook his head. "Elena used to say the day that coyote stopped winking was the day we closed."
"Then let's keep him winking." Sadie tapped the map. "But I need you to understand what happens if we lose. Carraway doesn't just want your lot for a truck plaza. Once the bypass is built with no exit, every business on Route 77 is worth half of nothing. He'll buy the whole block for pennies, and the town council will thank him for it."
"Ray Bodine already is thanking him," Gus muttered. "Saw them having lunch at the steakhouse in Florence. Bodine doesn't eat lunch in Florence unless somebody else is paying."
"Then we make it politically expensive for him." Sadie leaned forward. "Two hundred signatures gets us the study. But a thousand people at the hearing gets us the exit. People, Gus. Faces. The district engineer has to look this town in the eye."
Big Sal ambled over with his empty mug. "You need faces? I know every trucker from here to El Paso. Half of them owe me money and the other half owe me favors." He grinned at Sadie. "Welcome home, highway girl."
"Don't call me that."
"Too late. It's on the petition already." He winked at Gus. "I'm kidding. Mostly."
"Now the part you won't like. None of this moves without a petition. Two hundred registered voters asking ADOT to study Alternative C. Then a comment period, then a hearing, then the district engineer picks an alternative."
"Your boss."
"Paula, yes."
"Who told you to stay neutral."
"Who told me to stay neutral," Sadie agreed. "So here's the line I can't cross. I can answer technical questions. I can make sure the study is honest. I cannot campaign for it, I cannot collect signatures, and I cannot be seen at that hearing wearing my ADOT badge."
Gus was quiet a long time.
"So I do the shouting," he said finally.
"You do the shouting. I'll do the math where nobody's watching."
He nodded slowly. "I can shout. I've been told I have a gift." Then his face changed. "One condition."
"Name it."
"No money from you. Not for the petition, not for the café, not for a new grill when this one finally dies. I mean it, Sadie."
"Gus, I can afford—"
"I know you can afford it. That's not the point." He set his mug down hard enough to slosh. "You walk in here after twenty years and start writing checks, and everybody in this town will say Gus Malone sold out to the highway girl. I have lived here my whole life. When I die, I want them to say I kept the doors open myself."
She stared at him, then laughed despite herself. "The highway girl. That's what they're calling me?"
"Mrs. Abernathy said it first. It stuck."
"Fine." Sadie held out her hand. "No money. Just maps and math and me. Deal?"
He shook her hand, his grip still strong. "Deal. But I get to pick the pencil."
They worked until noon. She explained sight distances and ramp grades while he told her which washes flooded in August and where the survey crews had parked their trucks.
At noon Rosa brought them each a bowl of stew, on the house, and Gus did not argue.
"One more thing," Sadie said, rolling up the maps. "The petition has to come from residents. Can you get two hundred signatures in this town?"
Gus glanced around the café. Big Sal at the counter. Mrs. Abernathy in her booth with the crossword. Benny in the kitchen doorway, listening.
"Honey," Gus said, "I fed half this town when they were broke. They owe me. I'll get your two hundred."