One Door From Heaven

wouldn't let me. And Sinsemilla… she held me back." A ghost drifted along the corridors of the girl's memory, a small spirit with Tinkertoy hips and one leg shorter than the other, and Micky could almost see the shape of this apparition haunting those blue eyes. "I remember Lukipela walking to the SUVJ clomping along with his one built-up shoe, his leg stiff, rolling his hips in that funny way he did. And then… as they drove away… Luki looked back at me. His face was blurred a little because the window was dirty. I think he waved."

Chapter 14
        
        PERCHED HAPPILY ON HIS STOOL at the lunch counter, poor dumb Burt Hooper knows that he himself is a truck driver and knows that he himself is eating chicken and waffles, but he doesn't know that he himself is a total Forrest Gump, good-hearted but a Gump nonetheless. Well-meaning, Mr. Hooper points toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
        As one, the two cowboys start toward Curtis. Donella calls to them, but even she, in her majestic immensity, can't restrain them by word alone.
        To Curtis's right lies a pivot-hinged door with an inset oval of glass. The porthole is too high to provide a view to him, so he pushes through the door without knowing what lies beyond.
        He's in a large commercial kitchen with a white-ceramic-tile floor. Banks of large ovens, cooktops, refrigerators, sinks, and preparation tables, all stainless steel, gleaming and lustrous, provide him with a maze of work aisles along which a stooping-crouching-scuttling boy might be able to escape.
        Not every delicacy is prepared by the two short-order cooks out front. The kitchen staff is large and busy. No one appears interested in Curtis when he enters.
        Oven to oven, past a ten-foot-long cooktop, past an array of deep fryers full of roiling hot oil, around the end of a long prep table, Curtis hurries into a narrow work aisle with loosely thatched rubber mats on the floor. He stays low, hoping to get out of sight before the two cowboys arrive. He avoids collisions with the staff, squeezing around them, dodging left, right, but they're no longer disinterested in him.
        "Hey, kid."
        "What're you doin' here, boy?"
        "iTener cuidado, muchacho!"
        "Watch it, watch it!"
        "iLoco mocoso!"
        He's just entering the next aisle, one layer deeper into the huge kitchen, when he hears the two cowboys arrive. There's no mistaking their entrance for anything else. With the arrogance and the blood hunger of Gestapos, they slam through the swinging door, their boot heels clopping hard against the tile floor.
        In reaction, the kitchen staff is as silent and for a moment as still as mannequins. No one demands to know who these brash intruders are, or makes a clatter of pots that might draw attention, probably because everyone fears that these two are federal immigration agents, rousting illegal aliens-of which there's no doubt one present-and that they will hassle even properly documented workers if they're in a belligerent mood.
        By their very presence, however, the cowboys have won allies for Curtis. As the crouching boy progresses by hitch and twitch through the kitchen, cooks and bakers and salad-makers and dishwashers ease out of his way, facilitate his passage, use their bodies to further block the cowboys' view of him, and direct him with subtle gestures toward what he assumes will be a rear exit.
        He's scared, mouth suddenly bitter with the taste of what might be his mortality, lungs cinched tight enough to make each breath a labor, heart rapping with woodpecker frenzy-and yet he is acutely aware of the delicious aromas of roasting chicken, baking ham, frying potatoes. Fear doesn't entirely trump hunger, and though the flood of saliva is bitter, it fails to diminish his appetite.
        Noises in his wake suggest that the killers are trying to track him. Contentious voices quickly arise as the kitchen staff, realizing that these two cowboys have no law-enforcement credentials, object to their intrusion.
        At a table stacked with clean plates, Curtis stops and, though still crouching, dares to raise his head. He peers between two towers of dishes, and sees one of his pursuers about fifteen feet away.
        The hunter has a handsome, potentially genial face. If he were to smile instead of glower, put on a mask of kindness, the kitchen staff might warm at once to him and point him