The Lost Pearl of the Mojave – Episode 10: Runnin’ With the Devil

A long stretch of Route 66 lies in eerie silence beneath the moonlit Mojave sky. Neon from Roy’s Motel & Café flickers, casting a ghostly glow over the cracked pavement. A low rumble echoes in the distance—not from the highway, but from the tracks. A Santa Fe freight train barrels westward, its massive diesel engine howling as it eats up the rails, running parallel to the road.

A black ‘55 Chevy Bel Air idles at the roadside, chrome glinting under the neon haze. Behind the wheel, LLOYD SMITH (20), with a military haircut cocky and fearless, grips the wheel. His right-hand taps the shifter, his left wrapped around the wheel like he was born with it in his palm. Outside the window, the roaring freight engine appears—looming like a steel monster, its engineer leaning slightly forward, watching. LLOYD grins. Eyes locked ahead. Hands steady.

His foot stomps the clutch. He guns the souped-up 327, the car rocking with raw torque. The train horn BLARES. LLOYD dumps the clutch.

Tires SHRIEK. The Chevy launches forward, its headlights cutting through the desert night. The train charges ahead, steel wheels screaming churning through the tracks, gaining distance fast. LLOYD grips the shifter—first gear, second, third. His eyes flick to the train beside him. At first, the locomotive pulls ahead—its sheer weight an advantage—but LLOYD’s Chevy starts clawing back lost ground.

In the distance ahead, red lights flash—the railroad crossing. But this isn’t just any crossing. The tracks meet Route 66 at a severe skew. The road curves slightly before cutting across the rails at a dangerous angle. The warning bells CLANG. The freight train isn’t stopping. LLOYD’s foot hovers over the gas pedal—a split-second decision.

The train’s diesel engine ROARS. Steam hisses from the wheels. The iron beast is nearly at the crossing. LLOYD punches it. The Chevy fishtails slightly but finds traction, launching forward. The railroad crossing arms drop—too late. LLOYD sees nothing but headlights, red signals, and steel. He grips the wheel, jaw clenched—committed.

LLOYD’s Chevy flies into the skewed crossing— The car bounces hard as it hits the uneven pavement, rear tires briefly lifting. The train SCREAMS past, barely a breath behind the Chevy. For a split second—the entire world is white-hot steel and roaring thunder. Then— The Chevy clears the tracks. LLOYD’s hands fight the wheel as the rear end kicks sideways on the shoulder gravel. He countersteers, snapping the car straight—and then he’s gone, tearing off into the desert night.

From the parking lot, a group of grease monkeys and Route 66 travelers watch, stunned. A young couple lean against a brand new bright red 66 Chevelle Convertable.

The USC campus bustles with students, but one group stands apart—a circle of long-haired young men and women, protest signs raised. At the center, FLOYD SMITH (19), shaggy-haired, wire-rim glasses, stands atop a bench, a draft card held between two fingers.

A small crowd cheers. Cameras flash. FLOYD strikes a match. The flames lick the edges of his draft card. In seconds, it curls into ashes, floating away on the warm Los Angeles breeze.

The airfield is alive with the deafening roar of jet engines and the whining chop of helicopter rotors. LLOYD SMITH (18) moves between aircraft, his hands stained with grease, his flight mechanic’s uniform streaked with oil. He wipes his forehead, squinting against the Vietnamese sun as a pair of F-100 Super Sabres scream overhead.

He gives the bolt one final crank, then steps back, admiring his work on the F-100’s exposed engine.

A makeshift dirt track, carved out behind the barracks, lit by a few scattered floodlights. Dust kicks up as two Air Force jeeps barrel around a bend, engines snarling. LLOYD grips the wheel of a stripped-down military jeep, foot buried in the gas. His opponent, a cocky staff sergeant, fights to keep pace.

The two jeeps roar toward a sharp curve. The staff sergeant taps the brakes. LLOYD doesn’t. He drifts through the turn, wheels spitting dirt, barely missing a stack of oil drums. The staff sergeant fishtails, losing ground. LLOYD punches it, engine howling, crossing the finish line first.

LLOYD leans against a sandbag wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the starlit sky.

The distant hum of an approaching chopper echoes through the night. LLOYD watches it descend, silhouetted against the moon, and he thinks of his father, flying P-38s over Europe. A slow smirk tugs at his lips.

A government-issued clock ticks loudly in the sterile office. Military officers in stiff uniforms study FLOYD, who lounges in a chair—barefoot, wearing a fringed vest and beads. His pupils are blown wide, a telltale sign of his altered state.

The officer glares. FLOYD flips his form upside down, pretending to read it.

The officer scribbles something down, unimpressed.

Silence. The officers exchange glances.

The officer sighs, rubbing his temples.

A thick government stamp SLAMS DOWN onto his file. “4-F – UNFIT FOR SERVICE” FLOYD strolls out of the office, tossing a peace sign to a waiting room full of nervous young men.

The desert stretches for miles, a dreamscape of weathered boulders and twisted Joshua trees. A makeshift commune of tents and VW buses sits nestled against the rocks, smoke drifting from small campfires. FLOYD walks barefoot, a guitar slung over his shoulder, nodding to a group of musicians lounging in the sand.

He sits, taking in the scene—the desert sky painted with purples and golds, the sound of guitars drifting into the night. LLOYD is halfway across the world, fixing planes. FLOYD is here, finding his own kind of freedom.

 

A sea of tie-dye, denim, and dust swirls under the fading California sun. The Palm Springs Pop Festival pulses with raw energy—psychedelic rock blaring, a haze of smoke thick in the air, and a mosaic of hippies swaying in euphoric bliss.

FLOYD, mid-20s, shaggy-haired and sun-kissed, moves through the makeshift backstage area, dodging roadies, groupies, and musicians tuning guitars. His patched bell-bottoms and fringed leather vest make him blend effortlessly into the scene.

GRAM PARSONS, dressed in a rhinestone-studded Nudie suit, strums an acoustic guitar as he sits on a wooden crate, laughing with a few musicians from the Flying Burrito Brothers. He waves FLOYD over.

FLOYD pats the rolled-up bandana in his back pocket, a makeshift tool belt for his new, temporary roadie duties. Gram hands FLOYD a beer, motioning toward the crowd beyond the stage.

FLOYD takes a deep breath, inhaling the mix of sage, sweat, and pot smoke. Gram smirks, clinking bottles with him. A ruckus near the entrance catches FLOYD’s attention.

A tall, wiry figure with wild silver hair, dressed in flowing white robes, moves through the festival like a prophet in his element. TIMOTHY LEARY.

The crowd parts around him, mesmerized. Some reach out, hoping for a touch, a blessing, a whispered truth.

FLOYD watches as Leary soaks in the adulation, arms outstretched, spinning in slow circles. The man is a walking sermon, his followers clinging to every movement.

A wicked grin creeps across FLOYD’s face as he looks up at the marquee sign of the Palm Springs Drive-In. The giant letters read: PALM SPRINGS POP FESTIVAL

Gram follows his gaze, then laughs, shaking his head.

FLOYD grabs a ladder from behind the stage and hoists it over his shoulder.

FLOYD grins and strides toward the marquee, weaving through the crowd.

FLOYD scales the ladder with ease, one hand gripping the rungs, the other swiping letters from the sign. The crowd begins to notice, murmuring, pointing, cheering.

Leary himself steps forward, peering up at FLOYD with amused curiosity.

The last letter clicks into place. The marquee now reads:PALM SPRINGS POT FESTIVAL

A cheer erupts from the onlookers. Laughter, applause, howls of approval.

FLOYD descends the ladder with a flourish, landing with a mock bow. The crowd eats it up.

FLOYD extends a hand, grinning.

Leary clasps FLOYD’s hand in both of his, studying him as if reading his very soul.

He gestures toward a circle of flower children, already gathered on a patchwork of blankets, waiting for their next cosmic revelation.

Gram watches from the side, shaking his head with a smirk.

FLOYD takes a final look at his handiwork on the marquee, then grins, abandons Gram, and follows Leary into the swirling, psychedelic night.

A single overhead light hums, casting harsh shadows across the cramped, cluttered office. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigars and old whiskey. LEFTY SMITH sits behind a desk covered in unpaid bills and financial reports, staring at them like a man losing a fight he didn’t know he was in.

MOLLY SMITH stands across from him, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in frustration. A worn-out ledger sits open in front of her, the numbers grim.

Lefty exhales, rubbing his temples before reaching for a half-finished glass of whiskey.

She flips through the ledger, jabbing a finger at the pages.

Lefty leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest.

Lefty rubs a hand over his face. He knows what’s coming next.

Lefty downs the rest of his whiskey in one go, then slams the glass on the desk.

Molly stiffens. She knows, but she doesn’t want to hear it.

Molly exhales sharply, shaking her head. She pinches the bridge of her nose, the weight of it all settling in.

The room falls silent. The walls feel like they’re closing in.

She closes the ledger and walks out, leaving Lefty alone with his empty glass and the weight of a town on his shoulders.

A sleek, dimly lit office overlooking the neon glow of the Las Vegas Strip. MARSHALL CAIFANO sits behind an opulent mahogany desk, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. Across from him, LEFTY SMITH sits stiffly in a leather chair, his face lined with exhaustion. A half-drunk glass of whiskey sits untouched on the table in front of him.

Lefty exhales, staring at the glass, then looks up at Caifano.

Caifano stops swirling his drink. The room falls silent for a beat.

He leans forward, rubbing his hands together, like a man preparing to drop a weight he’s carried too long. Caifano watches him carefully, then sets his drink down with a soft clink.

Lefty flinches, the weight of that truth hitting him harder than anything else.

Caifano nods, then leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He lets the moment sit, stretching the silence just long enough for Lefty to feel it.

Lefty stiffens. He wasn’t expecting that.

Lefty swallows, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

Caifano leans forward, his tone shifting just slightly, just enough to remind Lefty what kind of deal this is.

Lefty exhales, running a hand through his hair. He knows what he’s doing. He knows there’s no good way out.

Caifano nods, then reaches into his desk, pulling out a contract.

He slides the papers across the desk. Lefty stares at them for a long moment, then picks up the pen.

The vast Mojave stretches in all directions, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the emptiness. Engines roar. A black ’55 Chevrolet Bel Air and a yellow ’32 Ford Coupe race side by side, their headlights slicing through the darkness. The Bel Air growls deep and mean, its chrome reflecting moonlight, tires screeching as it shifts gears. The ’32 Coupe snarls back, light as a bullet, bouncing slightly over the uneven pavement, pushing its limits.

• They streak past an old Route 66 sign.
• Speedometers edge past 100 MPH.
• Engines howl under the strain.

The drivers—two shadowed figures behind the wheels—locked in a battle of nerve and horsepower.

The yellow coupe drifts dangerously close. A flash of white knuckles on the wheel. A nervous glance in the rearview mirror—no turning back now. Then— a hard bump from the side. TIRES SHRIEK. The black Chevy wobbles, its rear end fishtailing. The yellow coupe edges closer—one more nudge.

The black Chevy’s rear tire catches gravel. IT SPINS OUT. The car skids sideways, flips once—twice—three times. METAL SHRIEKS, GLASS SHATTERS. A FINAL ROLL. THE CHEVY LANDS ON ITS ROOF—FIRE ERUPTS FROM THE ENGINE BAY. The yellow coupe doesn’t stop. Its taillights disappear into the night.

The Chevy burns. Heat waves ripple through the night air. A shadowed figure steps forward from the roadside, watching. The figure picks up a cowboy hat that was thrown form the Chevy. No attempt to help. Just watching. A faint glow of a cigarette. Then, they turn and vanish into the darkness.

SCREEN OVERLAY: One Year Later 1970

The morning sun casts long shadows over the distillery yard. CAIFANO’S MEN work with cold efficiency, hauling out copper stills, barrels, and fixtures, loading them onto the backs of waiting flatbed trucks. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoes in the dry morning air.

LEFTY SMITH, MOLLY SMITH, and the BARCO STAFF stand near the entrance, watching their livelihood be dismantled piece by piece. Faces are grim. Eyes hollow.

Lefty’s jaw tightens as he watches.

CAIFANO steps out of the office, adjusting his cufflinks like a man who just closed a good deal. He surveys the scene with satisfaction before turning to Lefty.

Lefty exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Caifano smirks, then gestures toward the trucks.

Molly glares at him, arms crossed.

Caifano shrugs, pulling out a cigar from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers.

The last of the stills are secured. Caifano’s men climb into the trucks, engines rumbling to life. Lefty watches as the trucks pull out of the yard, kicking up dust, leaving only an empty shell of the distillery behind. His fists clench, but there’s nothing left to fight for.

Lefty doesn’t answer. He just stares down the road, watching his past disappear into the horizon.

The house is ALIVE. A haze of cigarette smoke, incense, and something stronger lingers in the air. The dim glow of lamps and flickering candles casts long shadows over the cluttered yet effortlessly cool living room. Vintage rugs, Moroccan pillows, and instruments—guitars, bongos, tambourines—are scattered about.

A crowd of rock royalty lounges on the mismatched furniture—Joni leans over an old piano, James in round glasses, strumming beside her, Bonnie with her red hair laughing with Jackson. Harry is pouring another drink. Gram passes a joint to Don with Glen sitting with a guitar across the room. The walls feel like they could burst from the sheer weight of talent in the room.

In the center of it all, FLOYD SMITH, effortlessly cool, perches on the arm of a couch, passing a bottle of Scooters Rye to Cass Elliot, who throws her head back in a hearty laugh.

Nearby, GLEN sits on a stool, strumming his acoustic guitar. DON leans against the fireplace, watching, as smoke dances about his face.

He strums a few bars of a slow, haunting melody. The room hushes slightly. People lean in. His voice is soft but magnetic.

The melody hangs in the air, ethereal, unfinished. Glenn Frey nods along, intrigued.

Cass Elliot gives FLOYD a knowing look, like she’s heard his desert stories one too many times.

Laughter ripples through the room. Bonnie Raitt raises her glass.

A cheer erupts. Glasses clink, voices rise, the party swelling again, but FLOYD stays quiet for a beat, watching Glen’s fingers dance over the guitar strings, watching something take shape—a song, an idea, a legend in the making. The music swells, the party surges on—more drinks, more laughter, the night stretching into eternity.

A dimly lit, smoke-filled office. MARSHALL CAIFANO sits behind an imposing mahogany desk, the neon glow of the Las Vegas Strip flickering through the window blinds. The faint hum of a slot machine from the casino floor below bleeds into the silence. JACK LEMANSKY, a wiry man with thick glasses, stands beside the desk, holding a stack of checks. He watches as Caifano methodically signs each one, his pen scratching against the paper. Caifano pauses, flipping to a check made out to L. Smith. He stares at it for a beat, then slowly slides it back toward Lemansky—unsigned.

Lemansky hesitates, adjusting his glasses.

Caifano leans back, exhaling smoke from his cigar, his face unreadable.

He flicks his cigar into the ashtray, the embers glowing momentarily before fading into a bed of cold ash.

Caifano reaches across the desk and pulls over a rotary phone, its cord curling like a snake. He dials a number, his expression calm, controlled.

A brief pause. He listens, then smirks.

He hangs up with a soft click, then settles back into his chair, taking another slow drag from his cigar.

The camera lingers on the unsigned check, still sitting on the desk—a silent death warrant for Lefty’s livelihood.

SCREEN OVERLAY: Two year’s later 1972

The small barbershop, once a lively hub of town gossip, now feels more like a forgotten relic. A single ceiling fan hums overhead, stirring the warm air. The scent of shaving cream lingers, but no clippers buzz, no laughter fills the room.

LUCKY sits in the barber’s chair, not for a haircut, but because it’s the best seat in the house. Only a couple of townsfolk—OLD UNCLE BILL and JIM—occupy the other chairs, their faces weary. The streets outside, once bustling with Route 66 travelers, are eerily empty.

Lefty sits by the counter, unfolding a newspaper. He squints, reading aloud.

He pauses, then smirks dryly, tapping the date printed at the top of the page.

The words settle over the room like dust. No one speaks. They all know what it means. The town, their businesses, their way of life—it’s all hanging by a thread.

The clock on the wall ticks, each second stretching longer than the last. Outside, the neon sign of the old diner flickers weakly, as if struggling to stay lit.

No one answers. The weight of change is already here, and they all feel it.

A desolate silence lingers over the small train station. The once-thriving hub of commerce now sits abandoned, the wooden platform weathered and splintering. A hot desert wind whistles through the empty lot, rustling old freight manifests pinned to the depot’s bulletin board, their edges curling like dried leaves.

Weeds push through cracks in the wooden ties and the gravel bed between the rusted steel rails. The tracks stretch into the horizon, vanishing into the desert, leading nowhere. The rhythmic thunder of freight cars—once a familiar heartbeat of the plateau—is gone. Only the soft creak of an idle signal post remains.

Beyond the station, the distillery looms dark and lifeless. The once-bustling yard where barrels of whiskey were loaded onto waiting Santa Fe freight cars is now barren. A few abandoned wooden crates lie scattered, half-buried in the dust.

LEFTY stands near the tracks, hands in his pockets. He takes in the emptiness, the absence of movement. He kicks at a loose rock, watching it skitter across the rails and come to rest in a patch of overgrown weeds.

Molly steps beside him, staring down the tracks, where a distant heat mirage shimmers on the steel rails. The last train has long since passed. The plateau, once full of promise, now feels like the edge of the world.

The sound of the wind swirls around them, filling the silence where engines used to roar. They stand for a moment longer, watching the sun dip below the horizon. A lonely coyote howls in the distance.

The neon “Joshua Tree Inn” sign flickers against the desert night, buzzing weakly like it’s on its last leg. The warm glow spills over the dusty parking lot, where a small group of people gathers in hushed murmurs.

A gurney, draped in a white sheet, is wheeled out of a motel room. Two ambulance workers move in quiet efficiency, their faces unreadable. Flashbulbs pop—reporters already sniffing out the story.

FLOYD SMITH stands off to the side, hands in his pockets, staring at the scene. Next to him, a YOUNG WOMAN, early 20s, dressed in a faded band tee and jeans, watches solemnly.

FLOYD exhales, nodding absently. He watches as the gurney disappears into the ambulance, doors shutting with a heavy THUD. The engine rumbles to life, red and blue lights flashing against the darkened motel windows.

He shifts his gaze to the distant horizon, where Joshua trees stand like twisted ghosts under the moonlight. The emptiness of it all settles on him, heavy.

She looks at him, searching his face. A long silence. The ambulance pulls out of the lot, disappearing into the night, leaving only dust in its wake. The neon sign hums, flickers—then steadies.

FADE TO BLACK.