"Selma," Bobby said over the screeching wind, "any beer left?"
The woman flipped her bangs up, dangled her fingers in the hot blowback. "You already downed a six-pack in the last three hours, Bobby."
Bobby Lawford belched long and loud. "Man, I got to piss like a racehorse."
"We need to make Utah."
"No way. We're not going to make the state line before dark, babe…and besides that I'm tired."
Selma Talbot adjusted her thick sunglasses and frowned. "They're going to come looking for us soon, maybe within a couple of days."
"Selma, relax," Bobby said. He suddenly got that hostile look, the one that announced he might slap her silly. Selma knew better than to push him when he was cranky so she blew him a kiss instead. He patted the inside of her thigh. "We'll drop out of sight in Salt Lake and never be heard from again. I told you, it's all been arranged."
Selma wanted his temper to cool down. She opened her thighs and his hand snaked higher. Bobby took his eye off the road and the speeding car wandered a bit. A passing trucker honked and flipped them off.
"Bobby!" Selma chuckled lewdly. "Watch where you're going for Chrissakes." Men, she thought, are a total waste of skin. It's so easy to lead them around by their noodles. I can't wait to collect some flash and dump this loser.
She closed her legs. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Look at the map."
"Honey, you know women can't read these things." She fumbled with the glove compartment, removed a gas station map of northern Nevada. The wind almost tore it out of her hands. Selma leaned forward, shielding it with her body. She squinted and studied, turned the map several times, the tip of her pink tongue sticking out of the corner of her full, lipstick-coated mouth.
"What did we pass maybe twenty minutes ago?"
"Truck stop called Jackpot Junction," Bobby replied. The suffix sounded slurred, like sshhun. He did look tired, Selma realized. Very tired and more than a little drunk. Maybe it actually was best they got off the road for the night. She ran her lacquered fingernail along the blue vein of the interstate until she found the pimple that was Jackpot Junction, then moved north and east.
"According to this the next place with a motel is a ways off the highway. Some dump called Salt Lick, if you can believe that."
"Out here," Bobby said, "I can believe anything. Man, this is like the surface of the freakin' moon. How do people live?"
"What do you mean?" Not that she really gave a damn. Selma sensed it was wise to keep him awake and talking. She didn't feel like driving anymore, and especially not after dark. The bloody sun was setting west of them as they sped toward the lower edge of the mountain range, and the titling, jagged spires seemed ominous in the massive cloaking of shadow.
"Like how do they make a buck," Bobby said. "Hell, there's hardly any people living out here, and half of them probably can't even read."
"Maybe they're farmers and ranchers, stuff like that. They probably raise things and sell them in town."
"Raise what, cactus?" He laughed at his own joke and the car swerved again. "Oops. Sorry."
"Bobby, slow down."
"Screw it. There's nobody else on the road."
"Yeah, well if some redneck sheriff busts you for drunk driving the whole plan goes up in smoke." She patted the thick metal briefcase on the seat between them. "Just think about the money."
Bobby leered. "Right now, I'm thinking about sex."
"Just keep your eyes on the highway," Selma purred. What an arrogant pig. Like he thinks he needs a zip code for that saggy little trouser-worm.
"Okay, but where is this pissant town?"
"It should be coming up soon."
Twilight padded down onto the horizon, spray-painting the desert floor. Selma heard them first; a throaty, gravelly drone that appeared behind them and gradually grew louder. Her eyes were half closed, she was drowsy, but something about the noise disturbed her at a core level.
"Bobby, what's that?"
"Oh, crap."
"What?" She twisted her torso, looked back over her shoulder into the gathering night. Her flesh cringed tight.
They were coming on fast, two rows of them; men and woman in dark jackets that were studded and painted with garish, blood-red skulls. They rode low on two dozen motorcycles, handlebars phallic and high; many had impossibly long hair that trailed out in the breeze behind them. The leader was a massive man in filthy denim, with tattooed arms, bare like the trunks of white pine, and huge teeth that grinned yellow and black from his filthy, matted-up beard.
"Bobby?"
"Face forward," Bobby said. "Cross your legs and be sure to cover up your boobs. Don't be showing off to these animals."
"No kidding?" Selma considered hitting him but they were doing over seventy already and Bobby had just floored it some more. "And you, don't act like you're running away! They'll think we're scared of them."
"Gee," Bobby said. "How could they ever get that idea?" But he visibly forced himself to take his foot off the gas. The car slowed a bit and the riders came up on both sides of the car. Bobby kept his face pleasant, but didn't make a point of acknowledging the bikers. Neither did Selma. One of them gave a long, low whistle of appreciation and another one laughed.
"Sweetheart, you want a real man?"
Selma bit back a half-dozen lewd responses but opted for discretion. She ignored them. Bobby slowed a bit more, reluctantly letting them have their fun. He took some crap for his hairpiece, his suit, his penis size and got several generous offers to help him please his unhappy woman. Entire species came into being and fell away in some kind of time warp. After pacing the car for a bit, the gang got bored and roared on ahead. Bobby released his breath in a long rush.
"I think I need to change my underwear."
Even in the darkening light, it was clear that Selma had lost most of her color. "Very funny, Bobby."
"Who says I'm joking?" Time sped up again, flew by. Night fell like a heavy black curtain and the stars winked on as if orchestrated. At times, the road ahead seemed like an endless roll of carpet streaked with yellow lines. The repetitive whine of the tires on asphalt made them both feel sleepy.
"Wait that was it!"
"What?"
"Turn around, Bobby."
He hit the brakes a bit too hard and SCREEEEEE the Mustang fishtailed on the empty highway, bounced in and out of a narrow ditch at the roadside and flattened about thirty feet of dried sage. Bobby wrestled the wheel, got her back under control and turned around.
"You scared the hell out of me."
"That was it. The sign back there said Salt Lick, six miles. It had those little signs for food and lodging and gas."
"Okay, okay."
He gunned the engine and downshifted, but the Mustang's tires shrieked and sent up a cloud of sand. "Damn."
"Tell me we're not stuck."
He tried again. The car slid backwards a bit, further down into the loose sand. Their headlights were now tilting up at the sky like twin spots at a film premiere.
Bobby turned the engine off and they sat in silence, listening to the ticks and clicks from under the hood. Their minds were in two different places. Bobby was thinking about sex by starlight; Selma, being raped and murdered by a motorcycle gang.
Somewhere on the moon side of the hills a lone coyote howled. Bobby grunted. He stroked Selma's leg but she slapped his hand.
"Get us out of here."
"Don't you hit me, bitch!"
Selma changed tactics smoothly. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm scared!"
"Okay, okay." Bobby sighed, unlocked the driver door and stumbled out into the roadside. Discovered he was drunk. He slipped on some rocks and went down on one knee, tearing his trousers. "Damn it."
"What?"
The coyotes were howling again. WoOOOooooooOOOOoooo. Now a few more had gotten into the act. Selma was getting freaked out. The tri-tone chorus echoed down the canyons and across the barren desert floor.
"I just tore my new
pants."
Bobby Lawford leaned on the ass-end of the car. He stepped down into a stack of tumbleweed that further tore at his clothing and scratched his ankles raw. He opened the trunk, groped around and removed the carpeting that covered the spare tire. Bobby slipped it under the left rear wheel, where the sand seemed the loosest, and packed the area under it with rocks and debris from the smashed balls of sage.
WhooooOOOOooooo.
"Ohmigod, Bobby, they're getting closer! Hurry!"
"Relax, they're a ways off yet. We'll be out of here in a minute." Bobby made his voice go all low and macho, but actually felt something stirring in his crotch, on the back of his neck and along his arms. It was all those short hairs. Something about that sound was truly terrifying in a primitive, hard to define way. "Baby? Hey, they're more afraid of us that we are of them."
She hugged herself against the cold and muttered, "I don't fraking think so."
Bobby slammed the trunk and struggled back up the slope, moving faster than he'd intended. He pumped the gas pedal a few times, turned the key.
The car wouldn't start.
"Maybe I flooded it."
OOOOOooooooOOOOooooo.
"Son of a bitch, hurry Bobby!"
He turned off the lights, but was too uncomfortable to sit in the dark for more than a few seconds. No gas, another flip of the key. The engine roared to life. Fighting panic, Bobby slowly eased her into gear and prayed that the wheels would have enough to hold on to. The car grumbled and growled and then leapt up the slope and back onto the road. An explosion of dust, a fantail of stones. They were headed back the way they came. Bobby floored it and left rubber on the highway.
"Not too fast," Selma finally said. Her voice was trembling. "You'll pass the exit. I don't want to have to turn around again."
He swallowed. "Me neither."
And then there it was: SALT LICK.
Bobby squealed down the narrow off-ramp, nearly tumbling over the edge into another gully filled with dried brush and trash. As they drove further away from the highway, the road dropped into a low valley between two mountain peaks. The world seemed blacker, the air cooler. Neither one could think of anything safe to talk about. Selma tried to find something on the radio, but after several minutes of distortion and static she gave up. The road was terrible. Silent. It felt like thumping back through time in an old covered wagon.
"How much further?"
"Beats me. Can't be far, or we'll start going up into the mountains."
Selma saw it first—one tall metal pole, a sign reading EAT and inevitably right next to that GAS, pumped at an obscene price per gallon. The pole had a bright halogen lamp at the very top of it. As they bounced and rattled down a gravel driveway they saw several low, wooden buildings in a ragged cluster. The one in the middle had a light burning in the front window and a large, splintering wooden sign with SALT LICK MOTEL hand-carved into it. A few pine trees dotted the grounds and dead cones and needles littered the clearing. Further up the slope, just beyond the reach of their headlights, the trees seemed to stretch up into the foothills to become a thick, green carpet of forest.
Bobby pulled into the empty parking area, parked and shut off the engine. They sat in the smothering silence for a long moment. "We're really on edge, huh?"
Selma nodded. Bobby could tell she was near tears. "I want to go inside. I want to take a bath."
Her weakness excited him. "Sounds good to me."
Bobby hopped out of the car and went to the back again. When he tried to fit the key to the lock his hand was shaking. He hid his fear, removed their two suitcases and her suit bag and slammed the trunk closed. Selma was already out of the car, the metal briefcase clutched to her chest, waiting in the wide pool of light below the pole.
Bobby thought the lamp made her look old. Her makeup was running and she had raccoon eyes. Maybe I'll dump her soon, get somebody younger, he thought. Besides, the money will last longer that way.
He took the lead, clambered up the wooden steps to the motel office. The front door had been carved like a totem pole. Bobby knocked, opened the door and stepped into the lobby.
The room was small but surprisingly neat. Some slightly out-of-date magazines were piled next to a worn but serviceable easy chair. A cozy reading lamp was awaiting the next visitor. A coffee machine and four chipped ceramic cups sat next to the register, along with some packets of creamer, sugar and various herbal teas. Music was coming from somewhere, some kind of rock and roll garbage Bobby couldn't place.
"Hello?"
Selma was right behind him and Bobby jumped. "Jeez, don't scare me like that, Selma!" He searched the desk, found the expected bell and dinged it.
"Be right there."
A female, somewhere in the back. The music was turned down and a shadow fell in the doorway. Startled, Selma stepped behind Bobby for protection. He cleared his throat.
The young woman who stepped up to the desk couldn't have been more than twenty years old. She had purple hair, nose-and-brow body piercings and a number of discreetly placed tattoos. The girl wore a tank top, a light sweater and tight blue jeans, despite the chilly mountain air. She looked like a teenaged girl who'd confessed to sleeping with her mom's boyfriend and half the high school teachers on a Jerry Springer episode. In contrast to her defiant fashion statement, her personality was pleasant and steady and not at all sullen.
"You folks lost?"
Bobby tried to flirt. "Not anymore."
"Sure you are." She shrugged. "Why the hell else would you come in here? Not many people do, unless maybe during hunting season."
"Is this your place, sweetheart?"
"I run it," the girl said. She bristled a bit at the subtext. "And my name is Jennifer. Jennifer Fowler."
Bobby lied smoothly. "I'm Lawton Roberts, and this is my wife Selma. We'd like a room for the night."
Jennifer ran her eyes down Selma's arm and saw no wedding ring. She said nothing about it. "You sure you want to crash here, honey? I wouldn't, I was you. It's only another couple of hours to the state line. The casino there has a Jacuzzi and all."
Selma threw her some attitude back. "We're tired, dear. Do you have some kind of a problem with getting paid for what you do?"
"Me?" Jennifer smiled without warmth. "Why, of course not. And neither do you, I'm sure. Miss."
Bobby missed the exchange. He absently sniffed his own armpit. "You have showers, right?"
"Tub with shower, just like the big city. It's seventy a night, no tax if you pay cash in advance." Bobby counted out the bills. She scribbled 'Lawton and Selma Roberts' in the guest book and gave them a key attached to a wooden stick. "You're in room two. It's right over there, across the parking lot."
"Anything else we should know, Jennifer?"
"Beds are okay. The heaters don't work for jack, though. You'll probably want to build a fire. Should be logs in the room, if not there's more behind my cabin. Coffee is fresh here in the morning, no charge."
They turned to go.
"And folks?"
Selma marched out, still clutching the metal case. Bobby turned in the doorway. Jennifer Fowler closed the guest book. She seemed to hold a debate with herself before speaking again. "We get bears and such up here. Dangerous creatures. So just settle in and be sure to stay inside all night. Better that way."
"Sure." He winked and left, closing the door behind him.
Selma had marched ahead and was standing in front of their assigned cabin. It was a full moon. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby and wind whooshed through the tall pines. Bobby looked back over his shoulder. The office light winked out and a moment later so did the halogen lamp. The area plunged into darkness.
Selma opened the door and Bobby followed her in.
"Wow."
The room, though small, was actually quite nice; decently refurbished Santa Fe style. There was no television set, no telephone. The double bed was clean and free of dust and the toilet had been cleaned. Selma went into the bathroom, alr
eady dropping her clothes along the way. The tub was average in length but extra deep.
Bobby eyed her thong. He'd always liked butt-floss underwear. When she bent over the tub and started the bath water he got hard. Like she was reading his mind, Selma looked back over her left shoulder. "Build a fire, sweetie," she said. "Then let's take a bath together and I'll make sure you sleep really good."
Bobby was now a happy camper. He went back out into the living room opened the suitcases on the floor and shoved them back against the wall. He picked up the metal case, and after debating for a moment opted to shove it under their bed. Somehow that seemed appropriate. He went over to the mantle and looked down.
"Crap."
There was one half-burned log in the fireplace and some unused kindling to one side. "Honey?"
The bathtub was filling and it sounded warm and inviting. Selma was already at the mirror, removing her makeup. "Yeah?"
"I'm going to go get some logs."
"Hurry back," she said, not really meaning that, thinking something more like you leave me the briefcase, feel free to go get your sorry ass lost in these redneck woods.
Selma stretched, removed her thong and bra and massaged her breasts. She tweaked her nipples a bit and tried to rub away some of the marks left behind by her clothing. She glanced down at the tub. It was filling quickly. Naked, she padded back into the darkened living room, reached down into her suitcase and found her bathroom kit. She got the bubble bath and went back to the tub. It was nearly full, but making some gurgling sounds, like the plug wasn't all the way set.
Selma bent over and reached down into the bubbly hot water, found the rubber piece and fitted it more tightly. The sound stopped.
Selma heard the door open and footsteps rustle across the carpeting. They paused in the doorway. She stared down at the soapy water and sighed, then wiggled her behind a little for effect. Hey, you use what you got.
CLAN Page 4
