by Jane Brooke
And the winner is.
She’s sweet, vulnerable, obviously lost without a strong and valiant Texas gentleman’s strong hand to help her along the bumps of life.
Keats nods, rubs his jaw, not completely sure he’s buying any of it. Sweat drools down her face, struck collar bones, along her parted lips, little flash of tongue, nothing obvious. She is a lost girl in a world of hard, big Texas men. She takes a bandanna, wipes sweat from her muscled, sun burnt arms, looks up at the tower, smiles, no come on, just a friendly, appreciate type.
Keats is a cop, but he’s all man too, she’s knows that. She moves all innocent like, like a python, as his cops instincts become unreliable. Figuring out the blond doll is like trying to figure out Fuzzy Math, or figurin’ out the Human Genome Project. 25,000 Genes, put together, maybe like her.
What does it all mean? Manhood clouds his reality. He looks the Caddy up and down, is silent from just being plain exhausted. In reality he would of needed a NASA bank of computers to just begin to figure her out, if that is possible at all.
Voodoo Economics is her, specialty, Her incredible beauty shy’s worry from him. She can see it. Then, the over sized Texas Fellas hand falls from the handgun butt, the howitzer is alone, as he drawls real friendly like.
“Noticed out of state plates, Mamm. You a long way from home, Mamm. Mind iffin’ I see some registration, maybe a license, if ya please?”
Perplexed, coquettish, the actress begins, smiles broadens, a little giggle, just to sway The Academy.
“Why yes officer, long way from home, of course coming right up.” Giggles, “I’m an actress, goin’ to California, got a part on a soap.”
If God had placed real live angels on the planet, then there, sitting right there, in Keats mind, surely was one,
“Just a sec, it’s in the glove.” More smiles.
Keats moseys slow like around to the front of the Cadillac. He pops the hood, pokes around, nods, turns. She leans in, looks back, swallows, finger fumbles, nervous, glove box slaps down, 38 falls onto the mats, her peripherals tweaking.
Keats, scratching his head, steam bellowing, he turns back, up goes her 38, out come the papers, SLAP, glove shut, Keats hanging around.
“Darn, where is that darn paper, oh here it is.”
Up she goes, smiles, papers, driving license in a plastic thingy, held in white fingers and one more smile just in case.
“Radiator belt gone Mamm. Might a burnt a bearing.” He drawls.
He takes the papers and though she can repair anything with a motor, including her own car, she shrugs her shoulders, purrs. “Radiator Belt? That’s important officer. Is it?”
He grimaces, smirks, groans and nods.
She rises princess eyebrows. He thinks.
Silly, helpless girl time, gals, always in so much trouble.
She wishes she had some crocheting yarn, needles, some mending needing done, maybe a lamb in the back seat. Maybe some crippled kid she could whip out, show Keats what a sweat heart she is.
Fuck, no crippled kid. Just nothing but money and weaponry. She decides to keep her yap shut.
He checks her license, paper work out, groans, wishing to be anywhere else than where he is.
“Pretty ole car to be treckin’ through a Texas desert in Mamm.”
Slowly her hand reaches under the sweat shirt, on the passenger seat. Her eyes, welded open, staring at the friendly Trooper.
Time, no, yes, maybe.
She with draws a pack of cigarettes, takes one, lights it, smiles, exhales and, then gaily pokes the registration with her trigger finger.
“See, right there trooper. It’s my uncle Gomers car. He loaned it to me. See, Gomer Jones. Uncle Gomer he said she’d get me to LA.” Chuckles, nice gal, a bit odd to Keats mind, but what actresses ain’t,
“Guess he was wrong, huh?”
Like the cop, back in Kentucky, no reason for Keats to think on anything but what he is seeing. The chances that some gorgeous blond being on the lamb, after ripping off some New Jersey Mob Boss, with a car stuffed with cash, guns, knives, pipe bombs, hatchets, eying a 44 under a sweat shirt as a crew of crazed killers is hunting her down, well, it’s a scenario that never crosses his tired mind.
He nods, casually turns, moves to the back, checks plates against registration, groans, wipes sweat from his face, rubs his square jaw. He peeks at the sexy blond, shrugs his shoulder, decides to not go through the grief of the computer. He turns on a boot heel, walks back, smiles at the damsel in distress, hands her paper back.
“Can push ya ta Burks, down the road some. Yer on yer own from there.”
“Berks?”
“Down the road, not so far. Truck stop, maybe they can help ya, maybe get ya a tower. Jest put her in neutral, please Mamm.”
“Thank you so much trooper. Why, I just can’t begin....”
“In neutral, Mamm.”
He tips his head, clearly spent, just acting like the gentlemen that he is.
No request for a blow job, so dick in her ass by some deviant. He’s just, another nice, honest cop wanting to help out.
She feels ashamed, again thinking of what she might have done, of who she is, or pretending to be.
Dodging another bullet, yap shut, eyes dart in the rear view as she sees the nice cop struggling into his seat, hat off, freckled fingers sweep a shock of red hair, motor mumbling.
Bump, bump, fenders touch, she moves forward.
Mandal, horrible and gruesome Mandal out on the road again
Round four, of the Great Escape in the books, intact.
Berks
BERK’S, was a virtual termite mound of prosperity.
Just as Gila Monsters, Rattlers, Horn Toads can thrive, prosper in a waterless desert, Berks last chance hive, was a Texas relic from the past.
A focal point of nowhere, it was a truck stop/diner/social club/motel, a mimic of past times, when places like it, were scattered along desert roads, before the Interstate came, ending it all, making individuality obsolete. Berks, survived, lived on, because it connected two major cities, was well traveled, above all, was on a rural road connecting lives for thousands of Illegal Immigrants.
Less cops, eyes on the road, they used it regularly. Berks, a small community a hearty folks didn’t like meddlers and did not like prying minds. Berk didn’t much care for outsiders either, cept those that grabbed a meal, gas, or a room with a quarter vibrator bed for the night.
A buck a head, that’s what Berk paid the Greyhound man for delivering hungry, spare tire types, thirsty folks to the diner. Besides gas, oil men, truckers, some desert cowboy ranchers, drifters, Social Security Pensioners and of course Mexican laborers, most of those folks knowing nothing about contraception,
Berks was an entity within its self.
With the added trade from the buses, various mal contents, loners, the place was a going concern. $300 a month got a man or a gal a roof over his head, clean sheets, a swamp cooler to keep the place cool.
A half hour earlier, the Greyhound had swept in, pounds of dust, thirsty passengers, hungry too. Pit stop complete, it had belched out of the parking lot.
Unfortunately, for the sweetheart from NJ, the bus driver had taken a second, very long look at her, seeing Keats was pushing her and all. Hard not to notice, sun was glistening off her blond hair and she was a keeper.
He had memorized her face as he exited the joint, next stop, Corpus Christi.
Little things like a look from an exhausted bus driver could get a girl killed; she just didn’t know that yet.
INSIDE BERKS, the regulars, four oil men stabbing at slabs of Texas Fried Steak, couple of ranchers, cowboy hats, boots, pearls studs, drinking cokes, beers, wholesome greasy food in the big, red tufted Nagahyde booths, as well as Formica tables scattered here a
nd there.
Dozen or so folks, as a middle aged plump cherub of a waitress, KATE pirouettes between short order rack and delivering plates of stacked on food, balanced along her arms. Inside the kitchen two Nicaraguan kids, scurrying around, white aprons, dumping trash, mops moving, dishes being cleaned, glasses shelved; the kids were ecstatic to be in America.
Berk is there, all five foot-six, two hundred lbs, happy man of him. He’s sippin’ Johnny Walker Black straight from a bottle tip, smoking, a crusty rotund man, unshaven, big smile, intelligence behind meaty eyes, everybody loves him. The griller is sizzling, bacon, hash browns, couple of plates, eggs, ham, grits and potatoes heating under the infrared.
Everything in moving in all gears.
As of yet, no one spies a tall, slinky blond in black Levi’s shaking hands in the lot, with Keats. Kate, never missing anything, peeks out the window, sees the girl, smiling, talking to the Trooper, seems like a real friendly girl in her mind, right beautiful. Fact is, never seen one prettier.
She watches, kiss on Keats cheek, byes, thanks, she guesses. Looks like the gal’s ole Caddy is broke down. Keats smiles, turns, see some Truckers hanging around their idling Big Rigs, moves at them as the blond moves towards the diner.
Kate moves, throws out a verbal jab at the men. “Jest ne mindin’ yer own bidness.”
Lots of laughter, good fun, she’s at the register, filling a Thermos of coffee as a voice from a solid Mobil Oil gas man makes her smile.
“HEY BERK, WHAT YA GOT FRESH TADAY?”
Lots of giggles, nudging elbows, Berk is famous for his cleaver quips.
Berk, at the kitchen opening, one muscled hand holding the railing, the other swats good ole Kate on her bubble butt.
“How about some a this sweet delight?”
The men hoot, as do other stray dog types. Kate looks at a grinning Berk, her boy friend, everybody knowed that. No offense taken, she grins, tilts her face, smiles from the compliment.
Political incorrect has still not found this part of Texas.
Big women, moves graceful, coffee Thermos in her hand, looks at Berk, smiles.
“Now Berk, you jest mind yer manners, ya hear?”
Berk Grins, pushes fingers through thick, black hair, rubs an unshaven jaw. He looks at the four oil men, laughs, grins, the men are grinning back.
Berk says. “Watch yerself, Larry, ole gal can still bend a backbone. She a sweet thing, ain’t she?”
Kate, waves them off, disappears into the kitchen, a chorus of chortles ringing behind her.
MANDAL, can barely breath. Many days, stress, no sleep, every state the same, hot, Tony’s crews gathering behind her. Texas, she is near tilt, now the car, thank God for Keats, holding her life in his hands. No energy left; she has had it.
Eyes, feeling like BB’s, she is speed dialing away any reserve left.
Fingers fall down her ribs, she groans. There like a piano key board, no decent food for days, she’s starving, again denying herself food, nothing left on her body to loose, unless its skin and bones.
Tummy pack, 38 inside, black t-shirt, sunburned face, arms, teeth ache, at the door, she turns. She see’s Keats berating a group of truck drivers, poking their chests, showing them something, white packet in a glassine bag. She moans, stomach growls; she walks into the diner.
Inside, met by a frigid blast of air, sweat cold on her belly, face, arms, its invigorating. She leans against the door, inhales the cold air, pushes her ball cap down, stares out from under the flap through her Rayban’s.
Nothing.
Men eating, sweet looking waitress scurrying around, she moves in.
Men whisper, nothing she can do, tough it out. She’s too damn exotic and beautiful.
She might as well be Gwyneth Paltrow, accepting her Oscar.
She slithers in, every head turns, lean girl in tight black hip hugger jeans, 6 ft, at least in her work boots, 118, maybe. A stick Amazon, just like Cannes, Manhattan, Paris, Berks, for beauty causes a commotion. Nothing she can do, across the room, PARUMP, she slumps into a window booth.
Elbows on the Formica, chin slumps into her fists, eyes like sand paper, body odor, first time; her sun glasses flop to the table. She attempts to push real pain out of worn down eyes, broken body. She groans, feeling every inch of it, all of it.
A minute passes, maybe two, head cranes up, she peeks out the window, Keats going ballistic, truckers nodding, seemed terrified. One of the oil men, Ben says. “Looks like Keats is real mad.”
Nods, they know why, Earl says. “ Yeah, George, over at Wilcox, said he passed a Dick Simon truck, driver dead, nothing hardly left, bout a half hour ago.”
Nods of understanding.
“The white powder, most likely.” Another oilman chips in,
His three pals murmur, share nods; everyone knows what’s going down.
Kate, rolls up, picks up the ending, whisperers. “Sad days.” Tough drivin’ long haul.”
More nods as they watch as Keats slots his cowboy hat, walks to his cruiser, climbs in, fires her up, moves through the dust, turns, smokes the tires and is gone.
Lots of silence, shared looks. Kate turns to the pretty blond. To her thinking, the girl, just don’t look right, blue eyes, darting here and there. It’s like she’s in a daze, face now buried into her fists. Kate moves over to her.
“Can I help ya, honey?”
Kate, cheerful, lays menus down, Thermos of coffee, order pad in her hand as she looks down, top of the girl’s short, white hair.
Someone is whispering to Mandal. She can’t make out whom.
Fear pervades her cell structure, delirium, exhaustion, it is impossible for her to move.
There is a red door; she only has to open it to find safety. She is paralyzed, head turn, there is a giant of a man, numb eyes, leering, behind him, a small man, expensive suit, clipped mustache, black ball bearings for eyes, a black leather satchel in his hand. They are silent, move slowly at her, stop and, then beckon her to come, see what they have for her.
She understands the pain, the finality, perhaps it is better than the monster that she has become. Yet, she does not seek death, not yet, though what they offer is a final solution to her spinning grief stricken brain.
Her arms are dead; she cannot twist the knob on the red door. They are close, she can smell their breaths, feel the flames now of the blow torch and....
“Honey, ya hungry darlin’?”
A hand touches her shoulder. She jerks up in panic, fear, delirious in her eyes, trying to focus on a voice.
A touch on her arm.
They are here now, no time to focus on anything besides what she knows is coming. What she knows will kill her.
“Coffee, dear.”
Kate’s voice soothes the images of Bobby Ugo and Dim Dim out of her brain.
White fingers, vibrating on the Formica.
Kate sees she was right. There’s something not right about the skinny beauty. She’s compassionate; not a easy life either for her.
She gets it.
She presses Mandals shoulder. Blonde’s eyes lift, blue, bluer than blue, face, light scars, everywhere, beautiful; the girl is like a shattered icicle, white skin sun burned, freckles on her nose.
Kate understands. The girls eyes focus, ticks in the face and, then the words. “I’m sorry, it’s been a hard day, my car broke down. Did you say something?”
Kate grins, very compassionate, soft voice.
“One thing at a time darlin. How bout some coffee first, then we’ll get ya some breakfast, yer nothin’ but skin and bones.”
Mandal feels more hunger than ever before. She nods, smiles.
“Please, coffee, some ham, scrambled eggs, maybe some toast, potatoes if you have them, please. Is that okay?”
“No problem beautiful, be just a sec, ole Berk can turn a skillet, potatoes are famous.” She giggles.
Kate gets a smile, turns and walks off, stops in mid step and turns back to her.
“You okay, honey?”
Mandal, digging in her waist pack, past her 38, finds her smokes. She digs out a cigarette, “click” flame from the Zippo, shaking hands, inhale, exhales, looks at Kate, smoke filtering out of her lips.
“Yes, thanks for asking. Just a very long day.”
Nods from Kate, back across the restaurant, oil men, ranchers, everybody staring at the beauty queen, their joking and laughing. Kate turns on them, seethes. “Don’t even go there Jesse. Can’t ya see she ain’t right.”
One of the hard men goes to say something cleaver. Kate nails his mouth shut, cold stare, she turns and makes her way back into the kitchen. Butt grab from Berk, giggles from Kate, a peck, let’s get back to making the world’s finest grub for these hard working folks.
Fueled in madness, dreams, visions, stellar atoms of the beginning of the universe, unbearable grief, she is cracking.
Almost killed an innocent Texas Trooper. Left Onetta to clean up the mess. A black dead cop along a Kentucky highway.
Something else! The other man, a silenced Beretta and a hollow point bullet.
Why can’t she remember if she murdered him too.
Too much information; her brain revolving on its stem.
She stands, wobbles, rights herself, walks into a restroom and plants both fists on the sink. She gawks in the mirror at her sun burnt face. Tap on, water on her face, dust trails down the sink hole. Unravels paper towels, dry’s her burning face. No relief for the brain as she wipes sweat from collar bones, arms, a bag of bones. Palms back to the sink, can’t go on.
Why go on?
What is there before her that will change anything; cold, warm, killing blues leering back at-her.
She has awakened every morning since cognizant of such things, the same, self absorbed, selfish and generous; everything beautiful of the planet shattering in her mind.
