Unslinging and opening the duffel, Danny grabbed two handfuls of loose pesos and held them up high.
"Come and get it!” he yelled, and flung the money into the air.
The mass of people at the bottom rushed toward him like a tidal wave.
"Come on!” he yelled. “Come on! Come on!"
Grabbing more handfuls, he threw the currency as far as he could, in all directions. Again and again he reached into the duffel bag and scooped out money to throw, and he continued to yell.
"Come on! Come on!"
People surged around him like a raging fire, but no one came really close to him; they were fearful that he was a crazy man. Besides, no one wanted to interfere with the blizzard of money he was creating.
"Come on! Come on! Take it!"
Danny showered the impoverished of Tondo with money until the duffel was empty. Then, impoverished himself, he waded back down and out of Smoky Mountain.
He did not at all dread the thought of Palayan and the penal camp he was sure to be sent back to.
The air up there, after all, was clean and pure.
(c) 2008 by Clark Howard
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department of First Stories: A THIN BRIGHT LINE by Dixon Hill
Dixon Hill spent ten years in the army (as a military intelligence analyst and a Green Beret explosives expert) before returning to his native Scottsdale, Arizona, to pursue what he thought would be a degree in engineering. A college writing class changed all that: He shifted his major to journalism, earned his degree, and is now a stay-at-home dad and a writer who contributes frequently to magazines and newspapers.
Sanford M. Chase kept his hands at ten and two on the wheel of his Mercedes SL550. The two-seat roadster sang with design perfection, 382 horses straining to be unleashed. But Sandy held them in check with knife-edge control.
From the corner of his eye, he watched his dark-haired wife snap her compact and drop it into her purse. He smiled at the power pulsing through his fingertips, enjoyed his wife's beauty.
The semi ahead pulled rapidly away. A yellow Volkswagen passed in the left lane. The green sedan coming up behind was signaling to follow. Everyone was speeding on this stretch of empty desert. Everyone but Sandy, who always obeyed the speed limit.
Jennifer reached up and grabbed his rearview mirror. She looked at her reflection as she applied a new coat of lipstick, then turned the mirror back around.
Sandy's right hand snapped from wheel to mirror, finessing the angle. “What? You didn't use the Cosmonaut Lipstick?” His voice held a smirk.
"God, no!” Her cool voice floated across the leather interior of the Mercedes. “Your dad's crazy. That stuff is hard as a rock. I have to smash my lips to put it on."
A gift from Sandy's father, who had purchased it on a business trip to Russia, the lipstick came in a huge steel tube the size of a small flashlight, with a ring on the bottom. Instead of twisting it, a complicated spring assembly pushed the lipstick out of the tube. Sandy joked that it was designed for female cosmonauts, so now they called it Cosmonaut Lipstick. Jennifer seldom used it because it was much harder and thicker than the creamy Western kind.
Sandy laughed. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought my dad was a spy for the CIA or something."
"I still don't see why we couldn't stay in Vegas. Your father's birthday dinner isn't until tomorrow night."
"I want to see my brother first. You know that."
Jennifer turned to look out the window. Sandy knew she wasn't watching the cactus flash past. He understood why she was keyed up about going to Phoenix, how she felt about his brother's children.
The semi had pulled well ahead now. The Volkswagen was long gone, the green car beginning to move away in the left lane. Sunlight glinted off something on the shoulder of the road, maybe a mile ahead. Sandy slowed to get a better look. A middle-aged man in jeans and a work shirt stood behind a brown sedan that was more than a few years old. He was trying to flag down a car, but no one was stopping.
Sandy signaled and slowed.
"What are you doing?” She turned to look at him.
"That guy needs help. A car that old—he probably doesn't have a cell phone. Out here in this desert...” He glanced at Jennifer, hesitating. “Jen, if he's got kids in there, he's in trouble. They need help."
She whipped her head around to look at the car, but they were already past it; the Mercedes was pulling into the breakdown lane. Sandy slowed to a stop, then reversed and looked through the roadster's tiny rear window as he backed toward the stalled car. He thought he had seen a flat rear tire as they went past.
He stopped the car, hit the trunk latch button, and got out. A thin hot wind was blowing. He yelled across it, “Got trouble?"
"Got a flat!"
"Spare flat, too?” he yelled over his shoulder as he opened the trunk and pulled out a can of Flat Patch. He heard Jennifer open her door, felt the car shift as she got out. He heard the guy's footsteps on the pavement and turned to look at him, holding the can of Flat Patch. “When I drive through a place like this, I always take—"
In his left hand, the man held a gun. A snub-nosed revolver. He had it pointed at Sandy's belly. With his back to traffic, none of the passing cars could see the gun in his hand. It would look as if the two men were just talking. “Give me your keys."
Sandy blinked. “They're in the car."
The guy backed around him, to the driver's door. “Get in, lady.” He held the gun just above roof level, so Jennifer could see it. She got in the car. Sandy could see her doing something.
So could the guy. “What are you doing?” he barked.
"Fastening my seat belt."
"Forget it! Close your door.” He turned to Sandy. “Don't be a hero. I'll try to drop her off someplace. You call the cops, and I'll use her as a hostage. Hostages get killed, buddy.” He dropped into the driver's seat and shut the door. Then he drove away. Sandy just stood there, watching the car dwindle into the distance.
A semi blasted past, buffeting Sandy, almost knocking him over. He shook his head and looked around. Then he ran back to the brown sedan and took the keys from the ignition. The interior was a mess of fast-food wrappers, empty bottles. It smelled. Smelled like an animal's den. He walked past the flat rear tire to the trunk. He needed to change that tire—fast.
He popped the trunk. A Jackson Pollock in blood. Bright red and wet, brown and dry, dark and pasty. Splashed across every surface: the sides, the bottom, even the underside of the trunk lid. And two young women's bodies. Black with blood—thick, coagulating clumps of it from vicious wounds.
I'll try to drop her off someplace.
Sandy dropped the can of Flat Patch. He heard it hit the pavement and roll a few feet. The sound did something to him. He slammed the trunk, grabbed the can, and ran to the flat tire. He knelt on the pavement in shock without knowing it. Didn't know he tore his chinos on a piece of broken glass, didn't feel the glass cut his knee. Instead, he felt the pull of blessed, ignorant unconsciousness.
He drove it back with anger.
His hands shook as he tried to screw the nozzle on the Flat Patch to the tire's valve stem. He cross-threaded it twice, wasting precious seconds. And then the can was on, the valve popped open, he heard the whoosh as the sticky compound and compressed air shot out of the can into the flat tire. The car rose like an aged sprinter preparing for a final race.
The tire was still low, but good enough to drive on if he kept his speed down. He unscrewed the can and tossed it. Then he climbed behind the wheel.
It was an old Crown Victoria, late ‘80s or early ‘90s model. He turned the key and the engine caught, idled roughly. He heard the lifters and knew it needed oil. The gas gauge registered about an eighth of a tank; he prayed it would be enough.
He looked up through the windshield then, saw a red streak that ran from the paved shoulder of the road into the right lane. A thin bright line, bright red, maybe a quarter of an inch thick. He blinke
d his eyes, thinking he must be imagining it. But the line was still there. It ran from about where the Mercedes had been parked, and seemed to follow where he had seen it go. He had no idea what it was, but somehow he knew it was a sign that he should follow, a trail that would lead to his wife. If he was quick enough. If he was lucky.
Sandy threw the Crown Vic into drive and stomped the gas. The police pursuit engine under the hood roared and the huge sedan shot forward along the shoulder of the highway, bucking on the bad left rear. He glanced over his shoulder, saw an opening in traffic, then steered onto the freeway and floored it.
Almost immediately, the Vic began to wobble. The low tire didn't want to do its job. He backed off the accelerator a little, let the speed drop a bit. The wobble got worse. He gentled it back up. As the car ran faster, he knew, centrifugal force would help the tire stand taller. The wobble began to abate slightly. But at fifty, it returned with a vengeance. The wheel jerked in his hands.
He throttled down and ran at forty-five. The car wasn't happy, but it was controllable. Running down the highway at forty-five miles an hour. The SL550 was capable of three times that speed. The thin red line ran straight up the road, disappearing into the distance. How far behind his wife was he getting?
* * * *
At first, when the guy in the tan work shirt and jeans stole the car, Jennifer tried not to look at him. As the SL550 accelerated out of the breakdown lane and left the shoulder of the road behind, she watched Sandy shrink in her side mirror.
"What are you looking at?"
"My husband. Thank you for not killing him."
"Why would I kill a man?"
The question bothered her. He sounded as if he meant exactly what he had said. Not: “Why would I kill anyone?” It was: “Why would I kill a man?"
For several miles, they traveled in silence. The creep turned off the radio. She heard him move on the leather driver's seat. “Look at me.” His voice was gruff.
She turned to face him, determined not to let him see her fear.
"Where were you headed?"
"Why?"
"I ask the questions! This can be a long ride. Or it can be short and painful. Your call.” He looked like the sort of man you would trust to work on your car in the neighborhood garage. He had thick, dark, wavy hair over a face the color of lightly toasted bread. His teeth weren't good, but they weren't too bad. But his lying blue eyes were the worst; they looked open and honest.
"Phoenix,” she told him.
"Why Phoenix?"
"Relatives."
"Relatives! Family is hell.” He stared out the windshield, ignoring her.
Family is hell. Jennifer turned away to look out her side window. She liked Doug and Sue—Sandy's brother and his wife. It was their four kids who made her uncomfortable, envious.
Instead of children, Sandy and Jen had money. Not tied down, the couple jumped whenever the organization Sandy worked for suggested a move. With no parent-teacher conferences or Little League games, Sandy put in hours that impressed his superiors.
Jennifer did her part, too. Stayed in tip-top shape, closely studied fashions, handled house cleaners and caterers, haggled with dry cleaners. At get-togethers, she mingled just enough, staying within Sandy's orbit. Her clothes were right behind the latest trend, so that everyone admired them—but not too much.
She accessed the organization's Web site from home, using Sandy's passwords, to find out “who's who” in any new region they moved to, then made tip sheets for Sandy. She also built larger files, based on responses from wives whom she wrote requesting information on florists, grocers, housing, etc. The return letters and e-mails nearly always included important tidbits that gave Sandy a leg up.
For years she took pride in the way she engineered Sandy's extra edge at work. But lately, she had come to doubt her happiness.
While Sandy read books like Leadership Secrets of Genghis Khan, Jennifer increasingly saw herself as the twenty-first century equivalent of a Mongol “camp follower.” She was like the women who moved with Khan's army, making warm, soft places for their men to return after battle. The place where warriors found food and comfort.
Where children ran and played.
* * * *
The Vic's engine developed a knock. The gas gauge was getting dangerously low. Sandy willed the car to go faster, but every time he tried to get it up over forty-five, the rear tire threatened to shake the damn thing apart.
He saw a blue highway billboard ahead. It held the upcoming exit number. But there were no little inset signs indicating a gas station. He needed air in the tire. Needed a new tire if he could get one quickly. Needed to get gas—soon.
The Vic passed the exit, then under an overpass. He stared into the distance, trying to spot a gas station up ahead in the afternoon sun. The highway ran straight and flat. No overpass that he could see. The thin red line ran away ahead of him.
* * * *
In her imagination, Jennifer heard a clanking she didn't want the car thief to hear. She leaned forward and turned on the radio.
He snapped it off. “No radio! It's all lies, anyway."
She could still hear it. Finally, she turned to him, used her voice to fill the silence, cover the noise. “So, where are we going?"
"What?"
"You told my husband you'd drop me off. I was wondering where."
"Why? So you can call CPS?"
"CPS?” Maybe he didn't know that the highway patrol in Arizona was called DPS—the Department of Public Safety.
"CPS! You know. They break up families. Steal your kids. Make your wife go away."
"Child Protective Services?"
He wrenched his head around and glared at her. Gone was any vestige of openness, of goodness. His blue eyes glinted with insanity. “They don't protect nobody! They stole my kids, sent my wife away. They all need to die—CPS, Selma, Katy, Lucinda. They need to die!” He struck the steering wheel with his hand. The car jumped into the next lane. Jennifer managed to keep silent, but just barely. If there had been another car beside them, or a semi...
But he didn't notice. Didn't seem to realize they had changed lanes. Jennifer rubbed her fingers against her palms trying to fight the icy cold that blossomed there.
* * * *
The knock was getting worse. Now Sandy also heard an intermittent ping. His hands were numb from the vibrating steering wheel. The car wanted to drift left. He kept having to correct the steering to hold course.
All four windows were down, and a hot wind blew through the car so that sweat ran down his face and neck. But if he rolled them up, the smell of those bodies in the trunk would be overwhelming.
Sandy felt a presence beside him, as if someone were staring over his shoulder. He looked to his left. A highway patrol car was matching his speed.
Sandy felt an insane urge to smile and wave at the officer. Instead, he tried to concentrate on his driving. He worked to fight the shimmy caused by the rear wheel, so he wouldn't get pulled over for operating an unsafe vehicle. The patrol car siren split the air right beside him. Sandy jumped and looked over, terrified. The patrol car shot forward and disappeared down the highway, lights flashing. His heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.
And then, on the horizon, an overpass with buildings off to one side. He strained to see into the distance. Then he glanced at the fuel gauge. Nearly empty. Numb fingers clamped the wheel as he seemed to inch down the road.
Finally, he passed a sign with an exit number on it and smaller inset signs indicating a gas station, convenience store, and fast food. A minute later, he headed up the exit ramp, breaking off the chase for a pit stop, watching the red line disappear up the highway he was forced to leave. How fast could he do it?
* * * *
"Whattayoucare?"
His voice was low, but Jennifer's heart jumped. She turned to look at him. “What?"
"You deaf? I said what do you care?"
"I don't. I just thought..."
"T
hought CPS was right; that's what you thought. You want to call them in like Selma.” His voice dropped. Jennifer could hardly hear the next sentence. “They made her leave me."
"I'm sorry."
"What the hell for? They take your kids? No, you're too ‘Miss High and Mighty,’ ‘Miss Rich Bitch.’ Nobody's gonna take your kids."
She looked out the window again, stared at the thin shoulder beside the car. This part of the highway was older, undivided; a double yellow line was all that separated the opposing flows of traffic.
"I said look at me!"
She took a deep breath and turned.
"They'll never take your rich kids."
It was too much. Something had to give. “I don't have any kids. Never did.” She heard the knife edge in her voice. He didn't seem to notice.
"Why not?"
"I can't."
He turned to look fully at her, seemed to study her for a few moments, the car sailing down the highway at nearly eighty, cactus whizzing by, cars and trucks all around, right next to the center line with oncoming traffic just a few feet away.
"I can't. And you should watch the damn road."
Rage began to mount his face, then something else seemed to take over. It forced down the rage, torqued a smiling rictus across his face, turned his head around to look forward. The tires gave a soft squeal as he turned the wheel, taking the car around a bend.
* * * *
Sandy pulled the Vic onto the apron of the gas station. He climbed out and stuck his credit card in the pump, opened the gas cap, and jammed in the nozzle. Once the fuel began to flow, he walked over to look at the service bay.
An old man in a gray jumpsuit saw him coming and stood up. “Need some work done?"
"I need a tire mounted on a rim and inflated.” He felt naked standing there.
"Uh-huh. What kind o’ tire?"
"For a Crown Victoria. But I need it fast. If it's going to take awhile, I'll have to go without it. I'll pay an extra fifty to get it within five minutes."
EQMM, December 2008 Page 6
