by Andy McNab
The girls were talking to each other, making more noise than the music system. Maybe they'd blown their eardrums. I looked outside at the other boy filling up. All were in the same uniform: baggy T-shirts and shorts. They looked as if they'd been to the beach. You could tell they had money-Daddy's money.
They lined up behind me. One of the girls was going to pay.
"That was a totally cool day," she shouted. I was meeting a real-life member of the cast of Clueless. By the sound of the conversation their parents were total assholes who never gave them enough money, even though they were loaded and could easily afford it. The cashier gave me my change and leaned over to me.
"Maybe getting a job would help!" His eyes twinkled.
I grinned back and started to pick up my stuff from the counter. The girl came up to pay and opened her purse. Clueless Two, still behind me with the boy, was pissed off by the cashier's comment, and at me for agreeing.
"Look at that face, guys!" she stage-whispered behind my back.
"What's bitten you, mister?" The lad guffawed.
Daddy was very generous by the look of it, no matter what she said. I saw a wad of cash and enough cards for a bridge tournament. The other two were holding the beers they'd gotten from the fridge and were giggling. I left.
Our vehicles were facing each other at the pumps. Sitting in the front of the Cherokee was the fourth member of the group, who'd finished filling up and was now air-drumming along to whatever shit was on the
CD.
Kelly was stretched out across the backseat. I went over to her window and tapped. Kelly sat up, startled, and I held out her Coke.
The other three were now coming out of the shop. Clueless Two was still pissed off. As they got in their car I heard one of the girls shriek, "Fucking asshole," and they closed the doors to gales of laughter.
I got into the Dodge and drove over to the air pump. The story was now being told to the driver, and I could see them all getting worked up about it. The boys had to show how hard they were, and the girls didn't like being shown up in front of their beaus. There was a lot of chemistry driving out of the garage.
As the Cherokee rolled away from the pumps, it caught me in its headlights, chatting away with Kelly as I checked the tires. They slowed right down and looked at us. Clueless One must have made a crack about my appearance, because they all laughed and the driver gave me the finger to make him look good, then zoomed off into the night.
I gave it about a minute, backed out, and followed.
I didn't want to do it on the highway unless I had to. Sooner or later I knew they'd turn off the main drag so they could drink those beers out of sight of highway cops and maybe spread a couple of blankets on the ground.
After just five miles we followed the big Jeep onto a potholed road
that seemed to go through the middle of nowhere.
"Kelly, see that car ahead? I have to stop and ask them something. I want you to stay in the car, OK?"
"OK." She was more interested in the Coke.
I didn't want to force them off the road or do anything drastic. It had to look natural in case another car drove past.
We passed a roadside store that was closed, then a large truck stop, then a trailer park and a big stretch of dark nothingness, then an isolated house. I was beginning to think I'd fucked up when at last it happened. I saw a stop sign four hundred yards ahead; accelerating, I got a bit closer and checked for other car lights.
I drove up on their left-hand side. Beeping my horn, I waved at them with the road map and gave a big smile. They all looked over, and as I turned the interior light on they saw first me, then Kelly in the back half-asleep. They looked worried, then recognized me as the asshole from the gas station, Jokes were exchanged, and their beer cans came back up to their mouths from their hiding places.
I got out. The crickets were louder out here than at the filling station. I kept looking at them, smiling. The map was for Washington, D.C." but they couldn't see that, and by the time they did, it would be too late.
The driver was making a comment to the rest, probably proposing driving off as soon as I got to the door.
I said, "Hiya! Can you help me? I'm trying to get to Raleigh"--which was a place I'd seen signs for on the freeway, way back in North Carolina.
As the electric window rolled down farther, I could hear whispered giggles from the backseat ordering the driver to tell me to fuck off. I could see he had other ideas, maybe to send me anywhere but Raleigh.
"Sure, man, I'll show you."
I offered the map through the open window.
"I don't know how I got lost. I must have taken the wrong exit after I got gas.
He didn't need the map. He started to give directions, pointing down the road.
"Hey, man, just turn left and go for about twenty miles until you see
..." The girls were liking this one, working hard to stifle their sniggers.
I got hold of his head with my left hand, pulled my pistol up, and stuck it into the young flesh of his cheek.
"Oh shit, he's got a gun, he's got a gun!"
The other three went silent, but the driver's mouth went into free wheel
"I'm sorry, man, it was a joke, just a joke.
We're drunk, man. It's the bitch in the back who started it.
I've got nothing against you, man."
I couldn't even be bothered to answer him. I shouted into the back, "Throw your purses out! Now!"
My Southern drawl was quite good, I thought. I just hoped I was looking scary enough. The girls passed over their handbags.
By now the driver was trembling, and quiet tears rolled down his cheeks. The girls huddled together.
I looked at the front passenger.
"You."
He looked at me as if he were one of a hundred I could be talking to.
"Yes, you. Give me your money, out this window." It took all of two seconds for him to comply.
It was the driver's turn. He beat his pal's record. I reached in, took the keys, and put them in my pocket. He didn't seem too clever now. I had another look around for lights. All clear.
The pistol was still against the driver's skin. I said quietly into his ear, "I'm going to kill you now."
Everyone else heard it and wanted nothing to do with him.
I said, "Say whatever prayer you need to say, and be quick."
He didn't pray, he begged.
"Please don't kill me, man, please don't."
I looked down and saw that his shorts, made of gray sweatshirt material, were rather darker now. Daddy would not be impressed with the stains on his nice beige leather.
I was quite enjoying it, but knew I had to get going. I stepped back and picked everything off the road. I glanced at Clueless Two. She looked like she'd swallowed a wasp.
"What's bitten you?" I said.
I got in the car, did a one-eighty, and drove off.
Kelly said, "How come you made those people give you their money?" She sounded confused.
"Because we need loads of money, and we're much nicer than they are, so they wanted us to have it."
I looked at her in the rearview mirror. She knew damned well I was lying.
I said, "You want a job?"
"Like what?"
"Count this money."
She opened up the bags and wallets and piled all the bills in her lap.
"At least a million dollars," she said at length.
"Maybe count it once more to check."
Five minutes later I got the more realistic figure of $336.
The clueless girls were wrong. Daddy was a diamond.
We started seeing signs for Florence. That would do me fine.
The town was about sixty miles away, and it was about five-twenty in the morning. It would be getting light by sevenish, and if possible I wanted to be in a town before dawn. I'd dump the Dodge, and we'd have to find some other form of transport. We had to get to Florida if I was to get the help I needed.
>
About ten miles short, I saw a sign for a tourist information area. I pulled in and took a free map of the town and surrounding area. Kelly was half-awake as we parked. I opened the door and got out. The birds were singing, and I could just make out first light. There was a little nip in the air, but you could tell it was going to be a nice warm day. It felt great to have a stretch. I stank of sweat and had a layer of grease on my skin; my eyes were stinging and no doubt bloodshot and swollen from lack of sleep. The pain in my neck still made me walk as if I had a plank of wood strapped to my back.
The map showed a train station in the town; not necessarily helpful, but it was a start. I got back into the car and started to get the bags and wallets together to dump. All were expensive leather. A couple were even monogrammed. Inside one of them I found coke and a lump of pot in a plastic bag. The spoiled brats had obviously been on spring break, college kids using up all their hormones before the end of the semester. Mom and Dad worked their asses off and provided for these kids and they thought the world owed them a living.
Fuck 'em, I was glad I'd robbed them. I laughed; they were probably still sitting there blaming each other, trying to think of a way of getting piss stains off leather upholstery. There was a good chance they'd be too embarrassed to even report it. I dumped everything in the trash cans.
We drove toward the train station. It looked as if the town center were terminally ill, but big efforts had been made to keep the patient alive; the old historical part had been rejuvenated, but it seemed that every store sold candles, perfumed soap, and potpourri. There was nothing there for real people, no life in it at all.
We got to the station, which could have been any station in any town, mil of the homeless who stay there because it's warm. It reeked of bodies and decay. Drunks were sprawled on benches that nobody in their right mind would go near for fear of getting their head bitten off.
I looked at the departure signs. It seemed we could get to De Land by train, with a bus transfer to Daytona Beach. It was just before six; the train would be arriving at seven.
The ticket office was already open and looked as if it had been modeled on an urban 7-Eleven, wire mesh everywhere, painted white but chipped. I could just about see the large face behind it that was demanding to know where I wanted to go.
An hour later we got on the train, found our seats, and collapsed. Our car was no more than half full. Kelly cuddled into me, dog-tired.
"Nick?"
"What?"
I was busy looking at the other passengers. They all looked like me, frazzled grown-ups looking after kids.
"Where are we going?"
"To see a friend."
"Who's that?" She sounded happy at the idea. Probably she was fed up with my company.
"He lives near the beach. His name is Frankie."
"Are we going on vacation with him?"
"No, Frankie's not that kind of friend."
I decided to keep the conversation going, as she would be asleep in no time at all. The rhythmic sounds and motion of the train would soon send her off.
"Who is your best friend? Is it Melissa?"
"Yes."
"How come she's your best friend?"
"Uh we ride bikes together, and go to each other's houses a lot. We have secrets."
"What kind of secrets do you have?"
"Silly, that would be telling! Who's your best friend?"
That was easy, but I wasn't going to say his name. If we were lifted again, I would hate it if he was mentioned and put in danger. The sun was starting to burn through the windows;
I leaned across her and pulled down the blind.
"My best friend is called ... David." It was about as far away from Euan as I could think of.
"Just like you and Melissa, we tell each other things that no one else knows. In fact, he has a daughter who's just a little bit older than you.
No one else knows about her apart from David and me and now you!"
There was no reply. It seemed she was starting to doze off. I continued anyway, I didn't know why.
"We've known each other since we were seventeen, and we've been friends ever since." I started to stroke her hair. I was going to talk more but found it really hard to tell her. I couldn't put it into words. Euan and I were just there for each other and always had been. That was it, really. I just didn't have the tools to describe it.
Frank de Sabatino had been crossed off the Christmas-card list of LCN La Cosa Nostra in Miami and for his own protection had been sent over to the UK as part of the federal witness protection program. I had been one of the team charged with looking after him for the three months he spent in Wales before returning to the US. I remembered Frankie as about five-foot-five and seedy; he had very black, tight, curly hair that looked as if it had been permed in the style of a 1970s pop star.
The FBI had been investigating LCN in South Florida they don't use the word "Mafia" and had discovered that de Sabatino, a thirty-four-year-old computer nerd who worked for one of the major players, had been skimming off hundreds of thousands of dollars from their drug operations. The government agents coerced de Sabatino into gathering evidence for the prosecution. He had no choice if he were arrested, LCN would be told what he'd been up to. LCN members in prison would have done the rest. Pat had had a good relation ship with him during the job, and we'd later joked that maybe that was why he'd got out right afterward. I now knew that Pat had liked to sample the goods a bit too much.
Frankie's clothing had been anything but low profile; to him, "subdued" meant a pale orange shirt with purple pants and alligator skin cowboy boots. Whatever he was wearing, his fat would push up against his shirt. The last I'd heard of him, he'd been given a new identity after the trial and, very surprisingly, had opted to stay in the States and, even more weird, in Florida. Maybe the shirt selection wasn't so good elsewhere.
I'd thought again about calling Euan, but what could he do for me at the moment? I decided against it; better not use up all my resources at once. Frankie would help decrypt the PIRA stuff, then Euan could help me once I was back in the UK.
We got to De Land station just before 2 p.m. The bus was waiting to take us to the coast. After so many hours of air-conditioning on the train, the Florida afternoon hit me as if I'd opened the door of a blast furnace. Both of us were blinking like bats under the clear, oppressive sky. We were surrounded by people wearing tans and summer clothes. The electronic information scroll at the station told us it was ninety-one degrees.
We boarded the hot bus, sat down, and waited for the PVC to stick to our backs as we chugged along the highway to the Daytona Beach bus depot.
It was an uneventful trip. Occasionally from behind us would come the sound of rolling thunder, and a blur of chrome, leather, and sawed-off denim would flash past with the distinctive, explosive bubbling gurgle of a Harley-Davidson. I'd forgotten Daytona Beach was a mecca for
bikers. From the bus window, the roadside diners looked black with them.
Two hours later we trundled across the bridge over the inland waterway into downtown Daytona Beach. We peeled ourselves off the seats, and I reclaimed our bag. The first thing I did was buy us two fresh-squeezed orange juices, and as we walked from the shelter of the bus depot I could feel the sunlight burning through my shirt.
At the taxi stand I asked the driver to take us to an ordinary hotel.
"What kind of ordinary?" he asked.
"Cheap" The driver was Latino. Gloria Estefan blasted out of the cassette player; he had a little statue of the Virgin Mary on the dashboard, a picture of his kids hanging off the mirror, and he was wearing a big, loud, flowery shirt de Sabatino would have died for. I rolled my window down and let the breeze hit my face. We turned onto Atlantic Avenue, and I found myself staring at a massive white ribbon of hard-packed sand that stretched to infinity. We drove past diners, beachwear and biker stores, Chinese restaurants, oyster houses, 7-Elevens, parking lots, tacky hotels, then more diners and beachwear stores.
The whole place was built for vacations. Everywhere I turned I saw hotels with brightly colored murals. Nearly all had signs saying spring breakers welcome. There was even a cheerleaders convention going on; I could see scores of girls in skimpy outfits strutting their stuff on a ball field outside the convention center. Maybe Frankie was there, sitting in a corner, ogling.
"Are we there yet?" Kelly asked.
The driver said, "Two more blocks on the left."
I saw all the usual chain hotels, and then ours--the Castaway Hotel.
