He put his overnight bag in a booth by the window, and headed for the bathroom. He’d only been riding for an hour, but already he had the grubbies. He was wearing traveling clothes—worn-out Levis, a pair of tired, tattered Nikes, a frayed polo shirt and a droopy cotton sweater. He looked at himself in the mirror. Were it not for his white sidewall haircut, he wouldn’t be recognizable as an army officer. He liked dressing so he blended in. That way you didn’t attract any attention, and if you wanted to meet someone, all you had to do was start a conversation. If not, you just minded your own business, and everybody else minded theirs. That was one of the great things about this country. You could be an Airborne Ranger, a trained killer, and nobody would ever know it. They’d sit down across from you, check you out, and figure you to be a lonely guy catching up on your reading.
Sam washed his face and hands, splashed water on his neck, ran a comb through what was left of his hair, and walked back to the booth, picking up the local paper on the way. A gum-cracking waitress tossed a menu at him, and he ordered a hot roast beef sandwich and a Coke. She cocked her head and asked, “That all?” “Yeah, all for now,” he said. He took a look around. The place was full of locals—truckers, farmers, housewives gossiping over coffee and apple pie. Most of the people from the bus sat in a section in the back that had been reserved for bus passengers. In the next booth, two men had their heads together whispering about something. The old man was nervous. Sam could hear his coffee cup rattle against the saucer every time he picked it up. The scrawny man kept touching his arm and telling him to take it easy, everything was going to be all right. Looked like a death in the family, he figured. He flipped through the paper and sipped his Coke.
It was weird. You could sit in a place like this diner for twenty minutes, and if you paid attention you could get a handle on the whole deal. That couple over there are having their fourteenth argument of the day, and he’s about to lose for the thirteenth time. Those three truckers are complaining about the price of diesel in this part of the state. The two guys in overalls are arguing about whether the corn is dry enough to harvest yet, and the guy who says he’s got one of those new-fangled moisture gauges is going to end up ignoring it and harvesting the same day as the others, who will rely on biting a kernel to tell when it’s dry. The waitress who’s cracking gum is complaining about her boyfriend, a traveling salesman, who promised he’d be through town today and hasn’t shown yet. Seems like everyone behind the counter has heard that complaint before. Somewhere in the back, the short order cook is banging on a bell, trying to get the waitress’s attention.
“This damn hot roast beef gonna have icicles on it, time you get your ass back here.”
Comfortable diner din, completely undisturbed by the outside world.
The lukewarm hot roast beef arrived with a swish of electric blue nylon minidress, and Sam dug in. The waitress was on her way to the kitchen when the diner’s glass door banged open, catching her on the shoulder and knocking her aside, spilling the coffee she was carrying. Four men who were most definitely not stragglers from the bus swept in and looked around. The youngest of the four ordered coffee to go, black, four times. Nobody apologized to the waitress, who was wiping up the mess. The young guy took the coffees in a sack, and the four trooped out the way they came in.
“Nice guys,” Sam said to the gum-cracking waitress. She was standing over his booth, looking out the front window.
“Lovely. Did you see what kind of car they drove up in?” Two of the men had disappeared, and the other two were standing under a streetlight, drinking their coffee.
“Nope.” Sam glanced out the window. “Have you ever seen them before?”
“I seen the kid in here late some nights. He comes in around four, orders breakfast, sits around playing the juke box till it gets light out. Don’t look like he ever did an honest day’s work in his life. He’s been takin’ lessons from the other three, you ask me.”
A bell sounded in the kitchen. The waitress touched Sam’s arm gently and moved off. He turned back to watch the two men under the streetlight. In the reflection of the diner’s window he saw the old man in the next booth stand up to leave. The scrawny man grabbed his shoulder and whispered something. The old man nodded and headed out the door. The scrawny man sat down, lit a cigarette, and looked out the window. Sam could see his reflection for the first time. He had the narrow, angular face of one whose family had come up to Illinois from the hill country of Kentucky or Tennessee. Sharp pointed chin, receding hairline, hawklike nose, piercing blue eyes set back under high cocked eyebrows. Sam had been around people like him in the Army long enough to know that more often than not there was more going on behind those eyes than you’d like to know.
Out in the parking lot, the old man was approaching the two men under the streetlight. They exchanged some words. He shook hands with the big man in the gray suit, who seemed to be in charge. The big man put his arm around the much smaller, older man. They walked toward a Cadillac Eldorado parked near the hedge. The old man took out keys and opened the front door. He touched the door lock button, unlocking the passenger door. He and the big man got into the front seat and closed the doors. The other man stood outside, his back to the car. Sam looked around the parking lot, but he didn’t see the other two. He did see a reflection of the character in the next booth doing the same thing he was doing: looking for the other two.
The old man and the big man were still in the front seat of the Eldorado when he caught a glimpse of the others, in the shadows, next to a dumpster near the corner of the diner. Then something happened back at the car. The big man got out and walked around to the driver’s side and pulling the old man out by his collar, threw him against the Eldorado’s fender. He slammed a fat fist into the old man’s kidneys. The scrawny man in the next booth was on his feet and running for the door. He was yelling something as he ran across the parking lot. He didn’t get far. One of the men from the dumpster cut him down with a kick. The old man was on his knees next to the Caddy, and two men were beating on him. The other man appeared from behind the dumpster, and the three of them picked up the old man by the arms and dragged him along the hedge toward the corner of the diner.
Sam had seen enough. He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, picked up his overnight bag, and ran for the door. He hit the bottom of the stairs full tilt, reached the corner of the diner, and stopped. The alley next to the diner was dark, but he could hear crunches and thumps and whacks. He made out dim figures: somebody was holding the scrawny man by his shoulders, and another was preparing to swing on him with a short length of two-by-four. He was slumped over, blood dripping from his mouth.
The old man lay on his side on the ground. The big man was kicking him in the stomach and back. Sam took a couple of quick steps and drop-kicked the figure closest to him. The two-by-four spun into the air like a baton, and Sam leapt into the air. He landed in a crouch, swinging. He caught somebody in the leg and heard a sickening crunch. The figure crumbled and Sam kept moving, knees bent, swinging the two-by-four. He caught another man on the chin. His jaw cracked. The man went down.
He heard something, and turned just in time to collect a fist in the stomach. He doubled over and kept going down, rolling forward on one shoulder back to his feet. Someone yelled. Sam slapped himself against the wall of the diner, holding the two-by-four across his chest. A body flew out of the darkness. Sam glimpsed the flash of a blade and dropped to his knees. He swung the two-by-four blindly. It felt like he caught the guy in the gut, and he heard a whoosh of exhaled air. A body crumpled at his feet. Sam took another couple of steps into the blackness, swinging the two-by-four like a bat. No one moved. The alley was suddenly silent. Sam’s eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the scrawny man pick himself up from the pavement and crawl over to the old man’s body.
The scrawny man shook him hard and turned him over.
Blood flowed from the corner of his mouth. He listened to the old man’s chest and looked up at Sam.
>
“Help me with him,” he croaked. “He’s still alive.”
Sam reached down and helped him to his feet. Together, they lifted the old man from the ground, but he couldn’t stand. Sam grabbed the old man under his arm, and they made their way down the alley. One figure struggled to his feet as they passed. Sam swung the two-by-four in a short arc and caught him in the ribs. He went down.
“Motherfuckers!” It was the big man, maybe fifty feet behind them now.
“He’s got a gun,” said the scrawny man.
“Come on,” said Sam. “Keep moving.” Two more steps and they were on the other side of the dumpster.
Sam glanced over his shoulder. The big man was still on the ground. He raised the gun with one hand, steadying himself against the wall of the diner with the other.
“You fuckers are dead!” the big man yelled down the alley. Two shots rang out, hitting the dumpster.
Sam stayed low and moved ahead automatically. They reached the Eldorado, and the scrawny man pulled the door open.
“Help me get him in here. C’mon, man. Help me.”
“We’ve got to get an ambulance,” said Sam. “This guy’s in real trouble. He needs a doctor.”
“Fuck the ambulance. We gotta get outta here. Pick him up. Get his legs.” Sam picked up his legs and shoved the old man in the back seat and slammed the door. Just then, another shot rang out and a slug hit the car fender. Sam turned in the direction of the fire and saw one of the figures from the alley. He was just around the corner of the dumpster, and he was holding his jaw with one hand and shooting at them with the other. Another slug hit the car. Sam ducked behind the car door.
“Get in!” yelled the scrawny man from behind the wheel. He turned the key and the Eldorado came to life. Sam hesitated. His ears were ringing. What was going on? He felt himself slipping, getting light-headed … Jesus! He was getting … dizzy …
The car jerked backwards.
“Get in, man! That fucker’s tryin’ to kill us!”
Sam looked across the parking lot at the diner. Where was the bus? It was gone. Two dozen faces filled the window of the diner and someone was standing in the door, screaming. Another shot rang out. This one missed the car, going over his head.
He was the target.
With a screech of tires, the scrawny man backed the Eldorado onto the highway in a great sweep. He slammed the car into drive and they were off into the darkness, no headlights, just the scream of the engine and the pounding of Sam’s heart.
In the army, they would say you were committed. The white lines of the road whipped by. He squinted into the darkness, instinctively watching for curves. He yelled to the driver, bend left, and the Eldorado drifted …
Yes indeed he was …
Bend right!
Committed.
JOHNNY GEE FLICKED a switch and the Cadillac’s headlights illuminated a narrow, tree-lined drive somewhere off the main road, a couple of miles from the diner. Sam glanced at the speedometer. The car was doing sixty-five, and Johnny Gee was having a hard time keeping it on the road, crowned in the middle, causing the car to drift left and right toward the shoulders.
“Slow up,” said Sam. “You’re going to lose it.”
“You wanna drive?” asked Johnny Gee, looking quickly at his passenger. “I ain’t even got a license.”
That was all Sam needed.
“Pull over.”
Johnny Gee slowed the Caddy and turned onto a dirt path, stopping in a grove of trees about a hundred yards from the road. He jumped out of the car and climbed into the back seat with the old man, who could be heard groaning softly.
Sam moved behind the wheel, grabbed the shoulder harness and buckled up. He found the seat controls and moved it forward. He heard the car’s back door slam shut. He put the car in gear, and headed back along the dirt road.
“Which way are we going?” he called over his shoulder.
“Right,” said Johnny Gee. “Same way we were going before.”
There were no cars coming, so he swung back on the paved road.
It felt weird to be behind the wheel of this big, unwieldy Cadillac, but the V-8 responded when you put your foot to it. It was sluggish in the corners. The floating sensation would take some getting used to.
Jesus! What am I doing thinking about how the Caddy responds? What the hell am I doing in this car to begin with? How did I get here? What the hell happened back there? What happened to the bus? How am I going to get to Fort Campbell? Those bastards were shooting at me back there. Who the hell are these guys? What the hell have I gotten myself into?
First things first.
He took a deep breath and gripped the wheel a little more tightly. Glanced at the speedometer. The car was rocketing down the narrow two-lane at seventy-five. Didn’t feel too bad.
“Do you think those guys are still after us?”
“You better fucking believe they are,” said Johnny Gee.
“Hey, be careful on those turns, man. You’re tossing Howie all over the back seat.”
“Where will this road take us?” asked Sam as he rounded another corner, a little slower.
“Just drive. I’ll tell you when we get there,” said Johnny Gee.
Sam slammed on the brakes, throwing the Caddy into a slide. The car ended up sideways on the two-lane. Both bodies hit the back of the front seat. He turned to face them.
“One: Don’t ever talk to me that way again. Ever. Two: What the hell happened back there in that alley? Three: Who the hell are you, and who’s the guy you call Howie? The way I see things, I’ve got some answers coming, mister. Either I get them right here, right now, or I turn this thing around and drive straight back to the diner and turn you over to the guys in the alley.”
Johnny Gee was holding Howie’s head on his lap. The older man tried to raise his head. He coughed, spraying the front of Johnny Gee’s shirt with blood.
“Jesus.” Sam stared open-mouthed at the scene in the back seat. “We’ve got to get this guy to a hospital.”
“No … hospital,” Howie coughed, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. “Farm … farm.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll … be … okay,” he said, again trying to raise himself from Johnny Gee’s lap. He looked pleadingly at his friend.
Johnny Gee stared out the Caddy’s side window. He was scared.
“We haven’t got much time,” he said. “I’m sorry … I’ll explain everything. We’ve got to get Howie to his place. Can we get going? We’re blocking the road.”
“Sure,” Sam said. He put the Caddy in drive. “Which way?”
“Same direction as before. Keep going till you hit a four-way stop, then take a right,” said Johnny Gee.
“No-o-o-o.” The word came out of the old man’s mouth in a slow gurgle. “F-f-farm. F-farm.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Johnny Gee. “Keep going straight at the four-way stop. It’s about ten, twelve miles. There’s a turn next to an old Sunoco station. It’s on the right. I’ll show you.”
“Listen,” barked Sam. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital. I’m not driving him anyplace but a proper facility, where he can get medical attention.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. The old man had his eyes closed again, and he was breathing very softly, coughing every third or fourth breath. The scrawny man wiped blood from his mouth and chin with his shirttail.
“Look, man. The truth is, I don’t know what happened back there. I think Howie’s in some kind of trouble. If he is, we’re in trouble. We didn’t know what we were getting into, but those guys didn’t exactly have our best interests in mind. I think we better do what he says, till I can get him to tell me why those guys jumped him.”
“They didn’t jump him. He was sitting in the car with the fat man … the one who looked like he was in charge. And they didn’t just beat up on you. There were two guys shooting at us when we got out of there.”
“I know. I know,” said Johnny Gee, searching for a way to keep him driving. He had to pla
cate the driver, keep him from freaking out and heading for the cops. Half an hour, no more. Long enough to get Howie to a safe place, get him fixed up … far enough so the sound of those gunshots stopped ringing in his ears.
“Look. Whatever Howie was doing back there, it had to be okay. He was Democratic Party chairman for fifteen years. He used to be the sheriff in this county.” The second part was a lie, but it sounded good.
Sam stood on the brakes and pulled to a stop at the side of the road. He turned around so he could get a better look at the back seat. The old man was bleeding profusely from the head. His left arm was hideously twisted out of shape, broken in at least two places. He was coughing blood.
“Your friend looks bad,” Sam said. “If he doesn’t get medical attention, he could die. I’m not moving this automobile until you tell me where the nearest hospital is.”
Johnny Gee didn’t know what to say. The driver was probably right. They were in enough trouble as it was. If Howie died in the car, or out at the farm …
“Okay,” said Johnny Gee. “Keep going down this road like I said, but take a right at the four-way stop. We’ll take him to a clinic near here. It’s the closest thing we’ve got to a hospital in these parts.”
Sam put the Caddy in gear and pulled back on the road. He could see rolling hills and the outlines of barns against the night sky. They were headed vaguely south and west. It seemed as if it had been an hour ago since he was sleepily headed on the bus for Fort Campbell. Now he’d been in a gunfight, and he had two bleeding men he didn’t know in the back seat of a car he didn’t own. His head started to swim. What the hell had happened?
“When we get to that clinic, I want some answers,” he said, the tone in his voice somewhere between bewildered and angry. “And we’ve got to make some arrangements to get me on another bus. I’m a major in the Army, and I’ve got to get to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, or I’ll be in even bigger trouble than I’m in now.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
Rules of the Road Page 5
