Orlando and bust a nut!
Graham smiled. Maybe he should go straight to the hotel after all, scout around for Miss Mary. Scary Mary, quite contrary, let me munch your dingle-berries! Graham couldn’t wait to see what she looked like. But first things first. Get that godforsaken taillight cover out of the way so he wouldn’t have to think about it for the remainder of his stay. He hoped like hell Susan had gone straight home. Surely she would have noticed it by now.
‘Gee, sweetie, I don’t know. Did somebody back into you? Oh… you went straight home, huh? I wonder if somebody backed into me while I was at the grocery store yesterday. I don’t know. I didn’t even notice it.’
“Jeez,” he muttered. “You’re gonna let this shit ruin your whole trip.”
He laughed as he sped west on I-4, because even though his life seemed to be circling the bowl, he had still retained enough of himself to keep Scary Mary—a woman he had never met, who may or may not even be here, and for all he knew might be the female equivalent of a toad—at the periphery of his mind.
Graham sighed beneath the soft and soothing music as he settled back into his seat, eyes scanning ahead for the exit that would lead him to the Cherokee dealership, and before he knew it he was heading down the ramp onto a major highway. At the bottom of the ramp he hung a right onto the Orange Blossom Trail, and followed it north. A huge billboard advertising bargains galore at Central Florida Jeep Cherokee loomed in the distance. Two more miles, it said. A few minutes later, Graham pulled into the dealership. Cars and trucks and shiny new Jeeps lined the huge concrete lot; red, white and blue pendants fluttered in the breeze, strung on wires that lined the front of the highway. Graham cut the engine, and stepped out into the heat and humidity of downtown Orlando. The sun pressed down upon him, and for the second time today he wished he had stayed at home with his wife. He could have gone out early, to a Jeep dealer—not the one where he’d bought his car, but one on the other side of Richmond—replaced his taillight cover and been back home before Susan even realized he was gone. And if she was awake when he got back, so what? He could’ve just made something up; he was a writer, for Christ’s sake. He made things up for a living.
That fucking guy was probably all right, anyway.
And if he wasn’t?
No, he had to be, otherwise, they would have tracked him down by now.
Probably just shook him up when I backed into him. Serve the stupid prick right for trying to bully me.
Three times he was accosted by salesmen in white short sleeves and ties, and three times he muttered, “Parts” and kept on walking. By the time he reached the front of the glassed-in building, he was breathing heavily. Damp spots bloomed across the front of his shirt. Stepping inside the air-conditioned building was like stepping into heaven, and he stood for a moment while the frigid air wrapped him. Then it was on to the Parts window and, easy as one-two-three, Graham had his taillight cover and was on his way back to his rental car.
With his replacement part tucked safely under his jacket on the front seat, Graham fired up the Taurus, happy to have all that behind him. And he really did believe it was behind him now, nothing left for him to do but have fun for a couple of days and make it back home in one piece, slip the taillight in place and that would be that. By the time he pulled onto the highway, his thoughts were on book signings and readings, old friends and rivals, and, of course, Scary Mary.
Chapter Thirty
A near-empty bowl of mashed potatoes sat on the dining room table, next to a platter with a few leftover morsels of roast beef; pieces of cucumbers, slices of tomatoes, a couple of celery stalks. Music filtered in from the living room as Charlotte’s classic rock station finished up a seven-song rock-block with Molly Hatchet’s On the Edge of Sundown. Carrie pushed her plate a couple of inches toward the middle of the table, crossed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. “I’m so full,” she said.
”That was awesome, baby.”
“Man oh man,” Larry said.
Carrie smiled at her husband. “Well, since I can’t see you off tomorrow, I thought I‘d at least cook your favorite meal.”
“Every meal you cook is my favorite.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It is. She’s a helluva cook, Larry.”
Larry patted his stomach. “You’re tellin’ me,” he said.
“I’m glad y’all enjoyed it.”
A riveting piano solo echoed from the living room, and Larry closed his eyes, bobbing his head in time to the music. “Man,” he said. “That’s a great song.”
“Great band,” Bryan said. “Too bad they burnt out so fast.”
“Live fast, die young,” Larry said. “Leave a good looking corpse behind.”
“They’re not dead, are they?” Carrie asked.
Laughing, Bryan said, “Just broke.”
Carrie and Larry chuckled along with him, and then Carrie said, “Speaking of corpses, you two hear about the guy they found in the back of that pickup last night?”
“Pickup?”
“Yeah,” Larry said. “I saw that in the paper this morning.” To Bryan he said, “You know, I was telling you about it this afternoon.”
“Oh yeah, right,” Bryan said, wondering if Carrie could sense the nest of vipers stirring in his gut, and what he might come up with to change the subject before Larry said something stupid.
But, of course, he never got the chance, because Larry said, “Yeah, they found a pickup and a stolen car crashed downtown. Nobody was there when the police arrived, well, except that poor bastard in back of the truck. Like the car and the truck drove themselves there.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Carrie said. “Word got around the hospital, and, well, this guy was really messed up, broken jaw and two broken arms, shinbone was cracked like nobody’s business. ”
Bryan picked up his half-full Miller Lite and guzzled a mouthful, almost spitting it back up when Carrie said, “Somebody nailed him through the heart with a pick-ax they found in the back of his truck.”
Nailed him through the heart.
Bryan looked over at Larry, who was smiling like that was the best news he’d heard all month.
Because he nailed him through the heart… Stop it! Bryan told himself. You were behind him all the way. He didn’t have time.
Did he?
Larry was smiling.
And then he laughed.
Then he said, “Buncha gangbangers probably caught him breaking into their crib.”
“Gangbangers?” Bryan said, as if he couldn’t believe the word had come out of his neighbor’s mouth, which he couldn’t, because he couldn’t believe Larry could be stupid enough to even keep the conversation going.
“Well, yeah. I mean, they found him in the ghetto, who the hell do you think killed him? I doubt a couple of white guys attacked him and then fled down one of those dark alleys into Crackville.”
Couple of white guys… Bryan looked away.
Carrie took a drink of tea, sat her glass on the table, and said, “Which brings up an interesting question.”
“Exactly. Who was driving the truck, and where the hell’d they go?”
Bryan’s jaw dropped. He coughed a couple of times and picked up his beer, took another drink, and his wife said, “Maybe the gangbangers grabbed whoever was driving the truck and carried them into Crackville.”
“To some metal-mouthed pimp’s hideout. What do you think, Bryan?”
“Yeah,” Carrie said. “You are the horror writer.”
Bryan wanted the conversation to end—g’nite folks, see ya later, neighbor. C’mon back when you’ve got enough sense to keep your fucking mouth shut!
But he sure as hell didn’t want to look like he was hiding something, so he said, “To the old abandoned church they went, dragging behind them the two crackers they had caught trying to lure an innocent little girl into the truck—street-scum or not, they weren’t about to stand for that. Not in their neighborhood. In a basement, dimly lit b
y moonbeams filtering through its broken windows, they chained a frightened young man to the wall. The other they stuffed into a pine box—rotten and full of holes, graveyard dirt still clinging to its sides. Blood and the stink of desiccated flesh assailed him as a swarm of cockroaches raced across his legs, drawing from him a blood-curdling scream, that kept right on coming as they nailed the lid shut.”
“Aaannd, he’s off!” Carrie called out.
“His friend begged, pleading to be set free while they went to work on him with pliers and a knife. First a finger and then an ear. A huge black man sliced off the tip of his nose, popped it into a mouth full of gold-plated teeth, crunched it a few times and spit it out. Glistening dreadlocks hung down his back as he stepped to the middle of the floor; his massive arms pointing up toward the ceiling, he whispered, “Come.” And the Rats ran down the walls, all eyes and teeth and razor-sharp claws, into the casket, scurrying and squealing, screeching and screaming and snapping their jaws, as shrieks and howls filled the air and dark red blood ran from the thumping and shaking box.”
“Holy shit, Dude.”
Laughing, Carrie shook her head. “That’s my baby.”
Larry picked up his beer and tilted the bottle toward Bryan. “That’s pretty damned good for off the cuff. Wicked.”
“Thanks,” Bryan said, returning the gesture, and then lifting the bottle to his lips, smiling as he polished off the rest of his beer.
Larry winked. “I wonder if that did happen.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well,” Carrie said, “I don’t know about all that, but I do know one thing. The guys in that truck last night must have been the dumbest white men on the face of the planet.”
Bryan said, “I think that’s something we can all agree on.”
“No doubt,” Larry said, laughing. “And on that note, what say we adjourn to the living room for a little burning of the ceremonial bush.”
Carrie pushed her chair back and stood up, picked up her plate and her glass of tea, and said, “You two go ahead. I need to clear off the table and get the dishes started.”
“We can wait, if you want.”
“No, really, Larry. I’d just as soon pass.” Carrie smiled at her husband. “I don’t want to get too zonked out tonight,” she said, and then headed for the kitchen.
“How about you, Dude? You up for a little zonking?”
“I’m always up for that.” Bryan stood up, grabbed his empty bottle of beer and Larry’s, too. “Another?” he said.
Larry waited until Carrie was out of the room, before saying, “Yeah, I’ll take some more of that horse piss you call beer.”
Chuckling, Bryan said, “Go on in the living room and I’ll get us a couple.”
“Should we help her clear the table?”
“Nah, we’d just get in the way.”
Bryan walked into the kitchen, where Carrie stood at the sink running water into a pot. Soapsuds rising to the top spilled over the side as she shut the water off and turned to her husband. Smiling, she said, “I hope you’re not going to get too wiped out.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Carrie went to Bryan, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her breasts against his chest. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out.”
Bryan smiled.
Carrie looked up, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted. Her hands moved up his back, cupping his neck and pulling his face close to hers. “On this,” she said, and then pressed her lips to his, her tongue sliding into his mouth as she held him tight.
Bryan tipped his head back. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to miss out on that, either.”
Carrie, smiling, rubbing the bulge in his pants, said, “Just make sure you bring that to bed with you.”
“I definitely will.”
Still smiling, she said, “Later.”
Bryan grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. He opened them and tossed the caps into the garbage, and then carried the ice-cold bottles through the dining room, into the living room where Larry sat on the couch, putting the finishing touches on a joint. He took a seat beside Larry and sat Larry’s beer on the coffee table.
Ted Nugent’s acid rock classic, Journey to the Center of the Mind, played on the stereo, and Larry said, “What is this, oldies but goodies night?”
“Apparently so.”
“God, I haven’t heard that since I was a kid. By the way…” Larry lit the joint with a lighter he’d fished out of his shirt pocket, took a drag and passed the joint to Bryan, and put the lighter back in his pocket. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted toward the ceiling, plates clattering in the dining room as Carrie cleared off the table. “I think you’re in serious need of an upgrade here. I wasn’t kidding about that horse piss remark.”
“What, this?” Bryan held up his Miller Lite, took a healthy swig and put the bottle on the table. Flicking ashes into a ceramic tray beside it, he took another toke and returned the joint to Larry. “It’s okay.”
“Okay? Dude, who the fuck wants okay? Hot dogs and hand jobs are okay. “Wouldn’t you rather have lobster and blow jobs?”
“Why? You offering?”
Larry laughed. “Fuck you,” he said. “You know what I mean.”
“Aw, hell. I started off drinking this stuff and just stuck with it.”
“But you like the Rolling Rock.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Look, do yourself a favor. Buy a case of the stuff, you’ll never go back.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Fuck maybe, Dude. Do it for me so I don’t have to swig down anymore of this donkey piss.” Larry picked up his bottle and held it up to the light, took a drink and then shook his head, grimacing as the amber liquid went down.
“Okay, okay,” Bryan said, and then took a final toke before grinding the spent roach against the ashtray. “You win. Quit busting my balls.”
Larry took another swig. Eyes drooping lazily, he settled back into the couch, looked at Bryan and chuckled.
“What?”
“You should’ve seen your face.”
Bryan scowled. “The fuck’re you talking about?”
“When Carrie started talking about our buddy down in the ghetto.”
“That was some dumb shit, Larry.”
Larry crooned, “Innn the ghettooo”, mimicking Elvis.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah; yuk it up, ass-wipe.”
Larry laughed, and pointed a finger at Bryan. “I thought your eyes were gonna pop out when we started talking about Crackville and white guys, and who was driving the truck. Don’t ever break the law, Dude. You wouldn’t last ten minutes in an interrogation room.”
“Don’t break the law? That’s all the fuck I’ve been doing since I hooked up with your crazy ass.” Footsteps sounded in the dining room and Bryan lowered his voice to a whisper, “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“You know, nail his ass.”
“Hell no. You know I didn’t, you were right behind me. Not that I wasn’t thinking about it, but hey, all’s well that ends well, huh? Couldn’t ask for a much better outcome than that.”
“Oh, no, what could be better than losing our way in the middle of a slum, crashing the truck and barely getting away from a bunch of psychotic gangbangers, not to mention the cops?”
“Dude, look around. After all that shit, here we are, fat and happy with a beer a buzz and a trip to Florida in our hip pockets.”
“The cops could be pulling into your driveway at any moment.”
“Dude, don’t sweat it. By the time we get back, this will all be over.”
“You ever heard of fingerprints? You were driving that truck, weren’t you?”
Larry laughed, tipped back his beer and took a swallow. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice, “Look, it doesn’t matter what they find. I’ve never been fingerprinted.”
“What about… you know—your parents?”
Larry laughed again, shook his head. “You know, for somebody who ma
kes a living thinking up a bunch of twisted shit, you sure are squeamish.”
Bryan took a swig of beer, and looked over his shoulder into the dining room. “I just don’t want to end up in jail.”
“Look, I’ve never been fingerprinted. They don’t do that when they haul you in for questioning, unless they arrest you, which they didn’t. The only way they were going to catch us was if they caught us red-handed, which—in case you haven’t noticed—they didn’t. So just take it easy and go with the flow. And don’t worry, even if the cops did track me down through some miraculous-for-them-unfortunate-for-us-turn-of-events, you think I’d send ‘em over here? They’d break you like a kid’s piggybank and we’d both end up in the hoosegow.”
“Well…”
“Tell me the truth. After all that shit: catching fuck-face at your window and beating his ass to a pulp; the cop coming by after I spaced out at the green light—knowing what could’ve happened if he’d shown up a few seconds earlier. After hauling ass past the crack whores and pimps; the crash and how you pounded the shit outa that prick’s hand. After doing all that and racing away right before those wailing sirens caught our asses; were you able to sleep last night?”
“Hell no.”
“Were you lying awake, every nerve ending in your body firing off like a goddamn rocket?”
Bryan shrugged his shoulders, nodded his head.
“Tell the truth. Have you ever felt a rush like that before?”
“No.”
“Fucking great, wasn’t it?”
“Hell no!”
Chapter Thirty-One
Rick peered down at the stitched together landscape passing slowly beneath the airplane: cornfields and pastures, a lake that looked more like a mirror, or a shiny patch of glistening ice; Hot Wheel-sized cars parked in front of Monopoly-sized houses. It was a rare occasion to be flying again, and he was enjoying the experience, which reminded him of the good old days when Rick Greaton was going places, before he ended up a washed-up has-been pumping out manuscripts for a mere pittance of their actual worth. One day, in frustration, Rick had tallied the hours and days spent hunched over his keyboard versus the monetary reward; the money he’d shelled out putting together proposal packages—not to mention doctor visits and pills for the deep depression his miserable situation had landed him in. All of that had added up to way less than minimum wage. Rick had grown weary of it, but what could he do? Get a real job? Like what, pumping gas? Flipping burgers? What a joke that would be, the great Rick Greaton asking his adoring fans if they’d care to super-size their fries. He was caught up in a never ending merry-go-round of false hope and rejection, scratching out story after story for little or no money, until the stories would finally dry up, and Rick would pry the pistol from its hiding place and do what he should have done years ago.
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