by SKLA
He drove. The car rocked crazily, nauseously, through holes and over rocks. Suki's mind, cradling its sanity, dosed out fear in increments but still stopped short of believing he would murder her. His object, she imagined, was hideous unwilling sex; his desire had sickened over into monstrous rage, his intention was to force himself on her. She willed her body far away. She thought with pity of her clothes, the soft thin dress with the pattern of apples and pears. Her voice let go at last, became a pinched despairing moan. She said, "For God's sake, Lazslo, turn the car around."
He continued straight ahead. Mangrove leaves threw light back at his distorted face. His eyes flashed a vacant silver, the corners of his mouth were flecked with dried saliva. The car rocked so violently that his foot lurched off the accelerator. At a sudden curve he slowed still more. Suki flicked her door handle and rolled out of the car.
The ground was sharp and hard but she didn't feel the impact, only tasted coral and noticed grit against her cheek.
She clambered to her feet and started running through the dark, back along the dusty road. At the second step she lost a sandal, jagged nubs of limestone bit into her arch. She heard the Caddy crunch to a stop, the clicking open of Lazslo's door. She ran. Crickets were rasping and tiny panes of sky, triangles and diamonds, showed between the mangrove leaves. Her ribs were bruised, her breath came short and cramped.
She heard the steps behind her, pounding, crunching. If the mangroves opened up for her, perhaps there'd be a place to wriggle into, to hide; but they didn't open up, just loomed ragged and impenetrable, scabby trunks clustered close as strands of hair. She ran. She heard his breathing, the wheeze and catch of it. She heard a grunt as he lunged and grabbed her shoulder, his dreaded weight dragging her to the ground.
She pivoted as she fell, went down kicking and clawing. Coral rubble slammed against her back, hammered air out of her lungs, but still she bucked and flailed. Her knee found Lazslo's groin; her fingernails bit into the skin of his cheek, raked down deep and hard. She pummeled his sides and kicked at his ankles, but his thick torso and thighs crushed down, exhausted her.
He leaned and fended until her arms grew rubbery, her legs went numb. Then her body understood that it was over, and she was visited by the mercy that descends on doomed animals when pain and panic are no longer of use, and sad peace rolls back the eyes and stops the flanks from quivering. Her arms came up around her face like palm fronds blown back by the wind, but they offered only faint resistance as Lazslo's hands locked down around her throat.
Vaguely she felt the grit of the road against her scalp, saw a narrow swath of stars between the ranks of mangrove. The last time she smelled air it was scented with salt and seashells.
PART
TWO
Chapter 13
Aaron Katz arrived at Lucia's at ten of eight and was shown to a so-so table in the middle of the room.
He took the seat that faced the door, ordered a bottle of Barolo, and did the things that people do when they are waiting in a restaurant, alone. He took more time than was necessary to unfold his napkin. He fiddled with his silverware and read the menu several times. He fended off the feeling that people were looking at him, and when he'd finished his first glass of wine and his date hadn't yet arrived, he tried to check his watch without anybody seeing.
At 8:25 he got up to use the men's room and the phone. There was no answer at Suki's house and he didn't leave a message. He expected she would be sitting at the table, harried and apologetic, when he returned to it. She wasn't.
He reclaimed his napkin, nibbled bread. He sipped more Barolo. He had no reason to be worried for Suki, and in the absence of worry, annoyance and self-mockery set in. It had been a long time since he'd been stood up; then again, it had been a while since he'd had a date. But why would Suki fail to show? She'd offered him her number, kissed him on the cheek—was this all some screwed-up game she invented as she went along? Was she, like a lot of people in this town, just plain nuts?
Aaron lived with that theory for half a glass of wine, took a hollow solace from it. Stood up by a crazy woman, just as well. But finally he rejected the notion. He'd seen just enough of Suki to understand that if she was crazy, her craziness wouldn't take the form of failing to appear, but of appearing too wholeheartedly. A hell-bent candor, an in-your-face there-ness—if the woman was nuts, that's what her nuttiness was made of.
So why hadn't she arrived? Aaron began to worry after all, but only faintly. Key West was a safe place, a loony but a gentle place, a place where people survived their errors. Not a place where awful things happened.
At a quarter of nine the waiter came over, stood at Aaron's side. He tried to be kind, offered a smile he hoped didn't come across as patronizing. He said, "Perhaps you'd like to go ahead and order."
Aaron tried to smile back. He'd read the menu half a dozen times but now remembered nothing on it. "Just bring me," he said, "a plate of macaroni."
At the Eclipse Saloon around that time, Fred had eaten his burger and his fries and slaw, had washed them down with quite a few beers, and was at that stage in his race to bankruptcy when he had to pay close attention to just how many damp dollars he still had on the bar. It was better for his fragile standing in the place if he cut himself off as the last of the money was going, rather than making the barkeep do it for him.
So he was looking down, counting, concentrating, lifting the bent edges of soggy singles to make sure they weren't stuck together, when a voice above him said, "Hello there, sport"
Fred looked up, saw a guy who looked familiar, in the way that people in bars often looked like other people one had met in bars. Except that this guy's eyes looked like they'd been stained with some image of catastrophe, and he had thin lines of dried blood on one cheek. His shirt was torn on the side and his tight jeans were abraded at the knees and mottled with fine gray dust. He said to Fred, "You once bought me a beer, remember?"
Slowly it was coming back to Fred. Some evening a week, ten days ago. Pissed-off guy with a funny name. Drank a Bud and hardly talked. Fred said, "Looks like you need one even worse tonight." He gestured toward the soggy bills. "But you're outa luck, my money's about gone."
The seat next to Fred was vacant, but Lazslo didn't sit, just leaned in a little closer. "Tonight," he said, "I'm here to do something for you. Come to the john with me a minute."
Fred narrowed his eyes. The guy didn't look like a queer but not all queers did. He said, "No offense, pal, but go fuck yourself."
Lazslo fell back then leaned in again, his catastrophic eyes were pulsing. "Hey," he said, "it's nothing like that. You crazy? It's business. Wanna make a thousand dollars?"
The amount, heady and all but inconceivable, captured Fred's imagination. His reaction had less to do with greed than awe. He'd never had a thousand dollars in his life. He glanced quickly around the Eclipse's U-shaped bar, wondered if a thousand dollar bills would be enough to pave the whole entire thing.
Lazslo let the thought settle in a moment, then, limping slightly, moved off toward the men's room.
Fred sucked down some beer, allowed a discreet interval to pass, and followed.
He found Lazslo at the sink, washing his hands. He washed them a long time then lathered them again with pink soap from a dirty dispenser hanging crooked in its bracket. Still washing, he told Fred to lock the door. The lock was only a flimsy hook and eye, wood splintering where the bent screw was half pulled out.
Lazslo said, "I need someone to lose my car."
Fred leaned against the partition between the sink and the urinal, looked at Lazslo in the mirror. "Lose your car?" he said.
"Take it to the Everglades and lose it. Sink it. Ya know, in a swamp."
"Lose your car," Fred said again.
Lazslo flicked water from his fingers, reached up for a paper towel. There were no paper towels and he dried his hands on his jeans. The jeans gave back some fine gray dust and he cursed and washed his hands all over again. "Five hundred dollars
now," he said. "The other five when the car is sunk and you make it back to town. I'll pay you here tomorrow night."
"Why you wanna sink this car?" asked Fred.
"Questions," Lazslo said, "that's not part of the arrangement."
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache. He'd lived in Key West a lot of years, he didn't want this guy to think he didn't know what was what. "Drugs."
It was not a question and Lazslo didn't answer, just tried to coax his clawed face and stained eyes into an expression that suggested, Yeah, it's drugs, some residue of some shit in the glove compartment.
Fred said, "This car, what kind of car is it?"
Lazslo frowned. His voice caught. He loved that car. "Cadillac. Fleetwood 1959. Mint condition."
Fred's nose tickled, he rubbed the tip of it. "Shame to sink a car like that."
Lazslo held his hands up like a surgeon, letting them dry in the air. He'd been outrunning exhaustion and disgust and an insanity of guilt, but with every moment they were catching up with him. He was no longer the least bit confident that he was thinking straight or that he'd settled on the right sucker for the job. Once again he felt the heat of Suki's throat against his thumbs.
Wearily, his eyes receding, he said, "Yeah, it fucking is a shame. So thousand dollars. Yes or no?"
Fred thought about it a moment more, then said, "Sure, why not?"
Lazslo told him where the car was parked, handed him the keys and ten exotic fifty dollar bills. "Everglades," he said. "Make sure it fucking disappears."
Fred pocketed the money and then just stood there, his elbow on the dented metal partition.
"So what're you waiting for?" said Lazslo.
Shyly, Fred nodded toward the urinal. "Ya don't mind," he said, "I gotta take a leak."
Chapter 14
"Fred," said Pineapple, "I'm not so sure this is a good idea." They were cruising past the incongruities of Houseboat Row—the gangways festooned with flower boxes, gingerbread trim carved in the shapes of anchors and compass roses. Fred had stopped off at the hot dog to pick up his roommate; he couldn't resist showing off the doomed car. Together, they'd figured out how to put the top down; Lazslo's Fleetwood was now open to the stars.
Fred drummed lightly on the steering wheel. "Not a good idea?" he said. "Why not?"
Piney didn't answer.
Fred said, "Piney, how many times in your life you get to ride in a Caddy? Lotta people, they get to do it once. They get a bigass Caddy hearse with that chrome thing like a baby carriage. Guys like us, would we even get that one fancy ride? In a pig's eye, we would."
They reached the intersection of South Roosevelt and the highway. Fred was having a splendid time savoring the car. He snuggled his butt against the cushy, low-slung seat, squinted with pleasure at the softly glowing numbers on the speedometer. He steered with one hand while the other absently fondled the curves and knobs and swellings of the dashboard.
Pineapple said, "Fred, you got a license?"
He didn't answer. He was having some second thoughts about picking Piney up. If he was only gonna be a killjoy...
"What if a cop stops us? What then, Fred?"
"Fuck 'em if 'ey can't take a joke," said the driver.
But Pineapple was not impressed and Fred tempered his bravado.
"Look, I'm not even going the speed limit," he said. He turned north, the same way he turned on his rusty bike to get to the seven-thirty shape-up on Stock Island. He wished it was morning now and the whole crew could see him roll in behind the wheel.
"The guy whose car it is," Piney chipped away. "What if he reports it stolen?"
"Why would he report it stolen?" answered Fred. "He wants it lost, not found."
"What if he changes his mind?"
Fred kept driving but his enjoyment of it was already starting to erode. After a moment he said, "Why would he tell me lose it if he wasn't pretty fucking sure?"
"This guy says sink his car and I'm supposed to follow his logic?" Piney said. "All I'm saying, I'm saying it's a little strange a guy pays you money to sink his car. I'm not sure it's such a good idea is all I'm saying."
Fred pushed in the cigarette lighter, told himself he was having a better time than in fact he was by now. It was just a car, after all; all he was doing was pressing on the gas pedal and holding the wheel, and no one but Piney was there to see him do it. Besides, his sober friend's worry was infecting him, he was beginning to feel a little spooked himself. He said, "I guess I shouldn't've taken you along."
Piney didn't respond to that. He'd found the button that made his seat recline; he was leaning way back and looking at the constellations. After a moment, he said, "What if this guy did something really bad, I mean really, really bad, and we're helping him get away with it?"
It was Fred's turn not to answer. He crossed from Stock Island onto Boca Chica; the ugly riot of down-market commerce yielded to the fenced-off bleakness of military property. Up ahead, driving in the opposite direction and weaving lane to lane, was a cop car with its blue lights flashing. Fred held his breath until he was good and sure the cop was after some other jerk. But now he was hardly enjoying the drive at all.
"Long ways off," he said, "the fucking Everglades."
"A deal's a deal," said Piney.
"Ya just said," Fred reminded him, "we shouldn't help this guy get away with something bad."
Pineapple kept looking at the stars. "Just as possible, I guess, he's a good guy that's in trouble."
"Piney," said Fred, "fuck we gonna get home from the Everglades?"
"Bus or something," said his friend. He didn't sound concerned. "Not like we're in a hurry."
"Look," said Fred. "I said I'd lose the car. Sink it. In a swamp." They were leaving Boca Chica and entering Big Coppitt; cinder-block taverns hunkered lower than the roadway between convenience stores and signs for RV hookups. Fred gestured broadly through the windshield. "Plenny a fucking swamps right here."
Pineapple said nothing.
"Lose it here as good as anywhere," Fred said.
"Better swamps up north," said Piney.
But Fred's mind was made up. His eyes were tired. His beer buzz had faded and left him paranoid about police. "What's good about a swamp?" he said, and he started looking for a turnoff that seemed promising.
He found one barely a mile farther on than Lazslo had driven with Suki, earlier that evening, and he steered the Caddy toward the mangroves.
"How's this look to you?" asked Fred.
They'd gotten out of the car at a spot that was like a thousand others in the Keys. A narrow dusty road, utterly flat, had petered out at a vague frontier between land and sea. On either side, mangroves grew so thick that it was impossible to see if their roots were sunk in dirt or water. Ahead, though, scattered shoots were pegged in what was clearly a last gasp, a lonely stranding of the overreaching ocean. Moonlight gleamed unwholesomely on that stagnant water, and with the car's engine finally switched off, the place was busy with tiny furtive sounds: scratching, lapping, dripping.
Pineapple said, "Looks a lot like where we live."
Fred gestured toward the liquid part. "Bet it's good and mucky under there."
"Hard to know," said Piney.
Fred stepped back, eyeballed the moonlit Fleetwood like an artist sizing up a painting. Suddenly the car looked huge and very tall, its tires like something off a tractor, its tail fins high as masts. Hopefully he said, "Just need a couple feet of water and then some good soft muck."
The thing about a swamp is that you could only see the top of it, but something was telling Pineapple that this place wasn't deep enough. "We could go a little farther north," he said.
Fred ignored him. He didn't want to get on the highway again. He said, "Trick's gonna be we gotta build up some momentum. Back up down the road, floor that sonofabitch, skate it in there good and hard."
Pineapple said, "We?"
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache, tossed his cigarettes and matches on the ground. "Chickens
hit," he said.
He got back in the car, started up the engine once again. Absurdly, he turned the headlights on. He put it in reverse, slowly backed up maybe fifty yards. He shifted into neutral then paused a moment to stoke his courage. Pineapple had moved off to the side, giving his friend plenty of leeway. Above the idling motor, Fred called over to him, "Here goes nothin'."
Gradually he pushed the accelerator to the floor. The big V-8 rumbled, then whined, then bellowed in a clattering roar that seemed composed of shredding fan belts and sundering rotors and pistons slamming home like the devil's own dildos. At the height of the din Fred threw the Caddy into drive.
For an instant nothing happened, it was like the heartbeat's delay as a whipped horse connects the pain with something being demanded of it. Startled gears and rods engaged; the huge tires bit into the coral dust, spitting stones and screeching. With the slow momentousness of a rocket lifting off, the Caddy leaned back then started humping forward.
Inertia overcome, it took off fast. Dust billowed; rocks flew. Pineapple saw his friend streak past, terrified, saw that his elbows were locked as he squeezed the wheel, his lips pasted back against his teeth.
The roaring auto barreled through the contested boundary of earth and sea, mowed down some baby mangroves and squashed a frog or two. Tepid water splashed against its grille, the enormous tires grabbed for purchase in the muck, spun like eggbeaters in batter.
For a time the car became a fat unwieldy boat, confused wakes spreading from its bulky hull as it churned and labored onward, the exhaust pipes shooting forth twin geysers. Then water shorted out the lights and turned the fuel to poison, and with a deflating suddenness the engine died, the ripples calmed, and the wild ride was over.
The car had traveled maybe fifty feet from shore and was immersed not much deeper than the bottom of its doors.
Even so, Fred's knees were shaky when he climbed out and stepped cautiously into the mild water. Sure enough, the muck was soft and swirly beneath his feet; his leg spiked through to mid-thigh and he trudged ashore with the dazed gait of the sole survivor of some dreadful wreck.
