The Price of Candy

by Rod Hoisington

  Watching her, in that moment, I recognized something about her that I had missed. Now I understood her walk, the way she carried herself. Now I understood her demeanor whether walking across a motel parking lot or into a store. She didn’t stand up tall to show off her figure; she stood tall with pride. She had a true sense of self that had nothing to do with being a stripper. What had she said? They may have my body but they don’t have me.

  She walked to the building entrance and stopped. Something had her attention. Instead of going in, she turned around and walked on down between the line of parked cars. She walked up to a green Ford Taurus parked there. She looked at the license plate. She tried the car doors. Then she looked back at me, waved excitedly, and pointed to the car.

  Just then, a middle-aged blond woman wearing white jeans and a leather jacket rushed up to Betty Jo. She shook her fist in the woman’s face. The woman pushed Betty Jo hard back against the car. Instead of just pushing back, Betty Jo wound up like a discus thrower and swung her shoulder handbag hard without holding back. She caught the woman up alongside her head. The woman’s feet literally left the ground. She screamed. Her knees crumpled and she fell backwards. I thought, oh god, if there’s a heavy gun in that handbag the woman will lose all her teeth if not her head. I rushed over and got there in time to partially support the woman and keep her head from hitting the curb. I lowered her to the sidewalk. She was dazed. She sat holding her head and crying, and then started vomiting at the same time.

  I shouted, “What in hell are you doing, Betty Jo? You nearly killed this poor woman!”

  “Freddy, go inside find a cop and tell him who you are.”

  “Tell him who I am?”

  “For chrissake, you’ve got a big black car with a U.S. Congress license plate attachment. You think I’m stupid. This is the bitch who stole my suitcase and new coat and stranded me back where I met you. Go in there and start throwing your goddamn weight around. You want to show off in front of me, now’s your chance. Phone the governor. Phone the President. Get the fucking FBI over here. I want her arrested, jailed, and executed.”

  By then the woman’s face had turned even more terrible. Her face appeared crushed and scratched on one side from her eye to her lower lip. The eye began to close up. It was already an ugly purple blotch and was beginning to swell. Blood dripped from her nose and one ear down onto her white jeans. The woman tried to focus her other eye. She moved her hands around the sidewalk trying to find her purse. I handed it to her. She fumbled, found her keys, and said weakly, “Her stuff’s in the back seat.”

  Betty Jo stood over her. “And I want the fifty bucks I gave you for gas!”

  The woman spit out blood before answering. “Don’t have it any more,” she sputtered in a weak voice. “Spent...for gas.”

  Betty Jo leaned over nose to nose with the woman and shouted in her face, “Nobody fucks with me, woman!”

  She grabbed the woman’s purse and violently shook it upside down. The contents scattered like marbles over the sidewalk, the curb, and under nearby cars. Betty Jo picked out the money, sorted out fifty dollars, and threw the rest of the money and the empty purse hard into the woman’s chest.

  Betty Jo’s yelling had drawn attention and a crowd began to surround us. I took her aside and gently pointed out that since she’d just severely assaulted and possibly disfigured the woman for life, it might be best to forget about making any charges. Betty Jo was still breathing heavily but she nodded. The crowd stepped back hastily to clear a wide passage for her as she started to walk away. Then she turned and gave the woman the finger.

  I stood there shaking. I tried to comfort the woman, but she shrugged me away. Betty Jo straightened her shoulders and walked serenely into the building. I carried her suitcase and coat back to my car.

  So, she hadn’t been lying about being robbed and stranded up near Richmond. How about that. She was not out hitchhiking along the highway without any resources. She had lied about having a disabled car to get the ride because she was stranded, but not about being robbed. I sat another twenty minutes wondering about Betty Jo, and fully expecting the police to tap on my window at any time.

  What was I doing at a truck stop in Jacksonville waiting for orders from this woman? I really didn’t know. That’s when I thought I heard the wail of a siren in the distance.

  Betty Jo came running out of the building panicky. She raced up to the car and screamed for me to get out of there fast. I’d already seen her in action. I wasn’t going to wait for an explanation. Knowing Betty Jo, if the entire building had exploded into a tower of flames at that moment, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Someone called the police. They’re all yelling about it in there and pointing at me.”

  The siren sounds were definitely getting louder. The “Congressman and the Stripper” headline flashed across my mind. For the first time in my life, I slammed the accelerator to the floor and held it there just like in the movies. The car fishtailed sideways, the tires spun then screeched as we tore out of there seemingly on two wheels.

  Once on the access road I could see the flashing lights of an oncoming sheriff’s car and a highway patrol vehicle. Sirens blared as they passed us. As we swung up onto I-95, I glanced back and saw the trooper had blocked the truck stop exit to prevent any additional vehicles from leaving the truck stop.

  “See that white SUV behind us?” She was turned in the seat, watching out the back window. “We were the last two vehicles to get out.”

  Underway on the highway, the yelp of another siren made us both stiffen. I was afraid to look in the rearview mirror. The siren’s cry grew louder and we could then see an ambulance roaring by in the oncoming lane.

  I finally relaxed my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. But for the rest of the trip I fully expected flashing lights in the rear view mirror at any time.

  She made a small laugh. “I guess I sort of called attention to myself back there.”

  “I guess you did. Of course, you’d have been noticed back there even if you hadn’t taken out that woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I laughed. “What goes unnoticed in Baltimore can start a riot at a redneck truck stop.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You mean how I look?”

  I shouldn’t have said anything to start. I had intended my comment to be complimentary. At least I was smart enough to remain silent.

  “You mean how I’m dressed?” She didn’t like this at all. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “They’re fine. I guess it’s not your fault.”

  “Well, then what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your clothes are fine. It’s how you wear them.” I was getting in deeper. “When you put everything together, you have a certain look.”

  “So what you’re saying is I look like a whore.”

  “Of course not. I’m just saying you have more of a Baltimore city look than a redneck truck-stop look.” I was truly sorry I’d brought up the subject. “I think you’re beautiful. You could be a model.” I hoped that was the end of it. Maybe she’d leave it at that.

  I thought she was still mad at me but later she said, “I’m so glad I’ve got my clothes back. Also, I’ve a new bikini packed in there. Can we stop at a beach on the way down?”

  “I thought you were in a hurry. If we stop, you won’t get to your mother’s until after dark.”

  “What’s another couple of hours? Come on, let’s find a beach somewhere so I can try out my new bikini. It’s orange. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it off.”

  You hear that comment? She was doing it again. She didn’t want the teasing sexy talk, but would instantly go back to it if it suited her. Like now enticing me to take her to the beach. Once again, she toyed with my agony. Truth is I’d have done anything for her. You want to go to the beach, Cannes, Acapulco? Just name it.

  We were now near Sebastian, Flo
rida and she wanted off that land-bound highway. She was serious about the beach. We were unfamiliar with this part of the Florida east coast, but I knew we needed to cut over east to A1A, which runs alongside the ocean. We exited and stopped at a convenience store for directions. She bought one of those large soft pretzels. It didn’t come with mustard, which she had to have. So I bought a little jar of mustard for her.

  South on A1A I found that isolated beach. I almost drove past. There were no formal parking spaces. You just pulled onto a dirt road behind the dense foliage. This woman who stripped for a living hid behind my car like an adolescent girl so I wouldn’t see her while she changed into her bikini. She had me lock her clothes and shoulder bag in the trunk.

  The beach was down a sandy slope. She stretched out on her back in the faultless sand. She was absolutely stunning lying there in the late afternoon sun. Unbelievable. At one point, she rolled over on her stomach and undid the straps to her top, careful not to expose her breasts to me. That annoyed me and I told her so, “You’ve been flirting with men across five states. I drive you all the way to Florida and don’t even get a flash.”

  “It’s my day off.” She laughed and started to eat the pretzel. All at once, she started choking. Then she stood, one hand at her throat the other holding the bikini top to her chest. Just a cough and I thought nothing of it at first. She let the top fall and clutched her throat with both hands. Obviously in severe distress. She bent over jerking her knees up and down like an Indian war dancer. I panicked. I slapped her back fairly hard between the shoulder blades, I’d seen a waiter do that once. I reached around her waist from behind and squeezed. I really didn’t know what I was doing. She clutched at her throat trying to cough. I pounded on her back again. Whatever I was doing wasn’t correct or at least didn’t work. After a couple of minutes, her face started turning blue. Within five minutes, she had lost consciousness. In another five...she was dead.

  In a flash. Just like that. Betty Jo was gone.

  I had been useless. I started crying and had to kneel down. I realized I had to get help. I thought about how this would look and how the police wouldn’t believe me. I tried to get her top back on so they wouldn’t think I molested her, but I gave up on that. I started running up the dune toward my car.

  As I started back to my car, this young man walked up. I covered her with my suit jacket and we talked for a few minutes. He told me he saw everything. He’d already called the police so there was no point in me hanging around. So reluctantly, I left.

  She had accidentally died. I’d done nothing wrong. I was devastated. Nothing else I could do for her, however I could save myself. I could imagine all the photographers following the police and snapping pictures of me kneeling beside her body.

  Leaving was a big mistake. I didn’t realize just how big at the time. I admit my thoughts were entirely about myself. I should have sat by her side until the police came. If I hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have been desecrated. That happened because of me. It’s hard to live with because I had grown so fond of her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Congressman Kidde had walked a continuous circle around his desk while relating his two day adventure. “Have you ever seen anyone die, right before your eyes?” After an audible sigh, he sank into his chair, swiveled away from Sandy, and put his head down in his hands.

  Sandy sat half-stunned. It was as though she had watched Freddy himself die slowly before her eyes. When she entered his house two hours ago, she was caught up in the mystery surrounding the poor woman found dead and penetrated on a Florida beach. What happened on the beach that night? Who was she? How did she come to be there? Sandy had wanted to know every detail. Now she knew more than she wanted to know. He had explained too much.

  She was astonished that this uptight conservative man had poured out his innermost thoughts to her. She had no interest in his erotic fantasies. It was enough to know he had them in abundance. Obviously, he harbored guilt over his behavior and failure to save Betty Jo’s life. Had he been engrossed hopelessly in some sort of cathartic story telling? Had he a psychological need to bare his soul to Sandy in an act of contrition to gain absolution?

  After a few moments, he swiveled around, straightened in his chair, and forced a smile. “Now you know everything. Freddy is the one who has stripped himself bare. I’m at your mercy. You know enough to destroy me. Nothing I can do about it now.”

  “Geez Freddy, did you have to go into such detail?”

  “I wanted someone to understand the entire episode. You told me not to leave out the embarrassing stuff.”

  “I meant I could handle it, not that I wanted to hear your heavy breathing.”

  “No doubt you’ve been judging me all the time I was divulging my innermost thoughts to you.”

  She studied his face. How had this prominent politician managed to place his entire life on the edge of devastation with a routine drive to Florida? He gave a stranded woman a ride and was, at first, disinterested in her—she wasn’t even pretty. His imagination began to run wild when she explained she was a stripper from Baltimore. From that point on the trip became a fantasy adventure for him. She simply wanted the ride and was unemotional about him. His infatuation with her grew into a hopeless sexual obsession. At the end, she was gorgeous, he couldn’t live without her, and he was reduced to a blithering idiot willing to lick her zebra-striped shoes.

  “Of course, I’ve been judging you. You’re a childish, selfish, and passionate man. I’ll excuse the passion. All of us are subject to losing control over a passion. Did I mention arrogant? You’re too used to privilege. You’re one of those people who never hesitates to walk through any door marked ‘private,’ and then you walk out if what you find on the other side displeases you.”

  “It’s true I’ve grown quite accustomed to a certain privileged routine. I know I didn’t react properly in such an emergency.”

  “Why didn’t you try CPR?”

  “I didn’t think about it and don’t know how to do it anyway. I’ve never thought about things like CPR and Heimlich. I’m not really a people person. You know, touchy feely stuff. I’ve been insulated from such physicality. I don’t think about having emergencies. I have minions to take care of such matters. Of course, we don’t know if CPR would have helped. Even someone skilled might not have been able to save her.”

  “That’s true. Some of your ineptitude is forgivable. Few of us are well prepared for a panic.” She wished she could stop judging him and get on with the missing details. “The man you left behind on the beach with her body was, of course, Toby.”

  “Didn’t I say that? He must have followed us from Jacksonville to the beach, although I didn’t notice. Anyway, that’s why I paid the blackmail. I didn’t want anyone to know I was there. I’m too well known.”

  She said, “I’m surprised Betty Jo walked down to the beach and left her shoulder bag in the car. She seemed to be protecting it so closely during the entire trip.”

  “Once we crossed into Florida, I could see her really relax. Much happier. The trip was almost over. She’d see her mother in a few hours. She was in Florida where she could stretch out in the sun. She changed into the bikini and we locked her clothes and her handbag in the trunk. She was okay with that.

  “What happened to her belongings?”

  “After I got home, I started to burn them...her stuff...and then I hesitated. I couldn’t do it. Those things didn’t belong to me. They were hers. They were a confirmation of her. Evidence of her existence. Could be she didn’t own anything else. Her mother might like to have them.”

  “Was there a gun in her shoulder bag?”

  “No gun. She had a roll of money wrapped with a rubber band, eight thousand dollars mostly fifties. That’s what she was protecting all along.”

  “You could’ve located the mother and given her the money.”

  “I did. You think I’d steal it? The address was on a letter in the handbag. She’d told me her mother was hurting
for money. I had the money delivered to her mother anonymously and I added some. Not the personal items that would be too risky.”

  “So the mother still doesn’t know her daughter is dead. That’s terrible, Freddy. Again you took the easy way out.”

  “I know and I’m so sorry. After all, I was hiding. Later I burned everything else. I couldn’t sleep with her stuff in my house. It was as if she was there.”

  “You should have told the mother. She deserves to know. Right now, we are the only two people in the world who know the identity of that dead woman. I’m sorry, but I’m going to locate the mother and tell her. What’s her name?”

  “Marlene Hodges. I have her address. Betty Jo still used Hodges as well. And when you see Mrs. Hodges, you’ll tell her about the necrophile? And how her daughter’s abused body laid on the beach like debris from an offshore wreck until the next day? And later on a slab at the morgue tagged Jane Doe? You see the problem?”

  “Christ, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I should tell her about the abuse. She fought back the urge to take him by the lapels and shake him, but she wanted him to turn himself in so Betty Jo would be identified officially. So she could rest in peace and the Privado Beach mystery be resolved.

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “And horrified you didn’t stay and protect her body regardless of the cost to you. Shame on you. That was really shitty, there’s no other word.”

  “I wish I could do it over.”

  “That’s not good enough.” She poured the last of the cold coffee into her cup.

  “Isn’t it strange that we’ve become connected by all this? Though we’ll now go our separate ways, you’re the only person who can appreciate the entire affair.”