The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  ‘I just thought—’

  ‘Just thought shit, Norm. It’s been a long day. The lady needs to bathe her beautiful bod. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Norman clunked the gears. The truck lurched forward onto the Motel Ha-Ha driveway.

  Boots leaned forward, fanning her fat throat with her hand.

  Trotter hands, Norman thought. How can anyone be attracted to the pig-faced woman?

  But you are, aren’t you, Norm?

  Shit, damn straight. That’s it with sexual lust. Sometimes – most times! – you just can’t control it.

  And out the window goes your better judgment.

  ‘Motel Ha-Ha,’ Boots repeated, seeing the sign standing proud of the reception office roof. ‘Funny name.’

  Duke nodded. ‘You mean funny ha-ha?’

  Good joke. Norman laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny, Norm boy?’ Duke sounded irritated for some reason.

  ‘The joke.’

  ‘What joke?’

  ‘Motel Ha-Ha. Funny ha-ha.’

  ‘Are you pulling my rod, Norm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Better toe the line, Normy boy. You gotta show some respect.’

  ‘Okay, guys. Argue when we’re in the room. I’m so close to that shower now I can almost feel it on my boobies. Norman, check in.’

  ‘Me, check in?’

  Duke reached over Boots to flick Norman’s shoulder with the back of his hand. The gesture was aggressive, ill tempered rather than friendly.

  What’s eating Duke?

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Norman said. He wanted to avoid a confrontation.

  ‘Oooh, you’re a hero,’ Boots said, stretching luxuriously. ‘Sooner I get out of these dirty clothes the better. My feet feel like two oven-baked chickens. My fanny’s just cooked, too.’

  Duke said to Norman, ‘Step on it, bud.’

  ‘I’ll need cash. The cops will be able to trace us through my MasterCard.’

  Boots pushed back her sweat-damp hair before handing him the wad of notes that they’d taken from the old guy, who was now sleeping the sleep of eternity in his dusty crawl space. Relieved to get out of the cab and away from the gruesome twosome, Norman trotted across the dusty driveway to the timber office. An accommodation tariff sat on a table just inside the window alongside a vase of purple flowers. The place was far from modern but it looked clean.

  The prices were reasonable, too.

  Norman pushed open the door. A guy of around forty sat at the desk. More of the purple flowers stood in vases on the desk. The room smelt of pine and flowers.

  A good place, Norman thought and wished he was here by himself. Or with a girl.

  Any girl but Boots.

  The clerk looked up with a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Hello there. Cabin for one?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’ The guy was smartly dressed, albeit in black pants and a black roll-neck sweater. Even his hair was an intense black that matched the clothes. Could have been a dance instructor with that slim build and air of poise.

  ‘If I could ask you to complete the registration card. Vehicle license. Home address. Names of occupants. Etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘Sure.’ Norman was getting his cool back now that he was away from grumpy ol’ Duke. He wrote fictitious details in the boxes on the form, though he glanced back and wrote the license-plate number – the actual number. That was one detail that the registration clerk could check out there and then.

  The clerk said, ‘My name is Darren. If you need anything just call. Would you prefer a two-bedroom cabin or a three?’

  ‘A three-bedroom’s great,’ Norman said.

  Jeez, he thought. A room of my own. I could use some private time right now. Killing two cops takes a while to absorb.

  The rest of the registration procedure went smoothly. Norman paid cash for one night. As he finished up counting the notes he glanced at the timber wall behind the desk. There were five picture frames. Each one contained the cover of a TV guide. A couple featured single-person portrait photographs of a handsome Hispanic-looking guy. The others were of a posed group of men and women in white coats.

  Norman looked from the photograph of the dark-haired guy to Darren the clerk as he counted the cash out into a drawer. Darren glanced up. He smiled when he saw where Norman was looking.

  ‘Yeah, this office also doubles as the altar to my ego.’ He smiled again. ‘Or Altar Ego, as it were.’

  Norman blinked. ‘You’re Doctor Sanchez Guido?’

  ‘In another life.’ Darren tapped the printed card standing upright in a holder on the desk. ‘Now Darren Klein, dispensing rooms in the Motel Ha-Ha.’

  ‘Shit! Uh, excuse my language.’

  ‘No problem. I love the word. Must do, the times I use it.’

  ‘But shit, man. Intensive Care? I used to love that show.’

  ‘No shitting?’ The clerk studied him with those handsome brown eyes. ‘I guess you caught the reruns. You’d have been too young to see it first time out.’

  ‘You played the doctor who all the nurses fell in love with. Hey, even my sister had the Intensive Care cast poster on her bedroom wall.’

  ‘We looked good back then. A long time ago, though.’

  ‘Just wait until I tell her.’

  Then his stomach dropped. If I ever see Sis again. Cop killers don’t just go home whenever they feel like it. I’m on the run now.

  ‘Intensive Care was good to us,’ Darren said as he lifted a key from a board that held a bunch of others. It had a bright yellow fob the size of a flattened table-tennis ball. ‘My first pro acting job, and it ran for six series. But – let me think – the last episode aired ten years ago to the month.’ He shrugged as he handed Norman the key. ‘Time moves on. Different places. Different roles.’

  ‘You quit TV?’

  ‘I prefer live work.’ He winked. ‘I’m playing a motel clerk now.’

  ‘It’s . . . different.’

  ‘Yeah, different is a good word. Not too judgmental. There you go, sir. Cabin twenty-one. It’s at the far end of the lot. Have a nice stay.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Say.’ Darren had an idea. ‘We’re having a barbecue tonight. A few beers, that kind of thing. Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m in partnership with some of the guys from the show. Nurses Lowe and Petri. Guti the paramedic. And Doctors Rennin, Brown and Pearman.’

  ‘Doctor Pearman? But he was the guy who gave your fiancée the insulin overdose, then tried to embezzle the children’s charity.’

  ‘It was just a show, sir.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  ‘They’re really nice people.’

  ‘I’m staying here with a couple of friends.’

  ‘Bring them. More the merrier.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  But Norman thought: No way. Not those two lowlifes. I’ll slip out myself. Just think. To meet the cast of Intensive Care. These people were household names!

  Then why did they vanish from the show-business radar?

  ‘There’s a patio area round the back,’ Darren said. ‘Amble up between eight and nine. We’re as informal as you can get round here.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ Norman was pleased. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Took your own sweet time,’ Duke said.

  ‘We were baking in here. It’s like an oven.’

  Boots sat sideways in the driver’s seat of the truck so that her plump legs dangled out. The heels of her dirty white boots thumped against the vehicle’s metalwork as she swung her feet from side to side.

  Norman was more than ready to fire back an irritated: ‘Why didn’t you get outta the truck and sit in the shade?’ But Duke had been antsy. He wasn’t the kind of guy you got angry.

  Remember the knife he keeps in his boots?

  Norman remembered. Wasn’t in a hurry to feel that blade part his ribs.


  Instead: ‘I got us registered. We’ve gotta be discreet so I didn’t want to rush it and make the clerk suspicious.’

  ‘Yeah, like we walk in terror of the big bad motel clerk. He’ll be a wuss faggot boy like you, Norm, old buddy.’

  What’s eating you? Norman wondered.

  Boots swung her legs into the cab as Norman climbed in behind her.

  ‘I got the key,’ he said holding it up by its bright yellow fob.

  ‘Wuppy-do, wuss. Now if it ain’t too much trouble, boy, drive us to the room.’

  The pine cabin was roomy with three bedrooms, a lounge area boasting a kitchen in the corner, and a good-sized bathroom. The sun was low in the sky as Norman closed the door behind him and locked it.

  ‘Afraid someone’s gonna steal you from us, Normy?’ Duke lit a cigarette, then lay back on the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling.

  Boots closed the blinds. ‘Don’t want anyone lookin’ for free.’ She peeled off her tank top to expose her jiggling breasts. They looked too small for that wide-shouldered body of hers. ‘Norman?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Wanna soap my back in the shower?’

  Jeez, not at this moment. I want to lie down in my own room, just be alone and still, and not have to think or talk or listen to the gruesome twosome articulate their same old shit.

  ‘I might grab some sleep.’

  ‘You sure you ain’t no faggot?’ Duke blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  ‘Please, Normy. Come and cover me in bubbles.’

  ‘That’s an offer no red-blooded man can refuse, bud.’

  Norman forced a smile. ‘Sure. I’ll be right in.’

  Boots said, ‘I’ll just drop my bag in my room.’ She smiled. ‘I’m getting naked in there, so no peeking when I come out.’ She laughed.

  Duke didn’t laugh. His face was grim.

  Norman thought: Best grin and bear it. Duke’s acting so weird. He’s got a dangerous look about him.

  Boots slipped through one of the pine doors. Norman heard her ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ over clean sheets and a soft bed. More purple flowers in pink vases adorned every room. Norman thought of saying something to Duke to placate him.

  Can’t think of anything.

  Come to that, anything I say might enrage the man. He’s unpredictable.

  Dangerous.

  Crazy dangerous.

  Norman left Duke smoking. He went into his bedroom where he peeled himself out of his dusty threads. Ah, it felt good to be out of the clothes. To feel that cool, air-con atmosphere taking the heat out of his skin. The bed looked so clean that he longed to lie down on it right away. Then—

  ‘Normy . . . oh, Normy . . . you ready to shower?’

  Norman sighed when he heard the voice. Then he took a breath, puffed out his chest.

  Show-time. Here goes . . .

  Keeping his voice pleasant, he sang out, ‘Coming.’

  There were clean folded towels on the bed so he wrapped one round his hips. Then he left the bedroom, walked by the supine Duke. Still smoking. Still staring ceilingward.

  As he passed Duke the man stretched out his arm and gripped Norman by the wrist. The grip was the fiercest that Norman had ever felt.

  ‘Don’t ever shit me, Norman. If you ever get me angry, I’m gonna . . .’ He grunted, then let go of Norman’s arm, breaking eye contact at the same time to resume his ceiling stare.

  Norman shuddered.

  Yeah. He was reading the warning signs. A volcanic anger’s brewing in the guy. Making Duke’s eyes meaner than ever.

  ‘Oh, Normy . . .’ Boots’s voice wailed from the bathroom. ‘Normy, Normy, Normy.’

  Norman walked into the bathroom. He was wary now. He expected to feel the point of Duke’s blade between his shoulder blades at any moment. He closed the door behind him, feeling thankful for the barrier it put between Duke and himself.

  Already the room was filled with steam. Water hissed into the shower stall.

  Behind a semitransparent plastic curtain a figure moved.

  She’s rubbing shower gel into her breasts, he told himself. Then she’s working down over the swell of her stomach.

  Down, down . . .

  Into that enticing area between her legs.

  Norman groaned.

  Ten seconds ago he’d been worried about what Duke was winding himself up to do.

  Now . . .

  He groaned again. Boots – ugly, unlovable Boots. She worked the voodoo on him.

  He looked down as his body betrayed him.

  The front of his towel had formed itself into a pyramid.

  ‘Hmm, Norman. You come right in here and let me bathe you, honey.’ Boots moaned with pleasure as her silhouette soaped itself.

  God, he was so aroused.

  So aroused that it hurt. Norman let the towel fall from him, then he slid aside the shower curtain and stepped into the stall with Boots.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Norman finished making whoopee with Boots in the shower by seven o’clock that evening. She swathed herself in towels, not to mention dreamy smiles, then disappeared into her room.

  Norman dried himself. Shaved.

  His knees still shook after what he’d done to her.

  She’d loved it. Had begged for more.

  When Norman left the bathroom he found Duke asleep on the sofa. The cigarette had burned itself out. Now the dead butt poked from his lips.

  Norman didn’t wake him.

  Didn’t relish arousing the tough guy’s wrath.

  He went to his own room, slipped on a pair of clean under-shorts. Then he lay down on the bed. The clock radio scrolled over to 7.18. Outside it was still bright but there was an orange tint to the sunlight now.

  When Norman closed his eyes he thought: I’ll just rest here for five minutes.

  When Norman opened his eyes again the clock radio told him it was 8.53.

  ‘Shoot,’ he murmured. ‘Barbecue time.’

  Darren had told him to turn up to the barbecue between eight and nine. Sweet Jesus – despite everything, all the crud, the sex with Boots, the slayings, he wanted to meet up with the cast of Intensive Care. There had to be a pretty cool story about how half a dozen actors from one of the most popular TV shows of its decade had wound up out in the middle of Nowhereville. And running a motel, to boot.

  What about Duke and Boots? They’ll want to come.

  Boots will wet herself when she hears that there are famous actors having a barbecue just a minute’s walk from the cabin. This will be paradise for a backwoods girl like her.

  Shit. Make something up.

  Tell them you’re just going for a walk.

  But that was the kind of thing that Duke didn’t want to hear. Might piss the big guy off. The notion of Norman just walking for the pleasure of it could prove to be a major source of irritation.

  ‘Oh well, nothing ventured,’ Norman grunted.

  In ten seconds flat he’d pulled on a clean white T-shirt, stone-hued chinos and sandals. No doubt Duke would have something smart to say about Norman’s choice of clothes, too.

  Norman popped his head round the bedroom door to the living room. It was gloomy now. But to his relief – major, MAJOR relief – Duke was still asleep on the sofa. The butt of the unlit cigarette looked to have taken root in his surly mouth. When he realized there was no sound coming from Boots’s room either he checked in on her.

  She lay bare, ass up.

  Dead to the world, too.

  Yeah, come to that she even looked like a freshly killed porker. Now that her muscles had gone slack as she snored softly, her face looked as if it was in the process of melting. The features drooped, then slid sideways as gravity pulled them down to the pillow where part of her face pooled.

  Norman looked at her wide rear. The crack between her ass-cheeks had become a deep gully that you could lose a moose in. And deep down in the center was the intimate place that one of his friends called ‘the old Jap’s eye.’

>   Norman grinned. Wow. If he’d had a firecracker right then he didn’t think he could have stopped himself.

  The gruesome twosome were both sleeping royally. He could slip out without having to answer any questions.

  Stealthily, he exited Boots’s room, crossed the living room to the cabin door. He glanced back.

  Hell.

  Those two didn’t even seem like regular sleepers. There was something of the corpse about them. They slept like they were rehearsing for the biggest sleep of all.

  The sun was low over the cornfields when Norman headed up toward the motel office. From here he could see the reverse of the name sign that was lit already as dusk fell. Motel Ha-Ha.

  A friendly kind of name, Norman figured. In a funny kinda way.

  Behind the motel office a tall, thick hedge enclosed an area of land. He saw that an arch had been cut into the vegetation to form a narrow gateway. He heard conversation, the sound of a cork being pulled.

  This’s gotta be it, Normy.

  Now he caught the aroma of flame-seared meat. His mouth watered.

  He stepped through over the threshold into an enclosed lawn area.

  And there they were. The cast of Intensive Care.

  Norman goggled, even though they weren’t in the uniforms he’d gotten to know so well after watching close on a hundred episodes. The nurses had worn surgical green tops and pants. Sex-eee! The doctors had worn pristine white coats. He saw Nurses Lowe and Petri. Petri was the male nurse, Guti the Native American paramedic. There was Doctor Sanchez Guido (aka Darren, motel clerk) flipping burgers at the barbecue grill. Then Doctor Rennin, a glamorous redheaded woman of around forty-five, sipping a cocktail. Nearby were Doctors Brown and Pearman, their hair now graying as they jogged through life into their fifties.

  Holy shit.

  The cast of Intensive Care. Despite the passing of the years their glamour still shone brightly.

  Doctor Sanchez (aka Darren) noticed Norman.

  ‘Hey, sir. Good of you to show.’

  ‘This I wouldn’t miss,’ Norman said with feeling.

  Darren waved him closer. ‘Come and meet our troupe of players.’ He laid a steak on the barbecue. Instantly it began to sizzle with the heat. Puffs of flame jumped up from the coals. ‘Everyone . . . hey, guys. This is one of our customers. Mister—’