The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  He had his Mission. There was no place for alcohol in his life.

  Nicki sat at the table nearest the counter.

  Lauren introduced the three. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Pits, I’d like to introduce you to Boots.’

  Boots gave a little curtsy.

  Elegant it wasn’t.

  ‘And these are Duke and Norman.’

  The Pits people said ‘Hi,’ ‘Pleased to meet you’ and so forth. They were friendly, smiled. They were genuinely pleased to have visitors, Pamela realized.

  Lauren indicated Hank, in his prospector’s clothes and with a face shriveled like a sun-dried plum. ‘And this is Hank. Mayor of Pits.’

  ‘Pleased to meetcha. You look like real fine people.’ He winked at Boots. ‘Especially you, mademoiselle. A real peach, if I might say so?’

  Boots fluttered her hand in front of her face as if it was a fan and she was a southern belle being courted by an old-money gentleman. ‘Why, thank you.’

  Lauren said, ‘Seeing as it’s near to closing time anyway, what say you we have ourselves a little reception party for our new guests? Nicki, will you get the drinks? I’ll set out some snacks. Oh, Pamela?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you turn off the cafe sign and lock the door?’

  ‘I’m right on it.’

  Soon everyone was chugging down bottles of beer.

  Except Sharpe.

  He still favored water.

  If anything, he was the only one who retained his cool reserve. Everyone else was smiling. Lauren stood real close to Sharpe several times.

  Showing Boots that they were a couple.

  So hands off. He’s mine.

  Norman looked a little tipsy on the beer. He smiled a lot at Nicki. Her blonde Nordic beauty had caught his eye. She smiled back politely.

  But I see Terry, who has got the hots for Nicki, starting to show signs of jealousy.

  Then, Nicki never showed any interest in boys.

  And Duke’s standing almost toe-to-toe with Sharpe as he talks to him.

  No aggression whatsoever.

  But I get the feeling that Duke is sizing Sharpe up. As if he’s assessing the guy’s physique and demeanor just in case he needs to fight him one day.

  As Pamela helped Lauren to hand out plates of cold cuts, potato chips, dips, nachos and sourdough bread, she felt that unsettling tug of paranoia again.

  Is it really paranoia, she thought, or am I reading a whole heap of sinister body language here in the guy who calls himself Duke?

  Then there’s the hunted expression that haunts Norman’s face.

  Then Boots – strange, strange Boots.

  It’s cruel to label another human being dysfunctional without really knowing them. But then, Boots is odd. Sort of not connecting with the rest of the human race.

  But maybe Pamela was a minority of one.

  What happens if I go to Lauren and Sharpe and say ‘Hey, those three strangers. I don’t trust them. They’re up to something’? Maybe they’ll think I’m the weird one.

  Maybe ask me to leave.

  And that’s what I don’t want to do. I like Pits. I like the people here (except the Gang of Three). I want to stay here. I really do.

  Chapter Forty

  Norman explored. Though he hadn’t shared his emotions with anybody, just like Pamela he was uneasy too.

  Duke’s got plans for Pits.

  Duke hadn’t explained anything in detail. His line had been, ‘We’re gonna make this place our own.’ Duke’d repeated the statement often. But he still hadn’t described how it would work.

  Now, at eight o’clock in the morning, Norman had decided on a stroll to clear his mind before the heat of the day took the desert and everyone in it prisoner.

  But Jeez, had he slept well. No wonder. They’d been on the run for days, he’d been knocked unconscious by Duke, then they’d hiked through the desert and damn near died of thirst.

  Would have, too.

  If it hadn’t been for Sharpe.

  Now there’s a man who’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Why does he cruise the desert roads in that old bus full of mannequins?

  Some religious conviction?

  Some psychotic impulse?

  But Sharpe had brought them to a quiet cop-free place. A place with good food. A place with a mobile home that had soft beds.

  So Norman had slept the sleep of the dead. Never heard a thing.

  Even so, he’d been disappointed that Boots had chosen to share Duke’s bed rather than his. Boots was peculiar. Irritating. Had weird piggy looks.

  But Norman couldn’t get enough of boning her. He loved it when she sucked his cock. Or when she hunkered down onto all fours with a smiling invitation to screw her dog-oh.

  Loved to see her skin blotch as sexual excitement kicked in when he reamed her. The way her titties jiggled with the force of his groin pounding against hers.

  Norman’s heart began to beat harder. A tingle started in his penis.

  Ohhh . . . just the thought of Boots naked set him on the path of hot erotic thoughts.

  But instead of being able to satisfy these urges, last night in his bedroom as he’d undressed for bed he’d heard the pair moaning with pleasure. The thin walls of the trailer had held nothing back. He had even been able to hear the squelch as Duke had pumped his rock-hard cock into Boots’s wet ’n’ happy valley.

  Lucky bastard.

  He clicked his tongue. ‘Leave it, Norman. Do some sightseeing.’

  And at least the noise hadn’t stopped him falling asleep the second he’d closed his eyes.

  Norman sauntered across the cafe’s parking lot. On one side was the straggling line of trailer homes. On the other a bunch of cars that seemed abandoned.

  Some were real wrecks. So old that Henry Ford himself could have personally pumped the tires before they rolled out of the workshop. Then, and this piqued Norman’s curiosity a lot, there were newer cars.

  Several in good shape.

  Despite the dust.

  Could see someone step into one, start it up, then drive off in a swirl of dust.

  But they clearly hadn’t been driven anywhere in a couple of years. Tires part-deflated. Windshields thick with dust. One silver Pontiac boasted a big green lizard sunning itself on the hood. Who’d leave cars like this at a desert cafe?

  ‘Someone who couldn’t pay the tab,’ Norman mused aloud. ‘But would you exchange a new Toyota Land Cruiser for a couple of pizzas?’

  No dice.

  Not buying that, Tonto.

  There was even luggage in the vehicles’ cargo spaces. Wind-borne sand had seeped in through the door seals to leave a yellow film on the baggage. He walked along the line of cars, trucks, vans, and a pair of motorcycles. A couple of cars were rusted shells. One even had bullet holes in it.

  Someone tries to run without paying for the Pitsburger. Lauren or the sexy Pamela rakes the car with machine-gun fire. The silly train of thought amused Norman. He chuckled.

  Then the chuckle dried.

  This line of abandoned cars is weird, though.

  Hey! Who’s that strolling up through the cemetery?

  Shielding his eyes against the sun rising over barren hills, he stared hard. Looks like Boots and the blonde girl. The Swedish-looking girl. Nicki? Yeah, Nicki. Man, is she a sexy piece of work. Cool as glacial runoff but, boy, would I like to scale her snowy peaks.

  They were over a hundred yards away. Both seemed to be talking to each other in an earnest kind of way.

  ‘Sharing secrets, girls?’ Norman wondered. Only there was one secret about himself he didn’t want spilling. And no, not the one about him being a virgin until a few days ago.

  Killed two cops, didn’t I?

  Word of that gets out, I’m gonna fry in The Chair.

  The Mojave heat had been climbing steadily since sunup. Only now Norman felt a distinct chill creep up his backbone.

  He whispered to himself, ‘I’ve got to hear what you’re tel
ling her, Boots. Don’t want you revealing any confidences about me.’

  Glancing round to make sure that no one was watching him, Norman strolled back through the line of trailers to the cemetery gates. Behind him the desert road was empty. He could see no one. A little blue haze rose from the cafe flue where Terry must have been frying bacon and eggs. Hmm, breakfast . . .

  ’S gonna have to wait. I need to find out what these two are talking about.

  So here goes . . . walking through the cemetery gates . . . following the path up the center.

  Brush, dry grasses, cacti; they’d infiltrated the cemetery to grow around old tombstones, wooden crosses. Iron plaques spelt out names, dates, and invitations to RIP. Sometimes an epitaph: ‘Long was his race, longer will be his rest.’ ‘Little Jimmy tried his best, only his best weren’t good enough. Died weeping for his Momma.’ Then there were some real old stones that had been almost weathered out.

  Norman paused to read one out loud to himself. ‘“Eli Crabber. Shot by Sheriff Dunbar, Christmas Day, 1878.” Holy shit. A real-life shoot-out.’

  He looked back at Pits. It still had a look of a frontier town. It was an island standing in a whole ocean of sand. Across the road from the cafe he could make out rectangular depressions in the earth where buildings had once stood. Probably the town’s jail alongside the saloon and maybe a brothel or two. All rotted, then blown away by the Mojave winds.

  He squinted against the glare of the hot sun.

  Boots and Nicki were still walking uphill. They’d left the cemetery now.

  Heading up toward the abandoned house on the hill.

  Probably this was the only original house from Pits’s glory days as a working mine. Must have belonged to the richest guy in town. The guy who owned the bank, maybe.

  Or, more likely, the owner of the mine. Back then, a guy like that would have had the power of life and death over the people of Pits.

  His mine.

  His town.

  In Norman’s mind he could see a big man of around fifty dressed in a suit and stovepipe hat. He’d have had big bushy side-whiskers and would’ve stood up there on his porch with one of those old-time pocket watches in his hand.

  Gotta make sure that the miners aren’t late for work.

  And when they were all down in the pits, hacking rock faces with their picks, Mister Big would stroll down through his town until one of the miners’ women caught his eye. Then he’d order her up to his house to wash. Once she was freshened up he’d exercise his rights as employer to the max.

  Oh boy, oh boy. Norman sure wished he were that mine-owner.

  The fantasy was so pleasurable that he nearly had an accident in his underpants.

  Pausing, he took a few steadying breaths. Up ahead the two women had almost reached the house. Boots could have asked Nicki to show her the stuffed monkeys.

  Yeah, whatever floats your canoe.

  Just hope she doesn’t bring one back to the trailer as a souvenir. Don’t want to share the place alongside a fusty chimpanzee with glass eyes staring at me all the time. Give anyone the creeps.

  Even as Norman walked the last few yards through the cemetery he saw rows of newer headstones that were in a different style to the rest. These had just a single name painted on them. ‘Jango.’ ‘M’pallar.’ ‘Mansize.’ ‘Rebo.’

  Never ever owned a monkey, he thought, but these sure look as if they could be names for baboons and shit.

  He headed for the cemetery exit. The path continued to wind up the hillside. Here it was pretty much barren. Although off to his right Norman could see a thicket of cottonwood trees where there might have been some moisture oozing up from the rocks below ground.

  Beyond that the land rose to more arid terrain. All he could see were greenish swatches of cholla cacti. From here their ‘fingers’ looked fluffy and soft but he knew that they bristled with sharp spines.

  From a clump of dry plants near a tombstone with ‘Stoker’ written on it came the ominous rattle of one of the desert’s bad guys.

  Norman hastened on.

  Soon he was through the rickety fence. Just in time to see the pair of women disappear into the house.

  If Boots blabs about the way I killed the police officers Nicki’s gonna race out of the house and come running down through the cemetery to the cafe where she’s gonna dial nine one one.

  You can bet your bottom dollar that’s not gonna happen. ’Cos I can’t let it happen.

  Wild thoughts rose in Norman’s mind. Of him beating down on Nicki’s head with one of the broken tombstones. Then burying her.

  Best place to bury the person you murdered is in a cemetery. Place is full of stiffs anyway.

  He licked his suddenly dry lips.

  Course, Normy, before you murder the beautiful blonde woman you must make use of her facilities first.

  Oh my God. He stopped. His own thoughts startled him. Am I really starting to think like Duke now? That people are like gum. Chew ’em up, then when the flavor’s gone spit ’em out.

  Although it was now even hotter, his bones felt even colder.

  Still, it was his survival he was thinking about now.

  Gotta put numero uno first. Me, myself, I is the important one.

  Even if that means the delicious Nicki winds up lying in the ground with monkeys.

  Norman walked faster to the house now that the pair had gone inside. On reaching it, he immediately tiptoed round the side, rather than up to the front door through which Boots and friend had entered.

  His heart beat faster.

  Palms sweated.

  Afraid?

  Yes.

  Excited?

  Definitely.

  Norman wondered if one way or the other he’d wind up leaving a mess in his pants after all.

  He circled round the back of the house. Shutters sagged from hinges. Sandstorms had long ago taken the paint off the woodwork. They’d even begun to sculpt window and door frames into weird shapes. But all the glass in the windows was in place.

  Maybe a modicum of care had been given to the building. Perhaps by that old-timer who looked like a mule skinner. Hank probably came up here to keep the building secure.

  So does that mean there’s something of value in there?

  Norman reached the far side of the house. There was no yard to speak of. It looked as if the whole house had been picked up from someplace else and then plonked down here onto the hilltop. Surrounding the house was nothing but loose dry earth and stones. A tumbleweed had rolled up to rest against a basement window. At the back of the house, craggy yellow hills. The place was an advertisement for wilderness. It was as barren as the dark side of the moon.

  For a moment he stood eyeballing the two-story house with its spooky crooked roof from which poked an even more crooked chimney stack.

  No sounds from inside.

  Boots was chuckling over the stuffed monkeys, no doubt.

  Better that than telling Nicki about their adventures on the drive south from Oregon.

  No one from the cafe or the trailers could see Norman at this side of the house so he didn’t have to be furtive anymore. He strolled forward to take a gander through the window. Through the dusty glass he saw red-checkered drapes that were part-open. Between the gap he saw an old-fashioned kitchen with a big iron stove. A kitchen table and chairs, too. On the table were a couple of china plates.

  Not quite the wreck that Norman had expected.

  Not quite a home from home, either.

  Probably a snake or two curled up under the john in the bathroom. Just waiting for the unwary to slip down their pants as a prelude to a dump, then—

  Wham!

  A pair of poison fangs right in the butt.

  Hell, who in this place would suck out the poison? Norman thought about the full lips of Pamela. She’d be first on my list. But as so often happened with imagination it shot images into his head that were just plain unwelcome.

  As he smiled to himself, picturing Pamela walki
ng toward him saying, ‘Best get out of those clothes, Norman. I’ve got to suck out every last drop of that venom,’ the unwholesome image snuck in. This time it was of old Hank in the prospector’s hat that looked as if a mule and his best friend had shit in it for luck.

  Norman couldn’t stop the imaginary episode kicking in.

  Poor Norman running back into Pits yelling that a snake had bit his right buttock. Then Hank licking his scabbed lips that in turn revealed his gums that were barely interrupted by a few brown, twisted teeth. And surrounding the mouth from hell was the thick mustache and beard.

  The man’s bloodshot eyes would gleam in anticipation. ‘Looks like ya got yerself an ass full of venom there, feller.’

  Norman would say he’d be just fine.

  Only old Hank would hitch up his belt, all the time shaking his head. ‘Nope. Nothin’ fer it, I’m gonna have to suck out the poison meself.’ Pause to spit out a plug of tobacco in a stream of yellow saliva. ‘Yup, you drop them college-boy panties, then I’ll suck out that rattler juice before it rots your tricky-dicky right off of you.’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t want to go through life whizzing like a dame, do you?’

  Then the indignity. Dropping his pants in front of Hank. Then bending over, waiting for the wet mouth to batten on his buttock. Then the slurping, sucking – followed by spitting – as Hank drew out the snake venom.

  Of course, as Norman bent over bare-assed, Hank would say something like, ‘Now, young feller, I’ll be saving your life so don’t you go doin’ a number two in my face, all right?’

  A cry.

  Norman jerked himself out of his imagined scenario. Jeez. He’d have to learn to stop his imagination running away with him. Thoughts of Hank sucking on his butt like a baby sucking on its mother’s breast weren’t pretty. Not even when the image was plug-fuck imagined.

  Norman looked up at the storm-scarred walls of the house. Shit. Where did the cry come from?

  And who cried out?

  Nicki?

  Boots?

  Could be Nicki. Boots killed the guy in the motel. Murder’s no stranger to her. Maybe the stuffed monkeys weren’t to Boots’s taste. Now she was extracting suffering from the beautiful blonde waitress.