Fast Lane

by Dave Zeltserman

  “But—”

  “It hurt me,” I interrupted, “to see how little you trusted me.”

  She flinched as if she’d been slapped. “I-I’m sorry, Johnny. When I saw your car here and you wouldn’t answer your door—” The sentence died in her throat. She held up her shopping bag. “I’ve got breakfast,” she said weakly.

  I didn’t feel like fighting. I moved aside, letting her slip by. She put the bag down and moved over to a chair. “First, I want to see how bad that is. Sit down over here.”

  I let her take the bandages off. “Ouch,” she said, her face wrinkling. “How did it happen?”

  “I was trying to get information about a missing persons case. This damn dope addict”—I laughed, sourly—”thought my head was a scratching post.”

  She kissed me on the other side of my forehead. “Close your eyes, darling. I’ll be right back.”

  I did as I was told and heard her high heels tapping down the hallway. Then a faucet was turned on and in a minute she was back at my side, patting at my forehead with a damp washcloth as carefully as if she was cleaning the dirt off a butterfly’s wing.

  “I don’t know, Johnny,” she said. “These scratches are pretty deep. Maybe I should take you to a doctor?”

  “No, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Concern wrinkled her brow and pulled her smile apart. “I’m going to put something on them,” she said. “Hold tight.”

  The ointment she used stung worse than hell, and if I thought she was enjoying it I would have slapped her silly. I could tell from her eyes, though, that she wasn’t. I think it even hurt her, maybe not as much as me, but a little. When she was through she put on fresh bandages.

  “I’m going to make you breakfast.” She rubbed my shoulder gently. “Now lie down and I’ll yell for you when it’s ready.”

  She left me, and then cried out from the kitchen that she was going to make eggs, bacon, and pancakes. After a few minutes, she yelled out again, asking if I wanted my eggs over easy.

  I said something about liking everything easy. I started drifting off and a loud bang knocked me out of it. Quite a racket was coming from the kitchen. Marge was dropping pots and swearing up a storm and bumping into things. After a while it got quieter, and then there was the tap-tap-tap sound of Marge’s high heels again.

  She squatted in front of me, lowering herself to my level. “Breakfast is served,” she informed me, a hesitant smile breaking over her face.

  Everything was already spooned out onto plates. The eggs were overcooked and were staring up at me like hard, jaundiced eyes. I tried the pancakes and they were okay as long as I used my soupspoon on them. The bacon, though, needed to be cleaned off. It looked like it had been dropped on the floor and kicked around some. I ended up eating all of it. I had more on my mind than food.

  I knew what would happen if Mary found Rose. When the shock wore off she’d head straight to the police. Sooner or later Eddie Braggs would get wind of it, and when he did, I’d be on the front page, built up as every kind of scourge to mankind. Eddie wouldn’t slow down until the Walt Murphy murder case was reopened, and it would be reopened, eventually. Our current district attorney is more gutless than Walt Murphy was when I had finished with him. He’d cave in under the pressure and . . . .

  I had played it out a thousand times in my mind since I first found Rose and I couldn’t see it happening any other way. Unless Mary never met up with Rose, and there was only one way that could happen.

  Marge had said something and was now repeating herself. “I hope you liked breakfast. I don’t cook much.”

  “I cleaned my plate, didn’t I?” While I was eating I’d been trying to make up my mind about something. I smiled at her. “What would you think about going on a trip with me?”

  I planned on traveling south. First Mexico, and then South America. By the time Mary found out about Rose, I’d be long gone. There’d be enough fake passports thrown about that not even Braggs would be able to sniff out my trail. At least that’s what I was counting on.

  Marge seemed genuinely surprised. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know,” I pretended to muse. “Maybe someplace South. How’s Mexico sound?”

  “It sounds great, Johnny. When do we leave?”

  “In a few hours. Maybe this afternoon.”

  She frowned. “I can’t just take off like that. If I don’t show up for work Monday, I’ll be fired.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to twist your arm. If you don’t want to go, don’t.”

  “But—” She bit her lip. As she weighed the pros and cons, she pushed her bottom lip out, making herself look like an orangutan. It was a cute habit, but one I’d have to break her of if she was going to spend any time with me.

  “Look, darling,” I said, “forget it, okay? I’ll see you around.”

  Her lips formed a small circle, and her lungs emptied out. “I want to go with you, Johnny. I guess I can call work Monday and if they don’t like it I can always find another job.”

  She moved over to me and placed her palms on my chest. “I love you, Johnny,” she said, her eyes expanding to the size of silver dollars.

  “Sure you do,” I said, slapping her on the rear.

  “I do, Johnny.” She nodded solemnly. “I feel that I know everything about you. I know you’re filled with pain. I just know it. I can feel it and I want to help you.”

  I let my hand linger in the general area of the slap, feeling something myself. I gave her a little squeeze and she squealed.

  “I know how you can help me,” I said.

  “I bet you do!” She giggled, pushing herself away. “But if we’re leaving today, I’ve got a lot to do. Honey, would you mind cleaning up in the kitchen?”

  “Not at all.” I gave her another pinch and she gave me another giggle.

  “How long are we going to be away?” she asked.

  I winked. “If you’re a good girl, maybe forever. Give me a call in a couple of hours and I’ll let you know what the plans are.”

  Her eyes lit up and she pushed herself into me, kissing me hard enough to almost break a tooth. “Just a coming attraction.”

  I walked into the kitchen, checking my teeth to make sure she hadn’t loosened any. Looking around, I was amazed at what she’d done to the place. Bowls, pots, utensils were scattered about. Where she could’ve used one thing, she’d used three. I could’ve left everything where it was but instead I rolled up my sleeves and went at it. Even though there was no reason to care about the mess, I didn’t want to leave any more unfinished business than I had to.

  After straightening things up, I called a travel agent and booked a six o’clock flight to Mexico City. I then went to my bank and got enough cash for a month. When the time was right I would transfer my funds to a Swiss account, but I didn’t have to hurry on that. While I hated the idea of abandoning my house, I doubted that I could sell it before Mary found Rose. Well, anyway, the bank owned half of it and I couldn’t afford to be greedy.

  I couldn’t quite figure out why I asked Marge to come along. I didn’t plan to take her to South America with me. I guess I felt like having company for the next few days. I’m not the type who handles worrying very well; it kind of bubbles inside me, twisting my stomach into a thin sausage. Running, like I was, gave me plenty to worry about, and maybe I was hoping Marge would take the edge off the first few days. I knew they’d be the worst.

  * * * * *

  Marge was waiting for me at the airport, giddy as a kid looking forward to her first plane ride. She was decked out in a short bright-red number that made her waist look thin enough to fit a necklace that would choke most other women. The dress reached down just enough to cover her panties and did a good job of playing up all of her assets, although they really didn’t need any help. A gal once tried convincing me that the perfect size of a woman’s breast is only what fits into a champagne glass and anything else is wasted. I didn’t buy it, and I’m sur
e Marge wouldn’t have either. She had enough for a half-dozen champagne glasses and none of it was wasted.

  She saw me and came over running, giving me a big kiss. As she pulled away she grinned and asked if I liked the way she looked.

  I wanted to take her to the nearest hotel and show her exactly what I thought, and if there was a later plane I would’ve. Instead, all I could do was swallow hard and try to keep my jaw from dropping.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. “We’re going to miss this month’s ‘Fast Lane’.”

  She was right. My feature wasn’t going to be published until tomorrow. It didn’t look like I’d get a chance to see how Eddie had taken care of things.

  “Well,” I said, “you’ll just have to be satisfied with the real thing.” That made her giggle, which made her body bounce under her dress, which made me think more about that hotel room. We checked in and boarded the plane.

  * * * * *

  After we settled into our seats, she tried talking to me. Somewhere over Texas, though, she gave up, and I was grateful. The finality of what I was doing hadn’t really hit me until the plane started moving, and then it all washed over me, leaving my stomach twisted worse than a blanket in a hurricane.

  I looked at Marge. Even though her small talk had ripped through me worse than Rose’s nails, I was glad she was with me. I was going to need something to occupy myself with. Especially at night when it becomes so damn quiet.

  I tried blanking out my thoughts. I tried concentrating on the hum of the engine. I tried thinking of Marge in that dress. I tried imagining myself fishing. I tried . . . .

  Nothing worked. My mind kept flooding with images of Mary. I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t keep it out of my head.

  Mary would find it suspicious that she couldn’t contact me. She’d wait until my two weeks were up but after that she’d hire another detective. It wouldn’t take long for him to find Rose. Another two weeks at the most.

  So there it was. In four weeks the fuse was going to be lit. I couldn’t guess how long it would take after that for the explosion, but I knew it was going to come. And it was going to be one hell of a blast. It would have to be with Eddie Braggs doing everything he could to add gunpowder to it. Probably end up a national story. And after that . . . .

  No matter how well you think you’ve planned things, there’s always something you missed. Or maybe you looked at all the angles but something from left field botches it up for you.

  There was always the risk I’d be recognized. Maybe a foreign correspondent who’s heard of me, or some old biddy on vacation who used to clip out my stories. Or maybe a private investigator hired to find me. I knew Mary wouldn’t bother with something like that, but I wasn’t sure about Eddie Braggs. He just might be mad enough.

  I also knew that I was always going to be looking over my shoulder. It wouldn’t matter how well I thought I was hidden, it wouldn’t be good enough. For the moment, maybe, but what about the next day or the day after that?

  In a way I’d be willing to turn myself in if it could be done quietly. If folks could go on admiring me and slapping my back. If it didn’t end with the way it would have to. With people calling me those names. Or telling jokes about me. Or looking at me funny . . . or thinking they were better than me. That would be the worst part of it.

  Worry was churning around in my stomach. I knew it was never going to go away, at least not entirely. All I could hope for was to learn to live with it.

  Chapter 19

  On the way to the hotel, I told the cabbie to stop off at a liquor store. Marge started giving me funny looks, but tried holding in whatever it was she was dying to say. But she couldn’t.

  “Johnny,” she said softly. “I was hoping we could lay off the stuff. You know, make this trip a fresh start.”

  “I just want to get enough for a nightcap,” I muttered. “But we’ll watch what we drink.”

  “Promise, Johnny?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  The cab pulled over and I got out. That was all I needed, Marge nagging me about drinking. Now more than ever I was going to need a few drinks to take the edge off my worrying.

  I bought a quart of scotch and another of rye. When Marge saw the bottles her face went white but she didn’t say anything. During the cab ride she sat with her hands balled up into tiny fists. When we got to the hotel she grabbed both suitcases, ignoring my offer to help, and made sure she was two steps ahead of me. Inside the room, though, she loosened up. I guess she decided it wasn’t worth losing any sleep over.

  “So, lover.” She wrapped both arms around my neck. “What should we do first?”

  “Why don’t we have a drink and celebrate our first night in Mexico?”

  I pulled away from her and reached for the scotch. Pouring it, my hand was shaking.

  “I don’t want any.”

  “No? I guess I’ll have to celebrate for you.”

  “You bastard.” She laughed. “Okay then.” I filled a glass about a quarter way and handed it to her. I then took my drink in three gulps, spilling a little down my chin. The alcohol tightened my stomach, and then everything inside sort of dulled. I would have liked another drink, but I knew I’d like another one after that and sooner or later the bottle would be empty. Too much needed to be done over the next few days to start getting plastered.

  She put her drink down and sat cross-legged on the bed. “What next?” she asked.

  “You got any ideas?”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe one.”

  She straightened her legs, and, reaching behind her, pulled the dress over her head. It was a good thing her dress reached down past her panties. A damn good thing, since she wasn’t wearing any.

  She asked, “Can you think of anything yet?”

  I wanted another drink. My insides were begging for one, but I couldn’t afford to give in. I joined Marge on the bed. We started to go at it, or at least we tried to. I have to give Marge credit for giving it her best shot. She tried things I wouldn’t have dreamed of, but nothing worked. After a while she fell on her back, red-faced and breathing hard from her efforts. I prayed she wouldn’t say anything.

  “These things happen,” she said, hesitating. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  I kept quiet, hoping she’d be smart enough to shut up. I held my breath. She couldn’t leave it alone, though. “You’re tired from all the traveling. Tomorrow you’ll be as good as new, you’ll see. I bet—”

  “Shut up.”

  “—that you’ll be a new man with a little sleep. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. It means nothing at—”

  “Shut up!”

  At least she had sense enough to listen to me. I put my pants on and left.

  * * * * *

  When I came back later Marge was in bed, snoring worse than a pack of dogs. I slipped in next to her and tried to get some sleep, but nothing was coming easy. I fell into this crazy cycle where, right before drifting into unconsciousness, I would jerk out of it, panicked that if I fell asleep I’d forget how to breathe. It got to the point where I was afraid to close my eyes.

  After a while I became terrified that I’d collapse into sleep and then suffocate. I lay there sweating like a pig, and well, what Marge couldn’t do with all her effort, was accomplished out of pure necessity. I had to do something to keep my mind off all that craziness and what I did was to start rubbing her.

  She groaned, and slowly became aware of what was going on. When we were finished she whispered to me that she knew I’d be okay if I just gave it a little time.

  I prayed she was right but somehow I knew I wasn’t going to be. After the snoring started up again I tried closing my eyes but the same damn craziness took me over. Somehow I got the strength to crawl over to Marge. It kept up like that the whole night. Each time we finished I would try closing my eyes, but that same damn panic would overtake me. Somehow, even though I wouldn’t think it possible, I’d end up on top of her.

  I guess at s
ome point I must have collapsed into unconsciousness because Marge woke me up the next morning.

  Her face was filled with that big easy smile of hers. In a soft, husky voice she said, “I’m all sore from last night. You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

  I blinked, trying to get my bearings. As bad as my stomach felt the night before it would’ve been a blessing if it felt that way now. I got to my feet and staggered to the bathroom.

  When I was done, I got up off my knees and sat quietly while a cold chill shook through me. I looked in the mirror and groaned at what I saw. My eyes were red and had a hollow look to them. The hollowness seemed magnified by a gray clamminess that tinged my skin. I bent over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I kept it up, hoping to wash away the nausea that had worked its way into my temples.

  There was a knock on the door and Marge asked if I was okay.

  I ignored her and kept up with the cold water. Another knock. Then Marge’s voice again, this time with a hysterical edge to it.

  I opened the door. “Couldn’t hear you with the water running.”

  She studied me, the color draining from her face. “Johnny, you look awful.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” I walked past her and poured myself a drink. The scotch hit me like a mule’s kick, and then seemed to warm everything up. I strolled over to her and gave her a pinch. “You don’t look so hot yourself in the morning.”

  Concern was still working on her face, making her bite her lip. She placed her palm against my forehead. “You’re a little warm. Maybe your cut is infected. Let me take a look.”

  I laughed. “I’m a little worn out, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “You look like you could use a hot bath.”

  “That’s okay, I really—”

  “No,” I said. “You’ll feel better. Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

  She shrugged and walked into the bathroom. After I heard the water start to run, I picked up the phone.