ELEVEN
I floored it. Handsome dove for the back of the car and missed by inches.
“It’s still open.” Rod threw his torso over the backseat and reached for Bud’s swinging door.
“Nothin’ makes a man feel alive like runnin’ from the law,” Bud cried.
I tried to make a left at the first intersection, but misjudged the brakes. We came to a screeching halt. Rod fell backward and slammed his backside into the dashboard.
“Sorry.” I mashed the gas again.
“I’m fine. Don’t slow down.” Rod threw himself back over the seat.
I accelerated without knowing where the road went. “Rod, get that door closed. I can’t steer.”
“I’m trying, but there’s something hanging out.”
Bud’s lazy voice floated over the engine. “Simmer on down, son. You pull it in and I’ll shut the door.”
“Bud,” I threatened. “My camera better not be hanging out the car.”
Rod made a grunt and pulled on something. “I think it’s the tripod.”
“Don’t worry, Little Sister, I’m sittin’ on your camera.”
“What?” I turned my head for a look, but the steering wheel followed. I overcorrected and Bud’s open back door slammed shut. Rod fell into the front seat, bringing the tripod with him.
“Slow on down,” Bud ordered. “Can’t get away if we’re mammocked up in a ditch.”
I dropped our speed to sixty. The frame stopped shaking and the engine noise faded.
“This is the weirdest ten minutes of my life.” Rod pulled the tripod closer as though he were trying to see it better in the dark. “I think we just committed a crime.”
“Of course we did,” I said. “We’re running from the police. And what are you doing with my tripod?”
“That’s not what I meant, and this isn’t your tripod.” Rod turned the object toward me, catching the light from the dashboard. “I think we may have stolen someone’s lawn ornament.”
“Bud,” I shouted. “For the love of God, did you steal a lawn jockey?”
“The main thing—” Rod started, but had to pause when his voice cracked. “The main thing is not to panic.”
“Sorry,” Bud said. “Had to have it for my yard.”
“You what?”
“Wait a minute,” Rod cried, and pushed the jockey closer into the light. “Is this thing African-American?”
Bud cackled. “Mrs. Foote’s boy is gonna have fits.”
“Bud, this isn’t a joke,” I said. “We almost got caught because of you.”
“The main thing is not to panic,” Rod repeated, and tossed the jockey into the backseat as if it were radioactive.
“You been livin’ a coddled life if you think that was close. When you’re escapin’ out the back of a cop car, that’s almost gettin’ caught.”
“Of all the—”
“Maybe we should focus on our more immediate problems.” Rod pulled the handkerchief from his coat pocket and ran the silky fabric over his forehead.
“Like what?” I said, transferring my anger.
“Like not going to jail.”
“You’re in luck youngins.” Bud put his arms over the front seat and leaned forward. “Not goin’ to jail’s my specialty. Turn south up here.”
I slowed the car at the intersection and made the turn.
Bud put a hand on Rod’s shoulder. “I got a bag in the glove box, if you think you’ll be chuckin’ your crumpets.”
It was too dark to see Rod’s face, but his slouched outline didn’t inspire confidence. He made another swipe at his forehead with the handkerchief. “I’m okay.”
If you’d asked me an hour earlier, I’d have said nothing would ever go wrong in Rod Strong’s charmed, color-coordinated life. How had he ended up in my uncle Bud’s 1971 Fury with an offensive statue and homicide detectives in pursuit?
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” I said.
“It’s better than you being fresh meat in the county lockup.” Rod shifted and put the handkerchief in his pocket. “And for the record, I’m nowhere near chucking my crumpets.”
“If you say so, sonny.” Bud pointed to the next intersection. “Turn left up there.”
I made the turn and we emerged onto a neglected rural highway made of cracked and blistered asphalt. Grape and cotton fields ran into the growing darkness with occasional houses set back from the road.
“At least tell me where we’re going,” I said.
“Lamont’s further on down the road a piece.”
I hit the brakes. “But there’s a sheriff’s substation there. We’re driving right into their hands.”
“Exactly,” Bud countered. “Last thing they’ll expect.”
“Because it’s insane.”
“More like touched in the head.” I couldn’t see Bud’s face, but his voice sounded amused.
I turned around so I could look directly at him. “Please tell me you have some kind of plan. That you aren’t just making this up as we go along.”
Bud produced his trademark grin. “Most of those Lamont cops are gonna be chargin’ outta the north and west, makin’ like hell for the corn maze. That’s why we’re comin’ into town from down south.”
I turned to Rod. “What do you think?”
He looked at Bud, then back to me. “Of the three of us he seems to have the most experience with this kind of thing.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Bud.” I turned around and put the car back in drive. “Otherwise we’re all going to jail.”
We drove for another ten minutes, then Bud said, “Slow on down. We’re comin’ up to Lamont.”
The road doubled in size. Streetlights illuminated sidewalks lined with mom-and-pop stores. Some were already decorated for Christmas with FELIZ NAVIDAD scrolled on storefront windows.
“This street is so well lit,” Rod said, echoing my own thoughts. “That police officer who chased us is going to send out a description of this car, and it’s going to be very easy to spot us here.”
“No problemo.” Bud pointed to a do-it-yourself car wash half a block ahead. “Turn on in. The stalls got roofs. A chopper won’t see us in there.”
Rod’s eyes widened. “You think they’ll send a police helicopter after us?”
“Might could.”
The car wash had a series of stalls with hoses for soap and water. Everything was self-serve, and customers fed money into machines to buy time with the equipment. The place was empty, and on Bud’s orders I maneuvered the Fury into the last stall. A Dumpster blocked our view of the street, and a line of purple oleander covered a high fence running along the back.
When I killed the engine, Bud reached into the front seat and offered his hand to Rod. Dirt covered Bud’s fingers and made his jagged nails look black. “Bud Hawkins. Lilly’s uncle.”
I expected Rod to balk at shaking the filthy hand of my thieving and disreputable uncle, but Rod took it without hesitation.
“Rod Strong. I work with Lilly at the TV station.”
“You got a good grip there, boy.” Bud slapped him on the back and got out of the car. Rod and I followed.
“Wait.” Rod handed the flip-flops to Bud. “I think these are yours.”
“I was wonderin’ where those got to.” Bud slipped them on and went to put some money in the pay machine at the entrance to the stall. He turned on the hose and missed spraying Rod by inches. “You okay, son?”
Rod, who’d jumped back from the water in terror, pointed to his coat sleeve. “Italian wool.”
“You aren’t really planning to wash the car?” I asked. “I can think of about a million more important things to do right now.”
“You are just goin’ to have to trust me, Little Sister. I always got an ace in the hole.” Bud turned the hose on the car, and Rod retreated to the farthest corner of the stall. When Bud finished, I circled the Fury removing debris. Most of it was at the front end where cornstalks had become wedged in t
he concave grill and blocked most of the PLYMOUTH lettering.
As I threw the dead vegetation in the trash bin, a siren erupted.
Rod ran to the corner of the stall and peeked out. “Police.”
“Where?” I said. “How many?”
“Coming down the road. Two of them. Sheriff’s Department.”
Bud kicked off his flip-flops. “If it all goes down the dumper, make a run for the back fence.”
Rod looked with horror at his leather dress shoes, then peeked back out at the road. “They’re going faster now.”
The siren got louder and bounced off the cement walls of the stall. Around the edge of the Dumpster a car flashed by, followed by a second. The siren receded.
“Is that it?” I asked quietly.
Rod’s head turned away from the street. “No, there’s another one parked a couple blocks down.”
I crossed to where Bud stood casually putting his flip-flops back on. “Why did I listen to you? We should have gotten out of here while we had the chance. Now we’re trapped.”
Bud lowered his bare knees to the wet ground between the car and stall wall. “Sure about that, Little Sister?”
“How much more trapped can we be?”
He ignored me and ran his hand over the rear door.
“What are you doing?” As I approached, I saw two ugly black scratches on the door. He rubbed the dark lines back and forth with more intensity than he’d shown for anything all day. The dark lines doubled in size, expanding under Bud’s steady pressure.
“You’re making the scratch worse,” I said.
Bud stopped and stood up. “Am I?” He reached down and took hold of something. In a fluid motion he pulled off a chunk of white paint, revealing a dark maroon undercoat.
“What just happened?” Rod came up behind me and gazed over my shoulder at the car door.
“You thought I’d lost my touch.” Bud cackled. “Well, this old fart still has a trick or two up his sleeve.”
I knelt down. “But that’s not possible.”
Rod, careful not to let his clothes touch anything wet, leaned down and reached around my side. His clean, perfectly manicured hand examined the boundary between the dark and the light colors. “I’ve heard of this. It’s plastic paint. They use it for commercials and movies.”
I shot up and accidentally knocked Rod toward the wet car. He contorted his body in a curve and managed to freeze himself several inches from the Fury.
“Sorry.” I offered him a hand.
He took it and straightened himself. “It also has obvious nefarious uses.”
“Come again?” Bud looked from Rod to me.
“He means criminals use it to disguise their cars.”
“That’s puttin’ it a tad bit strong. Even an honest, law-abidin’ man can find himself a target of unwanted attention. Just look at you two.”
“He has a point.” Rod laughed. “In the last half hour I’ve assisted a fugitive and been chased by the police.”
Bud tipped an imaginary hat at him. “See, it can happen to the nicest of folks.”
Rod flashed his fake anchorman smile and I remembered I didn’t like him.
“Let’s get to work removing the white paint.” I turned to Rod. “You should think about where you’d like to be dropped off when we’re done.”
The anchorman smile faded. “What are your plans?”
“You shouldn’t be worrying about that. You should be trying to get as far away from me as possible.”
“But you’re in a lot of trouble.” His white teeth caught the fluorescent light and reflected it back like a mirror. “I have an idea.”
“I don’t—”
“Let’s hear it,” Bud interrupted.
“Instead of going back to Bakersfield, why don’t we head south to Los Angeles?”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“My dad is a lawyer. He can give us good advice.”
“Nice of you to offer, but I said no.”
“Before we do anythin’, this baby’s gotta go from white to red.” Bud grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me toward the rear of the car. “Rod, you take the front end. I’ll get Lilly started back here and come check on you.”
“We need to settle this first,” I said.
“Later, Little Sister.”
I allowed Bud to guide me to the rear of the car while Rod began work on the front hood. We both knelt at the rear bumper and went to work stripping it.
“I assume you wanted to talk privately,” I said quietly. “It isn’t fair to keep Rod involved. He’s already risked too much.”
“He ain’t a pee-stained couch. We can’t just drop him by the side of the road.”
The rubbery paint yielded under my nail and I inched up a long swath of white. “Don’t tell me you want to go to L.A.?”
“No way. Cops’ll be checkin’ out his friends and family by tomorrow at the latest.” He stopped working and looked at his hands. His grin was gone and his lips were pulled back into a frown. “Your mama may not be the sweetest peach on the tree, but she’s not stupid.”
I gasped. “I’m not going to Fresno.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” His grin came back. “I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
He looked back down at his hands. “There’s a reason your mama didn’t want me round. I’m not sayin’ she was right, but she wasn’t exactly wrong. I tend to let folks down.”
“It’s okay about the lawn jockey. Just don’t do it again.”
“It’s only that …” He pursed his lips as if he were taking a drag on a cigarette. For the first time in my life I thought he looked like an old man. I reached out and placed a hand over his. He looked up and tried to smile. “It’s only that, I will do it again. Bound to happen.”
I let go and returned to working on the bumper. “If you want out, say so. It wasn’t fair of me to involve you in the first place.”
“That’s not what I’m sayin’. I’m not tryin’ to lay out of it, but I’m not reliable. I’m not even reliable about bein’ unreliable. No way to predict how I’ll screw up or when it’ll happen.”
I nodded, but stayed focused on the paint. “Ah-huh.”
“You need to understand that so it don’t kick you in the teeth every time.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, still unwilling to look at him. “I get it.”
“And that’s why I think Rod’s a good man to have around.”
“He’s useless.” I realized I was yelling and quickly lowered my voice. “You said yourself he was ready to puke back there.”
“Pukin’ and near-about pukin’ ain’t the same thing.”
“That’s not exactly a glowing recommendation.”
“Then how about he’s fightin’ for you better than anybody else right now.”
“Look at his competition. Marcie’s the closest thing I’ve got to a friend and she sold me out to the cops. You’re my family and you got bored and committed larceny. The guy I like just chased me through the streets trying to arrest me. All Rod has to do is breathe and he’s better than the rest of you.”
Bud’s spine straightened. “You got eyes for a cop?”
I went back to peeling the paint. “If this hadn’t happened, maybe the cop was going to ask me out, but that was before I was wanted for murder.”
“No wonder he stuck with us so long.” Bud chuckled. “He was worse than a bugger you can’t thump off.”
His amusement only fueled my frustration. “My point is, Rod doesn’t exactly have to try very hard to look good.”
“First rule of winnin’ a fight. You need everybody you can get on your side.”
I shook my head. “I want Rod out of this.”
“Why? You give me a story about it not bein’ fair to him, then you say he’s useless, but you don’t say what’s really on your mind.”
I glanced under the car and made sure Rod’s feet were still on the
other side. “I don’t trust him.”
“Now why—”
“I know, I know. You love him. Everybody loves him. To know him is to love him, but trust me, inside he’s looking for an angle.”
“My gut don’t read him like that.”
“Then why do you think he’s so eager to get me to L.A.?”
“Same reason you don’t want to leave Bako; it’s his home base and he knows the lay of the land.”
“Or maybe he saw what Marcie did and is trying the same thing on a bigger scale.” Bud looked confused so I explained. “She told the police about the corn maze in exchange for an exclusive. If Rod got me to L.A., he could do the same thing with a TV station down there.”
Bud squinted.
“You don’t understand the TV business,” I continued. “Everyone wants to get to a big market like L.A. It’s all they think about.”
“Then supposin’ you’re right about the boy. Supposin’ he’s tryin’ to snatch a crick in your neck. You cut him loose now, you never find out what he’s up to.”
“I don’t want to know what he’s up to. I just want him gone.”
“Then if you won’t keep him around to help, and you won’t keep him around to find out what he’s up to, keep him around so he won’t talk to the cops.” Bud gestured to the car. “We don’t want him tattlin’ about this here switcheroo with the color.”
“You said we were getting a new car later tonight. After that it won’t matter.”
“Then at least keep him around till then.”
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of a good argument.
Bud went back to work on the bumper. “And in the meantime you’ll get a better idea what he’s made of. I think you’re wrong about him, but if you’re right, it’ll show through.”
I sulked for a moment, then walked to the front of the car. Rod looked up from working on the hood and smiled.
I didn’t return his smile. “It’s okay if you want to stay with us, but for the record I think you’re …”
I lost my thought.
“What’s wrong?” He followed my gaze to the maroon front of the car.
“You’re practically done. We’ve barely got the back bumper uncovered and you’ve finished the entire hood.”
“I’m good at picking up random skills, even if I don’t like them. It’s why I’ve been able to last this long as a reporter.”
A Bad Day’s Work Page 13