Bryan smiled and shook his head. “Gimme a break,” he said.
“Dude, I’ll give ya all the breaks you want, long as the pussy keeps showing up.”
Bryan laughed again. “What is it with you? You’ve got to be the horniest fucker I’ve ever been around.”
“Shit, Dude. Ain’t nothing wrong with me. I’m just a red blooded American male. I’d be willing to bet you’d wind up a horn-dog pretty damned quick if Carrie ever booted your ass out.”
“Not me. I’ll just keep on attracting the pussy.”
“And I’ll be right there with you, Dude!”
Bryan snickered, and they both burst out laughing. A moment or two later, Larry held up the newspaper. Turning it so Bryan could see the front page of the Metro section, he said, “Guess you didn’t get around to reading this.”
“What?” Bryan said, and then leaned toward the coffee table, eyes scanning the paper until he finally snatched it from Larry’s hand. “The fuck? Fuck! Did you read this shit?”
“Relax, Dude.”
“My ass! Look at this shit.” Bryan read the headline out loud. “Body found in downtown Charlotte.”
“Yeah, they found our buddy, doesn’t say how he died though. Probably those friggin’ gangbangers. I’ll bet they were madder’n hell when we hauled ass outa there, probably found dumb-fuck there and took it out on him.”
Bryan read some more, looked up at Larry, and said, “How in the hell can you sit there smiling?”
“We can’t both sit around squealing like bitches.”
“Goddamit, Larry. This is serious. Look at this shit: they didn’t find those guys!”
“Fucked up, isn’t it? They must’ve hauled ass back to the hood. That car was stolen, you know. Boy, wouldn’t you like to have gotten a look at the cops when they showed up and found that shit: car on its side in the intersection; motor howling like a motherfucker, busted glass all over the road; smoke pouring out of the old truck. Nobody the fuck around. ‘Oh, and look at this shit, Dan-O. There’s a dead guy in back of the truck.”
“Personally, I’m glad we weren’t around to see it.”
Larry laughed, smiling as he nodded his agreement. “I hear ya, brother.”
Bryan smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared. “Jesus,” he said. “We’re sitting around laughing and the cops could be on their way over here right now.”
“I doubt it.”
“You weren’t exactly wearing gloves last night, Larry.”
Larry cut his eyes toward the ceiling, shrugging his shoulders playfully as he winced.
“All they have to do is ask around that neighborhood, corner that pimp or one of his whores. Shit, the cops probably have all kinds of stoolies over there.”
“Stoolies? The fuck are you, Barnaby Jones?” Larry shook his head, chuckled and said, “Stoolies! And you made fun of me for saying hoodlums.”
A car pulled up to the curb.
“Aw, shit.” Bryan jumped up, hurried across the room and peered out through the slightly-parted curtains, turned and smiled. “Mail man,” he said.
“Dude, this shit’ll blow over. Hell, this time tomorrow we’ll be in the air.”
“Oh yeah?” Bryan walked back across the room and returned to his chair.
“Yep, got our tickets while you were staring at Pammy-baby’s tits. And don’t even say you weren’t drooling over those bad boys.”
Bryan sighed and shook his head, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“By the time we get back,” Larry said, “this will all be history.”
“Or we will.” Bryan said, picturing him and Larry handcuffed together in the back seat of a patrol car.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Why?”
“I just need to get out of the house.”
“You damn near had a heart attack last night.”
“I told you—it was just a dream.”
“A dream? What kind of dream leaves you in such a state? You need to go the doctor. You should at least give him a call and see what he thinks about your traipsing off to Florida.”
“Yesterday you were happy I was going, now all a sudden I’m traipsing off?”
“That was before I saw you squirming around on those wet sheets like a dying fish.”
“Beached whale, more like it.”
“Beached something, all right.”
That was the way it had gone from the moment Susan came downstairs in the middle of the morning to find Graham sitting on the couch with one of his Jazz CDs playing in the background. Nothing he said seemed to make any sense, and she balked at his so-called reasons for rushing off to Orlando without so much as a call to his doctor.
But Graham stuck to his guns, because he didn’t think he could survive another night of waiting around for some crazy redneck to come creeping up his driveway. In the end, it didn’t matter what Susan said, or how much hell she raised. His mind was made up. He was going. He had to. And as the morning moved along, Susan finally gave up, giving in to what she had on more than one occasion today called sheer lunacy.
His suitcase, packed with pills and clothes and several copies of his latest novel, waited for him by the front door. A small carryon sat beside it, in case he ended up leaving Orlando with more books than he arrived with. Graham knew that once he found himself amongst the book dealers and authors, like a kid in a candy store with a pocket full of cash, he’d go on a buying spree. He always did.
“What’dya think,” he asked Susan, who had taken a seat in his midnight blue La-Z-Boy recliner. “You about ready to go?”
“Go? I thought your plane left at two-thirty.”
“It does.”
“What’s the hurry then?”
“I’m just anxious to get started. With all the security measures these days, no telling how long it’ll take to get through and onto the plane.”
“Can we at least eat lunch? C’mon, I’ll fix us a couple of sandwiches. We’ll watch the news and take off. You don’t want to be sitting around the airport all that time, do you?”
“Nah,” Graham said, because the last thing he wanted was for Susan to turn on the news and see some talking head talking about a hit and run over on Highway 202. “We’ll get something on the way, or eat at the airport. Like I said, I want to get out of the house.”
“Two days ago I couldn’t have blown you out of here with a stick of dynamite. Now I can’t even watch the news?”
“What can I say, Frau Frankenstein? You’ve created a monster.”
“I’ll say.” Susan took a deep breath and blew it out. Sighing, she stood up, and said, “Well, let’s get a move on.”
Susan crossed the living room into the mouth of the hallway, until the hallway swallowed her and she was gone. She came back carrying a jacket—a light-blue tweed blazer that went well with the gray shirt and faded jeans she wore, and the brown leather purse that hung from her shoulder. She sat the purse on the coffee table. While Susan slipped into the jacket, Graham stood up and crossed the room. He turned off the stereo and closed the cabinet doors. Then he walked over to Susan and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
Susan, looking him in the eye, said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Look at it this way: yesterday I was a scared rabbit, afraid to even leave the house. Like you said, I wasn’t living. I was waiting around to die. Thanks to you and your dynamite, I had a pleasant afternoon—” Graham kissed her forehead—“and a wonderfully fulfilling evening.”
“Me, too,” Susan said, smiling and brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.
“So what if I had a wicked nightmare? Hey, while I was up last night I finished my manuscript.”
“Oh, really? What did he do, old man Holcomb?”
“Why don’t you read it for yourself? It’s lying on my desk.”
Susan laughed, and the corners of her eyes crinkled, Graham smiling as she said, “You’d better not have killed that old coot.”
/> “For you to find out, my love.” Graham stepped away, and then walked over and picked up his bags. On the way down the front porch steps, he said, “Your car?”
“My car? Since when do you ever want to take my car?”
“Just thought you might be more comfortable driving your own car.”
“Yeah, right. Something wrong with the Jeep?”
He didn’t want to take his car, could not imagine Susan parading around town with that busted taillight. But Susan wasn’t stupid, and arguing now would only arouse her suspicion. And once that happened he could hang it up.
“No,” Graham said. Rolling his suitcase behind him, he rounded the corner of the house and continued past the Camry, careful to keep his body between Susan and the Jeep. When they reached its rear, he stood directly in front of the broken taillight.
Graham sat the carryon bag on top of the Jeep, and reached into his pocket.
“Here,” he said, and handed his keys to Susan. “Go ahead and get in. Fire up the AC if you feel like it. Clear out some of that stale air.”
Apparently, Susan didn’t notice the missing taillight cover. She got into the car and leaned toward the driver’s seat. Moments later the engine purred to life, and Graham piled his luggage into the Jeep and slammed the hatch shut.
The last thing Graham wanted was to drive across town in a Jeep that seemed to be crying out, “LOOK AT MY GODDAMN TAIILIGHT!”
But out onto the highway they went, every policeman he saw the one who would lock his ass up and swallow the key. Every country bumpkin with a baseball cap a lunatic hungry for revenge. Halfway to the airport, a police car pulled up behind them. As soon as Graham saw it, he took a right into a parking lot, so quickly that he didn’t even have time to bump his turn signal arm, which did not go unnoticed by Susan, who said, “What are you doing?”
“Lunch,” Graham said, extremely grateful for the sports bar nestled in the corner of the strip mall they found themselves in. Instead of pulling straight into a parking space, Graham pulled forward, and then put the car in Reverse. “What are you doing?” Susan asked again, as he backed into a space alongside the restaurant.
“Research. My next book is about a truck driver.”
Susan frowned, and they both got out of the car.
In Bravo’s Sports Bar and Grill, they had lunch and a couple of Margaritas, and for a brief time, Graham was able to put his worries behind him. He really was looking forward to seeing the folks down at Horrorcon: the authors and fans, old friends hanging out in the bar; book sellers and artists gathered at tables, peddling their works of art, which was what Graham considered good fiction to be: works of art generated by the highest practitioners of the form. Of course, there would be plenty of the vanity boys around, wannabe writers standing side by side with highly talented authors like Clegg and Keene and—Graham smiled—Greystone; no-talent-hacks who had toiled long and hard only to fork over their own hard-earned money to pay somebody to publish work any self respecting editor wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Graham always bought one or two of those self published paperbacks, just to give the poor guy or gal a shot in the arm. Who knows, maybe that would send them back to the old word processor with smiles on their faces. At any rate, it was sure to garner him another fan or two, and that was a good thing in and of itself.
Graham sat across from Susan, the alcohol warm and relaxing as he looked up at the big-screen TV, relieved to see Sports Center and not the news, although he was beginning to think he was taking all of this too seriously. The guy probably wasn’t hurt that bad—definitely had it coming to him anyway. Hell, Graham could always say he panicked when the big bastard started screaming and cussing and kicking the Jeep.
Panicked and threw the car into reverse?
Why not? Accidents happen.
Sure they do. Just step over to the car, Mr. Greystone. Hands behind your back…That’s a good boy. Watch your head, sir. Sure, you’ll be out before you know it!
“Earth to Graham.”
“Huh, what?”
“What’re you thinking about?”
“What?”
“The look on your face, like a little boy being led off to the principal’s office.”
Graham laughed. “Just spacing out from too much alcohol and not enough sleep.”
He looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. He tossed a twenty and a five-dollar bill on the table and stood up. Moments later, he led Susan through the front door. The chilly wind blowing through the mountain community felt good against his face as Susan buttoned her jacket and followed him down the sidewalk.
On the way to the Jeep, the missing taillight cover loomed like a giant billboard. Graham didn’t understand how Susan couldn’t see it, because that was all he could see. Driving down the highway, he asked Susan if she would be all right alone in the house, and if she had heard from her mother lately. He mentioned the idea that had come to him about the crazy hillbilly cannibals while he was at the top of the stairway last night, complimented her coat and commented on the weather. Anything to occupy his mind, to keep it from racing back to its nightmare world of muscle-bound rednecks and grimy jail cells, and before he knew it, they were pulling up in front of Richmond International.
Graham parked at the curb.
Leaving his keys in the ignition, he popped the hatch and climbed out of the driver’s seat. Before Susan was halfway out of the car, Graham was grabbing his luggage and slamming the hatch shut. He met her at the sidewalk, where he took her by the hand and led her around the front of the Jeep. She offered to park the Jeep and see him off good and proper, but he said no, that she would only be bored, and he had brought along a book to keep him company, anyway.
Graham hugged and kissed her, and then guided her into the front seat, waving as Susan pulled away and the rear of the Jeep disappeared around the corner like a one-eyed ogre.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Orlando airport made the Richmond facility look like a second rate strip mall. Graham wasn’t a country bumpkin, by any means, but he had never seen anything quite like this. Not in an airport, anyway. The two-sided main terminal had shop-lined corridors and a lush, foliage-filled Atrium—eight stories high with glass walls and beautiful gushing fountains, and plenty of comfortable seating. Graham stopped outside a Chili’s restaurant to read a large plastic sign mapping out all the components that made up Orlando’s International Airport. There were a multitude of shops and restaurants, six bars, a microbrewery, and a Hyatt Regency Hotel housing a ninth floor restaurant—here, diners could look out on space shuttle launchings and enjoy panoramic views of the city. A place where fireworks from the Magical Kingdom could be seen on a nightly basis. Graham wondered why the rocket scientists running Horrorcon hadn’t rented out space right here in the Hyatt. Surely the money saved on travel expenses would have been better spent on books and artwork, not to mention the hassle of finding one’s way around downtown Orlando.
Graham collected his luggage. Halfway down the concourse he rented a Ford Taurus from a pleasant young woman with sparkling emerald eyes. The Hertz uniform she wore brought back memories of a smiling O.J. hurtling luggage carts, and that made him think of the ridiculous video of Simpson’s white Ford Bronco leading a fleet of police cruisers down the L.A. freeway, and how true it was that good does not always trump evil, all does not end well. Graham wondered how many innocent men sat in cells around the country while that smiling oaf was out walking the golf courses. He thanked the young woman, collected the keys, and made his way through the air-conditioned causeway.
Outside, the weather was a good fifteen degrees warmer than when he’d left Richmond. On his way through the parking garage, Graham slipped out of his jacket and hung it across his arm, but it did little to alleviate the oppressive heat. By the time he found the car in its sun-baked lot, he was wondering why the hell he hadn’t stayed in the cool confines of northern Virginia. He loaded his luggage into the trunk, and made his way to the front of the car. Open
ing the door was like opening a blast furnace. He couldn’t believe how hot it was down here, that people could actually live in such a place. If it was this bad at the end of October, what must it be like in the middle of August? He stood for a moment amongst a row of cars, staring up at the sun, sweat staining his armpits, the sides of his shirt clinging to him. When he touched the back of his neck, his hand came away slick.
Graham tossed his jacket onto the front seat, slid behind the steering wheel and started the car, smiling because no loud rock music blared from the radio. Whoever had used the car before him must have been a jazz aficionado like himself. Keyboards and pleasant strains of acoustic guitars issued forth from the speakers. He sat for a moment, holding his hand against warm jets of air rushing from the dashboard vents. Soon, the air became cold, and Graham leaned his face into the frigid stream, smiling as it blew across his cheeks. He shut the door, rifling through his jacket until he found the map he’d printed off his computer back in Richmond. The Clairton was just off I-4, as was most everything else, Graham had noticed when he’d first studied the map. As was the Jeep dealership he’d looked up on the Internet. He pulled out of the parking lot, onto a two-lane road leading away from the terminal. Further on, the road widened to four lanes. A sign by the roadside flashed the time and temperature. It was four-thirty, and the hottest eighty-five degrees Graham had ever endured. He wondered if the Jeep dealer would still be open. He knew the salesmen would be prowling the lot, but what about the parts department? Worth a try, he thought. Besides, he didn’t have anything better to do, other than go straight to the hotel, and then what? Down to the bar and start drinking at six o’clock, snockered by nine and off to bed? Probably wouldn’t be anybody connected with the convention here this early. Even if they were, there’d be plenty of time for mingling tonight.
What about Scary Mary?
Graham smiled. It was the first time he had thought of her since posting his message on the Horrorfan message board yesterday evening: Orlando or bust!
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