Last Exit in New Jersey

by C. E. Grundler

“So Micah figured he’d use our truck to make some quick cash,” he said, too softly.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “It sure looks that way. Typical Micah shit. Last night—”

  “Nothing happened,” Joe interrupted softly, stepping between them. “If Micah’s in trouble, it’s his problem. We don’t want you winding up hurt, in prison, or both. Trust me, kiddo, I’ve been there, and it ain’t pretty.”

  “But Micah wouldn’t…” she protested, feeling her eyes start to burn.

  “Micah wouldn’t want anything happening to you either,” Joe said. “Let us take care of Micah.”

  “But…” She turned toward the water, determined not to let them see her cry, and her voice died in her throat. Docked behind Witch, a low black powerboat sat like a menacing shadow. It was the sort of thing built purely for speed, though usually those boats were tarted up with colors and graphics louder than their engines. Not this one. It was absolute black. It was the absence of all color. If Darth Vader had a boat, it would look like that. And Darth Vader had no reason to visit Bivalve, New Jersey.

  “What’s that and why is it here?” Hazel looked from her father and Joe to the strange boat. After the last few days, anything unusual was suspect, and around Bivalve, that boat qualified as highly unusual.

  Her father sighed. “That’s the one we’re hauling north today. The Stevenson boat. He said he’d be here by two.”

  “Today? We can’t do that TODAY.”

  “I didn’t exactly plan for today to be today when we scheduled.” He rubbed his face. “Let’s take care of this, then we’ll talk. Stevenson’s probably waiting at the office.”

  “Why do we have to truck it north? It got here under its own power just fine.”

  “We’re not in business to ask why people want their boats moved, just to move them.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “I know exactly what you’re saying. Give it a rest. We have work to do.” He looked from RoadKill to her, regarding her wrinkled tank top and oversized hand-me-down jeans, belted in at the waist and rolled at the bottom. “And could you for once not look like you dressed from the Salvation Army? We need this job, but we’re not that broke.”

  I FORGOT

  “Hey, Zap,” Freddy yelled into the office. “July third, Englishtown. You’re driving, right?”

  Hammon looked up at the Snap-on calendar over Gary’s desk in dismay while the well-oiled Miss July smiled back cheerfully as she pretended to torque a carburetor. “Next weekend?”

  Turner Speed built fast cars and fast boats, though Gary’s true passion was his street-legal drag racers. Gary could build them but hesitated when it came to pushing his masterpieces at the track, which wasn’t a winning strategy. When they discovered Hammon had the timing, finesse, and talent, Gary’s cars began taking prizes. For Hammon the track fell into the “safe” category: concealed within his helmet and fire suit, he became invisible, visually and electromagnetically. But the true secret to his success, aside from Gary’s fine engineering, was simple: he’d already survived burning, asphyxiation, overdosing, drowning, and a bolt of lightning. Hammon didn’t fear death in a normal, rational sense. Neurosis, paranoia, and social anxiety dictated much of his existence, but behind the wheel he was invulnerable. Unfortunately Annabel didn’t share his optimism, and that in turn generated constant friction between them.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?” Gary narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, he’s driving,” he called out to Freddy, “or his Popsicles melt.”

  “Hell yeah,” Hammon mumbled.

  “We’re running the Fairmont,” Gary said, watching for a reaction.

  Hammon nodded impassively. “’Kay.”

  Then he hiccupped.

  Gary groaned. “Tell me it’s in one piece and running, right? No bug hunts, right?”

  “No. It’s running great.” That much was true.

  “Then what?” Gary lowered his voice. “Tell me there’re no freakin’ surprises I don’t want to know about.”

  Hammon choked back another hiccup.

  Looking heavenward, Gary sighed. “I’m being punished for some past-life fuckup, right?” He turned to Hammon. “Put it this way. I expect the Fairmont here Thursday, cleaned up, fueled up, running fine, and smelling like roses, or I’ll see to it the only way that floating dump of yours moves is with a towline. Comprende?”

  Hammon hiccupped. “Can’t we drive something else?”

  “No. Let me guess. It’s up by he-who-must-not-be-named’s place, isn’t it? I could give him a call.”

  The taste of chocolate and Peeps rose in Hammon’s throat. “It’ll be here.”

  “Hey, Zap,” Pete yelled, “you bringing that hot little girlfriend? We’d all love to see her.”

  Gary’s face twisted and he stormed out to them in the shop with Charger, Yodel, and Hammon on his heels.

  “What?” Freddy was snickering. “We like having Annabel around. She makes things in-te-res-ting.”

  “Cut the crap,” Gary warned. “We went over this. We don’t discuss her.”

  “She’s gone, anyway,” Hammon said, trying to cool things before they escalated.

  Pete’s grin faded and Freddy sobered up.

  “Gone?” Freddy asked. “No way.”

  “Serious?” Pete said. “I thought you two were inseparable.”

  Hammon nodded, eyes tearing as he choked back a hiccup.

  “Damn.” Pete shook his head. “She was cool. You two made a good couple.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Gary snapped, glaring at Pete.

  “What? The kid was happy. She was good for him. Don’t listen to Gary. He’s just jealous cause he can’t keep a girlfriend.”

  “Knock it off,” Gary growled.

  Pete ignored him. “Hey, Zap, isn’t she how you met Gary to begin with?”

  Gary stalked off in disgust, ignoring the laughter echoing through the shop.

  15:35 SATURDAY, JUNE 26

  39°13’58.83”N/75°01’59.09”W

  BIVALVE, NJ

  If things weren’t bad enough, Dave Pierce was in the office, leaning over the pool table and smirking to himself as Hazel trailed behind Joe and her father. Joe rented the shop in back, but the front office was a public place, open to anyone renting a dock, and that, unfortunately, included Pierce. Hazel didn’t know the fellow with him, though judging by his stained Rheingold Beer T-shirt and frayed cutoffs she doubted he owned the black boat, or much else for that matter. While his pal lined up a shot, Pierce appraised Hazel, the corner of his mouth curling lewdly.

  At twenty-six, Pierce was fit and undeniably handsome, with an arrogant swagger that came from getting his way too easy and too often. Hazel had hated him ever since she was eight and found him testing the theory that seagulls couldn’t burp. On the surface it sounded harmless and amusing, though the truth was far more sinister. He was tossing gulls Alka-Seltzers wrapped in bread with the expectation that they would literally explode, or at least die agonizing, horrible deaths. Fortunately Pierce’s potentially sadistic experiment proved that not only could seagulls expel gas, but upon ingestion would foam at the beak and empty the contents of their stomachs midflight. That day Micah explained the concept of Karma to Hazel as Pierce, covered in fizzing fish guts, stood cursing.

  Unfortunately Pierce’s nature never changed. After the time he tried to rape her, it was her word against his. Beyond her family and Joe, no one believed she’d stabbed him in self-defense; everyone else bought Pierce’s claims that she’d inexplicably attacked him. Most people concluded she might be dangerously unstable, which at least kept them at a comfortable distance. Pierce was different though: he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in lingering nearby, almost taunting. He knew better than to push it too far, though; if she didn’t kill him, her father or Joe would.

  Hazel gave the room a quick scan, and saw no one else but Pierce and his buddy. Stevenson was probably waiting down by the docks.

  “Thi
s Stevenson guy isn’t even here,” she said to her father. “Can we go now?”

  She turned to leave and walked straight into a large, somewhat heavyset blond-haired man standing in the doorway. He flashed a broad smile, and Hazel backed away, a chilling déjà vu washing over her as his pale gold eyes locked on hers.

  Her father looked from Hazel to the stranger. “Stevenson?”

  He nodded. “Ian Moran?”

  “Yeah.” Her father shook his hand and studied him intently. “Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?”

  Stevenson said nothing but watched Hazel.

  “Cape May,” she said. “The Topaz delivery last Monday.” It was the day after Tuition vanished, so instead they drove RoadKill. She remembered how the blond stranger watched her maneuver the truck toward the lift, his distinctive eyes studying her in an unsettling way.

  “Exactly,” Stevenson said, his expression unreadable. “Cape May. The yard manager gave me your name.”

  Hazel knew it was paranoid, but in light of recent events, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was the reason Stevenson was there. She studied him warily while he discussed arrangements with her father. He wanted the boat hauled back and forth to his mechanic, paying extra for the additional days involved. They could stay in his house, only a half hour from Manhattan, he said. They could use the pool and tennis courts. Take in a Broadway show or two, he suggested. He could get them any tickets they wanted.

  Hazel leaned toward Joe. “Does he need a boat hauled or is he selling timeshares?”

  Her father shot her a dirty look, but Stevenson chuckled. It really wasn’t that funny. There was something about him she didn’t trust. He spoke with her father but kept studying Hazel with a strange, unnerving expression. He said the engines were stalling under load and he wanted the boat hauled to north Jersey but the shop was in Manasquan. He claimed the problem started in Cape May, but instead of having the boat picked up there, he’d brought it to Bivalve. If he was having problems, why didn’t he have them haul it from Cape May?

  “Dad.” She tugged her father’s sleeve. “We need to talk.”

  “Oh, trust me, we will.”

  “No. I mean NOW.”

  Her father turned to Stevenson. “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

  Stevenson smiled with patient, weary understanding, and Hazel’s dislike for him grew. Her father followed her into Joe’s shop.

  “We can’t do it.” She lowered her voice as the door closed behind them. “Say RoadKill’s not running right. Blame me, I don’t care. We can’t leave, not now.”

  “You’re right. WE can’t. YOU can. It’s an easy job with no oversize or out-of-state permits. We’ll load the boat, and you’re taking it north.”

  “Me? Alone? I thought you didn’t want me driving around alone.”

  “Cut the shit already. You know damned well what I meant: alone around here. And you won’t be. You’ll have Stevenson for company. He needs a lift.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Trust me, I’m dead serious. You’ve done tougher runs than this alone. I was talking with the manager in Cape May the other day, said he’s known Stevenson for years and speaks very highly of him. You won’t have any problems. You’ll be at the wheel with his expensive toy in tow. If anything, I should warn him to raise his life insurance.”

  He took a slow breath. “You want to be treated like a business partner, start acting like one. Without Tuition around, RoadKill is going to need new tires, brakes, and I don’t like the way the tranny feels. We need this job now more than ever. You want me to help Micah, fine; Joe and I’ll go pay Atkins a visit. But not while you’re here. It’s not open for debate.”

  “This totally sucks.” Hazel spun around, stalked out of the shop and straight past the audience in the office, slamming the door behind her as she headed down to the docks. The sun glared off the water, amplifying the heat. Hazel lifted her hair up from where it stuck to her back and studied the sky. A cold front was moving in and when it hit, it would hit hard. Restless and aggravated, she walked down the dock to check Kindling’s lines were secure.

  When they were small, she and Micah played in the ancient runabout, traveling the world without moving from the same mud-bound bank where the boat sat abandoned. At the time she believed Kindling, as her father called her treasure, was French for “beautiful boat.” With great amounts of Git Rot, caulking, Marine Tex, plundered parts, and determination, they restored Kindling to reasonable buoyancy and function. A decade later the little boat remained sound, dry, and reliable. Hazel reset the bilge pump counter and tested the float switch. As she climbed to the dock, a passing gull swooped low, dropping a splattered embellishment across the windshield.

  Hazel nodded. “That about sums it up.”

  She turned on the hose, rinsing away the gull’s commentary. The sun baked down, and heat from the dock rose through her sneakers. Water sprayed back from the broken nozzle, soaking her with a hot mist that gradually began to run cool, and she stood for a moment under the refreshing spray, studying Stevenson’s boat. The low, narrow, deep-vee hull was clearly built for one purpose: speed. No ports, rails, or hatches broke the streamline flow of the forward deck, from the sharply pointed bow straight back to a low-angled wraparound windscreen. The cockpit was strictly functional, with basic, unupholstered plastic racing seats. Off the stern massive exhausts flanked a pair of equally intimidating surface drives, the razor-sharp five-bladed stainless props mere inches beneath the water. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear it was designed for running drugs, and she recalled Keith’s comment about Atkins trafficking cocaine.

  The dock shook and Hazel turned, expecting her father. Instead, Stevenson stood between her and Witch, lighting a cigarette and studying her with those creepy gold eyes. She would have let her hair fall forward, avoided eye contact, and pretended she hadn’t seen him, but it was too late now. Why was he so damned interested in her? She wore no makeup, and Micah’s hand-me-downs were anything but flattering. Micah claimed she projected a certain vulnerability that triggered a protective instinct in some men and a predatory response in others. Either way, it made her uncomfortable and she looked down, only to realize her tank top was pasted to her as if she were a wet T-shirt finalist. Just great. And she was supposed to drive with that guy in the cab? She dropped the hose and started toward shore. Stevenson shifted, blocking the narrow dock.

  “Excuse me,” she said, fingernails digging into her palms.

  Stevenson only took a slow drag on his cigarette. He looked as though he wanted to say something but instead continued to study her, eyes narrowing as they fixed on her ring. She shoved her hand into her pocket.

  “Move,” she said, meaning to sound more forceful than nervous.

  He took another drag, and his eyes drifted across her. He appeared to be her father’s age and roughly an inch or two taller, which set him around six foot three, and he moved with casual, imposing confidence. But up close, Hazel noticed beneath his perfectly tailored clothes he was sweating profusely and carried a layer of padding over an athletic physique gone soft.

  Despite her request, he hadn’t budged one inch and she was really getting sick of him staring at her. She picked up the hose again, turned the nozzle as if to continue washing Kindling, and not-so-accidentally shot an arc of water his direction. Ignoring the burst of spray, he pressed his heel on the length of hose running past him, grinning as her expression dropped with the pressure. He regarded the wet cigarette dangling between his index finger and thumb with amusement.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” he said.

  Anger displaced uneasiness. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  His eyes lit with satisfaction. “The listing in the phone book says ‘courteous service.’”

  “That’s an old ad.”

  “I see that.” The corner of his mouth curled slightly.

  This was going to be a long drive. Hazel glanced up at the office again, relieved to see her father
heading down. It was about time. She shut the nozzle. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my dad.”

  With a gracious bow, he stepped aside, and she marched past, ignoring his delighted expression. Vile creep.

  “Making new friends?” her father asked as she followed him aboard Witch, heading below.

  “I don’t like him. He’s messing with me, and he looks at me weird.”

  “You are weird. And soaked,” he pointed out. She glanced down self-consciously, color rising in her face, and he sighed. “Do you want me to find Micah, or is there going to be a problem? Tell me now. Otherwise, get going.”

  “I’m sleeping in the truck.” The truck with no air-conditioning and a door that didn’t lock. She stalked into her cabin, changed into dry clothes, and began packing a duffle bag with enough to wear over the coming days. Witch rocked and she heard her father talking in the salon, likely going over things with Joe.

  “So how long am I staying with creepy?” she called out.

  “Could you please act civilized?” her father replied, aggravated. Good; served him right.

  “Oh, I’ll be on my best behavior,” she said with sugary sarcasm. “I was just wondering whether I should pack this…” She stepped out holding up a pair of black lace panties and found herself face-to-face with Stevenson.

  He glanced at her father. “Creepy will refrain from responding in the interests of self-preservation.”

  Face burning, Hazel returned to her cabin, slamming the door on their laughter. Jerks. To hell with them both.

  “Hey, Miss Manners,” her father called. “You ready to go?”

  No, but apparently that didn’t make a difference. She sulked out, avoiding eye contact with either of them. Shaking his head, her father locked up Witch while Stevenson boarded the black boat and started the engines, which turned over smoothly. Hazel gave her father a loaded look: the engines sounded fine.

  “Just bring the trailer around.” He walked to the Travelift as Stevenson guided the rumbling boat into the lowered straps. Hazel backed RoadKill to the trailer, locked the plate, raised the landing gear, and connected the electric and air lines, then tested the trailer’s brakes. Joe snugged the Travelift straps, Stevenson shut the engines, and the boat rose into the air.