Drive Like Hell: A Novel

by Dallas Hudgens

  “There he goes,” Cash shouted. “Look! Nick’s got his skinny little ass.”

  That might have been overstating things just a bit. What Nick had was an armful of Speedy’s hood. He’d jumped onto it as Speedy was driving through the parking lot. Now Speedy was jerking the El Camino back and forth, trying to pry Nick loose. Nick was flopping around like a fish in a frying pan.

  Speedy finally threw him, though the effort had given us enough time to close the gap. Nick picked himself up off the gravel and ran over to the truck. He dove into the back and screamed for me to go.

  The roads around the track were crooked, country two-lanes, rutted and void of any illumination except the occasional bare lightbulb shining from a front porch. Naturally, Speedy shut down his headlights in an attempt to shed us. It was like trying to tail a shadow. But I managed to keep him in sight. I was pushing Cash’s truck right to the edge of collapse. The motor was screaming for mercy.

  “You think maybe I oughta pull over and let you drive?” I shouted to Cash.

  “Man, we can’t pull over now,” Cash said. “We’ll never find him.”

  “But I’ve only got three months left until I get my license back. If I get caught doing this, they’ll send my ass to Alto.”

  “Don’t worry about that shit,” Cash said. “These are extenuating circumstances. You’re in pursuit of a fugitive from the law. Man, they oughta give you a goddamn medal.”

  I wasn’t convinced by Cash’s logic, but I kept on following Speedy. Putting his ass behind bars did seem like a worthy goal at the moment. Unfortunately, he made a right turn and a quick left and then seemed to disappear into thin air.

  Cash waved his hand so I’d let off the gas. “Easy,” he said. “I think he pulled into one of these houses.”

  We cruised past the houses on the street. They were ramshackle affairs, about the same size as Nick’s place, but not nearly so cheerful. They possessed the frail posture of long-lost relatives who’d been scarred by disappointment and cheap liquor.

  “Whoa,” Cash said. “See that?”

  He pointed to a house with an Alabama Crimson Tide flag hanging in the front window. A light shone behind it, and a dog was barking inside. It sounded like a rabid dog.

  An old green and white Chevy truck sat in front of the house, but that wasn’t what caught Cash’s eye. There was a trail of dust running the length of the dirt driveway, all the way around to the back side of the house. Obviously, a car had just pulled in.

  “Cut the lights,” Cash said, “and pull over.”

  The three of us devised a plan. Nick would take the back door, Cash the front, and I’d guard Speedy’s truck.

  Nick gazed down at Cash’s empty hands. “So, where’s your Magnum?”

  “Man, I don’t take it to the track with me.”

  “Okay, then let’s get a tire iron and a couple of wrenches out of the truck.”

  “I don’t need that shit,” Cash said.

  “Well, what the hell are you gonna do if he comes out armed?”

  Cash didn’t say a word. Instead, he crouched into a kung fu stance: one foot up in the air, hands poised in front of his face like he was holding a camera.

  Nick tried not to laugh.

  “What’s so goddamn funny?” Cash said.

  “I can’t help it,” Nick told him. “You look like Elvis doing all that kung fu shit in a jumpsuit. What are you gonna do, throw him a scarf?”

  I asked Cash how long he had actually been studying kung fu. He informed me that he had recently earned a gold belt, which sounded pretty good to me.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Nick said, “gold’s the one they give you after your white belt. That means you’re certified to break paper plates.”

  Cash dropped the kung fu stance. He was scowling at both of us. “Just give me a goddamn tire iron and shut the fuck up.”

  Nick happily doled out the hardware. He tossed me a cold and heavy monkey wrench, and then we all took our spots. I crouched in front of Speedy’s truck while Cash walked up the steps and rapped on the door with the tire iron. The dog started up with his barking again, even louder and more vicious than before. It was a deep, hoarse bark, unmistakably the sound of a very large and ill-tempered creature. Cash instinctively backed up a couple of steps.

  “Speedy!” he yelled. “Get your ass out here. You know what I’m here for.”

  Speedy didn’t answer. There was nothing to be heard from the inside except barking.

  Cash pounded on the door again. He even gave it a kung fu kick with his foot. He let out a loud “Waaaahhh!”

  The door buckled a little but refused to give way. This really made the dog crazy. It sounded possessed, like it was barking in the tongues of satanic mongrels.

  “Goddammit, Speedy, I’m not messing with you. Do you hear? If I have to come in there, I’m gonna take it outta your ass.”

  About that time, the door opened a sliver. All I could see was the dog’s head. It looked to be the size of a football. I suppose it was God-given instinct that caused me to scout the yard for a tree to climb.

  The dog was snarling and stripping his teeth and trying to get at Cash. Cash backed up even farther, until he was standing at the edge of the porch steps.

  “Speedy,” he said, “don’t you be pulling any shit. Now you better keep that fucking dog inside the house.”

  Speedy still didn’t answer, though he was obviously standing on the other side of the door, holding the dog by its collar. The dog was thrashing his head from side to side, trying to break the door with his skull.

  Finally, Speedy flung the door wide open. There was a blast of light from inside the house, and then the dog burst right out. He was airborne before he even took a step, like Bruce Lee with four legs.

  The dog appeared to be part chow, part rottweiler, and mangy as hell. He latched on to the crotch of Cash’s jumpsuit in a very purposeful manner.

  Speedy shot through the doorway in the dog’s wake. He looked like a tailback scampering behind his lead blocker. He leapt over the porch railing, shouting instructions to the dog as he made his escape.

  “Get him, Brute! Chew his goddamn nuts off!”

  Cash lay flat on his back. He was holding Brute’s big head in his hands, trying to keep the dog from latching on to anything more valuable than the inseam of his Dickies, screaming Nick’s name as loud as he could.

  Nick raced around from the back of the house. The first thing he saw was Speedy scrambling toward me and the truck. Then he caught a glimpse of Cash wrestling with the dog. Nick almost jumped out of his shoes.

  “Holy fucking shit. That’s a goddamn wolf.”

  He took off running for Cash, yelling all the while for me to put the skids on Speedy’s getaway.

  I stood up and blocked the driver’s side door. I drew the wrench back behind my ear, ready to impart some pain. This caused Speedy to stop in his tracks. He squinted at me like I was some kind of apparition.

  “Who in the hell are you?” he asked. “I don’t owe you any goddamn money. Now get the hell out of my way. I got places to go, if you don’t mind.”

  He took a step toward the car, and I drew the wrench back even farther. He was a short guy, five-six at most. I could have easily smacked him right on top of the head.

  “Call off the dog,” I yelled. “Call him off, or I’m gonna split you wide open.”

  Speedy raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa,” he said. “Easy there, fella. I’ll do whatever you want, okay? There’s no need to get all shitty ditty about it.”

  He turned and looked back at Brute like he was going to be agreeable and call him off. He even put his fingers up to his mouth to whistle. But instead of whistling, he bolted for the road, churning his arms like a marching-band leader. I froze for a second, not quite believing what I was seeing, and then I took off after him.

  Speedy and I ran right down the middle of the two-lane road. Lucky for me, his short legs weren’t fit for this type of
racing. Three of his strides matched one of mine. I caught up to him after about fifty yards. I could have jumped him and knocked him down right then and there, but instead, I eased into step behind him. I stalked him for a good thirty yards, just letting him wonder what was coming. Finally, I gave him a sharp whack between the shoulder blades with the wrench.

  “Oww! What was that for?”

  “That’s for Ebo,” I said. “And this one…”

  I cracked him across the lower back.

  “…is for Cash.”

  He let out a chuff of air and stumbled, veering toward the shoulder of the road. He had one hand on his back, the other out in front, preparing for touchdown with the grass. But I wouldn’t let him fall. I ran up beside him, grabbed the neck of his shirt, and straightened him. Then I shoved him back toward the middle of the road. He went down on the yellow stripe.

  “What the hell is your problem?” he asked. “I ain’t got no gripe with you. That’s just racing, what I did out there. It don’t mean nothing. It don’t mean you can’t be civil to one another.”

  “Cash had your ass beat, fair and square,” I said.

  Speedy snorted. “He didn’t have jack fucking shit. He should’ve wrecked me when he had the chance.”

  Nick and Cash came running up the road. The crotch of Cash’s coveralls was missing, but his red Jockeys were still intact. Nick looked like he’d been through the wringer as well. One of his shirtsleeves was ripped and flapping in the breeze. By the time he and Cash reached us, they were both out of breath. Nick had to bend over and rest his hands on his knees.

  We all stood there looking down at Speedy like he was a deer that we’d run over and didn’t know what to do with. Nick eventually straightened himself. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled.

  “Congratulations, bro. You just bagged your first bounty.”

  “Damn right,” Cash said. “Maybe we oughta mount his ass over your TV.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. This felt better than taking the knife from Fay. I might have even stumbled onto a career, a legitimate line of work. Luke Fulmer: Bounty Hunter. It sounded like a TV show.

  Speedy looked up with a pained expression on his face. “Where’s Brute?” he asked. “What’d you do with my little puppy dog?”

  “We threw his ass in the house,” Cash said. “And that dog better have had his damn shots, because he broke the skin on my hand.”

  Speedy appeared bewildered. “What shots?”

  Nick and Cash groaned. Speedy finally pushed himself up to a sitting position. He reached around and grabbed at his back.

  “Any of y’all got a cigarette?”

  “Fuck you,” Cash said. “Telling that dog to rip my goddamn nuts off, and then you think I’m gonna give you a smoke.”

  I guess Nick found it hard to refuse a man who was about to be incarcerated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Winstons. He tossed one to Speedy, along with a book of Waffle House matches.

  Speedy blazed up, took a long drag, and let the smoke drift out amid a deep sigh. “Are y’all gonna take me in right now?” he asked. “I sure could use a little something to eat.”

  Cash laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time. “So what are you saying? You want me to buy you a steak dinner? Maybe I oughta massage your feet, too.”

  Speedy shrugged. “I’d settle for a hamburger.”

  “Get your ass up out of the road,” Cash said. “I’ll buy you a fucking hamburger. But that’s it. After that, your ass is going back to the county. And you better not start any more shit. I’ve had it. I’ve had a bad fucking night on account of you. I go to the track to relax. And then you come out there driving all crazy and wrecking people, with an outstanding warrant on your ass, no less. You’ve given me a big damn headache so you better just shut the fuck up from here on out.”

  Cash carried on like that all the way back to the truck. He wasn’t going to let Speedy get that hamburger without a good ass-chewing. Speedy took it as best he could. He walked along behind Cash, staring at his shoes and frowning like a scolded child.

  14

  The chili dogs and hamburgers were forty minutes out of our way, in downtown Atlanta, but Cash didn’t mind the detour. When it came to tracking fine eats, he had the nose and tenacity of a good bird dog. He’d follow a scent to the end of the earth if there was some chance of finding decent onion rings or a superior chopped pork platter. Best of all, he always saw to it that we put on the feed bag in a very serious way after the races, no matter what the results might have been. One night we’d driven all the way to Macon—and that was ninety miles one way—just for barbecue. Not that it wasn’t worth it. Best sauce I ever put in my mouth: kind of lemony, but sweet, too, a nice balance of tang and smoothness.

  The Varsity was this sprawling, neon-trimmed grease emporium perched at the edge of the interstate. The big sign out front laid claim to the “world’s largest drive-in restaurant,” but you could also eat inside. The best part about going inside was the TV rooms. There were five of them, each the size of a classroom, filled with school desks and lorded over by nineteen-inch mounted Zeniths. Each room monitored a different station, so that you’d have your pick of the channel 2 room, channel 5 room, channel 11 room, and so on.

  Claudia took me to the Varsity once, when I was little, and our food turned cold while I walked around trying to decide which room to sit in.

  “For Christ sake,” she said, “can it be that hard to decide?”

  It was, I told her. And that’s why we ended up eating our chili dogs in the channel 17 room, thereby catching the last ten minutes of Mr. Ed before moving over to the channel 2 room to eat our fried pies and watch Match Game P.M. with Gene Rayburn and his telescoping microphone.

  The Braves. were playing a late game in L.A., so me, Nick, Cash, and Speedy took our plastic trays with their piles of chili dogs, onion rings, and fried pies and settled into the WTBS room. We found a big round table that we could all sit around. It was nestled up against the wall, a good ten feet from the TV. We plopped ourselves down in the plastic chairs and started to dig in.

  “They’ll have to get more TVs in here before long,” Speedy said. “Cable is the wave of the future.”

  He sounded like he’d memorized the last part from a brochure. We all laughed at him. He lowered his hamburger from his mouth and looked at us like we were a bunch of idiots.

  “I’m not shittin’ y’all. You can pick up fifty channels with one of those boxes.” He leaned forward, as if to approach us in confidence. “You can even watch titty movies,” he whispered.

  “We know all about cable,” Cash said. “We also know they’ve gotta run the coaxial in from the street before those boxes work.”

  Speedy bristled. “Hell, I know that. But they was supposed to have half of Green Lake wired by last spring. Damn cable company don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. Left me holding all those boxes.”

  “Yeah, those boxes you stole from them,” Cash said.

  I asked Nick if we were ever going to get wired for cable.

  “I already called the cable company,” he said. “They told me the house was set too far off the street. They’re going after the subdivisions first. Those and the apartment complexes. That’s where they’ll make money fast.”

  Speedy pointed up at the TV. Bob Horner was settling into the batter’s box, adjusting his batting helmet, the one with the small letter a on the front. He had the beginnings of a beer gut and golden curls that made him look like a little boy dressed in baseball pajamas. But, Jesus, he could knock the shit out of a ball. He cut loose with that short swing of his and sent one out to the palm trees behind the left field fence, causing that junk-balling Don Sutton to step off the mound and shake his head.

  “Ted Turner’s done made a load off the cable,” Speedy said, “broadcasting his ball games and all those old TV shows. Hell, I was just trying to get in on a little of it.”

  “This ain’t the ra
cetrack,” Cash said. “You can’t go running Ted Turner into no wall.”

  Cash was talking through a mouthful of chili dog. He and I were really going to town, shoveling those dogs into our mouths. I could feel the grease welling up on my chin after each bite.

  For all his talk of being hungry, Speedy was only halfheartedly nibbling at his burger. And Nick hadn’t even touched his food yet. He fired up a cigarette and sat there looking at the ball game in a distracted sort of way, checking his watch every now and then.

  “Do we need to get you somewhere?” Cash asked.

  Nick shook his head. “In a little while,” he said. “But take your time. I don’t have to meet these people until one.” He dipped a french fry into Cash’s pool of ketchup and slid it into his mouth.

  “Damn,” Cash said. “You’ve been keeping some fucked-up hours lately.”

  “Yeah, it’s not like it used to be.” Nick appeared wistful, like there had actually been a string of good old days in the dealing business.

  Cash’s eyes widened into a look of recognition. He pointed at me, then reached into his back pocket. He produced a fifty-dollar bill and slid it across the table. “Speaking of work, that’s for the assist. Take your little lady out dancing.”

  I thanked him, though I tried not to appear too happy, seeing how Speedy was sitting right beside me.

  Nick smiled and nudged Cash with his elbow.

  “Look at our boy,” he said. “He’s in love, ain’t he?”

  Cash nodded like that was old news. “Oh, yeah. I saw him walking around that track with a hard-on. He’s gonna have to strap that thing to his leg or something.”