Drive Like Hell: A Novel

by Dallas Hudgens

  “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for us parting ways,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking it would be this sudden.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “It makes sense for you to get out of here.”

  “So, are you set?” he asked. “I mean, can you stay with your girlfriend?”

  “We’re working on some plans,” I said. “She’s thinking about moving to Illinois. I’m going with her if she does.”

  Nick pulled a wad of cash from his jeans, unhooked the rubber band that was wrapped around it, and peeled off ten Jacksons.

  “Take this,” he said. “And before you go anywhere, be sure to pay off that old woman for the car you wrecked.”

  I took the money and stuffed it deep inside my jeans pocket. “Thanks.”

  “Now if the cops link me to this,” he said, “then Muskgrave’s probably gonna haul your ass in and ask you a bunch of questions. He’ll make threats and shit, but don’t say a word. Just play dumb. Believe me, there’s nothing they can do to you. I’ve got all the evidence with me, and Chuck didn’t know a thing about you being there to pick up the stuff. You’re in the clear, so just cover your ass.”

  Nick leaned back against the trunk of the Plymouth and sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I was just thinking how one of us has gotta call Claudia. We can’t just hightail it out of town without letting her know.”

  I knew what he was getting at. I told him it was no problem. But I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. I thought to myself that I had better call early in the morning, before Claudia and Charlie had a chance to get the blender running.

  “Just don’t go into too much detail,” Nick said. “Not that Wade Briggs won’t fill her in once he gets wind of it.”

  “So where are you going, anyway?” I asked.

  Nick fished a Winston and a pack of matches from his shirt pocket, turned his back to the wind, and lit up.

  “I guess I’ll head down to Pensacola and take that bag to the people it belongs to. I can’t do anything else with it now. Not with all the shit going down around here.”

  “Does this hurt your chances with the radio station?”

  “Who knows?” he said. “I’m just one guy who was supposed to make a pickup. I pulled that off, thanks to you. So that should count for something. Of course, if Chuck starts giving out names, a lot of people, including myself, are gonna be fucked.”

  He stepped away from the car and stuck out his hand. When I shook it, I noticed him shivering a little. His T-shirt was soaked, same as mine.

  “I don’t guess I thanked you for everything,” I said. “You know, the room and board, the golf lessons, getting me hooked up with Cash.”

  Nick grinned. “That’s what we like to do at the Nick Fulmer Boys Ranch.”

  He took a long drag off the fresh cigarette, then flipped it out into the soppy grass. “Let’s not make this a farewell,” he said. “Maybe everything will smooth out after a while, and I can give you a call from Shreveport. You and the girl can come down and visit. I’ll let you spin some wax for me at the station.”

  “Can I play anything I want?”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Within reason.”

  24

  Chuck made the local paper two days later. The Green Lake Gazette devoted the entire front page to the bust, knocking Muskgrave’s county jail scandal over to page three. The headline announced: PILOT NABBED IN DRUG BUST—30 KILOS OF COKE SEIZED. There was a photo of Chuck’s Piper beneath the huge type, along with Chuck’s mug shot. He was wearing a yellow V-neck sweater with a Masters logo on it. His hair was messed up, and his eyes were bulging with fear. He looked like he’d been dragged behind a golf cart for a couple hundred yards.

  I carried the paper along when I drove down to the airport in Atlanta to pick up Claudia. She’d booked a morning flight from Jacksonville as soon as I’d called to tell her about Nick’s sudden departure. I hadn’t gone into any of the details with her. I’d merely said that there’d been a “scrape with the law.”

  I found a stretch of curb space in front of the terminal and slipped Hillin’s hearse right into it. There couldn’t have been more than an inch to spare on either bumper. It was a major-league parallel parking job.

  Needless to say, the sight of the hearse gave Claudia pause as she walked out into the sunshine carrying her suitcase and holding her straw cowboy hat down against the breeze. I couldn’t read her eyes because of the big sunglasses she was wearing. But her jaw sure dropped. She mouthed the words “Oh, my Lord.”

  I pulled my Braves cap down over the knot I’d acquired courtesy of the T-Bone King, and then I hopped out and swung open the rear gate.

  “Come on,” I told her. “Most people don’t get to ride in one of these until they’re a lot older.”

  She finally walked over and handed me the suitcase. She was reading all of the bumper stickers and shaking her head.

  “Where in the hell did you get this thing? It looks like something Herman Munster would drive.”

  “It’s a long story,” I told her.

  “It’s not stolen, is it?”

  “No, it’s a loaner.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m positive. Do you think I’d steal something that’s this easy to spot?”

  I shut the gate, and we stood there for a moment, enjoying the sight of each other. She looked pretty much the same, only skinnier and awfully pale for someone who’d spent so much time in Florida.

  “So, is this the first time you’ve driven since I left?” she asked.

  “Second, actually.”

  I knew better than to try and sell her on a 100 percent good behavior record.

  She frowned and shook her head. “I knew something would go wrong. I knew it from the start.”

  I told her to look at the bright side. “We made it a whole four months. A bookie would have probably set the over-and-under at about two.”

  I’d already dialed in her favorite country station. Willie was singing when we got into the car. He was saying how he’d trade all his tomorrows for just one yesterday.

  Claudia’s nose started twitching as soon as she sat down. She made a face and reached for the door handle as if she might flee. “My God, what’s that smell?”

  I yanked the strawberry air freshener off the rearview mirror, reached over to her side of the car, and waved it around in circles.

  “It’s dead fish,” I told her. “I think somebody left a bucket in here about five years ago.”

  She rolled down the window and fanned the air with her hat. Then she waved off the strawberry. “Go on with that thing. It smells like a whorehouse.”

  I cranked the hearse and jacked up the AC fan. Then, I slid Paul Newman’s sunglasses over my eyes.

  “Maybe it’ll smell better in here if I light a cigarette,” she said.

  I dropped open the ashtray and pushed in the cigarette lighter while she fished around in her bag for the Virginia Slims. I couldn’t help but notice the stash of airline liquor bottles inside her purse. There were a couple of Jack D’s, a Smirnoff, a Bacardi, and some Dry Sack sherry.

  “What the hell did you do, hijack the drink cart?”

  She ignored the inquiry. A couple of tugs on the cigarette seemed to acclimate her to the death stench. Finally, she pulled one leg up under the other and let out a relaxed sigh. Her cowboy boot creaked against the leather seat.

  I gassed the hearse and merged into the morning traffic on I-75. A truckful of construction workers pulled alongside me and started laughing and pointing at the car. I flipped them off, as I had most everyone who’d seen fit to comment on my unfortunate automotive situation.

  “So what’s this about Nick and cocaine?” Claudia asked.

  “I never said anything about cocaine.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  I glanced at her. “You must’ve called Wade.”

  “Actually,” she said, “he called me.”

&
nbsp; I reached up under the seat and pulled out the newspaper.

  “It’s all there,” I told her. “But Nick’s not mentioned. As long as this guy keeps his mouth shut, Nick should be in the clear.”

  She laid her cigarette in the ashtray and unfolded the paper. She swallowed hard at the sight of the headlines.

  “Do you know this guy?” She pointed at Chuck’s picture.

  “Yeah, I’ve met him a few times at the driving range. He’s a Delta pilot.”

  “Great,” she said. “That’s who I flew home.”

  She studied Chuck’s mug shot as though it might reveal something about him.

  “He looks like he’d start singing for a ham sandwich,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “We’re kind of worried about that.”

  She read the article, folded the paper, and reached for her cigarette. “Wade thinks they’ll offer this guy some sort of deal. Maybe tell him he’s looking at twenty years versus eighteen months, depending on how helpful he is.”

  She opened her purse and pulled out the Smirnoff. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I don’t usually drink this early, but I’ve had a splitting headache.”

  I started to tell her it was fine with me, but she’d already whipped off the cap and turned up the bottle. She looked like a scientist drinking from a test tube.

  Once she’d drained the vodka, she screwed the lid back on the bottle and dropped it inside her purse, as natural as applying lipstick.

  “You’re not involved in all of this, are you?”

  “Are you crazy? I don’t want to go to Alto.”

  She stared at me for a moment, trying to get a read on my expression. I supposed that Wade had probably spoken up in my defense, telling her that I’d been a good citizen.

  “So where’s Nick hiding?” she asked.

  “He didn’t say exactly.”

  Technically, that wasn’t a lie. It’s not like Nick had provided a specific address in Pensacola.

  “That’s okay,” she said, “just promise you’ll tell me if things get bad. Will you do that?”

  Claudia didn’t wait for an answer. She turned up the radio and hummed along quietly to Willie. Once she’d slipped off her sunglasses, I noticed how her green eyes had retreated into their sockets a little. I saw some wrinkles at their corners, too. For the first time ever, I would have said that she almost looked her age.

  After the song ended, I asked about Charlie. “Why didn’t he come home with you?”

  She ground out her cigarette. “He offered,” she said. “But I don’t think he really felt up to it. So I told him to stay.”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He’s having some problems with his liver,” she said. “His gallbladder, too.”

  I thought she was finished. I was just about to ask what kind of problems, but then she remembered a few other things.

  “His prostate’s not so hot, either,” she said. “And after he climbs the steps, his heart sounds like Buddy Rich.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “Is he seeing a doctor?”

  “He’s got a chiropractor.”

  “For his heart?”

  “Well, no. That’s for his neck. He backed into a light pole leaving one of his stores.”

  We rounded the bend on I-75 and wheeled past Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, where the Braves played, and lost, most of their games. The stadium looked like a big blue doughnut sitting there beside the highway.

  Claudia took another drag off her Slim. “It’s a little strange being with an older man,” she said. “Their bodies are different, you know?”

  “I’m not sure I want you to go any farther with that,” I told her. “At least not before lunch.”

  “They’ve got different smells, too,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ, Claudia. I’m gonna have to pull over and throw up.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Charlie’s about as generous as they come.”

  The traffic stayed thick until we had moved well north of the city, out past spaghetti junction, where the perimeter freeway linked up with the interstate highway. Closing in on Green Lake, the highway became quiet, lined with pastures and Ted Turner’s billboards. The Holiday Inn sign streaked by off Claudia’s side of the car. Come Meet Our People Pleasin’ Staff, it boasted.

  “What’s happening with your music?” I asked. “Are you still thinking about going to school and getting a teaching degree?”

  She made a face like she wished I hadn’t reminded her. “Not yet. Charlie says he’s ready when I am. He’ll write the checks.”

  “So what’s holding you up?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a big commitment.”

  “Come on,” I said, “you already know all there is to know. The school stuff would just be a formality.”

  “I don’t mean like that,” she said. “I mean it’s a big commitment to our relationship. Sweet as Charlie is, I’m not sure I want to be that indebted to him.”

  I could smell a breakup coming. The only question was, who did she have pegged for a replacement? Claudia always had somebody in her sights.

  “Besides, I’m looking forward to getting back to the fish camp,” she said. “Me and Wade are gonna do some new songs.”

  And there, potentially, was my answer.

  “Wade’s married,” I told her.

  She looked at me coolly. “Wade’s my friend. And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

  Maybe she was right. If anyone could say no to Claudia Fulmer, it was Wade “Been to Hell and Back” Briggs. I’d heard somewhere that he’d gone five hundred–plus days without missing an AA meeting. That was some serious fucking willpower.

  Claudia took a drag off her cigarette, held the smoke, and eyed me suspiciously. “So tell me about this girl you’ve supposedly moved in with.”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Dewey told me.”

  “Dewey? When the hell did you call Dewey?”

  “I didn’t. He called me. Last night.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was drunk.” She lowered the window and flicked her cigarette into the wind. “He’s lonely, too. I mean, with Nick leaving town and you moving out, it’s hard. Plus, he’s real upset about the band breaking up. That was the biggest thing in his life. I don’t think he had anybody else to call.”

  I veered onto the exit ramp, stopped at the light, and hung a left onto Green Lake Road. The lake was shining like a big mirror. Claudia watched quietly as we drove alongside it. She watched the wind move the branches on the trees, and then she checked out all the sights in town: the Big Star, the Krystal, the T-Bone King.

  “So I don’t guess you’re gonna stay at the house,” she said.

  I shrugged in an apologetic way.

  She waved me off like the question had been a joke in the first place. “That’s all right. I’m happy for you. It sounds like you went out and got yourself a life while I was gone.”

  “What about your life with Charlie? Is it good?”

  Her lips parted as though she meant to speak, but the words never came out.

  “This girl you’re living with,” she said finally. “I don’t mean to pry, but I hope she’s not a lunatic, like Bev.”

  I shook my head. “She does get kind of crazy with her mother, though.”

  “In what way?”

  “Just yelling at the woman about stuff, giving her a hard time about nothing in particular.”

  I’d finally met the infamous Margaret Coyle a day earlier, when I moved my stuff over from Nick’s place. I’d been expecting some sort of crazy-eyed devil woman. But she hadn’t been that way at all. She might have had this shroud of melancholy about her, but she appeared to be quite sane. She’d even welcomed me into the apartment, set up the sofa for me, and brought in a big bag of Chinese food for dinner. The only blight on the evening had been Rachel yelling at her mother and then refusing to eat because the w
oman had forgotten to order kung pao shrimp.

  “I can’t pretend to understand mothers and daughters,” Claudia said. “But I had some problems with my mother’s cousin.”

  I turned onto our street. The big pie-plate sun beamed right through the windshield at us. Claudia grabbed her shades off the dash and slid them over her eyes. “I used to go round and round with that woman.”

  “You mean, like fistfighting?”

  “A few times,” she said. “But mostly lots of screaming.”

  “Why didn’t you get along with her?”

  Claudia sighed. “For starters, she hated me because I looked like my mother. And then I hated her because she wasn’t my mother.”

  She turned her head and frowned. “That was right before I met Lyndell.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by the sight of Mrs. Dees. She stood at her mailbox, mouth agape, as we rolled past. We smiled and waved sunnily from the hearse, but she just stood there, frozen in her tracks, not quite believing what she was seeing.

  “I hope you’ve been sending her that money,” Claudia said.

  “I have. In fact, I’ve got some with me right now. I’m gonna drop it off before I leave.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “I’m glad you’re holding up your end of the deal.”

  Rolling up to our house at a funeral-procession pace, we were both struck silent by the condition of the place. Amazingly, it appeared that someone was still living there, most likely a family who took much better care of the place than we ever had. This was all Charlie’s doing, Claudia told me. He’d paid a landscaping crew to come in and cut the grass and plant some pansies. By the looks of things, he’d also sent over a painter to slap a fresh coat of white paint on the house. We sat there for a while before we even had the nerve to climb out and take her bag inside. I think both of us half expected someone to storm out the front door and run us off the premises.