Drive Like Hell: A Novel

by Dallas Hudgens

I spent another night on Cash’s boat, lying beneath the chalky moon, my thoughts jumping around with every slap of water against the dock, from Lyndell to Claudia to Nick to Rachel. At some point, I let them all go. And then I was dreaming, treading water, bodies floating all around me, facedown. I’d turn them over, looking for someone I knew, someone I could drag to shore, but their faces were all the same, with the same long hair and stupid sneer and stupid eyes. It’s not like I didn’t recognize the mug. God knows, it had stared back at me plenty of times: from Muskgrave’s bulletin board and, for the briefest amount of time, from the front of my driver’s license. The thing was, it just didn’t seem to be worth saving.

  I drove to Claudia’s house early the next morning. Even as I turned down her street, I told myself that I wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t going to ask about Lyndell.

  Needless to say, I was surprised to find Wade’s truck parked in front of her house at 7 A.M. I went ahead and let myself in, stopping my forward progress almost as soon as I’d walked through the carport door. The kitchen was still dark, the house quiet except for the hum of the air-conditioning. The evidence lay there in abundance: an empty bottle of Smirnoff standing atop the counter, a dead carton of Tropicana lying beside it. Cigarettes littered the kitchen table ashtray. Only half of them wore lipstick rings.

  I reached back for the doorknob, as much to steady myself as to make an escape. I could feel my heart swelling up, beginning to pound a little faster. And then I heard a stirring in the den, Claudia stumbling through, on her way to cook the Maxwell House. She started as a shadow, a shadow in a bathrobe, her hair mussed and her makeup dulled.

  When she saw me, she gasped. She stepped back and laid her hand to her chest. Her mouth dropped open to form a perfect little O.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Oh, Lord,” I said. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  She cast her gaze to the floor, walked over to the counter, and pulled the coffee can down from the cabinet.

  “It’s true,” she said. “I got him drunk. He came over yesterday and tried to get me to go to AA with him, but I got him drunk instead. He stayed the night.”

  “You mean to sleep it off, or to sleep with you?”

  She switched on the coffeepot, turned back around, and faced me. She was frowning.

  “Oh, shit.” I let go of the doorknob and took a seat at the kitchen table. Claudia sat down across from me. She fired up a Slim and tossed the pack onto the table.

  “How did you do it?” I asked. “I mean, he came over here with good intentions.”

  She paused, blew out a cloud of smoke. “I guess we were both tired of the bullshit. I don’t know, I guess it was inevitable.”

  “But how the hell did you talk him into drinking? The man hasn’t taken a drink in two years. He’s like the Lou Gehrig of AA meetings.”

  “Believe me, it didn’t take a lot of encouraging. And it wasn’t pretty either. You see a lot of truth in a person when they’re drinking, a lot of stuff they try to hide otherwise. I guess that was one of the good things about Lyndell. He wasn’t hiding a thing.”

  And there it was. She’d mentioned his name before I’d even found a way to come around to it.

  “He was drunk the day I met him.” She shook her head at the memory. “Straight-up noon on a Tuesday.”

  It would have been easy to force her hand, but I couldn’t do it. Instead, I asked about the first time she and Lyndell met. I realized that I’d never heard that story.

  “I went to the garage with my cousin to pick up her car,” Claudia said, “and he was out front working on this old pickup. He didn’t see me standing there by the Coke machine, so he reached back in his pocket and pulled out a little whiskey bottle. Just as he was wiping his mouth, I stepped out of the shade.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He just grinned and pressed his finger to his lips, like it was our secret. I’d never had a secret with a man before, so I thought it was about the most exciting thing that had ever happened.”

  Claudia went to the counter and poured her coffee. After she’d sat down again, she stared at me for a long time. It made me wonder if she understood that I already knew about Lyndell.

  “He wanted all the right things,” she said. “He just wanted to trade in the girl every couple of years.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “What did you want?”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted him to change,” she said. “Because then he wouldn’t have been Lyndell. And you wouldn’t have been who you are. And Nick…Well, maybe I wish he could have stayed out of trouble. But that’s all I’d change, really, that and I wish I could have met somebody decent after Lyndell.”

  I heard Wade’s singing voice working its way through the house. It was a whole lot cheerier than usual. “You get a line, and I’ll get a pole, and we’ll go fuckin’ at the crawdad hole.”

  Claudia laid her hand to her forehead. “Good Lord, I think he’s still drunk.”

  Wade stepped into the kitchen doorway, buck naked, clutching a bottle of Kahlúa that Dewey had given to Claudia for her birthday. I’d never seen such a wide grin on the man’s face, like he’d been possessed by the spirit of a dead rodeo clown.

  When he saw me, his shit-eating grin went south. In fact, he dropped the Kahlúa bottle and screamed like he’d seen a ghost. He didn’t waste any time turning tail and retreating into the den.

  Claudia called out to him, her voice calm and flat, “Wade, get on some shorts and come back in here. Luke already knows.”

  It took him a minute. When he returned, trudging slowly, he had the bedsheet wrapped around his shoulders. From the look of things, that sheet must have felt like a hundred pounds of lead.

  Claudia nudged a chair out from the table with her bare foot, and Wade took a seat between us. He sat there hunched over the coffee she’d poured him, looking timid. I was embarrassed for him. Every time our eyes met, we’d both look away.

  Claudia looked as sober as I’d seen her in some time. She reached out and laid her hand atop Wade’s.

  “Wade, we made a mistake last night. It’s not something we can undo, but we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Wade looked up at her. “Oh, God, Claudia. Please don’t say that.”

  “I just did.”

  “But I want to be with you. I’m willing to give up everything for that. I truly am.”

  Wade locked his eyes onto mine. I could see the hope draining out of them. He looked as tired as I’d ever seen him, like a linebacker late in a losing cause, hunched over on the sidelines with a cape around his shoulders.

  “I gave it a helluva shot,” he said, staring into the ashtray. “Two years, clean and sober. And it doesn’t ever start to feel like you made the right choice.”

  He batted his eyes and sucked at his lips as though he’d just tasted something bitter. For a moment, I thought he might cry. I didn’t think I could take that again, seeing two men bawl within twenty-four hours of each other. But then he got hold of himself. He took a deep breath, his hands already beginning to shake beneath the bedsheet.

  “I’m gonna get my things,” he told Claudia. “I’m gonna get my things and go on home.”

  36

  We found the Sandbar Deluxe right away, down near the end of the strip, sandwiched between a go-cart track and a Hardee’s. The motel was a two-story job, with aqua paint on the room doors that had faded to gray and a section of the second-floor railing patched with a pair of two-by-fours. Even the palm tree planted out front was stooped and sickly.

  Dewey, Cash, and I walked inside the tiny office. The window unit blasted out a wall of cold air while The Joker’s Wild played on a TV behind the counter. I could hear Jack Barry making his usual, almost-but-not-quite call: “Joker!—Joker!—aaaand a double.”

  The clerk manning the counter didn’t bother to greet us. He wore a dark mustache and a Faster Horses, Stronger Whiskey, Looser Women ball cap. An unlit Tipa
rillo was clamped in his teeth, Eastwood style. He was bent over a titty magazine, reading the foldout model’s bio. When I stepped to the counter, I could see that her turnoffs included “dishonest people” and “poor hygiene.”

  I asked the clerk if he had a Nick Fulmer on the register, but the guy never even looked up from his magazine. He simply jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

  “Check the pool,” he said. “I think he’s out there trying to sober up Eddie.”

  We walked around back and—sure enough—Nick was perched at the edge of the swimming pool in his jeans and BSA T-shirt. He stood over a large fellow in a black button-up shirt. The big guy was down in the water, draped back across the pool’s steps. His head rested on the ledge, a pelt of black hair fanned out across the cement behind it.

  Nick squatted and splashed water on the guy’s face. “Goddammit, Eddie. Get your ass in gear. I mean it.”

  Eddie groaned and rolled his head from side to side. He looked like a hibernating bear slowly coming back to life. He mumbled, “Déjanos en paz, Mamá. I’m drunk.” Then he closed his eyes and started to snore.

  “I’m not your fucking mama,” Nick said. “Now come on, Eddie.”

  I opened the rusty gate to the pool area, and Nick turned around with a start. He squinted into the fading sun. Finally, a grin spread across his face.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamn. It’s the thrillin’ threesome.”

  He and Cash locked paws and slapped each other’s shoulders, then I gave Nick a quick hug and pat on the back. Dewey stepped up last. He grabbed hold of Nick and squeezed him tight, lifting his feet right off the pool deck. Nick finally had to tap him on the shoulder so he’d let go.

  “How about putting me down, bro. I need to fucking breathe.”

  Nick asked how the hell we’d found him.

  Cash smiled. “Let’s just say your name came up on the golf course.”

  Nick glanced my way, expecting a real explanation. I told him the sorry tale of Chuck Sosebee.

  “Chuck’s a piece of work. I knew he’d cut a deal if they’d let him.”

  “Oh, he’s been singing like Neil Diamond,” Dewey said. “That’s why you need to get the hell out of here.”

  Nick walked over to a chaise lounge and fetched his Winstons from his jacket. He lit one, sat down, and blew out a big cloud of smoke. He pointed at Eddie with the cigarette. The big guy was still sawing logs in the pool.

  “Eddie used to be one of Whitlaw’s wrestlers,” Nick said. “We’ve been working together since all the shit hit the fan up there with Chuck.”

  “Doing what?” Dewey asked.

  Nick shrugged. “Let’s just call it transportation.”

  Cash’s eyes flickered, acknowledging the craziness of the situation. “Does this Whitlaw fool even realize the Feds are getting ready to bust some serious ass?”

  “He’s feeling some heat,” Nick said, “that’s for damn sure. The IRS has been on his ass about the books at his radio stations. The FCC even took away his broadcasting license, so he’s gotta sell out. That pretty much fucked my plans.”

  Nick looked at me and shook his head. I took the opportunity to ask why the hell he was sticking around.

  “Me and Eddie are working on some new plans.” Nick pointed to his waterlogged pal. “Eddie’s got a cousin out in Chula Vista. He owns a par-three course and driving range. We were thinking of cashing out with Whitlaw and heading to California, maybe going in with his cousin and opening a pro shop.”

  “So, go get your damn money and get the hell out of here,” Cash said. “The FBI’s planning to make a move on Whitlaw. They’re gonna put his ass away for a long time.”

  Nick cocked his head, puzzled by our urgency. “How the hell do y’all know all of this?”

  I told him I’d gotten it straight from the horse’s mouth.

  “Let me guess,” Nick said. “Wade Briggs.”

  “Actually, it came from higher up. Muskgrave told me.”

  “Muskgrave? Hell, you can’t trust him.”

  “Maybe not. But I gave him some incentive.”

  Nick gazed out at the street and the row of taller motels guarding the view of the ocean. He finally stood up and gave the chaise lounge a solid kick, sending it over onto its side.

  “There’s not a whole lot of time left,” I said. “You need to get out of here tonight.”

  Dewey and Cash voiced their agreement. Nick considered us all for a moment, his eyes full of spite. It appeared that he was sizing us up for a fight. Instead, he gave the chaise another boot, sending it into the pool. Afterward, a warm breeze stood up and seemed to blow all his anger away. He flipped his cigarette into the bushes, pushed his hair back behind his ears, and gave the pink sky a disappointed look.

  “All right,” he said, “but me and Eddie have gotta get our money from Whitlaw first.”

  “And what might that entail?” Dewey asked.

  Nick gazed down at Eddie. “For starters, he better show up for his match tonight. If he doesn’t wrestle, then Whitlaw won’t give us a nickel.”

  We all grabbed hold of Eddie and started to pull. His arms were as big around as my legs, and the skin stretched across them was nut brown and hairless. We grunted and tugged, taking small steps backward. Slowly, like a big trophy fish being hauled onto the deck of a boat, Eddie emerged from the water.

  Nick and I sat on the wet concrete, catching our breaths while Dewey and Cash stood over us, marveling at the mass of flesh—at least six feet six inches and 280 pounds worth—that we’d just hauled ashore.

  “Hey,” Dewey said, “I know him. That’s the Blue Lizard.”

  Nick smiled. “AKA Fast Eddie Del Canto.”

  “Hey, that’s right.” Cash grinned and backhanded Dewey’s gut. “I saw him on TV, getting his ass whipped by Handsome Harley Malone.”

  About that time, Eddie opened his eyes. He studied me as though I’d been the one who’d mentioned the ass whipping. Then, he reached up with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt, grabbed the front of my T-shirt, and pulled me down close to his face. He wore the urgent expression of a man struggling to whisper some final words.

  “I oughta be making twice as much as that sonuvabitch. Am I right?”

  He appeared to be waiting for me to agree with him, but I could not recall having ever seen either him or Handsome Harley Malone in the ring.

  Eddie let go of my shirt and sat up. He tucked his hair behind his ears and rolled his neck from side to side. Nick introduced us, and Eddie’s jaw relaxed. He smiled and stuck out his hand again. I reluctantly offered my own. I was surprised when Eddie’s handshake turned out to be soft, almost bashful.

  “Nice to meet you guys,” he said.

  Nick let out a sigh and set his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, buddy.”

  He laid it all on Eddie. The big man’s response was a simple one.

  “I need a drink.”

  37

  Nick was planning to talk money with Whitlaw during the wrestling, so we gave him and Eddie a ride to the high school gym where the North Central Florida Wrestling Alliance’s Red White and Blue Heroes Caravan was making its weekly stop.

  Eddie climbed into the Chevelle wearing the same black slacks and shirt that he’d been soaking in earlier. Much to Nick’s dismay, he was also nipping at a half pint of Bacardi.

  “Please don’t get too drunk to wrestle,” Nick said.

  “Ain’t no sweat,” Eddie said. “I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it wrestling. It’s a fucking travesty, is what it is.”

  Eddie was sitting in the backseat, between Dewey and Nick. The two of them were pressed up against the door. Eddie was talking about the old days, waving his hands around.

  “It was ballet inside a ring. There weren’t any of these gimmicks. None of the bullshit that Whitlaw peddles. That man should be collecting golf balls at a fucking driving range. He’s an imbecile.”

  “Eddie, you’ve got no cartilage i
n your left knee,” Nick said. “You can’t bounce around out there like Lynn Swann anymore. You needed a gimmick.”

  Eddie nodded thoughtfully. He was nothing if not a thoughtful drunk.

  “I’m glad this is the end,” he said. “Let’s just get some money and get the fuck out of here. It’s time I made some changes.”

  “That’s a good attitude,” Nick said. “Just play it cool tonight, so we can settle up.”

  Nick reached over and tried to straighten Eddie’s shirt. The effort didn’t help much. Eddie still looked a wreck, water squishing around in his shoes as he walked through the back door of the gym.

  There were a handful of wrestlers in the cramped locker room, dressed in their tights and shiny boots. Two of them sat on a bench sharing a Kool, while another talked on the pay phone about the greyhound races. They all took pause when Eddie walked in. The two with the cigarette made faces like their dinners had not agreed with them. The guy on the phone shook his head like he’d just heard some sad news.

  Whitlaw swept into the locker room right behind us. He was short and plump, with the swagger of a little bulldog, and he was wearing a red-white-and-

  blue warm-up suit. He looked to be about fifty, with puffy circles under his eyes and a glossy black rug atop his head. The piece was one of those pompadour-in-front, floormat-in-the-back jobs. It looked like something he’d stolen off a Jack Lord wax statue.

  Whitlaw grabbed Eddie by the shoulders and steered him toward a locker. Then he stumped back over to Nick in a fit of anger. He stood on his tiptoes and got right up in Nick’s face.

  “What the hell is going on with him? I thought you were looking after his sorry ass.”

  “I can’t watch him every second,” Nick said. “Besides, he’s upset about something. You know how he gets.”

  “Yeah, I know too damn well,” Whitlaw said. “He just better not pull any shit tonight.”

  Whitlaw gazed over Nick’s shoulder, finally taking notice of me, Cash, and Dewey. He gave us the skunk eye and led Nick over to a private corner of the dressing room, where they began to talk.