I can’t say if it was the pain, or the lingering effects of the drugs they had given me in the hospital, but I had a sudden and strong desire to climb inside a liquor bottle. I pushed myself off the sofa and walked unsteadily to the kitchen, stopping on my way to silence the television. Dewey had a fifth of Wild Turkey under the sink, and I took hold of it with my good hand and carried it back to the living room, passing by the sofa and taking a seat in the recliner.
The place hadn’t changed since I’d climbed through the window back in the spring, other than the blue panties being rescued from the television set. The bluesmen still had their spots, as did Dewey’s drum kit and Nick’s Les Paul. The aluminum foil still rose from the rabbit ears like unwieldy vines. But none of it felt like destiny anymore, at least not my own. I felt sad for Nick, that he’d never get to sit in this spot again and play his guitar, sliding a beer bottle up and down the strings.
Rachel picked up on the fourth ring. Her voice stunned me. It was like I hadn’t heard it in years. I couldn’t say a word. The heavy ache returned to my shoulder and spread through my whole body. I almost dropped the receiver out of my good hand.
“Hello?” She sounded sleepy, then irritated. “Who is this?”
Finally, she hung up.
I dialed her number again. This time she picked up on the first ring.
“Who the fuck is it?!”
I said her name.
There was a long pause. “Luke? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“Jesus, what’s wrong? You sound like shit.”
“I’ve been up all night. I just got back from Florida.”
“Florida? What were you doing in Florida?”
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. I just had some things I wanted to tell you.”
“That’s okay.” Her irritation had changed to a tone of concern. “You can tell me.”
What I’d called to tell her is that I wanted the privilege of running away with her and fucking up her life, because if I didn’t do it, somebody else would, and I thought that I could do it in a way that she’d never regret, even after we parted ways. I wanted to tell her that if I was about to die, that if I was floating in a swamp with a bullet in my back and gators on my flanks, my last thought would be of her.
But then I couldn’t get any of it to come out. And what I ended up saying was something completely different. “Can I come see you? Right now? I know it’s early and all, but I was just thinking about you and…”
It all came out too fast, and the desperation got the best of me. I felt the catch in my voice, and I stopped myself before it became something else.
The phone line was silent.
“Luke?” she said. “Are you still there? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called so early. It’s just been a shitty couple of days and…”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Of course you can come over. Do I need to come get you? You don’t sound like you need to be driving.”
“I don’t have a license,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” she said. “Are you at Nick’s? I’ll come get you.”
“And bring some Juicy Fruit,” I said. “Don’t forget the Juicy Fruit.”
“Okay, don’t worry. I’ll bring some.” She sounded afraid.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Hang up so I can come get you.”
“Okay.”
41
I suppose it broke Mrs. Coyle’s heart to walk in from her AA meeting and see me on that couch again, to see me back in her daughter’s life. Rachel and I told her that I’d been in a car accident. Considering my history, she never questioned the explanation.
I was sober by then, having slept through the afternoon and right into prime time. Rachel was sitting on the floor with Brute’s big dome resting in her lap. She was looking up at me, shaking her head as if I was the sorriest sight imaginable.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
Rachel sighed. “I think you should be in the fucking hospital.”
“I already told you, no hospitals. Cash knows a guy who’s gonna look at it.”
“But you said he was a dentist.”
“So?”
“So, that is—without a doubt—the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You could get an infection and die.”
The TV was playing with the volume down low. HBO was showing Midnight Express again. Billy Hayes scampered down a dark Turkish street, making his escape.
“I’m still leaving next week,” she said.
That got my attention. Somehow, I’d completely lost track of time. It all came back to me. Only a week remained until my second at-bat against Dot Knox.
Rachel sat there with her hair hanging over one eye. I liked the way that she’d duck her head and make it happen. She’d done it a lot when we used to sit in her car talking, making our plans.
The thought of never seeing her again was worse than being shot.
“Can I go?”
Her gaze fell. She began to stroke the top of Brute’s head. “I don’t know. All that stupid shit we planned, none of it will ever happen. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know.”
“So, what’s the point?” she asked.
She looked up again, pushing her hair off her face and tucking it behind an ear. Her eyes were clear and dark, her lips parted to speak. I didn’t care if she could make sense of anything or not. I just wanted her to keep talking until the pain went away.
Cash brought his dentist by the apartment the following afternoon. The old man appeared competent enough, although his own teeth were the color of brass. He gave me Percocets (firmly endorsed by Lance Hillin), some antibiotics and antibiotic cream, and then he showed Rachel how to rebandage the wound.
With the examination complete, I lay back down on the sofa. Dr. Gums, as Cash called him, stood up straight and smiled, stroking the gray tuft of hair on his chin.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“In your dentist office?” I asked.
He chuckled and glanced at Cash as though I’d amused him. And then he headed out the door. Rachel followed him, leaving for her shift at the Holiday Inn.
I asked Cash if he was sure that Dr. Gums was on the up-and-up. Cash was sitting on the arm of the sofa, wearing his Phillies hat and watching an Australian Rules Football match on ESPN.
He pointed to the screen. “Those motherfuckers oughta wear some pads.”
“Did you hear my question?”
He dismissed my doubts with a wave of his hand. “I’ve known Doc since I was a kid. He’s a good man.”
“Where’d he get his training?”
“Reidsville.”
“The prison?”
“Look,” Cash said, “it’s a good study environment. You think he had any distractions? Hell, no. Plus, he studied some veterinary medicine. That’s how he knows about wounds and stuff. The man’s damn near a genius. He could treat you and that fucking dog if he had to.”
Cash eyed Brute with some concern, recalling their initial tussle.
“So what’s your plan?” he asked. “You and Miss Tempo.”
“Assuming I get my license back, we’re going to Illinois.”
Cash nodded as if it made enough sense. And then he seemed to remember something.
“I saw Claudia last night.”
“Where?”
He appeared to regret having brought up the subject. “The Cove Bar, over at the Holiday Inn. I was meeting some people there.”
“What was she doing?” I had to ask him, even though I had a pretty good idea.
Cash took his time, trying to find the appropriate words. “She was being entertained by a gentleman.”
“Wade Briggs?”
Cash shook his head. “Younger guy. Way younger.”
“Was s
he drunk?”
“Man, don’t put me on the spot like that.”
“Just tell me. I don’t give a shit.”
“That’s what you say. But if I tell you she was drinking those Harvey Wallbangers, you’re gonna blame my ass for it.”
“So, she really was drunk.”
Cash shifted his eyes to the TV set. “She and this guy were all over each other,” he said. “It was a damn show—for mature adults only.”
“Okay, I got the picture.”
“See there,” he said. “Didn’t I say you were gonna get mad?”
I changed the subject, asking if he’d heard anything through the pipeline about Whitlaw’s situation with the Feds.
“I called a buddy of mine down in Gulf Shores. He hadn’t heard any big news.”
“I guess Whitlaw’s in Cabo by now.”
“Probably drinking tequila with a couple of señoritas,” Cash said.
“What about Nick and Eddie? You think they made it to Chula Vista?”
Cash grunted and went back to watching the Australian Rules Football.
“I tell you what I think. I think you’re doing the right thing getting the hell out of here.”
He didn’t have to say any more. I already knew how he felt about people, how you couldn’t help them, how they never changed, even though they might vow to do just that when their ass was in a sling. Whitlaw’s bullet had enlightened me—there was nothing I could really do for Nick or Claudia. But without their predicaments and perils to consider, it hardly felt like I even existed anymore.
Cash glanced at his watch. “I gotta hit the road. Somebody’s coming to take a look at the boat.”
“To buy it?”
“No, he ain’t that stupid. But I’m hoping he can stop it from leaking.”
He walked to the door, stopping to survey the Kenny Rogers guitar, which was propped against the wall. Cash had brought it with him, thinking, for some reason, that I might want it as a souvenir.
“The Gambler didn’t know when to fold ’em,” Cash said, and then he started laughing.
I pushed myself up so that I could gaze over the back of the sofa. “Go to hell. And why don’t you take that thing with you? I don’t want it.”
Cash looked at me like I’d completely lost my mind. “Man, I’d be embarrassed to have this thing in my house. Besides, you oughta keep it. It’s a helluva conversation piece. Still got your blood on it and everything.”
He was still laughing when he walked out the door.
42
The Feds finally made a play on Whitlaw’s cocaine ring. The story hit the Gazette on Saturday, two days before our departure for Illinois. The article said that seven of Whitlaw’s top associates had been rounded up, along with 150 kilos of cocaine. Whitlaw, himself, had yet to be found. There were thirty-two total indictments. Two of those named were already under incarceration in Texas, having been picked up a day earlier for traffic violations and marijuana possession. I knew immediately it was Nick and Eddie.
My shoulder still hurt, but I was finally able to walk around without feeling like I might pass out. I’d even come to the table to share the morning doughnuts with Mrs. Coyle. She’d actually gone out and bought them herself.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
She’d just sat down across from me. Before I knew it, I’d told her the truth.
“I think my brother’s in jail.”
I showed her the front-page article. She read it quickly and then looked back up at me, her face almost desperate, as if the two of us needed to do something about it.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “It was bound to happen.”
We sat there a moment longer. I managed to take a few halfhearted bites off my glazed doughnut.
“So, when are you two leaving?” she asked.
“Rachel hasn’t said anything to you?”
Mrs. Coyle stared down at the table.
“Monday,” I said. “But she was planning to go, anyway—even if I hadn’t come back.”
She took a sip of coffee. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you.”
“Rachel doesn’t hate you,” I said.
Our first stop was Claudia’s house. Rachel waited in the car. I still had my key, so I let myself in through the carport door, stepping inside the sunny kitchen. I was carrying the Kenny Rogers guitar in my good hand.
Claudia walked in from the living room, wearing the same blue suit she’d worn for my court date with Dot Knox. She had her hair pulled back, lipstick on her mouth, hurrying through like she was running late.
“You going to court for something?”
She poured some coffee at the counter, took a sip, and made a face. That’s when I realized she was hungover.
“I got a job at the bank.”
“Teller?”
“Junior teller.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve gotta be detail-oriented, good with customers, and excellent in math.”
She made it sound as if those were unreasonable demands. And then she looked up long enough to notice my bad wing.
“My God, what happened?”
“I fell down.”
There was some truth to the explanation, but I was quick to change the subject before she could press for details.
“Did you hear about Nick?”
She set the cup on the counter and frowned. “Wade told me.”
“Did he know any details?”
“He said they’d probably be extradited to Florida. It doesn’t look good.”
She pointed at my sling again. “Please tell me you’re not involved in this.”
I shook my head, and then I held up the guitar.
“What’s that?”
“Nick wanted me to give it to you.”
“Did he steal it?”
“No, he didn’t steal it.”
She reached out and touched the neck, turning it toward her. “Pretty nice,” she said. “A Martin.”
I showed her the Kenny Rogers autograph. “I know you’re not fond of the Gambler. I thought maybe you could rub that off with some paint thinner.”
Claudia smiled and propped the instrument against the kitchen table. “That was sweet of you,” she said. “I mean, sweet of Nick, too.”
She asked if I wanted some breakfast, though all she had in the cabinets was an old box of Raisin Bran that Charlie had left behind.
“I can’t stay. I’ve got somebody waiting on me.”
She looked disappointed. “That’s okay. Maybe you can stop by later. Bank closes at noon today.”
I explained that I probably wouldn’t be doing that. I told her that Rachel and I were leaving for Illinois in a couple of days.
“So, it’s been six months already?”
“Yeah, it went by pretty fast.”
“I told you it would.”
She ducked her head and peeked out the window at Rachel’s car.
“Is that what you’re driving?”
“Yeah, I just hope it lasts for six hundred miles.”
Claudia smiled. “Sure doesn’t look like a Lyndell Fulmer car.”
We stood there for a moment, unsure of ourselves. Finally, she reached out and patted my shoulder.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” she said. “I should have told you before now.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to say it, if it’s too hard.”
She gave me this curious look. “If what’s too hard?”
“What you’re going to tell me,” I said. “It doesn’t really matter, anyway.”
“All I wanted to tell you,” she said, “is that I’m happy with the way you’ve grown up since last spring. You’ve become the kind of person I always hoped you’d be. Loyal and kind and independent.”
She stopped herself and smiled a little. “It’s just good knowing that I don’t have to worry about you. And it hasn’t been any of my doing, either. It was all yours. You went out and gr
ew up, and I’m happy about that.”
She walked back over to the sink, reached up and switched on the radio. I didn’t have any idea what to say. But that was all right. For once, I didn’t feel like I had to say a word.
43
There was no mistaking Speedy Brown’s voice, even as it advanced from behind me at the gas tanks. I was filling Rachel’s car at the Amoco when he walked up and squeezed my shoulder.
“How’s my little puppy dog?”
I turned around and shook his hand. He was wearing a brand-new Crimson Tide baseball cap.
“Hey, when did you get out?”
Speedy clucked his tongue. “Three-seventeen P.M., day before yesterday.”
He asked if Cash and I were going racing later that evening. I told him Cash was taking a break from the track.
“That’s too bad. I like racing against him. He’s a good driver. Chicken shit, but good.”
Speedy squinted as if reading a transcript of what he’d just said. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
I made no promises. Instead, I gave him an update on Brute, how he’d settled down a little and had gone after only a couple of people since Rachel had adopted him. One of the incidents had actually been my own fault for leaving the apartment door open. Brute went after a guy who was walking through the parking lot with a sackful of Krystals. The man had to take refuge atop a conversion van.
“So, when did you get shot?” Speedy asked.
He was the first person to actually figure out the circumstances of my injury before I could spin a web of deceit.
“How’d you know I got shot?”
“That’s just the way they wrap ’em up,” he said. “I’ve seen enough of ’em.”
Speedy was looking for work and asked if I’d had a sniff of any opportunities. Seeing how he liked cars and was also quite the conversationalist, I told him I might know of a position for which he was perfectly qualified.
“You mind wearing a beeper?”
“Fuck, no,” he said. “I’d wear a codpiece, if I had to.”
I leaned into the car window and borrowed a pen from Rachel, then I wrote Lance Hillin’s phone number on the inside of a matchbook. I handed it to Speedy and told him he might want to lose the Bama hat before he met the T-Bone King.
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