“I know it's no excuse, but my childhood was rough. I left home immediately after graduating from high school. I was looking for adventure, but I didn't find it. I moved in with a guy and eventually took a job working the graveyard shift in a convenience store."
He dug a pebble from the ground and tossed it at a tree. His lack of interest was evident.
“I was robbed and raped one night."
His head snapped to attention. “Sandy, I'm sorry. Was it that bastard that tied you to the tree?"
She shook her head. “This was some four years ago. About four o'clock one morning a half dozen or so vans pulled up to the tanks and started filling up. A couple of women came in to use the bathroom. They were the roughest looking crowd I'd ever seen. I was scared. When the guys came in, they spread out, as if they were shopping for peanut butter and stuff. One came to the counter with money in his hand. I thought he was going to pay for the gas, but instead he pulled a gun on me. I opened the register like he told me and he reached over and helped himself to the few bills that were in the tray. Another fella, tall and muscular but with a beer belly, came behind the counter, twisted my arm behind me and forced me into the back room where the safe was located. I was terrified. At first he didn't believe that I couldn't open the safe and he slapped me around a little."
“Sandy, I know this is painful for you to tell and I don't need to hear it,” Tim said, but the expression on his face betrayed him.
“There wasn't anything he wanted in the storeroom and he was pretty pissed off. He waved his gun at me and told me to get naked. I did. When I pulled my shirt off, he said something about my beautiful breasts. I thought I misunderstood him and asked him to repeat it. He said he liked ‘tiny tits'. He told me to bend over the table, spread my legs and pull apart the cheeks of my bottom."
Tim sprang from the log, sat beside her and gently put his arm around her quivering shoulders. “You don't need to tell me this."
“I want to tell you, Tim. I want you to understand."
He kept one arm around her and with the other hand, he pulled her head to his chest, stroking her hair affectionately.
“The orgasm hit me the instant he entered me. I wasn't certain what it was at first. Sure, I knew the word, but only with my finger had I ever experienced one. It was like, BANG! He just kept pumping and I moved my butt like the guy I was living with taught me. I lost count of how many times that BANG hit me, but it was a lot."
Tim continued to hold her, but the stroking stopped.
“When he was done he turned me around and kissed me. I kissed him back. He asked if I wanted to go with him, and I said yes. That's how I became Hank's Toy and a member of the Van Fans."
Tim interrupted. “I need to make a little trip behind the bushes. I'll be right back."
“Me too,” she replied.
They found separate bushes.
They returned to the car, lit cigarettes, and Sandra continued.
“I found the adventure I was seeking. It was a hell of a lot of fun, especially at first. I got to know everybody and the rules. Hank treated me like a rubber doll—used me when he wanted and forgot about me the rest of the time. If you broke their rules, they passed you around among the guys who didn't have Toys. I learned to obey pretty fast ‘cause Hank wouldn't touch me for a week after I had been with someone else, and only Hank could give me what I wanted from sex."
Tim looked out the side window, refusing to make eye contact.
“Home base was a rented farmhouse near Jessup. We never caused any commotion in that area. After a few days at home, we would hit the road again. There was lots of fun—drinking in bars and going to places like Six Flags, Disney World and Myrtle Beach. We didn't pull any pranks in those places either. We wanted to be able to return without having the police on the lookout for us."
Tim sighed audibly and flipped his cigarette out the window.
“We supported ourselves by knocking off convenience stores, prostitution, rolling drunks, and extortion. They worked out this deal that was successful just about every time. We roamed Georgia, South and North Carolina. We would find a man, usually an older guy, who looked like he might have money. One of the Toys would proposition the mark and take him to a motel room. Just at the right moment, some of our guys would barge into the room and snap Polaroid pictures. We never demanded a ton of money from these turkeys—anywhere from five hundred to five thousand dollars. Like I said, we almost always got it."
Tim turned and glared at her. “Is there a point you are trying to make?"
Sandra nodded. “Four months ago Hank came home with a sixteen year old bitch with breasts out to here. They put me in the pool, which meant that I slept with whoever wanted me, including the other Toys. I didn't like that at all and by that time I was beginning to feel very guilty about all the stuff I was doing. I knew it was time to get out of the Van Fans, but I needed to be careful. I saw one girl drummed out of the gang. It wasn't pretty. I began to hold back a little of the money I earned from prostitution and rolling drunks, saving for the day I could slip away. I got caught."
Tim touched a bruise on her face. “This is how they punished you?"
She nodded and for the first time began to cry softly. “I don't know what they do when they drum a guy out of the gang, but they take the Toy to some community and sell gang bang rights to whoever they can find. The guys take what's left of the Toy to an isolated place, tie her up sadistically and leave her there, naked, alone, in pain and with absolutely no possessions."
“You could have died."
She nodded and dried her eyes on the sleeve of the sweat suit. “They don't care."
He felt as if his heart were melting. A woman's tears always did that to him. “You need to report this to the authorities, Sandy. Don't let them get away with it."
Her eyes flashed and she raised her voice. “Damn it, Tim, haven't you been listening? I'm as guilty as they are and they have photographs to prove it."
“Why did you tell me all of this?"
She lowered her voice and again communicated with her eyes. “So that you can understand why I can't go to a hospital, or the police, or social services, or anything like that. You're all I've got, Tim."
“Sandy,” Tim slowly responded. “I've never broken a law in my life, except maybe I've been guilty of speeding a couple of times. My idea of adventure is to sit down with a bowl of popcorn and a soft drink and watch a TV sitcom. You frighten me."
She slumped back in the seat and closed her eyes. Tim pushed in the clutch, turned the key and the Mustang engine roared briefly, then purred. It was the only sound heard in the passenger compartment until they reached the unincorporated town of Dot, North Carolina. Sandra feared she told him too much.
Chapter Two
To the emotionally drained travelers the first view of Dot was not very impressive. Old Charlotte Road, according to a dilapidated street sign, dissected Highway 13 on which they were driving. A traffic light at the intersection seemed unnecessary. On one corner was a white frame building with a wooden sign identifying it as Dot Grocery. On a second corner was an old-fashioned gasoline station with two bays and no self-service pumps. A fading metal sign swaying in the gentle breeze, identified this business as Dot Super Save. The third corner looked as if it might once have also contained a service station, but now the pumps were gone. The hand-lettered sign on the building indicated that Dot Racing Motors, Inc. was the current occupant. Completing the four corners of the intersection was what appeared to have once been an open-air market. It was now in such a state of disrepair that Tim knew it must have been out of business for many years.
The light turned green. Tim eased the Mustang across the intersection, turned into the Dot Super Save and parked away from the pumps. “Look in the glove compartment, Sandy. There's a letter in there from the lawyer I need to see."
Sandra handed the letter to Tim who headed for the building after ascertaining that the lawyer's name was Silas Coan. No one was in the
office area of the service station so Tim edged into the bay where he found a muscular young man changing the oil on a pickup truck.
“Can you point me in the direction of Mr. Silas Coan's office?” Tim asked. “He's a lawyer."
“Sure can,” the smiling youth replied, wiping his hands on a red rag he pulled from the hip pocket of his jeans. “Want to sell your Mustang?"
“No way,” Tim shot back. The blond mechanic's smile was contagious and Tim felt the corners of his own mouth turning up.
“Didn't think so. She's a beaut. Probably couldn't afford her anyway."
“Mr. Coan's office?"
“Oh yeah. Head on down Charlotte a piece. You'll see Dot's Diner on the left. Mr. Coan's office is upstairs, over the diner."
Tim thanked the young man and turned to leave.
“Name's Billy Frank. You and the missus gonna hang around a while?"
“Nice to meet you, Billy. I'm Tim Dollar. I might be here a few days. I don't know yet.” Tim saw no reason to explain his marital status, and tried to end the conversation politely by saying, “Thanks for the info."
“No problem. I figure you're Pete Harlow's nephew, come to claim your inheritance. I'd ‘preciate your business while you're in town. My mom runs the diner. It ain't much to look at, but the food's great."
“Thanks again,” Tim replied over his shoulder, finally escaping. As he opened his car door, he heard Billy shout, “Need any work on the Mustang, I'm your man."
Tim waved and nodded.
Sandra sat in the car parked across the street from the diner, trying to find something on the AM radio besides country or religious music. Tim climbed the steep stairs beside the diner, paused to catch his breath and entered the inauspicious offices of Silas Coan, Attorney at Law.
“Well hello there,” beamed the plump and graying secretary. “I'll bet you're Timothy Dollar."
“Yes ma'am. Please call me Tim."
“Tim, I'm Victoria White, Mr. Coan's secretary. Mr. Coan was expecting you much earlier in the day. I'm afraid he and Mrs. Coan have left for a weekend engagement in Charlotte, but you may see him first thing Monday morning. I hope that doesn't inconvenience you too much."
Tim frowned, checked his watch and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't have any particular plans at the moment. I meant to get here earlier, but I was delayed."
“Oh, I know. I'll bet you came in on Highway 13. They're always working on that road, patching this and patching that. I wish they'd just replace the thing and be done with it."
“Mrs. White, is there a motel in Dot?"
The prim and proper secretary suppressed a smile. “Oh my, no. We used to have a hotel, but that was years ago. You're going to have to go on down to Charlotte to find a motel, but it's only 30 miles or so."
“I'll be back bright and early Monday morning."
“Don't make it too early. Mr. Coan is not as young as he used to be. He usually gets here about 10:00."
“Thanks for the tip,” Tim grinned as he turned the handle on the door.
“Oh, wait Mr. Dollar. I almost forgot. Mr. Coan told me to go ahead and give you the keys.” Victoria White, now a bit flustered, rummaged through one of her desk drawers.
“Keys to what?” Tim asked as he accepted the proffered key ring.
“Why, to the house and hardware store, of course."
“I'm sorry, Mrs. White. I don't remember my uncle at all and know practically nothing about him. Mr. Coan's letter said I inherited my uncle's estate, but it didn't give me many particulars."
“I told Mr. Coan when I typed that letter he should be more specific. That man never listens to me. The hardware store is down the street about one hundred yards. To get to Mr. Harlow's farm you go back to 13, turn right and go three or four miles. Where the road bottoms out you'll see a farm pond on your right. As you go up the hill there's a graveled driveway that leads to the house. I don't know what kind of condition the house is in. Mr. Coan has been paying Bobby Elliott to look after the place, but Bobby isn't the brightest man you ever met. You might be able to spend the weekend in the house, though. Did you bring any clean sheets with you?"
“No ma'am,” Tim replied, “but we'll make out all right."
“Oh, is Mrs. Dollar with you? I thought you were divorced."
“Well,” Tim answered, “there's more than one Dollar in the bank."
As he descended the stairs, Tim thought that explaining Sandra was getting to be a problem.
“I sure as hell hope you didn't run the battery down playing the damned radio,” Tim said crossly as he slid into the drivers’ seat. He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief when the motor sprang to life with the first turn of the starter. “The lawyer wasn't in. I'll have to come back Monday. It seems that I have inherited a house, or farm, or something, and a hardware store. It's supposed to be just down the street."
“I see it, over there on the left. Guess what?” Sandra said in a sarcastic voice. “Its named Dot Hardware."
“Let's go take a look."
Tim parked in front of the Dot Pharmacy, which was across the street from the Dot Hardware.
“Give me a couple of bucks,” Sandra said.
“What for?” Tim replied while reaching for his wallet.
“I'm beginning to hurt pretty bad. While I was with the Van Fans I learned that a double dose of Alka-Seltzer Plus is the world's greatest pain reliever."
“Sound's dangerous,” Tim replied, handing her a ten.
Sandra lurched unsteadily towards the pharmacy, her aching muscles preventing graceful movement, and Tim crossed the street to the hardware store. The third key he tried tripped the cylinder and he stepped inside. Except for a little dust, the place seemed fully stocked and ready to open for business. It took several minutes to find the light switches, which were not beside the door but rather behind a counter on the far right wall. After the florescent bulbs began to glow, Tim explored the aging aisles, wondering at the fully stocked shelves.
“I don't know what half of this stuff is,” he muttered. “It shouldn't be too hard to find a buyer, though."
“Tim, where are you?"
“In the back, Sandy."
“Feeling better?” Tim asked when Sandra joined him.
“The stuff works fast, Tim, but not that fast."
“What do you think?” he asked. “Want to buy a hardware store?"
“No thanks, but I sure could use some food. I haven't eaten anything in...” She let the sentence drop.
“Well, let's go try Mom's Diner."
“Dot's Diner,” Sandra corrected.
Tim glared at her. “If you want to be technical, I think it is The Dot Diner."
“Sorry, folks,” greeted a gray-haired, pint-sized bundle of feminine energy. “I was just getting ready to close."
“You close at six?” Tim asked incredulously.
“Not much business in downtown Dot after five.” She chuckled. “Not much going on after four if the truth be known."
“Is there another restaurant in Dot?” Sandra asked.
“Fraid not."
“I met your son at the service station. He highly recommended your restaurant,” Tim explained.
“He's my baby and a good ‘un if I do say so myself. You must be Pete Harlow's nephew. Heard you were coming. That Pete. He was something else again. I hate now I let him slip through my fingers. He kinda had the hots for me after his wife died. I figured he was too old for me. Look folks, I'm Dottie. No, they didn't name the town after me. I have some meatloaf I was gonna throw out, and probably some string beans and potatoes. If you'll settle for leftovers and not tell anybody how bad it was, it's on the house."
“That sounds great,” Sandra replied, her countenance brightening. “I'm starving."
“Honey, you don't look like you're starving, but you sure don't look good. I've seen horses rode too hard and put up wet that look better'n you do. You gonna be all right?"
“Yeah. I guess I have been rode hard and put
up wet too many times, but all that's changing now. I'll be okay."
Tim did not believe anyone could eat the huge servings piled on their plates, but Sandra made quick work of her meal and helped him a bit with his own. Ten minutes after they began eating, Dottie Frank stopped at their booth and told them where to put the dirty dishes when they finished eating. She asked them to turn off the lights and lock the door on their way out, and she departed, carrying a brown paper sack full of the day's receipts.
When they were back out on the sidewalk, Tim rattled the door. “It's locked,” he muttered. “What kind of town is this where customers are left alone in a place of business?”
Sandra pulled on his sleeve and pointed to the sign above the door. It did, indeed, read “Dot's Diner."
Sandra looped her arm in Tim's and leaned heavily on him as they crossed the street to the Mustang.
“Sandy, I saw a doctor's office across the hall from Silas Coan's."
“I'll be okay, damn it. These socks don't give much protection against the hot pavement."
Tim looked at her feet and laughed.
“It's not funny, damn it."
“Yes it is. I promise we'll find you some shoes to wear tomorrow."
“I think the old guy in the pharmacy tried to make a pass at me,” she said. “He kept staring at me."
“Why not?” Tim replied. “You look like a tramp."
“I am a tramp. Remember?"
Tim thought about explaining that he was referring to the sweat suit, which didn't come close to fitting her, not her character, but he chose not to chance making things worse.
After turning the Mustang around and heading towards Highway 13, Sandra asked, “Where are we going now?"
“I want to try to find the farm. With daylight gone, it may be hard to do. The directions Mr. Coan's secretary gave me weren't all that clear."
Sandra leaned back in her seat. Gently she slid her left hand over Tim's right thigh and parked it just on the inside. She did not touch anything private, but to Tim it was a very intimate gesture. He remembered reading once that in biblical times the gesture of placing one's hand on the inner thigh sealed a bargain—an act denoting sincerity, fidelity and trust. It felt good.
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 2