Pavement

by Andrew Davie

  Since then, he’d tried so hard not to get violent, but it was difficult to keep the urge under wraps. He knew he’d be pushing his luck if he did it too often. Still, when he did enough crank, and had enough caffeine, it was almost impossible to maintain his composure.

  Tonight would be the night.

  He discovered the place by the motel almost by accident. He was making trips on I-95 down to Florida. This time, they had him towing cars, two of them piled one on top of the other. It was a small rig, so he could make good time. He pulled into the rest stop, and the girl was standing twenty feet away. Before he knew it, Larry had already rolled down the window and was asking if she wanted to come inside. She extinguished her cigarette, strode over, and took his hand. Inside, she rattled off the business in a somewhat monotone voice.

  “What’s your name?” Larry said.

  “Angel, ’cause baby, I’ll make you feel like Heaven.”

  “Let’s get to it,” Larry said, unzipping his fly. She took him in her mouth, and he stared straight out the window. He gripped the back of her head, and she tensed up but relented. He felt the familiar buildup, but something was wrong. He squeezed the back of her head and pushed it down. She stopped and pulled back.

  “Jesus, not so rough,” she said. The fear wasn’t in her voice, but the playfulness was gone.

  Larry was breathing heavily. He hit her with a closed fist, which caught her on the mouth. It cut his knuckle, and sent one of her teeth flying. Instead of cringing, she cursed and hit him upside the head. He wasn’t expecting it, and his ears rang. She tried to hit him again, but he caught her wrist and twisted. She screamed, and he felt her arm give, though the snap wasn’t audible. He lunged for her, but his equilibrium was off, and she was able to flee. He drove away quickly, chastising himself for letting things get out of hand. Afterward, he decided he needed to be more careful. He couldn’t simply let his urges take over. He’d have to find a new place now when he was in the neighborhood; these girls had guys looking out for them. If Larry or his rig were ever recognized, that would be the end.

  However, he found himself on the same stretch of road a week later. He rationalized that he was just being paranoid. The girl was probably an addict. Her encounters with violence were most likely many, and she wouldn’t be able to remember anything about him. He was just another john who got out of control. A pitfall of her profession. Not to mention, this was a great setup. He could hide in plain sight along with the other truckers. The highway was right there in case things got hairy.

  So, after making sure the same girl wasn’t working the corner, he pulled into the rest stop again. This one seemed like a space cadet, and Larry waited until she had begun servicing him, then locked the doors. This time, she couldn’t get away. He unloaded all of his pent-up frustration, his rage. When he was finished, he opened the door and let her fall out onto the ground like a jellyfish.

  He felt invincible again.

  He waited weeks, but now would be the time.

  Larry cruised by the rest stop. Neither girl was on the corner. He pulled in and killed the engine. He’d give it ten minutes. If no one came around, he would go into the burger joint, get some food, then call it a night. He’d make his delivery the following day, and he could swing back around on his return trip. Larry reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a pill bottle. He popped some Dexedrine.

  He had almost descended from the cab, ready to have his meal, when the girl approached his truck.

  For a while, Stacy tried to maintain her appearance. She had been beautiful once. But now, it was a fruitless endeavor. She was also past the point of caring. Maybe some guys out there went for the youthful and naive girl next door, daughter of their business partner, babysitter who needs a ride home. Not the men she worked. They wanted their rocks off. Some requested crazy shit. She had one guy a while back who wanted her to choke him. Others were tame by comparison like the ones who said “Call me ‘Big Boy.’”

  She’d been out on the streets for almost three years, and she had seen it all. She’d been picked up more than fifty times for solicitation, fought for the opportunity to work a corner. Once, she even ate a meal out of the trash. She’d been humiliated and forced to endure things she’d only read about as cautionary tales.

  She dug around her purse.

  Stacy carried the essentials for the evening. A mini bottle of Scope and breath mints, her cell phone, and a pint of vodka. She unscrewed the cap and took a quick nip. It burned as always, and she felt a rush of warmth coat the insides of her body. She tugged at her form-fitting dress, pulling it around the curves of her ass.

  Her turn to work the rest stop.

  Angel was still skittish, so she wanted the room. She had agreed to work even with the cast on her wrist. Fantasia wouldn’t be coming back for a while. Stacy felt bad for the others but not too bad. This was life on the streets, what did they think it would be? When she was on her own, she used to carry a switchblade. Soon, she gave it up. It was one thing to get picked up for soliciting or loitering—homicide was another story. She’d been slapped around a few times, so she bought the weapon. She only had it for a month before another girl was charged with attempted murder for sticking a john.

  Even if she could plead self-defense, the court cost alone would bleed her dry. Not to mention every day she wasn’t on the street was money she wasn’t earning. Stacy ditched the blade. She figured the occasional beating would be the price of doing business. Although, it had rarely come to that. She had a decent sense about her for picking johns. Most were fine, just men with urges, and quick to be done with it. Sometimes, you dealt with some weirdos. Again, part of the gig.

  Stacy took another sip. She’d have to pace herself for the rest of the night. She walked to the trash can at the edge of the rest stop and saw the truck idling. It was the first one she’d seen in a while. Odds were it wasn’t going to pickup, so she figured she had better make her play before this one took off.

  She adjusted her dress one more time, popped a mint, and walked toward the truck.

  Gropper sipped his coffee.

  He watched the comings and goings of the rest stop, motel, and burger joint. There was only one girl on the corner tonight, so that’s where he kept focus. She was tough. Weathered. He figured she had seen her share of things she’d care to forget. Hiding in dumpsters to avoid the cops, and dealing with pimps.

  Gropper checked the time.

  He’d give it another two hours. The guy had struck between midnight and four, so he probably wasn’t going to show after that. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl move. He reached for the Maglite on the passenger seat and hefted it. He wore a black windbreaker and black work pants. To anyone who saw him, he would appear to be a security guard walking the perimeter.

  It wasn’t the first time the girl had solicited someone this evening, but Gropper wanted to be prepared to leave the car quickly if he had to earn his pay.

  The woman adjusted her dress and walk with a focused determination toward the truck. He couldn’t make out the driver. For the third time in that evening, Gropper got out of the car. He walked the sixty feet or so and took up his post against the side of the motel. The streetlamps on the corner blazed so brightly that Gropper was cloaked in shadow. It was tough to see into the cab. He debated getting closer, but he didn’t want to spook the guy. He’d have to wait and hope to catch something. Then he could act.

  “Hey, man, you got a light?”

  The girl was on a break from her shift at the burger joint. She still wore the outfit and held out an unlit cigarette. Larry smiled and pushed in the cigarette lighter.

  “Gimme one minute.”

  He dangled his arm out of the window and swung it back and forth like a pendulum.

  “How’s it going?” he added.

  “Oh, you know.”

  She was maybe in her late teens or early twenties. She still had acne and the straight teeth of someone who re
cently gave up their braces or a retainer. Larry imagined what she might be like if he got her into the cab with him, but he chased the thought from his head. Kids didn’t do it for him. He’d met all sorts of people on the road, at bars, whorehouses…shit, he even went to a dogfight out in the sticks one time. All types of people in the world, and all of them were into some sort of twisted thing or another. The cigarette lighter popped, and Larry held it for her while she lit her smoke.

  “Thanks.”

  She took a few more drags, extinguished the cigarette, put the half smoked butt in her shirt pocket, and turned to head back to the restaurant.

  “Hey, what’s the special tonight?” Larry asked.

  “I’d stick with the burger,” she called out over her shoulder.

  A burger did, indeed, sound good.

  Stacy liked to imagine she was with Carlos. He had been the captain of the football team, drove a Mustang. He could have had his choice of anyone, but he chose her. She had been someone then.

  He’d taken her virginity one night on the middle of the football field. It was cold, but he spread out some blankets. Afterward, they lay together, and he made all sorts of promises. How he would always be there for her, would take her away from this place. They would hop in his car and wouldn’t stop driving until they saw the ocean.

  He was killed in a drunk driving accident a week later.

  That had been almost ten years ago, yet each time she had sex, she imagined the time with Carlos.

  The man began praying to God.

  Afterward, she rinsed with Scope and spat out the window while he zipped himself up. He wouldn’t look at her afterward. Some of them fed off the interaction and condescended to Stacy afterward. Others shrank back from her gaze.

  “See you later,” Stacy said, opened the door, and slid down to the ground. As she walked to her spot, she thought she saw something move in the shadows. She waited a moment, but it was gone.

  Gropper watched the girl get into the cab. He gripped the Maglite in his left hand. Mentally, he went over a plan. If he had to use it, he’d open the driver’s side door with his left, and smash with his right. He watched for another minute, looking for any signs of a struggle, but he soon realized this wasn’t their guy.

  He would remain where he was, though, just in case.

  Gropper’s mind wandered. First, he examined the perimeter, then figured out the quickest escape routes. The beauty of the highway system was its unlimited potential to get you far away without being scrutinized. One could be anonymous on the road. He’d made sure to stay moving for a while, as a safety precaution, but at some point, he would need to settle down. The life was beginning to take its toll.

  The door to the cabin opened, and instantly Gropper was alert, Maglite ready to shatter bone if need be. It was just the girl. He disappeared further back into the shadows. He felt the wall with his fingertips and followed it around the motel toward his car. He got back inside, killed the rest of his coffee. Another hour went by. Gropper checked the time. Almost four—odds were, their guy wasn’t going to show. Gropper turned the key in the ignition, felt the car spring to life, and thought about how wonderful his bed would feel.

  Larry walked out of the restaurant and stretched his limbs. The girl was right. The burger was the way to go. He climbed into the cabin. It was only another eight hours or so to Miami. Then he’d get paid, and begin the whole adventure again. The king of the road. He felt his loins stir at the thought of ruling his kingdom. Suddenly, as if ordained as a sacrifice to the one true king, the woman was there. The pose was manufactured, but she was a pro, all right.

  He rolled down the window and beckoned her over. She adjusted her dress and walked over to the truck.

  “Scanning the scene in the city tonight,” Larry sang under his breath. He continued to hum as she strolled up. She was much older than he’d thought, but that didn’t matter. He was practically bursting at the seams at this point.

  “How’s it going, baby?” she said.

  “Fixing to be better,” Larry said. “What’ll that cost?”

  “Hands twenty, mouth forty. We can negotiate from there.”

  Larry produced two twenties and handed them out the window. He watched her take the money and put it on a roll, then tuck it into her purse. She signaled back to the motel, then walked around to the passenger side and climbed up. She placed her bag on the floor.

  “Let me see ’em,” Larry said.

  “Sure, baby,” she said and unzipped the front of her dress. She reached in and brought out two breasts losing the fight with gravity. The word Carlos had been tattooed crudely over her heart. She positioned herself and undid Larry’s belt buckle. He reclined in the seat as she worked. He didn’t register anything for a moment, blinded as he was by the change taking hold of him. He gripped the back of her head and guided her quicker.

  Stacy was on the ball field again. She could feel the cool night air prickle her skin. When she looked up, the night’s sky was a scattershot of stars. Carlos had placed his hand on the back of her head. The euphoria was suddenly cut short by Carlos squeezing the back of her neck. The memory broken, she tried to reel back, but the trucker’s hand remained firm. She gagged, and he let her go.

  Immediately, she sensed trouble and somehow knew this was the guy. He had a far-off look in his eyes. She had seen it before in men who became violent quickly. She did her best to maintain her composure.

  “Easy, baby,” she said. “If you want to get rough, it’s going to cost you more.”

  He glanced toward his wallet in an automatic response, and she swung for him. She was in an awkward position, but her punch connected on his cheek. His head snapped back, and she made a play for the door.

  Larry sat there more stunned than anything else. Rage overtook him.

  “You!” was all he managed to get out. She had gotten the door open when he grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her back. In close quarters it was hard to maneuver, but he pinned her down on her back with his left hand and closed the door with his right.

  “Oh, you fucked up,” Larry said.

  He threw an elbow once, which hit her in the forehead. She didn’t cry or scream like the others. This one seemed to understand. He almost admired her for that. The second elbow split her eyebrow, and blood flowed down her face. She moaned, and he took a breath. Why rush? He could take his time with this one as he felt she deserved it. Hadn’t she asked for it? Larry locked the doors and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt his cheek where she landed her shot. It would probably bruise, but if he iced it later, maybe it wouldn’t show.

  Larry spun in his seat and lifted his right leg to stomp her. He brought it down with a satisfying crunch. He was going for a second shot when the driver’s side window shattered.

  Gropper didn’t like to carry weapons. Some in his line of work preferred weighted gloves, a sap, or an expandable baton. They could be concealed and inflict a lot of damage if used properly, though still be nonlethal. But if you got picked up with one, it automatically placed you under suspicion. Besides, anything could become a weapon in the proper hands. Over time, he’d learned how to use everything at his disposal. Similarly, he’d picked up techniques that he could incorporate. Some martial arts were better than others, and he learned how to apply them to any given situation, be it close quarters or on the ground. He never liked to engage without a tactical advantage. This wasn’t a dojo. No rules or showing respect to your opponent.

  It was kill or be killed.

  Gropper shattered the window using a window punch—a small device mainly used by first responders for victims in car crashes. The tip had three small prongs placed against the window. When triggered, the bolt shot out with enough PSI to collapse the window. The whole thing was less then than three inches in length, retailed for less than ten bucks, and served as Gropper’s key ring. If anyone searched him, they would write it off as him just being a cautious person.

 
; The trucker inside flinched and protected his face as best he could.

  Gropper knocked the remnants of the tempered glass loose, gripped the guy’s collar, and pulled the guy through the now- open window. The guy fell to the ground with a solid thud and was stunned. Gropper picked him up. The guy was disoriented. He threw a haymaker, which Gropper blocked with the Maglite. Then, in the same motion, he hit the guy solidly in the liver with the flashlight. The trucker wheezed and fell backward on his butt.

  Gropper helped him up again and walked him to the side of the motel. They continued past the motel into the rear parking lot and arrived at Gropper’s car. Gropper hit the guy once in the kidney with the Maglite, and the man bellowed, then fell over. He retched once, dry heaving onto the ground. Gropper popped the trunk, hit the guy a final time on the head, and the man was out cold. He flipped him into the trunk, then duct taped his ankles and wrists and placed a hood on his head. He shut the trunk and waited. A few moments went by. He turned slowly and studied the parking lot. Nothing. At this time of night, everyone was asleep or on the road.

  Gropper went back to the truck. He saw the girl outside of the cab clutching at her head. She hadn’t seen him, so he stayed back. As long as she was up and moving, he wasn’t concerned. She’d live. She had enough seasoning to know how to handle a situation like this. Gropper watched her walk toward the burger joint. She’d call for a cab and head to the hospital, tell them some story of being attacked. She didn’t have any bullet or knife wounds, so they wouldn’t call the police. Whether they bought it was a different story, but again, it made no difference to Gropper.