THE 1973 DODGE Fleetwood, a cab-over RV, rattled and banged with each little bump in the road and gave Borkow a blazing headache along with a mild touch of carsickness. At each turn the mushy suspension canted wildly as if the whole rig might tumble over onto its side. They’d be like a turtle, unable to right themselves, and be vulnerable to all enemies. He sat in the dining area back from the driver’s compartment and watched Payaso maneuver through the side streets, regretting now his decision to come along.
The constant rattle-bang, rattle-bang knocked around in his head like a rock in a tin can.
He’d been cooped up too many hours already. He needed to get out of that Muscle Max gym and see the world. Otherwise, what was the sense of being free and on the loose?
The air-conditioning didn’t work in the beast, and the inside air had turned stagnant and humid, adding to the overall discomfort. The reek from the bathroom compounded matters.
He didn’t like to sweat, a grotesque bodily function he avoided at all costs. His tee shirt stuck to his underarms. Rivulets of sweat ran down his sides to the tops of his pants and chafed at his waist.
Even so, he had to admit, Payaso took good care of him. What self-respecting Johnny Law would pull over a hunk-o-shit like this old broken-down RV to look for his skinny ass? No one would believe “the most wanted man in the seven western states” could be toolin’ around in this paint-faded, dented eyesore. It was too far below his new station in life.
That’s what the five o’clock news had called him, “The most wanted man in the seven western states,” a distinction he had not chased after but was glad to have the title just the same. With it came a large dollop of street cred. Everyone knows you can’t get enough of that.
“How much farther?”
“It is better if we go slow, take our time, and stay off the main streets. We stay invisible that way.”
“Hey, chili-eater, I didn’t ask you that now, did I? I didn’t ask why we’re taking this route. Why do you always give an answer to a question I didn’t ask? I don’t get it.” He’d given the same ignorant answer, doling it out for the last hour and a half as if Borkow were some kind of idiot that had to be told multiple times before it sunk in.
Payaso looked up into the rearview and said nothing. His brand of noncommunication irked the shit out of Borkow. When asked, he expected Payaso to answer his question, not some random one of his own liking. How hard was that?
Payaso slowed and jockeyed the wheel into another long sweeping turn down yet another endless side street of ghetto hovels. Depressing. They all looked the same. How could people live in places like this?
Payaso said, “I told you we should’ve stopped for some enchiladas con mole. You get too sketchy when you don’t eat.”
“Let me worry about my stomach, okay, amigo? You just get us there pronto.”
Over the din of the raggedy RV’s rattle and bang, a muffled plea made it out of the bathroom. Borkow got up. He staggered from side to side, fighting to keep his balance, his arms out, hands to the interior walls. He had nothing better to do. He might as well have another go at her. Couldn’t hurt. He slid the accordion door to the bathroom open to the reek of body odor and urine, mixed with a faint chemical smell from the toilet. Lizzette sat on the floor all trussed up with gray duct tape. Her face glistened with sweat. Her bottle-blond hair was pasted to the sides of her face and forehead. Her eyes pleaded with him.
“Lizzy, I cut you lose, you promise to be a good girl?”
She nodded vigorously. He leaned over, and reached a jittery hand that shook like a man with a terrible palsy, the luxury coach hitting every goddamn little bump in the road. He took hold of the tape on her mouth and yanked it off. She yelped at the pain.
He smiled. “There, I’m sorry, but I really needed you to know the full extent of my displeasure. You understand what I’m saying here?”
She continued to nod and said nothing. Payaso had called him sketchy. He didn’t feel sketchy or otherwise. All the heat, the smells, and the noise irritated his stomach.
He grabbed her bound wrists and helped her to her feet. They both banged from side to side in the small bathroom trying to maintain their balance. He got her out and leaned into her damp and sweaty body, pushing her against the wall while he peeled the tape from her wrists. “There. Now get your feet undone and come sit. Let’s talk.”
He sat back into the dining couch behind the driver’s seat and waited. She slid to the floor leaving a damp smudge on the faux wood panel and worked on the tape like a wild animal in a trap. The skin on her wrists and ankles and mouth turned a little pink from the abuse. Better a little abuse than the alternative.
Payaso looked up in the rearview. Borkow raised his hand and waved. “I know, I know, you don’t approve. But she’s my main girl. I owe her for getting me out of that hellhole. She gets another chance. You hear that, girl?”
“Yes, Louis. Thank you, Louis. I won’t make you mad again, I promise.” Her voice came out hoarse from the lack of water.
“That’s good. Now come and sit.” He patted the seat next to him.
She came over, her feet taking wide sidesteps to keep her balance as she rubbed her wrists.
Louis said, “I’m so sorry about hitting you. I promise it won’t happen again.”
She hesitated, timid as if he planned to betray her yet again and that this might be a part of a new game of mistrust and torture.
He took hold of her wrist and gently pulled her down. “I said everything is cool. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
She nodded and sat.