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I’m questioning my decision as I throw my stuff into the van. But then I catch sight of Dory standing by the motel office holding an old brown suitcase. She’s wearing a light blue, loose-fitting cotton dress the breeze is pushing against her bra-less nipples, and I quickly shrug off my anxiety as something obviously not related to this lovely moment.
My heart is beating like a tom-tom as I reach over and unlatch the door. She steps gracefully in and looks at me, eyebrows raised and lips tight together but smiling slightly.
“Let’s get down the road,” I say.
“Roll ’em easy, cowboy,” she says, then gets in and sits down and crosses her long, bare legs. The dress slides high up on her buttermilk thighs and all I can do is sigh. She lights up a cigarette and rolls down the window as I swing away from the motel onto the cracked asphalt.
The tires slap on spider webs of tar and the road stretches out in front of me, shining in the hot Florida sun. I’m trying to decide what tape to put in to set the mood just right. Bagley’s tapes are limited but I finally find one that seems to fit the moment: Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits.
I jam it in the player. The raunchy, rolling notes come bounding out of the speakers and I know instinctively that I’ve chosen the right tape. Because it’s true, everybody must get stoned.
Dory’s head bounces softly to the rhythm. It’s a pretty day. The sun is shining and a few large, cottony clouds float high in the searing blue sky. Dylan sings on. The wind blows. She’s just like a woman.
Then it finally hits me. I have a million dollars worth of cocaine in the back of the van and I’ve brought a stranger into the mix. Suddenly, my dick shrinks and the skin on my nuts tightens up and, man, do I need a drink. And here it is coming up on noon. Who could blame a person in my situation for stopping to relax his jangled nerves?
We don’t utter a word until we get to Crystal River, a small village soon to be overrun with development. Dory spots a corner store and asks if I can stop so she can grab a pack of smokes. I suggest we should wait until we find a bar somewhere and then go in and have a beer and a smoke, a little something to take the edge off. And in the meantime there’s a pack of Kools in the glove compartment.
She screws up her face and looks at me, eyes narrowed. “You know they put saltpeter in those Kools,” she says. “Like they give to soldiers in the war. You know, so they won’t get horny.”
“No way. Where’d you hear that one?”
“It’s true. How many of those do you smoke a day?”
“I don’t know... not too many.”
She studies me as I nervously take the pack from the glove compartment and light one up with the dashboard lighter. I smoke about half and then flip it out the window with a snap of my finger.
“Do you know if Marlboros have saltpeter in them?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“Sure they do. Why do you think the Marlboro Man is always alone?”
“I see what you mean. So what cigarette do you recommend?”
“For me, right now, it would be any non-menthol I can get my hands on. Men shouldn’t smoke at all. They should save their energies for other, more important things.” She flashes a knowing glance then blinks nervously and stares out the window. “Oh, all right,” she says. “I’ll have one of those Kools.”
I’m turning into electrified Jello when I finally spot the all important tavern sign. Sandpiper Lounge. Faded, blue concrete box with a big air conditioner sticking out a side window. “Shall we?” I say like the fly to the spider and point at the fine establishment. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Why not,” she says.
I park the van. We get out. The air is hot. We go in the bar.
Behind the leather-covered bar is a bartender, a few beer signs and a lot of bottles. Dory and I have a couple beers and get to talking. Then we get to laughing about things and teasing each other. Things seem to be going well, you know how it is. Once in a while she puts her hand on my arm, real friendly and warm. I buy her a pack of Chesterfields, which she tells me are her “favorite.” But they don’t have them everyplace, so then she has to smoke Winstons.
I get the change and realize I’m down to my last five bucks. I have no idea how I’m going to get more. A pang hits my gut. But hey, a fool and his money are soon parted they say, and I’ve just proved it.
“We’ve got to go,” I say, suddenly sober.
“You don’t look so good, Keith,” she says. “Is it me? You can leave me here if you want.”
“No, it’s not you, Dory. It’s me. I’m down to my last five bucks. But you’re welcome to share it with me.”
“Cheer up, sweetie, things’ll work out,” she says, turning on the sunshine. “How about I drive? Never driven one of those hippie vans before.”
“No, I’m all right,” I look in her eyes, still trying to get a read. “I can drive if I can do anything. Problem is I’m just not sure where I should drive to.”
“Don’t you have people?” she says, eyes wide and bright. “Didn’t you say you were from Clearwater? Why aren’t you going there?”
“No place to go. Well, that’s not totally true. There are a couple of options. But listen, five bucks isn’t going to get us very far. So what do you say we blow the rest on drinks and then hit the road and see what happens?”
“It’s your party, cowboy. I’m only going a little farther down.”
“Then where? You don’t know either, do you? You’re broke, just like me. You and I were thrown together by the hands of fate. Can’t you see it? There’s meaning in that. You know, what are the odds? Two people find each other in the middle of Nowhere, Florida, and get along famously like you and I do. What are the odds?”
“You are a dreamer, Keith Elton.”
“But I’m not the only one.”
She gives me an appropriate smirk as I order us up two gin and tonics. Now at least we can enjoy our last few moments together. My five bucks turns to one and I leave it for the bartender, who’s done a great job of pretending he wasn’t listening to us. We finish the drinks in a hurry and walk outside into the bright sun and it’s the best I’ve felt for days. I take a deep breath and a premonition that doom is waiting around the corner smacks me and I don’t even care. I have some food in the van and a million dollars worth of dope, why should I care?
Then I think, What the hell, why not have a snort? Why not enjoy a little of the bounty that’s been dropped into my lap by the gods? I can sneak back there and grab a little without Dory even knowing what I’m doing. And she seems to be the type of girl that might enjoy a little toot herself, like a lot of people these days.
I wrestle with the idea as we get back onto the highway. I’ve got a craving for the drug and the girl or some twisted combination of the two. After a few long minutes with knots in my stomach and bees in my head, I pull off the road, unable to fight the urges any longer.
“What’s the matter?” Dory asks nervously.
“I’ve got a little something in the back that you might enjoy. At least I will. It’ll only take me a minute. Nothing to worry about, I have to get something out of the back.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she says, “just afraid I was getting dumped.”
“I wouldn’t do something like that. I just wanted a little toot, that’s all. Thought maybe you might want to join me, take the fuzz out of the booze high.”
“Are you shitting me? There’s blow in this van? Jesus, I don’t know.”
“You ever tried it before?”
She looks around nervously, fidgeting in the sheepskin-covered seat. “Oh yeah, I’ve tried it before. That stuff got my boyfriend killed. This is just too unreal. I run into a dreamboat and he’s into coke, too. I mean, that’s heavy—scares me a little.”
“Yeah, I suppose. It is scary, I guess. But coke is all over the place these days, especially in this state. It’s hardly rare. I’ve got a little bit in the back and I just thought a toot would be a good idea. Help to bring out the sunshine and ah—well—make it easier to drive. I’m kinda loaded.”
“Well, honey, so am I. Just high enough to say yes, against my better judgment.”
I smile and feel the adrenaline crawling up my spine.
I shut off the engine, get out and walk around to the other side of the van, slide open the side door and get in. Dory is craning her neck around, looking at me and I smile up at her. Then she turns back around, pushes her hair back behind her ear with a snap of her wrist, lights up a Chesterfield and watches the smoke disappear out the window.
“Could you hand me that mirror from the visor above your head, please, Dory? And there’s a pocketknife in the glove compartment. I need that too.”
She slides the mirror off the visor and hands it to me. There’s a twinkle in her eye. “You better watch out,” she says. “When I do coke, I get kind of crazy.” Then she reaches in the glove box and brings out the knife.
“I think I can handle it,” I say, as I crawl on my knees to where the duffel is lying. I loosen the drawstring, reach down until I feel the plastic wrap, pull a brick to the surface and squeeze the contents between my sweating fingers. There’s a catch in my throat. I swallow hard and glance at Dory, who’s staring out the window and twirling her hair with her middle finger. I turn my back to her and make a small incision in the wrapping. My fingers tremble; my mouth is dry and my heart pounds. Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice is screaming, but I don’t want to listen. All I crave is that feeling, that buzz. Now I have enough dope to make it last. This girl and me, together. Life is a party, my wife and son a fading memory. I scoop a small pile of powder onto the mirror and pulsate at the sight. Shining, glittering rocks fall apart and sparkle in the sunlight. I carefully shove the brick back in the duffel and stuff some clothes over it. I crawl up and set the mirror down on the countertop behind Dory’s seat.
“There you go, Dory. Have at it.”
“How am I supposed to do this? Where’s the hundred dollar bill?”
“Cute. You’ll just have to scoop some up with the knife or—. Say, ah, why don’t you come around here so nobody can see from the road? We’ll be two tourists stretching our legs.”
“And packing their noses.”
“That too.”
She comes around. I put the mirror on the carpet and we lift little piles of powder to our noses with the knife blade. With this much coke, I’m thinking not snorting it would be like going to Studio 54 without a dick. Just plain sacrilege, man.
So now we’re sitting next to each other, our feet dangling out the side door of the van like two fuckin’ hillbillies. We’re saying nothing and staring at the greenery. My lips and gums are numb and my brain is exploding like a bottle rocket in a fireplace. We stay silent for a long moment, long enough for me to try and think up something to say and not succeed, several times. Finally I turn to her, my nerves jumping: “So, what do you thi—”
That’s all I get out before she jumps at me like a sea bird snaring a dead shrimp, slams her lips against mind and begins probing deeply with her velvety tongue.
I don’t fight back when she puts her hand between my legs and feels the merchandise. In fact I encourage it by demonstrating my growth as a human being, an upstanding citizen to be sure. But just as she crawls on top of me and replaces her hand with her hot, throbbing crotch, a rush of paranoia rips through me like a blast of heat lightning.
Fuck if I don’t push her off me and climb out of the van onto the shoulder. I mean, that’s all I need, getting popped by some bible-belt cop for public fornication. These backwater cops have a way of taking other people’s sins so personally. I’ve got enough coke in the van to keep the discos on Clearwater Beach going for a year or more, and I tell you, that suddenly becomes more than enough for me to handle.
Dory stares at me flabbergasted. She brushes down her dress, which is hiked up and revealing some of the prettiest thigh I’ve ever seen. It’s enough to make you want to cry. “I’m sorry,” I say. “We’re just too close to the road here. The drugs and all... you know what I mean. I just can’t relax.”
She climbs out and grabs my shoulders, starts kissing me again and putting her hand back where I like it. I put my hands on her arms and slowly push her away. “Maybe we can find a better place down the way,” I say. “We can’t stay here.”
The back of my neck is burning as I slide the VW’s door closed and walk around to the driver’s door. Dory climbs in the other side and looks over at me, throws her head back and laughs. I’m not quite sure what to think of the laugh; seems like a hint of mania riding its edge. I start the engine and pull out. My blood is boiling and I’m worried that the moment has passed. Hot beads of sweat plaster my forehead as I shift into fourth gear and put the gas pedal to the floor. I’m thinking I have to find someplace in a hurry or everything will to turn to shit. Cinderella will turn ugly and have to run home.
Somewhere there’s a place for us.
Now I’m bobbing with anxiety, and searching the distance for a road that might lead to some privacy. There has to be a road somewhere. I’ve read a lot of stories in the papers about dead bodies being found on lonely Florida roads. Shit like that must happen all the time down here. I continue rolling along, so lost inside my head that I forget about my speed. My eyes are scanning the distance so much that I overlook what’s right in front of me. I know VW vans don’t go very fast, so it’s not something you usually worry about.
Then my ears pick up a horrible sound.
A siren, closing fast.
I stare in the rearview mirror with disbelief as the white Chevy with the cherry on top comes up fast behind me. Everything turns to black and a sick feeling fills me up. I tell myself that I’m okay—it’s only a speeding bust, but then I remember the cocaine mirror lying on the floor in back, uncovered, and look frantically around for something to throw over it. “Dory,” I say, my head throbbing, “carefully reach in the glove compartment and get a map or something to throw over that mirror in back. We’re getting pulled over, so try not to show any movement, if you can manage it.”
Her shoulders rise up and her skin gets a few shades lighter but she manages to slide out the Florida road map and skillfully work it between the shifter and the bucket seat to drop it on top of the mirror. As I come to a halt, I look back at the cop and out of the corner of my eye see an edge of the mirror sticking out under the map. But it will have to do; the cop is out of his cruiser and striding toward us now.
He’s a big man, about six-four, with a small gut hanging over his belt. He’s a local—Levy County Sheriff’s Department, it says on the driver’s door of the cruiser—but has the aviator shades, trooper hat and jackboots that all the heat down here seem to wear. This one has an arrogant swagger like maybe he played football in college and misses the opportunity to hit people.
“Driver’s license and registration please, sir.”
I reach above the visor for Bagley’s alternative wallet.
“Take it out of the wallet, please.”
He holds a clipboard with one hand while studying us. I hand him the license. He puts it on the clipboard and stares into my eyes.
“Are you aware that the speed limit is fifty on this road, Mr. Kirby?”
“Yes.”
Dory shoots me a sideways glance.
“You were traveling over seventy. Got your registration handy?”
I start to feel the panic. “It’s not my van, officer. It belongs to a friend of mine down in St. Pete. He let me use it for a little sightseeing and camping trip, and I don’t know where the registration is.”
The cop frowns. “Please step back into the patrol car with me, Mr. Kirby.”
I get out of the van and start to walk back along the highway toward the cruiser.
“Please step to the shoulder, sir,” the cop says with authority. “Move around to the other side of the van.”
I turn and go back around the front of the bus. “Dory, look for that registration card, will you please?” I say, passing by the passenger window. “I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”
The cop is lumbering along behind me and I sense him peering in the windows of the van. But he doesn’t linger and I’m able to calm down enough to stop shaking. I get into the cruiser and the cop slides behind the wheel. My shoulders feel like they’re up against my ears. Cop leans back against the seat and the scent of garlic and onions and cheap after-shave hit me like a toxic cloud. He lifts his shades and peers down at the license.
“What kind of name is Elton, boy? Some kind of limey moniker, like that fruit Elton John? You a limey, son? They got all kinds of funny names over there in the U.K.”
But no Billy Bob and Bubba.
“No, I’m an American.”
“And where in America do you reside then, Elton?”
“In St. Pete. That’s where I’m headed.”
“You need to get your driver’s license changed then, this one here’s from Colorado. You need a Florida resident license.”
“Only been here for three months, officer.”
“Then yer only sixty days overdue, boy. But I ’magine you and the missus have plenty of things to keep ya busy.” He winks at me.
“Uh...well... ah, yeah. And here she comes now—the wife. She must have found the registration papers.”
Dory is walking toward us; red purse slung over her left shoulder and a white card in her right hand.
“Sure is a pretty one,” the cop drawls. “You are a lucky guy—even with a name like Elton.” He laughs, winks again.
My buddy.
“Yes I am, Officer. I surely am. Sometimes I don’t realize how lucky.”
Dory comes up to the driver’s window of the cruiser and hands the card to the cop. “I found it, honey,” she says, leaning in until her tits are damn near falling into the guy’s face.
I see his eyes lock onto the luscious mounds. Then he looks distractedly up at her face and then over at me. And then back to the card. He stares blankly at it for a second before glancing at Dory’s chest again, and then back at me. I’m smiling sheepishly when I see Dory’s hand dart into her purse like a cobra going for an egg. And I stare, transfixed, as her pale, slender fingers pop out of the red bag and sunlight flashes off the nickel-plated barrel of a small handgun. Then quick as a flash she sticks it in the cop’s reddening face and squeezes the trigger. I duck out of the way as brains and blood explode onto the cheap brown vinyl seats.
“FUCK,” I yell, as the sound of the blast drifts away on the breeze. I jump out of the cop car onto the yellow, sun-baked dirt, thinking she’s gonna hit me next. Instead, she reaches into the cruiser and plucks the registration card off the dead man’s thigh. I scramble to my feet, run back to the VW and jump in, hoping that Dory is lingering behind to admire her work.
No such luck.
She climbs in—breathless—beside me.
“I had to do it,” she says, matter-of fact. “The fuckin’ pig was going to bust us. Now let’s get the hell out of here so we can screw. I’m dying to see you naked.”
Jesus.
“What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy bitch? You killed a fuckin’ cop. We’ll fuckin’ hang for this. Worse than that. I—”
“Did the pig call in your plates?” She’s acting like nothing much happened,
“No. He never had time. He was too busy making fun of my name.”
“Yeah, your name. We’ll talk about that later. Now I think you should admit that I saved you—and you and I both know from what. When I was looking around for the registration card I found a brick of cocaine inside one of the cabinets. I think the penalty here in Florida for that much coke is more than it is for murder, so I definitely did you a favor.”
There’s a horrible vomit taste in my mouth and my heart is dead. I’ve gone beyond sadness to eternal despair. I’m looking out from inside of a damp, dark cave and all I can see is the desert.
“Just one less pig around to hassle people, dude,” she says. “Lighten up.”
What the hell is this younger generation coming to?
“Yeah, I guess. Maybe you’re right. But a car went by when we were stopped. And they saw this van pulled over by a cop that is now blown all over the front seat of his cruiser. We have to get out of this van and into something else. And without any money, that might be a bit difficult to pull off. If we’re lucky, we’ve got a few hours before they put it all together. Got any more bright ideas?”
“It’s only a few miles to where my car is. If it’s fixed, we take that. No problem. Dump this thing somewhere and be gone like the wind.”
“And how are we going to pay for the repairs to your car, offer to trade some coke?”
“Probably could, with these rednecks. Everybody digs coke, don’t they? I was going to offer them something else if it came down to that but now I think we should just use one of those credit cards in your wallet. Or should I say Elton Kirby’s wallet? And, ah, Keith? It says Dan Bagley on the registration card. That you?”
“No, that’s my brother. I’m Keith Bagley.” I give her a hard stare. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Dory, if you found the registration form, why did you have to kill the bastard? I think he was just going to give me a speeding ticket for fuck sake.”
“I can’t afford to take any chances. I already have two felony drug charges on my record and I can’t take another rap of any kind. But everything is going to be all right, honey. We’ll get in my car and ride off into the sunset and the Honeymoon Hotel.”
Fuck, I’m honey now.
The muscles in my chest tighten up and my soul cries out for release.