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“There it is,” she’s saying, and it seems like her voice is miles away. “There. There! Stop, there it is. What’s the matter with you, you’re going by it?”
I snap back from my trip down the tunnel of despair and slowly pull over to the side of the road. I look carefully in the rearview mirror and swing a u-turn. A moment later I’m pulling into an old, dirty white service station that looks to be left over from the early days of Florida. We park on the side of the building by a pile of rusted springs and mufflers and various other rusted parts. Dory grabs her purse and jumps out of the van. I stay inside in a daze, thinking I’d take off down the highway if I didn’t need her car.
But I need her and she knows it.
Five eternal minutes go by before she comes prancing back around the corner of the building like she’s playing run around the Maypole. She’s fuckin’ skipping for Christ sake. And again looking to all the world like the damaged, frightened little buttercup I discovered at the café. Deeply now, I wish I had known when to keep my mouth shut.
Running off at the mouth, whether an attempt at friendly conversation or nervous spewing, can get you in trouble. Trouble of any kind can be caused by something you say. The wrong words to the wrong person at the wrong time and BANG—you won’t know what hit you.
She comes up to the window and I can’t help but stare at the soft skin below her neck leading to those luscious breasts. The sunshine on her hair and the glint in her pale blue eyes almost make me forget how fucked up everything is. For a brief moment I start to believe that I might actually get out of this unscathed.
Dory comes in real close and presses her hips against the door. She looks into my eyes and smiles broadly, and for the first time, I get a look at her teeth.
Poor girl has what we Northerners call “hillbilly teeth.” Decaying, discolored and uneven, they resemble Keith Richards’ mouth in the early days of the Rolling Stones. Most likely the result of a one hundred percent sugar diet. And being too busy running away from her father to brush. I hate to be superficial, but it’s not a pleasant sight, ruins the picture.
“Keith, darlin’, ” she says in kind of a drawl, “if you’ll come on in and bring along that Chevron Card and the rest of the wallet, we can pay the bill and get out of Dodge.”
“I don’t even know if these cards are any good. And you better start calling me Elton. I don’t know why the cards are in here or what they’re for. For all I know, they’re on the Arrest Immediately list. Could be hot as sun-baked asphalt.”
“Ya think these boys have all the fancy equipment to check on things like that? Shit, these dudes can barely turn on the radio without help. All they can do is fix cars and jerk off. You need to stop worrying. After I practically had to get down on my knees to get them to accept a credit card, we have to use it. I told them you were my fiancé from Colorado, come here to rescue me.”
I’m feeling pretty much defeated now. “It’s a Chevron station, so I guess they have to take it.” My words come out low and soft.
“I don’t know about that, but I ‘magine these boys do what they please around here. Ain’t a heck of a lot of competition. This is the only station for miles.”
“In two years it’ll be a strip mall.”
She crinkles her eyes at me and pulls on the door handle. I climb reluctantly out of the VW and Dory takes my hand in hers. My instinct is to pull it back but instead I swallow hard and keep walking along. What the hell...
Marv’s Chevron has two repair stalls, one of which contains a faded tan ‘69 Chevy Impala with a small dent on the driver’s door. To the left of the service area there’s an office painted dull yellow with greasy finger smears on the walls and a cloudy window facing the road.
I go into the office. Dory lingers behind. The metal desktop is littered with dirty scraps of paper, nuts, bolts, pens and assorted pieces of individually wrapped candy. A turned-over hubcap in the middle of the desk is piled high with cigarette and cigar butts. A dark green wastebasket, half full of candy wrappers, cigarette packs and empty tins of Copenhagen, sits next to a tarnished spittoon with vile-looking stains congealing on the edges. A wooden, wheeled chair behind the desk contains a grizzled old man I assume is the station owner because it says Marv on a small patch above the left breast pocket of his work shirt. He’s scanning the repair bill.
I say hello and sit down at the side of the desk on a chromium-framed kitchen chair with a cracked red plastic seat. I’m praying Marv won’t call in the number on the credit card I’m handing him. He squints at the card and then at me and puts the card on the desk.
I lean over and try to decipher the scribbles on the invoice: Timing chain, timing gear, shop supplies and labor. The easiest thing to read is the total: $277. 34.
The mechanic is standing outside the office door in smeared gray coveralls and an oily, black skullcap, trying his damnedest to explain to Dory—in a mostly incomprehensible mix of Scandinavian-flavored, Southern-white-trash English—what he has done to the Chevy. She’s slightly inside the office door and staring up at his grease-smeared stubble, acting like she understands.
Marv starts rummaging around in the side drawer, looking for something. My prayers are answered when he happily lifts out his credit card imprinter and a clean receipt. “I gotta charge you fifteen bucks extra for using the credit card,” he says, voice like a file dragged across a hunk of plastic. “Costs me money every time I get one of these goddamn things. S’posed to be ten percent, but I’m cuttin’ ya some slack on a count of the two a ya make such a fine couple.”
Wow, a whole $12.73.
“Thanks,” I say, growing ever more restless and uneasy, cold sweat beginning to trickle down the back of my neck. “I know how it is—the big oil companies are always screwing you over.”
His eyes narrow and he tilts his head sideways. Then he shrugs and launches a brown stream in the direction of the spittoon. The goober hits the edge with a slippery clank and drips down into the soup. Marv seems pleased. He writes up the charges on the credit card slip and slides the knob across the plastic. He grins and pushes everything over to me, along with a cracked and greasy ballpoint pen.
“There you go, Elton,” he says. “You’re all set.”
Guy didn’t know how right he was.
“Now we’ve got plenty of time to enjoy the sights before it gets dark, honey,” Dory says from the doorway as my nose starts to run.
I sniff in the run-off and sign the slip and Marv slides over a set of keys on a ring with a small, yellow rectangular card fastened to it. I take the keys and hand them to Dory but she holds her hands up and shakes her head to the negative.
“You drive the Chevy, honey,” she says, “So you can test out how it’s running.” Looking at me with those big wide eyes. “I’ll follow you in the van. Maybe we can find a motel on the beach somewhere.”
“I’m sure these guys fixed it quite well, Dory. I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll drive the van and follow you.”
“Oh come on—Elton. Please let me drive the camper. Please, please... can I please?”
Marvin smirks at me.
The mechanic says, “She be a runnin’ real goo-ed. Y’all’ll see.”
I give up any thoughts of resistance and squeeze the Chevy keys in my palm. I watch Dory wiggle and giggle out of the office. I follow closely behind her, thanking Marvin and trying not to stimulate any more conversation. It feels like the devil is in my chest.
Dory heads for the VW and I walk alongside her, smiling. We get to the bus and she climbs in the driver’s side like there’s no question about it. She’s got me and I know it. I can’t throw a big fuss at the gas station and besides that she still has the gun in her purse.
Now the coke is wearing off and my stomach is making like a jumping frog. My head feels like a doormat at a wedding party and I know there’s only one way to play it. I hold the door open and slide my hand around her waist, bring my head in close to her ear and whisper: “I think we need to recharge, Dory. We need to find someplace to dump this bus and then we can get high. You and me got a lot of living to do. I sure want to get to know you better.” I put my hand behind her head and gently pull her to me. I kiss her full on the mouth and let my tongue explore.
The muscles in her neck tighten up and she pulls away from me.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, struggling to keep from ripping her head off.
“Nothing,” she says, “Let’s just get moving.”
“And where is it that you think we’re going? You can’t drive this thing out in public for very long, anymore than I can.”
“We go to the first beach road and leave it there like it’s for camping,” she says, an edge in her voice and her eyes. “We throw the shit in my car and go to a motel. Take care of business and then go our separate ways.” She smiles like an angel. “I want half the shit.”
I feel the karmic ass-kick. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You pull that idea out of your ass?”
She blinks and her eyes glaze over and her face tightens up. A new Dory emerges: “I saved your Yankee ass already today, don’t forget that, whatever your name is. And don’t be callin’ me dumb. You smart-ass boys think yer so goddamn clever. Well, you listen here—I’m the one saved yer ass this time, pretty boy—and now we’re partners. It’s the law of the road. And I’ll sure as hell go somewhere and party with you if that’s what you want. But if it ain’t, I’m still gonna get my share of the dope. So you decide, man, you’re the fuckin’ smart one.”
Evidently not smart enough.
“Hey, no problem,” I say. “I’ll just tell my Colombian financiers that I met a beautiful woman and decided to give her half of their dope. I’m sure they’ll be real amenable to that, hopeless romantics that they are. Then they can send somebody after you for payment. No fuckin’ sweat, right? They’ll just cut your pretty little head off and put it in a box next to mine.”
She blinks a few times, acting like she doesn’t hear me.
“Listen, Dory,” I say, feeling the panic growing in my gut. “We’ll have to discuss this later. Right now we need to get our asses out of here. I’ll follow you. But keep two things in mind: One, the Chevy is faster than the Volkswagen so I can always catch you. And two, the cops will be looking for the van, and not me in a Chevy. That of course means that if they see us, you will go to jail and I will drive away. What I’m trying to get across here is that we better get off the road real soon and do this thing real fast or we’ll both be real fucked. Comprende?”
“Oooh, I love it when you talk forceful like that.”
“Christ, let’s just go.”
“Si, mi amoret.”
My throat seizes up.
Leaving Marv’s, heading down the road, I have no idea what direction I should take or what to do next. Basically, I have become Dory’s lap dog. It’s the only thing I can do, and I’m wondering if this girl really thinks I could fuck her after she pulled this power trip.
She doesn’t really know what she’s getting into, does she?
It isn’t long before we come to signs offering beach access. I wave and point and Dory obediently turns down the narrow shell road. After a short distance, we roll out of the mangroves and discover a beautiful little bay. There’s a good wind from the northwest, and off in the distance, whitecaps roll. But inside the long and narrow bay there is a gentle lapping of soft, blue-green water. Three cars are parked on the side of the road.
We continue along the access road, moving parallel to the water. I can’t stop thinking they’ve already found the dead cop and it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for a white VW bus with two gun-crazy drug addicts inside. This will be enough to send every firearm-owning redneck in the area into a feeding frenzy—and who can blame them?
On the southernmost spot on the bay I see a long point stretching out into the water. I can see only one car, out near the tip of the point. I drive on past the car and then around the point and now we are alone on the road as it jogs along a jagged and uninhabited shoreline. About a block down the vegetation begins to take over and the road narrows, encroached by gnarled creeping vines and spiky foliage. The surf is roaring in my ears and I can’t think straight. Then the road straightens out for a hundred yards and I zip around the VW, make her ride my bumper for a while. We bounce along while I check her out in the rearview. Looks to me like she’s getting uptight, constantly flipping her hair back with her free hand and gripping the wheel tightly with the other. The van is bouncing and bucking because she won’t shift out of second gear. I’m thinking maybe she’s in need of another blast of coke before the roof falls in on her castle of sand.
Then I see an opportunity up ahead: a small, offshoot trail going down toward the sand. I veer onto it and Dory follows, the VW’s headlights bouncing behind me like the eyes of an insane clown. I get to the beach and come to a stop. The wind howls and whines through the open window. White-capped waves slam against the shore. The sound is fierce, like Neptune himself is roaring his frustration with the state of the world.
I pull out a cigarette—a Kool—punch in the lighter on the cheesy maroon dashboard of the Chevy and watch her in the mirror. She has a cigarette going, too. She’s puffing on it and looking around nervously. Then I watch her climb out the driver’s door and come around to the front of the van, turning her eyes toward me as I put the lighter back in its hole. I swing my right arm onto the seat back and look at her, smiling my best fake smile. She waves at me then turns her eyes to the ocean and stretches her arms up to the sky.
I’m still facing her, and still smiling, when I slip the shifter into reverse with my left hand and floor the gas pedal.
I see her eyes widen and her body go rigid.
The rear bumper of the Chev hits her at the knees, her body jackknifes and her head smashes violently down on the trunk lid. There’s one hell of a thunk and she goes limp like a rag doll, her last gasps and gurgles signaling the end of another wasted life. I shift into drive and pull forward until she rolls off onto the sand. I get out and drag her body to the side door of the VW.
Sometime soon, somebody will discover an abandoned hippie van with links to three dead people: Schmidt, Bagley and now Dory. Traces of drugs and semen and god knows what all will be found among the carpet fibers of this four-wheeled wagon of sin. SATANISTS INVADE FLORIDA! might be the headline in the Baptist Weekly.
I stick poor Dory inside Bagley’s sleeping bag and clean out the van. I leave behind Bagley’s wallet and Elton Kirby’s wallet, keep Keith Waverly’s wallet. I stuff all forty-five kilos of coke and some clothes into Bagley’s two military duffels and throw them in the trunk of the Chevy.
Just before I drive away I remember to go back and close the curtains on the van and say my farewells and regrets to Dory.
I mean, what was I supposed to do? I really had to kill her. I could never have become partners with the heinous likes of her. And I couldn’t accept the responsibility of loosing Dory on an unsuspecting world, with her in possession of massive quantities of cocaine and a loaded handgun. So I see it as a public service. Born to serve—that’s me.
Dan Bagley and Dory, I figure, were like two peas in the pod, except Bagley had the good fortune to be born into wealth while Dory had to learn to lie and cheat out of necessity.
Now I’m beginning to see a new path. The seventies are fast approaching a horrible end and I can see an inkling of the new way, the new sensibility. It is time to be done with spiritual angst and uncertainty. Now the time is right for worshipping a new god, the god the successful people are already bowing and scraping to. Money. Some refer to it as Mammon—covetousness dressed up as enterprise. With cash as your guide, there is no guilt or agonizing soul searching. No wailing or gnashing of teeth. Unless the stock market crashes. One simply accumulates—always going forward—come hell or federal investigation. After accumulating, you consume. Then discard. It’s as easy as one, two, three.
Feeling the giddy rush of my new spirituality, I anoint my new Holy Trinity.
Money, Sex and Drugs form the new Godhead.
These are things that you can feel and experience, not pie in the sky and self-denial. This time around I will not get caught short. I’ll be riding high on the crest and running the shoot, hanging five on a golden surfboard.
First thing, though, I have to get back to St. Pete without getting caught by the cops. Then I need some cash, a new mode of transportation and an outlet large enough to handle mucho kilos of Peruvian Marching Powder. Talk about your millstones.
If I think about it too much my head starts to spin. I have no choice but to take it one step at a time. I decide to wait on the beach for a while. In a couple hours it will be dark.
After five minutes of vacant staring at the pounding surf, my stomach is flopping so bad I have to leave. I cannot look at the VW as I drive away. I continue down the frontage road until it winds its way back to Highway 19, where I turn right and head south through Homossa Springs until I hit State Highway 98. There, I turn east, roll through Brooksville and then all the way to the freeway. It’s a soft evening with no wind. Sun is sinking, red as blood.
As the roadside lights start popping on, the sky turns gray and then black and I’m swallowed up in the swarm of traffic. Just another white-trash night for the guy in the maroon Chevy. I’m strangely relaxed; emotion seems to have left me for the time being, and the drive is surreal, like I’m floating on air and the only sound is the hiss of the tires.