keeping the pack but gave it back. I didn’t want to be that kind of cop.
“You best get on home. The chief catches you out late squealing tires, he won’t be so nice about it.”
That sobered them a little. The chief liked things nice and quiet and everybody knew it.
“We’re sorry,” said the driver. It sounded almost sincere this time.
“Don’t be sorry. Just get on home.”
“Okay.”
They drove away.
I lit the Marlboro, smoked it. Stood there.
Shit.
I walked back down to Luke Jordan’s pickup truck, locked it, closed the doors. I looked around again as if the body might have crawled back on its own. I still couldn’t believe it. I climbed in the Chevy Nova and started driving south on State Road Six toward the Interstate.
The glow of the town lights faded after three minutes, and I was full into no-shit, outer space dark BFE Oklahoma. You could do that out here, just lose yourself in the perfect nothing of pitch black, except when you looked up. Stars big and glittering, not blotted out by city lights. Diamonds against black velvet and all that crap. Smart people had figured a thousand ways to say bright stars and dark night and have it sound like Shakespeare. But looking up, falling into the hugeness of it all, you could sort of see why the poets would take a stab at it.
I remember lying out by the lake at night with Doris, sharing a cheap bottle of wine, just looking up at the stars and enjoying feeling so small. I’d done the same thing with Molly too. Strange how it felt more like cheating than the actual screwing, sharing a moment like that.
I got the Nova up to about ninety. I flipped on the radio, passed through all the country stations until the dial landed on a Blind Melon song. I notched up the volume.
Usually nobody else on The Six this time of night. And so right then some headlights came up in the distance behind me. Gaining.
I just knew it was those fuckheads in the Trans Am. That’s the problem with being a part time deputy with your star pinned on a ratty old Weezer t-shirt. Turn around five seconds later and these people are back at their shenanigans. Kids.
But when the car got closer, the headlights were all wrong. Not the Trans Am. It got maybe three car links behind me and slowed down to match speed. I slowed down too, thinking he might go around, but he hung in back there.
Ten more minutes to the Texaco at this rate, and I did-n’t want this joker on my ass the whole way, but it didn’t look like he was going anywhere. I tapped the brakes, saw a wash of red taillights flare up in the rearview mirror. Take that, douche bag.
He backed off a fraction and stayed there. I was hoping to piss him off and make him go around. Okay, we’ll try it the other way.
I stomped on the gas.
The V-8 roared, and I steadily pulled away. He could-n’t keep up or wasn’t trying. I saw the headlights shrink behind me as the speedometer needle edged toward ninety-five. The gas needle was going about as fast in the opposite direction. Fucking car drank unleaded like Doris went through Mountain Dew.
But she could run. A rusty shit-mobile on the outside, but I had my head under the hood every weekend making sure she purred like a damn pussycat. I was good about changing the oil and the filters. She could fly.
Only two pinpricks of light marked the sedan behind me. East dust, bozo.
I held it steady like that, only slowing a few minutes later when the fuzzy smear of light signaled the Interstate up ahead. There were no cars in the Texaco lot, but I wasn’t worried about that since the place was open twenty-four hours. I parked up front and killed the engine.
A Coke and a pack of Winstons, and I’d be set. I checked for my wallet.
I didn’t have it.
Hell. My wallet was in the back pocket of my blue jeans back at the trailer. I opened the glove compartment and started checking under the seats, gathering quarters and dimes. Not enough. I went for the nickels and pennies. Underneath my car seats: crumpled Winston packs, pens, ATM receipts, fast food wrappers. I was embarrassed. I liked keeping the Nova better than that.
There was enough for the Winstons but not the Coke. Priorities, baby, priorities.
I got out of the car and saw a car parked on the far side of the gas pumps that hadn’t been there ten seconds ago. If it had been the car tailing me down The Six, it sure as hell could have caught up with me if it had wanted to. A totally cherry Ford Mustang Mach 1. And it was tricked out too. That car could chew up my Nova and shit it out the tailpipe no problem. Maybe it wasn’t them.
I went inside for the cigarettes.
There was a new girl on the counter.
“Where’s Wally?”
“I don’t know no Wally.” Hick accent so thick you’d need a hacksaw to get through it. She flipped through an issue of
Freckles.
“Larson hire you?”
She nodded. “Started last night.” She put her face back into the
“You getting married?”
“No.”
“Pack of Winstons.” I plunked the change on the counter in a messy pile.
She scraped it up and dumped it into the register without counting.
I opened the pack, stuck one in my mouth.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
I tapped my thumb against the star on my shirt. “It’s okay. I give myself permission.”
“You send away for that? My nine-year-old nephew got one in a kid’s meal.”
I let that go and ambled past the front window. The Mach 1 was still sitting out there. I tried to see in the front window without looking like I was looking, but I couldn’t see anyone. He wasn’t pumping gas or anything. I suppose I could have gone over there and stuck my head in the window like I did with the kids in the Trans Am, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.
“You ever see that car before?” “Nope.”
I circled the store once like I was still shopping. The car still sat out there. I didn’t want to go outside.
“Well, I guess I’d better get a move on. You have a good night.”
The freckled girl waved without looking up. She was back at her magazine.
I went outside, kept the Ford in my peripheral vision all the way back to the Nova. I half expected it to crank up with fire in the headlights like devil eyes. I forced myself to move slow, put on the seatbelt, stick the key into the ignition. The hell if I was going to spook myself with crap about a devil car. My imagination was fucking with me.
I sat in my car with the window rolled down, my back slick with sweat. I watched the freckled girl through the store window. She flipped pages in the magazine. Why did women read stuff like that? She didn’t live in Coyote Crossing or I’d have seen her. I glanced over at the Mustang, and it just sat there being a Mustang. I sucked on my cigarette, leaned my head out the window and blew smoke at the moon. Big green cheese. Banana cream pie in the sky. The man in the moon had bad skin. The Mustang just sat there. I started the Nova and drove back north on The Six.
Back in the thick Okie night. I put the Nova in the center of the road and let it eat up the lines like Pac Man. Last Christmas Doris got this computer game that hooked to the TV, a bunch of vintage video games like Pac Man and Galaga. By vintage I guess they meant old crappy games you could get cheap. We stayed up late and played it some nights when we finally got the boy to sleep. When I got on full time with the department, I was going to get one of those new Wii games Nintendo makes.
I was humming along fine, sucking on a fresh Winston. Maybe three minutes and I saw the headlights in my rearview mirror again.
And this time they did look like the devil’s eyes.
