“Tell him who I am?”
“For chrissake, you’ve got a big black car with a U.S. Congress license plate attachment. You think I’m stupid. This is the bitch who stole my suitcase and new coat and stranded me back where I met you. Go in there and start throwing your goddamn weight around. You want to show off in front of me, now’s your chance. Phone the governor. Phone the President. Get the fucking FBI over here. I want her arrested, jailed, and executed.”
By then the woman’s face had turned even more terrible. Her face appeared crushed and scratched on one side from her eye to her lower lip. The eye began to close up. It was already an ugly purple blotch and was beginning to swell. Blood dripped from her nose and one ear down onto her white jeans. The woman tried to focus her other eye. She moved her hands around the sidewalk trying to find her purse. I handed it to her. She fumbled, found her keys, and said weakly, “Her stuff’s in the back seat.”
Betty Jo stood over her. “And I want the fifty bucks I gave you for gas!”
The woman spit out blood before answering. “Don’t have it any more,” she sputtered in a weak voice. “Spent...for gas.”
Betty Jo leaned over nose to nose with the woman and shouted in her face, “Nobody fucks with me, woman!”
She grabbed the woman’s purse and violently shook it upside down. The contents scattered like marbles over the sidewalk, the curb, and under nearby cars. Betty Jo picked out the money, sorted out fifty dollars, and threw the rest of the money and the empty purse hard into the woman’s chest.
Betty Jo’s yelling had drawn attention and a crowd began to surround us. I took her aside and gently pointed out that since she’d just severely assaulted and possibly disfigured the woman for life, it might be best to forget about making any charges. Betty Jo was still breathing heavily but she nodded. The crowd stepped back hastily to clear a wide passage for her as she started to walk away. Then she turned and gave the woman the finger.
I stood there shaking. I tried to comfort the woman, but she shrugged me away. Betty Jo straightened her shoulders and walked serenely into the building. I carried her suitcase and coat back to my car.
So, she hadn’t been lying about being robbed and stranded up near Richmond. How about that. She was not out hitchhiking along the highway without any resources. She had lied about having a disabled car to get the ride because she was stranded, but not about being robbed. I sat another twenty minutes wondering about Betty Jo, and fully expecting the police to tap on my window at any time.
What was I doing at a truck stop in Jacksonville waiting for orders from this woman? I really didn’t know. That’s when I thought I heard the wail of a siren in the distance.
Betty Jo came running out of the building panicky. She raced up to the car and screamed for me to get out of there fast. I’d already seen her in action. I wasn’t going to wait for an explanation. Knowing Betty Jo, if the entire building had exploded into a tower of flames at that moment, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Someone called the police. They’re all yelling about it in there and pointing at me.”
The siren sounds were definitely getting louder. The “Congressman and the Stripper” headline flashed across my mind. For the first time in my life, I slammed the accelerator to the floor and held it there just like in the movies. The car fishtailed sideways, the tires spun then screeched as we tore out of there seemingly on two wheels.
Once on the access road I could see the flashing lights of an oncoming sheriff’s car and a highway patrol vehicle. Sirens blared as they passed us. As we swung up onto I-95, I glanced back and saw the trooper had blocked the truck stop exit to prevent any additional vehicles from leaving the truck stop.
“See that white SUV behind us?” She was turned in the seat, watching out the back window. “We were the last two vehicles to get out.”
Underway on the highway, the yelp of another siren made us both stiffen. I was afraid to look in the rearview mirror. The siren’s cry grew louder and we could then see an ambulance roaring by in the oncoming lane.
I finally relaxed my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. But for the rest of the trip I fully expected flashing lights in the rear view mirror at any time.
She made a small laugh. “I guess I sort of called attention to myself back there.”
“I guess you did. Of course, you’d have been noticed back there even if you hadn’t taken out that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
I laughed. “What goes unnoticed in Baltimore can start a riot at a redneck truck stop.”
“What are you talking about?”
I didn’t answer.
“You mean how I look?”
I shouldn’t have said anything to start. I had intended my comment to be complimentary. At least I was smart enough to remain silent.
“You mean how I’m dressed?” She didn’t like this at all. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“They’re fine. I guess it’s not your fault.”
“Well, then what the hell are you talking about?”
“Your clothes are fine. It’s how you wear them.” I was getting in deeper. “When you put everything together, you have a certain look.”
“So what you’re saying is I look like a whore.”
“Of course not. I’m just saying you have more of a Baltimore city look than a redneck truck-stop look.” I was truly sorry I’d brought up the subject. “I think you’re beautiful. You could be a model.” I hoped that was the end of it. Maybe she’d leave it at that.
I thought she was still mad at me but later she said, “I’m so glad I’ve got my clothes back. Also, I’ve a new bikini packed in there. Can we stop at a beach on the way down?”
“I thought you were in a hurry. If we stop, you won’t get to your mother’s until after dark.”
“What’s another couple of hours? Come on, let’s find a beach somewhere so I can try out my new bikini. It’s orange. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it off.”
You hear that comment? She was doing it again. She didn’t want the teasing sexy talk, but would instantly go back to it if it suited her. Like now enticing me to take her to the beach. Once again, she toyed with my agony. Truth is I’d have done anything for her. You want to go to the beach, Cannes, Acapulco? Just name it.
We were now near Sebastian, Florida and she wanted off that land-bound highway. She was serious about the beach. We were unfamiliar with this part of the Florida east coast, but I knew we needed to cut over east to A1A, which runs alongside the ocean. We exited and stopped at a convenience store for directions. She bought one of those large soft pretzels. It didn’t come with mustard, which she had to have. So I bought a little jar of mustard for her.
South on A1A I found that isolated beach. I almost drove past. There were no formal parking spaces. You just pulled onto a dirt road behind the dense foliage. This woman who stripped for a living hid behind my car like an adolescent girl so I wouldn’t see her while she changed into her bikini. She had me lock her clothes and shoulder bag in the trunk.
The beach was down a sandy slope. She stretched out on her back in the faultless sand. She was absolutely stunning lying there in the late afternoon sun. Unbelievable. At one point, she rolled over on her stomach and undid the straps to her top, careful not to expose her breasts to me. That annoyed me and I told her so, “You’ve been flirting with men across five states. I drive you all the way to Florida and don’t even get a flash.”
“It’s my day off.” She laughed and started to eat the pretzel. All at once, she started choking. Then she stood, one hand at her throat the other holding the bikini top to her chest. Just a cough and I thought nothing of it at first. She let the top fall and clutched her throat with both hands. Obviously in severe distress. She bent over jerking her knees up and down like an Indian war dancer. I panicked. I slapped her back fairly hard between the shoulder blades, I’d seen a waiter do that once. I reached around her waist from behind and squeezed. I really didn’t know what I was doing. She clutched at her throat trying to cough. I pounded on her back again. Whatever I was doing wasn’t correct or at least didn’t work. After a couple of minutes, her face started turning blue. Within five minutes, she had lost consciousness. In another five...she was dead.
In a flash. Just like that. Betty Jo was gone.
I had been useless. I started crying and had to kneel down. I realized I had to get help. I thought about how this would look and how the police wouldn’t believe me. I tried to get her top back on so they wouldn’t think I molested her, but I gave up on that. I started running up the dune toward my car.
As I started back to my car, this young man walked up. I covered her with my suit jacket and we talked for a
