“He took my dog, Al.”
“We'll get your dog back,” I said. “I promise.”
He nodded. But before he got up, he punched Polchev one more time, in the kidneys.
Kelley slapped the cuffs on Polchev, and Mirandized all three suspects. I heard sirens in the distance. Back- up, and probably an ambulance. I looked for Dombrowski, but he was moving toward the front door, staring at something in his hands.
A wallet. Polchev's wallet.
“Duffy!” I yelled. “Don't leave the bar!”
He glanced over at me, then ran out the entrance.
Excerpt from Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath
-1-
Taylor liked toes.
He wasn't a pervert. At least, not that kind of pervert. Taylor didn't derive sexual gratification from feet. Women had other parts much better suited for that type of activity. But he was a sucker for a tiny foot in open-toed high heels, especially when the toenails were painted.
Painted toes were yummy.
The truck stop whore wore sandals, the cork wedge heels so high her toes were bent. She had small feet— they looked like a size five—and her nails matched her red mini skirt. Taylor spotted her through the windshield as she walked over to his Peterbilt, wiggling her hips and wobbling a bit. Taylor guessed she was drunk or stoned. Perhaps both.
He climbed out of his cab. When his cowboy boots touched the pavement he reached his hands up over his head and stretched, his vertebrae cracking. The night air was hot and sticky with humidity, and he could smell his own sweat.
The whore blew smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Hiya, stranger. My name's Candi. With an I.”
“I'm Taylor. With a T.”
He smiled. She giggled, then hiccupped.
Even in the dim parking lot light, Candi with an I was nothing to look at. Mid-thirties. Cellulite. Twenty pounds too heavy for her skirt and halter top. She wore sloppy make-up, her lipstick smeared, making Taylor wonder how many truckers she'd already blown on this midnight shift.
But she did have very cute toes. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the pavement, and Taylor licked his lower lip.
“Been on the road a long time, Taylor?”
“Twelve hours in from Cinci. My ass is flatter than roadkill armadillo.”
She eyed his rig. He was hauling four bulldozers on his flatbed trailer. They were heavy, and his mileage hadn't been good, making this run much less profitable than it should have been.
But Taylor didn't become a trucker to get rich. He did it for other reasons.
“You feeling lonely, Taylor? You looking for a little company?”
Taylor knew he could use a little company right now. He could also use a meal, a hot shower, and eight hours of sleep.
It was just a question of which need he'd cater to first.
He looked around the truck stop lot. Pretty full for late night in Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Over a dozen rigs and just as many cars. The 24 hour gas station had a line for the pumps, and Murray's Eats, the all-night diner, appeared full.
On either side of the cloverleaf there were a few other restaurants and gas stations, but Murray's was always busy because they boasted more than food and diesel. Besides the no-hassle companionship the management and local authorities tolerated, Murray's had a full-size truck wash, a mechanic on duty, and free showers.
After twelve hours of caffeine sweating in this muggy Midwestern August, Taylor needed some quality time with a bar of soap just as badly as he needed quality time with a parking lot hooker.
But it didn't make sense to shower first, when he was only going to get messy again.
“How much?” he asked.
“That depends on—”
“Half and half,” he cut her off, not needing to hear the daily menu specials.
“Twenty-five bucks.”
She didn't look worth twenty-five bucks, but he wasn't planning on paying her anyway, so he agreed.
“Great, sugar. I just need to make a quick stop at the little girls' room and I'll be right back.”
She spun on her wedges to leave, but Taylor caught her thin wrist. He knew she wasn't going to the washroom. She was going to her pimp to give him the four Ps: Price, preferences, plate number, parking location. Taylor didn't see any single men hanging around; only other whores, and none of them were paying attention. Her pimp was probably in the restaurant, unaware of this particular transaction, and Taylor wanted to keep it that way.
“I'm sorta anxious to get right to it, Candi.” He smiled wide. Women loved his smile. He'd been told, many times, that he was good-looking enough to model. “If you leave me now, I might just find some other pretty girl to spend my money on.”
Candi smiled back. “Well, we wouldn't want that. But I'm short on protection right now, honey.”
“I've got rubbers in the cab.” Taylor switched to his brooding, hurt-puppy dog look. “I need it bad, right now, Candi. So bad I'll throw in another ten spot. That's thirty-five bucks for something we both know will only take a few minutes.”
Taylor watched Candi work it out in her head. This john was hot to trot, offering more than the going rate, and he'd probably be really quick. Plus, he was cute. She could probably do him fast, and pocket the whole fee without having to share it with her pimp.
“You got yourself a date, sugar.”
Taylor took another quick look around the lot, made sure no one was watching, and hustled Candi into his cab, climbing up behind her and locking the door.
The truck's windows were lightly tinted—making it difficult for anyone on the street to see inside. Not that Candi bothered to notice, or care. As soon as Taylor faced her she was pawing at his fly.
“The bedroom is upstairs.” Taylor pointed to the stepladder in the rear of the extended cab, leading to his overhead sleeping compartment.
“Is there enough room up there? Some of those spaces are tight.”
“Plenty. I customized it myself. It's to die for.”
Taylor smiled, knowing he was being coy, knowing it didn't matter at this point. His heart rate was up, his palms itchy, and he had that excited/sick feeling that junkies got right before they jabbed the needle in. If Candi suddenly had a change of heart, there wasn't anything she could do about it. She was past the point of no return.
But Candi didn't resist. She went up first, pushing the trap door on the cab's ceiling, climbing into the darkness above. Taylor hit the light switch on his dashboard and followed her.
“What is this? Padding?”
She was on her hands and knees, running her palm across the floor of the sleeper, testing its springiness with her fingers.
“Judo mats. Extra thick. Very easy to clean up.”
“You got mats on the walls too?” She got on her knees and reached overhead, touching the spongy material on the arced ceiling, her exposed belly jiggling.
“Those are baffles. Keeps the sound out.” He smiled, closing the trap door behind him. “And in.”
The lighting was subdued, just a simple overhead fixture next to the smoke alarm. The soundproofing was black foam, the mats a deep beige, and there was no furniture in the enclosure except for an inflatable rubber mattress and a medium-sized metal trunk.
“This is kind of kinky. Are you kinky, Taylor?”
“You might say that.”
Taylor crawled over to the trunk at the far end of the enclosure. After dialing the combination lock, he opened the lid. Then he moved his Tupperware container aside and took out a fresh roll of paper towels, a disposable paper
