Just outside Lake O’ the Pines the woods grew thicker and we could see dark water between the trees and on the water were spots that looked like blue oil slicks and the sun made parts of it shine like a mirror. In the woods were lots of vines and moss, and they were twisted up thick as Brer Rabbit’s briar patch, and in some spots the water had run out of the woods and onto the road and we had to splash our tires through it. We found some old- fashioned cabins not far from a dark patch of deep woods and a big worn-out peeling sign with a fat preacher on it holding a Bible and pointing his finger in the air. The sign said: JESUS IS COMING. I thought he ought to hurry some, because it had already been over two thousand years.
The place we came to is called a motel these days, but once upon a time they were called tourist courts, and the original ones, of which this was a survivor, were small and simple and close together. This one was a row of brown-red buildings that were starting to strip paint and shed shingles.
Leonard and I rented a room from a guy that seemed surprised to see us, or most anyone for that matter. He was a bald little guy seated on a tall stool behind a counter, and there was a little brown and white dog sitting on the floor by the stool. The bald guy looked us in the eye and the dog looked up at us, its mouth wadded up, as if it was angry or missing teeth.
Tonto and Jim Bob rented a room too, all of it paid for with Marvin’s money. He had given us a thousand dollars, and anything over that Leonard and I had vowed to pay, which meant we were trying to keep it cheap and keep it real.
The tourist court was cheap and the rooms were small. There were two narrow beds with worn bedcovers and a desk with a mirror and two chairs and a little TV on a wall mount. It didn’t have a remote so you had to change channels by hand and all it got was three stations and some static. There was dust on the windowsills and the tub in the bathroom had a creaky-looking shower; there was a rim around the drain in the tub that was either rust or dried blood from when the last depressed occupant had slashed their wrists. Home Sweet Home.
The room Tonto and Jim Bob got was next door to us and it was the same as ours, except they had a microwave that didn’t work and the inside of it housed the remains of an exploded burrito. We visited with them briefly and left.
In our room I peeled back the dusty curtains and looked out the window to see if I saw a brown Ford, but I didn’t see one. I watched the old cracked highway from the window for a while. A lot of cars went by. Some were Fords, but none of them were brown.
“Hap,” Leonard called from the bathroom, “will you come hold my dick while I pee?”
“Go to hell, Leonard.”
“Will you wipe my ass? I’m tired.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m gonna shower. Will you come wash my back?”
“Die,” I said.
I kept looking out the window all the while the shower was running, and I kept getting the same non-results. I gave it up and sat on the bed and got the paperback Western novel out of my bag and put one of my guns next to me and read for a while. When Leonard finished his shower, I took one. There was no soap and no shampoo and the water was almost hot.
We dressed and joined up with our pals next door, and with directions from the bald guy behind the tourist court counter, we drove a few miles to a small town and a little cafe that was doing brisk business. The waitress was slightly overweight but cute. She walked like she had just had horseshoes removed. She gave us a booth with a table that was still sticky from having just been wiped. We sat with our hands in our laps while it dried, waiting on the menus she forgot to give us.
When the menus came we studied them and got coffee first. I said, “Way I figure it, instead of a whole pack of us going to look at the cabins where Hirem said his son was, me and Leonard will go, and call you when we need you.”
“You need us,” Tonto said, “you won’t have time to call.”
“If you’re right,” I said, “and no one’s following us, we’ll be fine because we’re not up against anything but two kids and some fishing rods and about three hundred thousand dollars, minus pay for some gas and a meal or two.”
“I could be wrong, though,” Tonto said. “Been having a feeling things aren’t right.”
“What’s it based on?” Jim Bob said.
“My gut,” Tonto said.
“I don’t believe in that sort of thing,” Jim Bob said. “I believe you feel that way, it’s because you’ve noticed something, something that hasn’t registered consciously but it’s there. Something has struck you. Seen something, thought someone didn’t look right. It may have been on some deeper level, but you know something because there’s something to know—or you’re just fucking paranoid.”
“That’s a lot of somethings,” Tonto said.
“Doing this kind of work can make you paranoid,” I said.
“I believe in premonitions,” Tonto said, “and I believe in my gut. My gut’s telling me this isn’t going to be a cakewalk, and that it’s going to turn ugly, and that we’re already into it and we don’t know it yet.”
“My brown Ford,” I said.
“Haven’t seen any brown Ford,” Tonto said. “I tell you simple, it’s my gut telling me things.”
“Right now,” Leonard said, “my gut is telling me I’m going to order some fried chicken and some mashed potatoes with gravy, and maybe afterward, a slice of some kind of pie. And then, if I’m feeling really rowdy, I might wipe my hands on my pants.”
“You are such a tough guy,” I said.
“And don’t you forget it.”
33
