“Of course.”
“I'll swing by.”
“Excellent. We'll alert Aubrey.”
I snap the cell shut and toss it onto the passenger seat.
For some reason, traffic slows down right before the causeway and then it speeds back up again. Probably some sort of rubbernecking delay. I hope nobody's had an accident. Could be an overheated radiator. Maybe a flat tire. I'll check it out, see if I can help. Hey, a cop is never really off duty. Ceepak tells me that, all the time.
I move closer to the bridge. I see this curvy girl standing on the shoulder of the road. She's wearing rolled- up military shorts, cowboy boots, and a bikini top. Actually, the top looks more like a bra than a bathing suit. She's sticking out her thumb and every car with a still-breathing male behind the wheel is slowing down to sneak a peek.
I pull over and roll down the passenger-side window.
The girl heads over to my Jeep and sticks her head inside. She leans over far enough to give me a pretty good idea of what's holding up the bikini top.
“Hey,” she says, all breathy and husky, like she thinks a sexy woman is supposed to sound. Her hair is red. Actually, it's more an orange rinse over black roots.
There's a small stone sparkling near her left nostril, and she's stuck an earring through her right eyebrow- for balance, I guess. I'm figuring she's sixteen, maybe seventeen, tops. She has a Hello Kitty backpack.
“Got room for one more?” She swipes her tongue slowly across her top teeth. It might actually be sexy if her teeth weren't so grungy.
I reach over to the passenger window for her backpack, toss it into the back.
“Hop in,” I say.
She does.
CHAPTER SIX
W.W.C.D?
What would Ceepak do?
I should get a hat made like the W.W.J.D. ones the born-again Christian kids wear at the Life Under the Son booth up on the boardwalk. They're always asking, “What Would Jesus Do?” But Jesus never owned a Jeep, so he probably never picked up a semi-naked teenage hitchhiker who sits with her cowboy-booted legs tucked up under her butt in a way that shows off a ton of thigh.
We're on the island now, approaching the traffic circle right next to King Putt Golf, this miniature golf course where I once scored a hole-in-one on Cleopatra's Loop-D-Loop. You have to shoot your ball up an alligator's snout and wait for it to twirl out the tail.
Finally, I come up with something to say.
“So, where you headed?”
“The beach.”
“Cool. Which beach?”
She giggles. “Um, the one near the ocean?”
I laugh. She laughs. I laugh some more.
“I mean what street? See, down here, we sort of name the beaches after the streets that dead-end into them. Like Oak Beach is near the east end of Oak Street. Tangerine Beach, Tangerine Street. Maple….”
“Maple.”
Maple Beach is pretty close to where I used to hang out when I was her age. Like a decade ago.
“Where do you live?” I decide to ask.
“Jersey,” she says.
Oh.
“What exit?”
In the great state of New Jersey, it's standard practice to pinpoint someone's hometown by either their Turnpike or Garden State Parkway exit number. Some lucky people even have both. Me? I'm Exit 62 on the GSP. The Turnpike doesn't come down the shore-it goes to Delaware, instead. Guess it's a much more serious roadway.
My passenger doesn't answer.
We're at the red light at the traffic circle.
“Come on-what exit?”
“Sorry,” she says. “Not on the first date.”
“Oh? Is this a date?”
She leans forward. Her lip gloss smells like test-tube strawberries or some other kind of chemical fruit.
“If you want it to be….”
Fortunately, the stoplight changes to green and the New Yorker behind me wastes no time blaring his horn up my bumper.
“Fuck you!” the girl screams, and flips the guy the finger. “Asshole!”
I concentrate on making the right turn. Applying pressure to the gas pedal. Letting the New Yorker pass me. Grinning foolishly when he shakes his fist and shouts something you'd never hear in a Disney movie.
“I'll drive you to where you're going.”
“Thanks,” she says.
“So, you hitched all the way down?” I ask.
“Cheaper than taking the bus.”
“True….”
“I don't have my own wheels.”
“I see. What about your parents?”
She doesn't answer that one.
“It's totally easy to hitch.”
“Totally dangerous, too.”
She gives me a “whatever” rise and fall of the shoulders. “I'm careful. I never climb in with any, you know, raggedy-ass skeezers or anything.”
She says this like I should be flattered.
“Of course,” she adds, “I'm always willing to pay my way.”
“Unh-hunh.”
“Always.”
“Unh-hunh.”
“There's a couple totally happy truck drivers on the Turnpike right now.”
“Hunh.”
I'm focusing on the road but I can feel the heat radiating off her skin as she leans in closer. I smell strawberries again. It reminds me of that weird, day-glow-red stuff they pour on top of ice cream at Skipper Dipper for the folks who don't do hot fudge. Suddenly, a wet tongue is swirling around inside my ear.
We swerve into the left lane.
“Sorry,” I say, regaining control of my vehicle-if of nothing else.
“You want to pull over and mess around some?”
“No, thanks.”
“We could party.”
“I'm kind of late.”
“For what?”
“I'm meeting some friends.”
“Really? Where?”
“The Sand Bar. Burgers, beer, that kind of thing.”
