the left, a little boy with a buzz cut raced onto the balcony of a two-story, pulled his pants down to his ankles and tried to pee through the rail. His mother yelped and caught him in the nick of time and dragged him back through the sliding glass door. By then they were both laughing.
Rachel and I smiled at each other.
“Kids,” I said.
“Boys, you mean.”
I looked at her. “What, you’re saying girls don’t pee outdoors?”
“Not from heights.”
We walked in silence while I pondered the validity of her remark.
Rachel said, “I haven’t told my mom.”
“Told her what?”
“About us.”
“What about us?”
“About us getting married, silly.”
“Oh, that.” I said.
“Maybe I should tell her in person,” she said.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
We’d come to an open area, maybe eighty yards from the nearest house. I heard a car coming up behind us, moving slowly. I instinctively moved Rachel to the left side of the road.
“You dudes need a ride?”
Several of them in the car: blue, 69 Camaro Super Sport, dual white racing stripes on the hood.
The driver had done the talking. He was Rachel’s age, meaning late twenties. He had a chipped front tooth, and greasy, stringy hair. His eyes had the glazed look of a pothead who took his weed seriously. When the back window zipped down, a cloud of smoke leaked out and swirled in the breeze.
An alarmingly ugly guy with thick lips said, “We’ll give the girl a ride.” Addressing Rachel, he said, “Hey chica, you want a little strange? Climb in. We’ll give you a ride you won’t never forget!”
“Back off, fuck wad,” Rachel said. “Or my fiance will kick your ass.”
The ugly guy’s eyelids were at half-mast. He showed me a dull, vacant stare. “That right, pops?”
“Move along,” I said.
“You believe this shit?” he said to someone in the back seat. “Bitch turning down our sweet ride. Pops prob’ly got a Oldsmobile nearby. Maybe we drive around, see we can find it. Maybe we torch that motherfucker for you, eh pops?”
I returned his stare. “Like the lady said: I want a ride, I’ll kick your ass and take your car.”
The scumbags in the car erupted like Springer’s audience when Jerry trots out the trailer trash. There were numerous threats hurled in our direction, and someone in the back seat on the far side—a kid with a colorful bandana—lifted himself out the window and aimed a gun at me sideways.
It was dusk, but not too dark for me to get a good look at the piece.
“Be careful with that thing,” I said.
“Ha! You ain’t so brave now, are you, pops?”
“Braver,” I said. “That piece of shit gun is all wrong. No way it fires without blowing up in your face.”
“You want, I’ll shoot it now.”
“I’d pay to see that,” I said, “but I got a question.”
“What’s that, asshole?”
“You think your friends will take your body to the hospital, or just dump you here on the road?”
The kid looked at his gun.
“Fuck you!” he said, and climbed back in the car.
The driver said, “Another time, pops.”
“What’s wrong with right now?” I said.
“Another time.”
He hoisted his arm out the window and gave us the finger. They laughed and roared away.
“You think they’ll come back?” Rachel said.
“I hope so,” I said.
Chapter 3
THE YOUNG MAN was lying on his back on a sand dune thick with saw grass. Few people knew him. Those who did called him D’Augie.
D’Augie had followed Creed and Rachel from a careful distance. When D’Augie saw them speaking, he knew they were about to turn and head back to the bed and breakfast, which is why he got a running start and dove into the sand dune, face first. After waiting a moment, he rolled onto his back and heard a car full of punks pull up to
