were full, I stood up and said, “Well, folks, I’m outta here. Thanks for everything. Next time I’m in Memphis . . .”
Stoker said, “Next time you’re in Memphis it’ll be for your fucking funeral.”
For some reason that amused the hell out of me and I started laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” Stoker said.
I shook my head. “No. No, but this is.”
Taking one step forward, I took the girl by the collar of her blouse, pulled her up with one hand, and kissed her forcefully.
She didn’t exactly throw her arms around me, but she didn’t struggle, and, for a split second, I thought I felt the cool pressure of her tongue against my teeth.
Stoker watched, absolutely silent.
I let her go, and she looked up at me with that same bemused interest that seemed permanently engraved in her features.
She said, “You taste like blood.”
I laughed again and started backing away.
They stared at me until I was at the front door. Waiting for me to say something, I guess. I couldn’t think of anything suitably clever so I waved. Stoker gave me the finger.
I edged my way out the door slowly, still pointing the gun at them, until I was on the porch. Gently, I let the screen door close.
Then I hauled my ass out of there, taking the steps in one leap and running like hell up Stonewall.
Turned out the bills weren’t all twenties—in fact most of them were fives and tens, and all totaled it came out to five hundred and forty dollars. Not that I was complaining, though—it was a hell of a lot more than they’d taken from me. If I were extremely conservative, I could make that much money last for a pretty long time, even after giving the Reverend a hundred bucks out of it.
Of course, I had no intention of being conservative about it—on my way to Cuba Landing to almost certain employment, riding shotgun with a madman preacher who didn’t know the meaning of the word moderation, and still sailing on the adrenalin rush of having pulled off the most daring stunt of my life . . . it all meant party time until the money ran out.
Before we got on the freeway the Reverend pulled a fifth of Canadian whiskey out of the trunk and we started passing the bottle back and forth before we’d crossed the Tennessee-Mississippi state line. He listened, enthralled, while I told him about my lovely revenge, and he laughed at all the right places and glanced at me with wide eyes and said, “No shit!” and “I’ll be doggoned!” and “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty!”
A good audience, old Reverend Childe.
The miles on I-55 flashed by, taking us away from Memphis. For a long stretch the road seemed to drop steadily as we came off the Bluff. The signs of city life stopped almost all at once and the scenery went rural. We passed over the hills, through green and clay-colored patches of deep forest, past sagging willow trees. Kudzu grew in ditches and up the stout trunks of every tree, thick and dense.
A few miles west, the land flattened abruptly into the fertile expanse of the Delta, and at the high points on the road we could look in that direction and see cotton fields stretching away from us. We passed the time laughing, drinking, singing songs, like a couple of teenage boys on their first road trip.
Just north of Holly Springs the Reverend decided to get off the freeway and find someplace to eat. He steered the car off the next exit we came to, and we found ourselves on a long lonely stretch of two-lane road heading west.
The land flattened out and the road curved through the heart of the woods, great giant trees looming on either side. Not a diner or a gas station or any sign of humankind anywhere.
The woods around us began thinning out, until we came to a straight stretch on the road and the cotton fields we’d seen from a distance were all around us. Still no sign of humans—no one working in the fields, no houses in the distance, nothing.
We fell into our first long silence about then and kept
Stoker said, “Next time you’re in Memphis it’ll be for your fucking funeral.”
For some reason that amused the hell out of me and I started laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” Stoker said.
I shook my head. “No. No, but this is.”
Taking one step forward, I took the girl by the collar of her blouse, pulled her up with one hand, and kissed her forcefully.
She didn’t exactly throw her arms around me, but she didn’t struggle, and, for a split second, I thought I felt the cool pressure of her tongue against my teeth.
Stoker watched, absolutely silent.
I let her go, and she looked up at me with that same bemused interest that seemed permanently engraved in her features.
She said, “You taste like blood.”
I laughed again and started backing away.
They stared at me until I was at the front door. Waiting for me to say something, I guess. I couldn’t think of anything suitably clever so I waved. Stoker gave me the finger.
I edged my way out the door slowly, still pointing the gun at them, until I was on the porch. Gently, I let the screen door close.
Then I hauled my ass out of there, taking the steps in one leap and running like hell up Stonewall.
Turned out the bills weren’t all twenties—in fact most of them were fives and tens, and all totaled it came out to five hundred and forty dollars. Not that I was complaining, though—it was a hell of a lot more than they’d taken from me. If I were extremely conservative, I could make that much money last for a pretty long time, even after giving the Reverend a hundred bucks out of it.
Of course, I had no intention of being conservative about it—on my way to Cuba Landing to almost certain employment, riding shotgun with a madman preacher who didn’t know the meaning of the word moderation, and still sailing on the adrenalin rush of having pulled off the most daring stunt of my life . . . it all meant party time until the money ran out.
Before we got on the freeway the Reverend pulled a fifth of Canadian whiskey out of the trunk and we started passing the bottle back and forth before we’d crossed the Tennessee-Mississippi state line. He listened, enthralled, while I told him about my lovely revenge, and he laughed at all the right places and glanced at me with wide eyes and said, “No shit!” and “I’ll be doggoned!” and “Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty!”
A good audience, old Reverend Childe.
The miles on I-55 flashed by, taking us away from Memphis. For a long stretch the road seemed to drop steadily as we came off the Bluff. The signs of city life stopped almost all at once and the scenery went rural. We passed over the hills, through green and clay-colored patches of deep forest, past sagging willow trees. Kudzu grew in ditches and up the stout trunks of every tree, thick and dense.
A few miles west, the land flattened abruptly into the fertile expanse of the Delta, and at the high points on the road we could look in that direction and see cotton fields stretching away from us. We passed the time laughing, drinking, singing songs, like a couple of teenage boys on their first road trip.
Just north of Holly Springs the Reverend decided to get off the freeway and find someplace to eat. He steered the car off the next exit we came to, and we found ourselves on a long lonely stretch of two-lane road heading west.
The land flattened out and the road curved through the heart of the woods, great giant trees looming on either side. Not a diner or a gas station or any sign of humankind anywhere.
The woods around us began thinning out, until we came to a straight stretch on the road and the cotton fields we’d seen from a distance were all around us. Still no sign of humans—no one working in the fields, no houses in the distance, nothing.
We fell into our first long silence about then and kept
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