Blackbirds (8 page)

  By the time he's taking the Lord's name in vain, she's already at the opposite back tire, slicing a new mouth in the rubber. It too leaks a steady hiss.

  The rubber flaps on asphalt with each turn of the tire:
thup thup thup thup.

  She passes by his driver's side window while he's still looking out the passenger side, and calls in: "See? Told you my getaway sticks will do the trick. Don't go driving on that thing. You'll dick up the rims."

  Then she gives him the finger and jogs away, leaving the hobbled Mustang behind.

 

 

 

Miriam enjoys a lumberjack's meal.

  All around her are the sounds of breakfast: spoons clanking in mugs as they stir, the hiss of griddles, the scrape of fork tines against plate. She's keeping her head down, focused on the monstrosity before her. Two eggs, over easy. Two buttermilk pancakes that seemed the size of manhole covers before Miriam got to them. Four link sausages. Wheat toast. And on a separate plate, a grilled cinnamon bun. Everything but the bun sits soaked in a congealing ooze of maple syrup.
Real
maple syrup, like from a fucking tree, not that flavored diarrhea from the grocery store.

  
You curse like a sailor,
her mother always said
. And you eat like
a lumberjack.

  Still. Despite the gut-expanding, tongue-pleasing meal, she doesn't want to look up, lest her eyes explode from all the cheeriness.

  The Sunshine Café.
Ugh.

  Bright yellow walls. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains. Powder blue stools at the counter. Farmers, migrants, truckers, and country yuppies all milling around together. Each one of them probably goes to church, puts change in the collection plate, and tries to be a good American citizen, smiling all the while. Miriam shakes her head. She reminds herself to one day get drunk and urinate on a Normal Rockwell painting.

  Miriam wads up a hunk of toast, ruptures an egg yolk, lets the runny ooze swirl together with the syrup swamp she's created.

  And then someone sits down across from her.

  "You owe me for the tow truck," Ashley says.

  Miriam shuts her eyes. Breathes deep through her nose.

  "I'm just going to pretend you're a pink elephant. You'll kindly take this opportunity to get up and slink out of this place like a rat before I open my eyes, because if I open my eyes and still see you there, oh Figment of My Diseased Imagination, I'm going to stab you in the neck with my fork."

  Ashley snaps his fingers. "Or, alternate scenario: I call the police."

  Her eyes snap open. She watches him. He grins, the middle of his bottom lip bisected by a dark scabby line. So smug. So satisfied.

  "You won't. You're road scum just like me. They won't believe you."

  "Maybe," he says. "But they'll believe pictures. That's right – I got photos. And the coincidences will seem more than a little strange, won't they? Since Richmond, you've been, what, at the scene of
three
different deaths?"

  Her jaw tightens. "I didn't kill those men."

  "All of them conveniently missing the cash from their wallets. And I'm sure if someone were to do a little bit of digging, they'd find the credit cards missing, too. Credit cards that sometimes get used, then thrown in trash cans or ditches. Digging even deeper, they'd find a trail of the dead, wouldn't they? With your footprints walking them backward through time. They'd find your diary. They'd find your weird little datebook."

  Miriam's guts go cold. She feels trapped. Cornered. A butterfly pinned to a corkboard. For a second, she genuinely considers sticking her fork in Ashley Gaynes's neck and bolting.

  "I didn't kill them," she says.

  Ashley watches her. "I know. I read enough of the diary."

  "But you don't believe it."

  "I maybe do," he says. "My mother was into all kinds of mystical blah-blah. Crystal gazing, psychic phone line, all that. I figured it for garbage, but sometimes, I wasn't so sure. I always wanted to believe.

  "Plus, these three I've seen, they each died in different ways, didn't they? The bike courier in Richmond – the black kid? Traffic accident. Hard to call that murder, though you
are
a crafty little cunt, aren't you?"

  "Nice. You go down on your mother with that mouth?"

  Ashley visibly tenses. His grin doesn't fade, but he damn sure isn't happy.

  "Don't talk about my mother," he says. He continues: "The most recent appears to have choked on his own tongue after a particularly severe epileptic fit. Again, could've been murder, but the guy had a history of epilepsy, right? The one from Raleigh, the old man, what was his name? Benson. Craig Benson. I'm actually not sure how he died. Company bigwig, had lots of security and cops and the like; I couldn't get close. But you did. Was he just old?"

  Miriam pushes aside her plate. She's no longer hungry.

  "His dick killed him," she says.

  "His dick."

  "His erection, more specifically."

  "You banged CEO Grandpa?"

  "Jesus, no. I did flash him a tit, though. He was so pumped fill of dick pills – and not prescribed stuff, but shit from, like, some village in China – that it killed him. My chest isn't exactly impressive, but I guess it's enough to kill an old man."

  "So him you
did
kill."

  "Bull."

  "Gun or tit, you were the one firing the weapon."

  She waves him off. "Whatever."

  The waitress comes by – skinny up top, but a big round bottom that Miriam can't help but think of as "birthing hips"– and asks Ashley what he wants. He orders coffee.

  "So, you've been following me for two months now?"

  He tells her just about, yeah.

  "How? How'd you find me?"

  The waitress comes, pours him a coffee, tops off Miriam's, too. "The bike courier. I saw you picking the corpse's pockets. I had the same idea."

  "You just
happened
to be there?"

  "Nah. I'd been working the courier for a week. He was dirty. Delivering packages for all kinds of shady types. I was running a scheme, trying to convince him that he and I could take one of those packages and offer it to a higher bidder, but really, I was just going to take the package and run." He sips noisily at his coffee. "Obviously, you came and fucked that up."

  "You're a con-man, then."

  "I prefer con-
artist
."

  "
I'm a dancer, not a stripper
. Keep saying it, see if it magically becomes true." She feels a headache from the Bourbon of Doom stretching its legs in the back of her skull, like it needs to get up and roam around. She needs a smoke. Or a drink. Or a bullet to the temple. "Let's cut to the chase. You see what you see, and you follow me for
two months
. Why?"

  "Initially, it was professional curiosity. I figure, hey, check it out – another con-artist, just like me. Maybe I can learn a thing or two, and maybe I'll pull something over on her, or maybe she'll pull something over on me. Either way would've been interesting."

  "I'm not a con-artist."

  "Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. Maybe this whole thing is a ruse, and maybe you're conning me right now. The diary, the datebook, the hair dye. Maybe you knew about the game I was trying to run on the courier, and maybe you thought I was the bigger fish." He shakes his head, waggles a finger. "But I don't think so. Because things don't add up. The courier had a package. You didn't take it. You only emptied his wallet. In fact, that seems to be all you do. You empty their wallets, maybe take a few other items – like the kid's scarf, or the old man's watch."

  "It's all stuff I need. It was cold, so I wanted a scarf. And I didn't take Benson's watch. Cop must've taken that. I have my own watch–" She holds up her wrist with the old-school calculator watch attached. "Of course, batteries are dead now, but that's not the point. From Benson, I took a pen because I needed a pen. I need to eat and sleep, so I take money for food and hotel rooms."

  "And that's it? You don't angle for more?"

  She upends three packets of sugar into her coffee. "I don't get greedy."

  "You don't get greedy," he repeats, laughing. "That's cute. I like that. A little ointment for the soul never hurt anybody."

  She shrugs.

  "Let's say all of this is true," he says.

  "It
is
true, that's why we're
saying
it."

  "You can see how people are going to die."

  "You read the diary. That what the diary said, you nosy fucker?"

  He chuckles. "Okay. You have this weird gift. So do me."

  "I
did
you last night."

  "Cute again. No, I mean, with the whole
voodoo death-touch vision
thing."

  She rolls her eyes. "That's what I mean. Yeah, I did you with my vagina, but I also did the 'voodoo death-touch vision' trick. It doesn't take much. Skin on skin." He starts to speak, but she cuts him off. "No way, dude. I am not telling how you're going to die. I will not give you that satisfaction. Besides, you don't want to know. It ain't gonna be pretty."

  He flinches. His eyes pinch at the edges. She got to him. He thinks it's close, that it's coming. Way she sees it, people fall into one of two categories: those who think their death is imminent, and those who figure they have long, healthy lives ahead of them. Nobody ever thinks it's somewhere in-between.

  Ashley nods, then clucks his tongue.

  "I see what you did there. You're trying to mess with me. That's cool. You know what? I don't wanna know. But here comes the waitress. Do her."

  "You're serious?"

  "Serious as a pulmonary embolism."

  The waitress, she of the big hips and swaying caboose, comes up to the table's edge and lays down a check. In her other hand, though, she's got a coffee pot.

  "I'll take that whenever y'all are ready," she says, sweet as a mouthful of honey. "Meantime, you need a top off, sweetie?"

  Miriam says nothing, just slides her coffee mug closer to the waitress in acknowledgement. She gives the woman a faint smile of concession, and as the woman pours the brew, Miriam brushes the back of her hand with her –

  – fingertips. Miriam, still hearing the sound of the accident, gently pulls her hand away and clears her throat. "That's fine. Thanks."

  "Sure thing, hon."

  Miriam takes a deep breath.

  "So," Ashley asks, eager. "How does it happen?"

  "I need to go to the bathroom."

  She stands up and pushes her way through the little café. Her hand brushes a farmer's elbow –