Read Cross Country Murder Song Online
Authors: Philip Wilding
Cross Country Murder Song (23 page)
You know me, he said to her, feeling dazed and resting his hand on her tray which almost tipped with the weight. She pulled away from him.
I don't know you, pal, she said. You're just another guy. She must have indicated to someone as there was a man there quickly helping him to his feet. He tried to resist.
I'm just waiting for someone, he said.
Then wait somewhere else, said the man and gripped his upper arm. As he was being propelled toward the door he heard her start up music and tried to wrestle his head around so that he could at least see her entrance on to the stage. The man grabbed his jaw and forcibly turned it back so that he was facing the exit. He saw the man with the oil in the hair regard him from the end of the bar and offer him just the briefest of nods. Then he was outside and almost running into a stationary black car.
He waited until payday until he went back again and loaded up his wallet with twenties, fives and dollar bills, determined to enjoy himself. He joined his friends for a drink after work and when they started asking him about his new girl he fended them off with jokes and lots of mugging and then he made his excuses and left. He took his car home, changed his jacket and ran some wax through his hair and took a bus down to the end of the freeway and approached the strip club at dusk, spotting it first between the concrete columns supporting the rumbling road above. It looked smaller and bleaker than before and he noticed that half of the sign had finally burnt out and afforded him only half the welcome.
He patted the doorman cheerily on the arm and the doorman screwed up his eyes as if deciding if he knew him or not, before letting him in. He looked around the room, a beaming smile stuck to his lips. What he came to think of as his regular table was open and he took it and waited for the waitress. He didn't recognise her when she did turn up to take his order.
You new? he asked her and she shrugged noncommittally. I come here a lot, I know the guys, you know, he swept an arm towards the open room, but he couldn't be sure who he might be indicating. The waitress looked around and then back at him. Drink? she asked.
At first he didn't recognise her standing there at the end of the bar talking to the man with the oil in his hair. It was like the old joke; he couldn't tell it was her when she had clothes on. She wore her hair down and a short red jacket and black jeans. She said something to the man and went to place her hand on his chest. It looked tender, the sort of touch a lover might give, but the man grabbed her by the wrist and pushed the hand away. She looked down at the floor and then walked through the tables towards him and as she passed him he called out to her. She slowed and looked around; her eyes were glassy and red.
Hey, he said, can't wait to see you dance tonight, and then regretted it almost instantly.
She shot him a fierce look and then softened slightly as she recognised his face through her blur of tears.
Yeah, she said and disappeared into the back room. A thin blonde girl in long PVC boots moved awkwardly around on stage. Someone in the darkness near him began to jeer.
She dropped her Stetson later that night as she leant forward to collect money from those sat at the front. Her features crumpled as it fell from her hand, but someone gathered it up and pushed it back onto the stage with almost all of the money intact. She thanked someone silently and finished her routine with the hat set in front of her. It was unlike her, he thought, and he looked around for someone he could explain the situation to, that she was below par for a reason and, hey, shouldn't they all give her a break? He was pushing down the ice in his drink with a straw when she came over and asked him if he wanted a private dance. She'd been moving from table to table in an almost desultory manner, repeating the question and resigned to the answer whatever it might be, like an unsuccessful salesman moving from door to door. She looked like she wanted to go home.
He snatched at the situation, eager to talk to her and in the back room as she moved slowly and hypnotically before him he whispered urgent questions at her.
You okay? he asked at least half a dozen times, but she remained mute behind her trembling lips.
I saw you with that guy, he said, and then a face appeared in the doorway of the stall.
Hey, said one of the doormen, you're not paying her for the conversation and then he withdrew his head again. He pulled a pen and some paper from his pocket and scribbled his name and number on them and tried to persuade her to take them.
What do you think you're going to do, fucking rescue me from this? she finally said, but she said it quietly. Anyway, it's been twenty minutes, we're done. She was still standing over him and he grabbed at her thighs and tried to pull her down towards him.
I know how you feel, he said, I know how you feel, it happened to me. He was going to tell her how they could both get through it together when she shouted out, her nails digging into his forearms as she tried to free herself.
The face appeared at the curtain again, this time he was angry.
No touching, he shouted, No touching and he rushed in wielding a nightstick and pulling the girl clear he started to strike him around the arms and shoulders and then he was yanked to his feet and dragged through the club to the cheers of a crowd who'd seen this sort of thing before. The two doormen and the man with the oil in his hair got him outside and threw him at the black car; he bounced off its door and onto the floor. They dragged him to the side of the club and he lay there as they rained kicks and punches down on him, while he tried to cover his head. The man with the oil in his hair kept shouting something and trying to pull his arms away so he could smash his boot heel into his chest and face. Eventually they left him lying there, his eye closing in on itself, his nose bleeding and his right hand felt like it had been run over. He stood shakily and started coughing until it bent him double and he was struggling to breathe. There was a bar farther down the street and he made his way there, ducking in the door and into the bathroom. His face looked flatter somehow, his features compressed. He looked at himself in profile and his eye bulged even though it was almost entirely shut. He pulled up a stool at the bar and ordered a beer and a shot. The barman stood back and looked as though he was deciding whether or not to serve him.
Got any money, pal? asked the barman. He reached around with difficulty with his good hand and pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and flattened it very slowly on the bar. He drank quickly and then indicated for two more and tried to resist the impulse to ask the rest of the drinkers in the bar what they were staring at. He felt like he had a head the size of a pumpkin; he could barely blame them for looking over at him. His side felt like it had shattered beneath his skin and when he slid off his stool to leave all the air went out of him in one loud gasp. He walked to a store and bought a squat bottle of whisky and slipped it in his inside pocket. His hand throbbed as he worked the screw top off and he thought about tipping the contents on his hand as he'd seen someone do in a film once. Instead he hid in the shadows of the concrete columns facing the strip joint and waited for her to appear. He just wanted her to hear what he had to say and there'd be no touching, he knew the rules. One more drink and maybe he'd head back in there, he was sure it must have calmed down by now, he just needed a moment alone with her and then he'd make her see.
Chorus
Expect rain, the driver's father would say, and then you'll never be disappointed. If he was going on a date, or watching sports on TV. Rain, his father would say and look up as if he'd just spotted a cloud.
The California sky was dazzling above the stolen patrol car, bleached and cloudless.
And you be careful, his father would caution as he was taking the car out of the garage, you don't know what's around the next corner. His father had been the first to teach him to drive, but his hesitancy on the road, which was at odds with the brutish way his father lived the rest of his life, meant the three times they shared the car it had ended in acrimony and arguments. Once, on what would be their final lesson together, his father left him out by the turnpike, miles from home.
Get out of the fucking car, his father had yelled at him. He'd been maintaining a constant fifty while his father muttered and tutted beside him, his father's hands fists at his side. You think you can slow down for this next corner? his father had asked him. He responded by telling him that he was driving normally and the reason his father didn't think so was because when he was behind the wheel he drove like an old man. Then, quite suddenly, he was standing at the kerb.
I wish it was fucking raining, his father yelled, and then, I'll tell your mother you're going to be late for dinner. It was the last thing he said as he pulled away. His father didn't even like having talk radio on when he was driving. He found the conversation too distracting.
What if you get caught up in what they're saying? he'd ask. Then where are you? He'd picked his father up from the airport once not long after he'd passed his test and on the relatively brief journey from Newark to home, his father had kept slapping his hand down on the dashboard every time he found his son's speed excessive.
Dad, he said, you're going to hurt yourself.
Not as much, replied his father, as if you crash this car, and he readjusted his seat belt for the third time. Oncoming cars would cause his father to tense and whenever he drove him he did so in fear that he would one day grab the wheel and pull it wildly to one side in the face of speeding traffic and they'd end up in a ditch.
I figure you were never the getaway guy, he said to his father once, trying to make a joke. His father only glared at him. Don't talk about that shit, he said gripping the wheel like he might tear it off and hurl it out of the window.
He'd passed his test the first time and his father rewarded him with a vintage Oldsmobile Toronado. It was huge and red and terrifying like only American cars from the 1960s could be and when he sat behind the wheel he instantly worried that he couldn't gauge its width, it seemed to spread out to the horizon and blur against the sky. Suddenly, he was driving as timidly as his father, terrified that he was going to scrape the wing off and break his dad's heart.
You know, his mother told him once, that's what your father used to drive when he was younger, and he told her he'd guessed as much. His father had seemed happier to have it around than he was. The headlights were hidden away in the hood and his father would sit in the driver's seat and press the button that brought them sedately into life.
Like War of the fucking Worlds, said his dad with a chuckle. You don't get that with Japanese cars.
Dad, he said, you don't even get that with American cars any more. With time, however, his trepidation faded and he began to enjoy the rumble from the engine when he gunned it into life. He'd cruise the rural roads of New Jersey with a back-up can of gas in the boot and scream his way past cars coming the other way. The Toronado drew admiring glances from almost all men his father's age. He'd come out of a gas station, and find men gathered around it murmuring reverentially, or whistling quietly to themselves as if they had just spotted a thousand dollars strewn loosely over the back seat and were trying to figure a way to get in without breaking a window. He didn't keep it long after his father died. Each time he turned the lights on he heard his dad's delighted laughter. When he finally sold it he sat down quickly on the floor and cried.
Dad would have liked this patrol car, he thought, switching lanes and waving genially at the driver who had let him through. The patch of blood on the shirt had congealed and now looked black. He imagined his father hitting the sirens any time he felt as though another driver was too close to his car; using the sound to scare people off. He threw the sirens on for his father and watched as every driver around him instantly seized up in their seats, cars slowed down and heads swivelled nervously around. He nosed his way past them and then flicked the switch to mute his speakers, but the sirens still came. He hit the console with the open palm of his hand, flicked the switch up and down and then realised that the sirens weren't coming from his car, but from the car behind him. Two cars behind him to be precise, the patrol cars weaved in and out of the traffic, their lights glowing red and blue. Suddenly they were the only thing he could see in his mirrors. They were signalling for him to pull over, there were two of them, the one waving frantically at him looked just like the one he'd stabbed and set fire to in his Lexus, he thought, feeling a pang of sadness for the destroyed car. He worked the handgun out from its holster and placed it on the seat next to him, the rifle he pushed onto the floor behind the seat. He'd have to be quick, he thought, pulling off the road onto an off ramp and signalling for the other patrol car to follow him. They sped up and hung close to his car while he scanned the skies and the roads around him for a helicopter or some kind of backup.
Expect rain, his father said.
He spotted a layby where the road was quieter and headed for it as the other patrol car let go its sirens in impatient bursts. In his mirror one of the cops signalled urgently again for him to stop. He pulled in and made to get out of the car to talk like one officer might to another, but through a speaker mounted on the roof they ordered him to stay inside his car. He held up both hands to feign innocence and smiled and then waited for the patrolman to approach. He could see him in the mirror, gun drawn, staring intently at the rear of the car as if looking for signs of damage or for a clue to reveal itself about his identity. Seizing his chance, the driver quickly brought the car into life and reversed into the patrolman, driving him backwards into his own car. He gave out a fractured scream as the car's grille buckled and snapped and then collapsed on to the trunk of the driver's car, his head hitting it with a hollow thud. The driver threw himself from the car, the engine still turning over, and ran towards the second officer who sat dazed. There was blood on his forehead matching the stain on the windshield. The driver drew his gun and started firing as he ran towards him. The first shot broke the glass and missed the patrolman. The second bullet hit him in the chest and he sat back and looked surprised as blood formed in his mouth and coloured his teeth. The driver pulled up level to the car and shot a third and final time through the open window, the patrolman turning to face the bullet as it hit him. The driver went over to the other trapped between the cars. He was moaning quietly with his head to one side and his mouth open. He looked at the driver, but his eyes were opaque like those of an old dog or cat.
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