Ford County (3 page)

“Shut up. We need to listen for traffic.”

Roger left the road when the mailbox was in sight. He jumped a ditch, then ducked low through a bean field next to the house. If the old man was still watching, his eyes would be on the driveway, right? Roger shrewdly decided he would sneak in from the rear. All lights were off. The little house was still and quiet. Not a creature was stirring. Through the shadows of the oak trees, Roger crept over the wet grass until he could see the Ford pickup. He paused behind a toolshed, caught his breath, and realized he needed to pee again. No, he said to himself, it had to wait. He was proud—he’d made it this far without a sound. Then he was terrified again—what the hell was he doing? He took a deep breath, then crouched low and continued on his mission. When the Ford was between him and the house, he fell to his hands and knees and began feeling his way through the pea gravel at the end of the driveway.

Roger moved slowly as the gravel crunched under him. He cursed when his hands became wet near the right front tire. When he touched his wallet, he smiled, then quickly stuck it in the right rear pocket of his jeans. He paused, breathed deeply, then began his silent retreat.

In the stillness, Mr. Buford Gates heard all sorts of noises, some real, some conjured up by the circumstances. The deer had the run of the place, and he thought that perhaps they were moving around again, looking for grass and berries. Then he heard something different. He slowly stood from his hiding place on the side porch, raised his shotgun to the sky, and fired two shots at the moon just for the hell of it.

In the perfect calm of the late evening, the shots boomed through the air like howitzers, deadly blasts that echoed for miles.

Down the highway, not too far away, the sudden squealing of tires followed the gunfire, and to Buford, at least, the burning of rubber sounded precisely as it had just twenty minutes earlier directly in front of his house.

They’re still around here, he said to himself.

Mrs. Gates opened the side door and said, “Buford!”

“I think they’re still here,” he said, reloading his Browning 16-gauge.

“Did you see them?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? What are you shootin’ at?”

“Just get back inside, will you?”

The door slammed.

Roger was under the Ford pickup, holding his breath, clutching his groin, sweating profusely as he urgently tried to decide whether he should wrap himself around the transmission just inches above him or claw his way down through the pea gravel below him. But he didn’t move. The sonic booms were still ringing in his ears. The squealing tires of his cowardly friends made him curse. He was afraid to breathe.

He heard the door open again and the woman say, “Here’s a flashlight. Maybe you can see what you’re shootin’ at.”

“Just get back inside and call the sheriff while you’re at it.”

The door slammed again as the woman was prattling on. A minute or so later she was back. “I called the sheriff’s office. They said Dudley’s out here somewhere on patrol.”

“Fetch my truck keys,” the man said. “I’ll take a look on the highway.”

“You can’t drive at night.”

“Just get me the damned keys.”

The door slammed again. Roger tried wiggling in reverse, but the pea gravel made too much noise. He tried wiggling forward, in the direction of their voices, but again there was too much shuffling and crunching. So he decided to wait. If the pickup started in reverse, he would wait until the last possible second, grab the front bumper as it moved above him, and get himself dragged a few feet until he could bolt and sprint through the darkness. If the old man saw him, it would take several seconds for him to stop, get his gun, get out, and give chase. By then, Roger would be lost in the woods. It was a plan, and it just might work. On the other hand, he could get crushed by the tires, dragged down the highway, or just plain shot.

Buford left the side porch and began searching with his flashlight. From the door, Mrs. Gates yelled, “I hid your keys. You can’t drive at night.”

Atta girl, thought Roger.

“You’d better get me those damned keys.”

“I hid them.”

Buford was mumbling in the darkness.

The Dodge raced for several frantic miles before Aggie finally slowed somewhat, then said, “You know we have to go back.”

“Why?”

“If he got hit, we have to explain what happened and take care of the details.”

“I hope he got hit, and if he did, then he can’t talk. If he can’t talk, he can’t squeal on us. Let’s get to Memphis.”

“No.” Aggie turned around, and they drove in silence until they reached the same country lane where they had stopped before. Close to a fence row, they sat on the hood and contemplated what to do next. Before long, they heard a siren, then saw the blue lights pass by quickly on the highway.

“If the ambulance is next, then we’re in big trouble,” Aggie said.

“So is Roger.”

When Roger heard the siren, he panicked. But as it grew closer, he realized it would conceal some of the noise his escape would need. He found a rock, squirmed to the side of the truck, and flung it in the general direction of the house. It hit something, causing Mr. Gates to say, “What’s that?” and to run back to the side porch. Roger slithered like a snake from under the truck, through the fresh urine he’d left earlier, through the wet grass, and all the way to an oak tree just as Dudley the deputy came roaring onto the scene. He hit his brakes and turned violently into the driveway, slinging gravel and sending dust. The commotion saved Roger. Mr. and Mrs. Gates ran out to meet Dudley while Roger eased deeper into the darkness. Within seconds he was behind a line of shrubs, then past an old barn, then lost in a bean field. Half an hour passed.

Aggie said, “I think we just go back to the house, and tell ’em ever’thang. That way we’ll know if he’s okay.”

Calvin said, “But won’t they charge us with resistin’ arrest, and probably drunk drivin’ on top of that?”

“So what do you suggest?”

“The deputy’s probably gone now. No ambulance means
Roger’s okay, wherever he is. I’ll bet he’s hidin’ somewhere. I say we make one pass by the house, take a good look, then get on to Memphis.”

“It’s worth a try.”

They found Roger beside the road, walking with a limp, headed to Memphis. After a few harsh words by all three, they decided to carry on. Roger took his middle position; Calvin had the door. They drove ten minutes before anyone said another word. All eyes were straight ahead. All three were angry, fuming.

Roger’s face was scratched and bloody. He reeked of sweat and urine, and his clothes were covered with dirt and mud. After a few miles, Calvin rolled down his window, and after a few more miles Roger said, “Why don’t you roll up that window?”

“We need fresh air,” Calvin explained.

They stopped for another six-pack to settle their nerves, and after a few drinks Calvin asked, “Did he shoot at you?”

“I don’t know,” Roger said. “I never saw him.”

“It sounded like a cannon.”

“You should’ve heard it where I was.”

At that, Aggie and Calvin became amused and began laughing. Roger, his nerves settled, found their laughter contagious, and soon all three were hooting at the old man with the gun and the wife who hid his truck keys and probably saved Roger’s life. And the thought of Dudley the deputy still flying up and down the highway with his blue lights on made them laugh even harder.

Aggie was sticking to the back roads, and when one of them intersected Highway 78 near Memphis, they raced onto the entrance ramp and joined the traffic on the four-lane.

“There’s a truck stop just ahead,” Roger said. “I need to wash up.”

Inside, he bought a NASCAR T-shirt and a cap, then scrubbed his face and hands in the men’s room. When he returned to the truck, Aggie and Calvin were impressed with the changes. They raced off again, close to the bright lights now. It was almost 10:00 p.m.

The billboards grew larger, brighter, and closer together, and though the boys had not mentioned the Desperado in an hour, they suddenly remembered the place when they were confronted with a sizzling image of a young woman ready to burst out of what little clothing she was wearing. Her name was Tiffany, and she smirked down at the traffic from a huge billboard that advertised the Desperado, a Gentlemen’s Club, with the hottest strippers in the entire South. The Dodge slowed appreciably.

Her legs seemed a mile long, and bare, and her skimpy sheer costume was obviously designed to be shed in a moment’s notice. She had teased blond hair, thick red lips, and eyes that absolutely smoldered. The very possibility that she might be working just a few miles up the road, and that they could stop by and see her in the flesh, well, it was all overwhelming.

For a few minutes there was not a word as the Dodge regained its speed. Finally, Aggie said, “I reckon we’d better get to the hospital. Bailey might be dead by now.”

It was the first mention of Bailey in hours.

“The hospital’s open all night,” Roger said. “Never closes. Whatta you thank they do, shut down at night and make
ever’body go home?” To show his support, Calvin found this humorous and joined in with a hearty horselaugh.

“So ya’ll want to stop by the Desperado?” Aggie asked, playing along.

“Why not?” Roger said.

“Might as well,” Calvin said as he sipped a beer and tried to envision Tiffany in the middle of her routine.

“We’ll stay for an hour, then hurry on to the hospital,” Roger said. After ten beers, he was remarkably coherent.

The bouncer at the door eyed them suspiciously. “Lemme see your ID,” he growled at Calvin, who, though twenty-one, looked younger. Aggie looked his age. Roger, twenty-seven, could pass for forty. “Mississippi, huh?” the bouncer said with an obvious bias against people from that state.

“Yep,” Roger said.

“Ten-dollar cover charge.”

“Just because we’re from Mississippi?” Roger asked.

“No, wiseass, everybody pays the cover. If you don’t like it, then hop back on your tractor and go home.”

“You this nice to all your customers?” Aggie said.

“Yep.”

They walked away, huddled up, discussed the cover charge and whether they should stay. Roger explained that there was another club not far away, but warned that it would probably stick them with a similar entry fee. As they whispered and pondered things, Calvin tried to peek in the door for a quick glimpse of Tiffany. He voted to stay, and it was eventually unanimous.

Once inside, they were examined by two more burly and unsmiling
bouncers, then led to the main room with a round stage in the center, and on that stage, at that moment, were two young ladies, one white, one black, both naked and gyrating in all directions.

Calvin froze when he saw them. His $10 cover charge was instantly forgotten.

Their table was less than twenty feet from the stage. The club was half-full, and the crowd was young and blue-collar. They were not the only country boys who’d come to town. Their waitress wore nothing but a G-string, and when she popped in with a curt “What’ll it be? Three-drink minimum,” Calvin almost fainted. He’d never seen so much forbidden flesh.

“Three drinks?” Roger asked, trying to maintain eye contact.

“That’s it,” she shot back.

“How much is a beer?”

“Five bucks.”

“And we have to order three?”

“Three apiece. That’s the house rule. If you don’t like it, then you can take it up with the bouncers over there.” She nodded at the door, but their eyes did not leave her chest.

They ordered three beers each and studied the surroundings. The stage now had four dancers, all gyrating as loud rap rattled the walls. The waitresses moved swiftly between the tables as if they might get fondled if they lingered too long. Many of the customers were drunk and rowdy, and before long a table dance broke out. A waitress climbed onto a table nearby and began her routine while a group of truck drivers stuffed cash into her G-string. Before long, her waistline was bristling with greenbacks.

A platter with nine tall and very skinny glasses of beer arrived, beer that was lighter than light and watered down to the point that it looked more like diluted lemonade. “That’ll be $45,” the waitress said, and this caused a panicked and prolonged searching of pockets and wallets by all three. They finally rounded up the cash.

“Ya’ll still do lap dances?” Roger asked their waitress.

“Depends.”

“He’s never had one,” Roger said, pointing to Calvin, whose heart froze.

“Twenty bucks,” she said.

Roger found a $20 bill and forked it over, and within seconds Amber was sitting on top of Calvin, who, at 270 pounds, provided enough lap for a small troupe of dancers. As the music rocked and boomed, Amber bounced and wiggled, and Calvin simply closed his eyes and wondered what true love was really like.

“Rub her legs,” Roger instructed, the voice of experience.

“He can’t touch,” Amber said sternly, while at the same time her rear end was nestled firmly between Calvin’s massive thighs. Some brutes at a nearby table watched with amusement and were soon egging Amber on with all sorts of obscene suggestions, and she played to her crowd.

How long will this song last? Calvin asked himself. His broad flat forehead was covered with perspiration.

Suddenly she turned around and faced him without missing a beat, and for at least a minute Calvin held a comely and quivering
naked woman in his lap. It was a life-changing experience. Calvin would never be the same.

Sadly, the song ended, and Amber bounced to her feet and hustled off to check on her tables.

“You know you can see her later,” Roger said. “One-on-one.”

“What’s that?” Aggie asked.

“They got little rooms in the back where you can meet the girls after they get off work.”

“You’re lyin’.”

Calvin was still speechless, totally mute as he watched Amber skip around the club taking orders. But he was listening, and during the gap in the music he heard what Roger was saying. Amber could be his, all alone, in some glorious little back room.