Motion is like smooth whisky. Motion, like a drug. Randy Boggs kept up his meditation. And the best part of all - when you're driving, you're, a moving target. You're the safest you can ever be. Nothing can get you. Not bad love, not a job, not your kin, not the devil himself . . . "Crabs," Nestor said. "Keep an eye out for a crab place."
They couldn't find any and instead got cheeseburgers at McDonald's, which Boggs preferred to crabs anyway and Nestor said was better for him because he was on a diet. They drank beer out of tall Double-Arches waxed cups they'd emptied of soft drink. They drove the speed limit but at Boggs's request had rolled down all the windows; it seemed like they were racing at a hundred miles an hour.
Randy Boggs lowered the passenger seat and sat back, sucking the beer through a straw, and ate a double cheeseburger and thought again about freedom and moving and realized that was why prison had been so hard for him. That there are people who have to stay put and people who have to move and he was a mover.
These were thoughts he had and that he believed were true in some universal way. But they were thoughts that he didn't tell to Jack Nestor. Not that Jack was a stupid man. No, he'd probably understand but he was
somebody Boggs didn't want to share much with. "So," Jack Nestor asked, "how's it feel?" "Feels good. Feels real good." "How 'bout that little girl back there. She's a pistol. You get any?" "Naw, wasn't that way." "Didn't seem to have any tits to speak of." "She was more like a friend, you know. Wish I could've leveled with her." "Did what you had to though." "I understand that. Couldn't've stayed Inside for any longer, Jack. I gave it my best. But I had to get out. Somebody was moving on me." "Spades?" "Nope. Was an asshole from, I don't know, Colombia or someplace. Venezuela. For some reason he didn't take to me. Got cut." "Cut, huh?" "Two weeks ago. Hardly hurts anymore." "Yeah, I was cut once. I didn't like it. Better to get shot. Kind of more numb." "Prefer to avoid either." "That's a good way to thinks," Nestor offered. He was in a good mood. He was talking about restaurants down in Florida and fishing for tarpon and the quality of the pot they had down there and this Cuban woman with big tits and a tattoo somebody'd given her with his teeth and a Parker pen. Talking about the heat. About a house he was buying and how he had to live in a fucking hotel until the place was ready. "How long to Atlanta?" Boggs asked. "Tomorrow. Then I'm going on to Florida. You interested in coming with me, you'd be welcome. You like spic women?" "Never had me one." "Don't know what you're missing." "That a fact?" "Yessir. One I's telling you 'bout? Man, she could probably do both of us at once." Boggs thought he'd pass on that. "I don't know." "Well, just keep 'er in mind. So you gonna pick up that money?" "Yessir." "You got the passbook with you?" "Got her good and safe." Nestor said, "Funny about how that works. You just let some money sit in the bank and there she be, earning interest every day. They just throw a few more dollars into the till. And you don't do nothing." "Yeah." "Bet you made yourself another ten thousand dollars." "You think, no foolin'?" "For sure. I think that account earns maybe five, six percent."
Boggs felt a warm feeling. He hadn't remembered about interest. He'd never had a savings account to speak of. "You know, there's something you ought to think about. You hear about all those bank failures?" "What's that?" "A lot of savings and loans went under. People lost money." "Hell you say." "Happens a lot. Last couple of years. Didn't you watch the news Inside?" "Usually was cartoons and the game we were watching." Boggs was tired. He put the seat way back. The last car he'd owned was a big '76 Pontiac with a bench seat that didn't recline. He liked this car. He thought he was going to buy himself a car, a new one. He lay back, closed his eyes and tried not to think about
Rune. "So," Nestor said, "you might want to think about investing that money." "I'll do that." "You have any idea what?" "Nope. Not yet. I'm going to keep my eyes peeled for the right thing. You got money, people listen to you." "Money talks, shit walks," Nestor said. "That's the truth," Randy Boggs said.
Three hours later Courtney woke up and wanted some juice. The little girl sat up slowly and unwound herself from the cocoon of a blanket that had twisted around her as she slept. She eased forward and climbed over the edge of the rolled-up futon like Edmund Hillary taking the last step down from Everest, and then sat on the floor to put her shoes on. Laces were too much of a challenge but the shoes didn't look right with the white dangling strings, so after staring at them for five minutes she bent down and stuffed the plastic ends into her shoes.
She climbed carefully down the stairs, sideways, crablike, then walked up to Rune, who was tied into the butterfly chair. She looked at the cords, at Rune's red face. She heard hoarse, wordless sounds coming from behind the scarf.
"You're funny, Rune," Courtney said then went into the galley. The refrigerator was pretty easy to open and she found a cardboard carton of apple juice on the second shelf. The problem was that she couldn't figure out how to open it. She looked at Rune, who was staring into the kitchen and still making those funny noises, and held up the carton in both hands then she turned it upside down to look for the spout.
The carton, which, it turned out, had been open after all, emptied itself onto the floor in a sticky surf. "Oh-oh." She looked at Rune guiltily, then set the empty container on top of the stove and went back to the refrigerator.
No more juice. A lot of cold pizza, which she was tired of, but there were dozens of Twinkies, which she loved. She started working on one and then wandered around the small kitchen to see what she could find to play with.
Not a lot. There was, however, a large filleting knife on the counter that intrigued her. She picked it up and pretended it was a sword, like in one of Rune's books, stabbing the refrigerator a few times. Rune, watching this, was making more noise, and started jiggling around, rocking and swaying back and forth.
The girl then looked into drawers and opened up some pretty-much-unused cookbooks, looking for pictures of ducks, dragons or princesses. The books contained only photos of soups and casseroles and cakes and after five minutes she gave up on them and started playing with the knobs on the stove. They were old and heavy, glistening chrome and trimmed with red paint. Courtney reached up and turned one all the way to the right. Way above her head was a pop. She couldn't see the top of the stove and she didn't know what the sound came from but she liked it. Pop. She turned the second knob. Pop.
Rune's voice was louder now though the little girl still couldn't understand a word of it. With the third pop she got tired of the stove game. That was because something else happened. There was suddenly a red glare from above her head, a hissing sputter, then flames.
Courtney stepped back and watched the juice carton burn. The flaming wax shot off the side of the carton like miniature fireworks. One piece of burning cardboard fell onto the table and set a week-old New York Post on fire. A cookbook (A Hundred Glorious Jell-O Desserts) went next.
Courtney loved the flames and watched them creep slowly along the table. They reminded her of something ... A movie about a baby animal? A deer? A big fire in a forest? She squinted and tried to remember but soon lost the association and stood back to watch. She thought it was great when the flames quickly peeled away the Breeds-of-Dog contact paper Rune had painstakingly mounted on the walls with rubber cement.
Then they spread up to the ceiling and the back wall of the houseboat. When the fire became too hot Courtney moved back a little farther but she was in no hurry to leave. This was wonderful. She remembered another movie. She thought for a minute. Yeah, it was like the scene where Wizardoz was yelling at Dorothy and her little dog. All the smoke and flames . . . Everybody falling on the floor while the big face puffed and shouted . . . But this was better than that. This was better than Peter Rabbit. It was even better than Saturday morning TV.
26
The tourists, coincidentally were from Ohio, Rune's home state. They were a middle-aged couple, driving a Winne-bago from Cleveland to Maine because the wife had always wanted to see the Maine coast and because they both loved lobster. The itinerary would take them through New York, up to Newport, then on to Boston, Salem and finally into Kennebunkport, which had been featured in Parade magazine a year before. But they'd made an unplanned stop in Manhattan and that was to report a serious fire on the Hudson River.
Cruising up from the Holland Tunnel, they noticed a column of black smoke off to their left, coming, it seemed, right out of the river. They slowed, like almost everybody else was doing, and saw an old houseboat burning furiously. Traffic was at a crawl and they eased forward, listening for the sirens. The husband looked around to find a place to pull off to get out of the way of the fire trucks when they arrived. But none did. They waited four, five minutes. Six. She asked, "You'd think somebody'd've called by now, wouldn't you, dear?" "You'd think." They were astonished because easily a hundred cars had gone by, but it seemed that nobody had bothered to call 911. Maybe figuring somebody else had. Or not figuring anything at all, just watching the houseboat burn.
The husband, an ex-Marine and head of his local Chamber of Commerce, a man with no aversion to getting involved, drove the Winnebago up over the curb onto the sidewalk. He braked to a fast halt in front of the
pier where the flames roared. He took the big JC Penney triple-class fire extinguisher from the rack beside his seat and rushed outside.
The wife ran to a pay phone while he kicked in the front door of the houseboat. The smoke wasn't too bad inside; the hole in the rear ceiling of the houseboat acted like a chimney and was sucking most of it out. He stopped cold in the doorway, blinking in surprise at what he saw: two girls. One, a young girl, was laughing like Nero as she watched the back half of the houseboat turn into charcoal. The other, a girl wearing a yellow miniskirt, two sleeveless men's T-shirts and low boots dotted with chrome studs, was tied in a chair! Who'd do such a thing? He'd read about Greenwich Village but this seemed too sick even for a Sodom like that.
He pulled the pin of the fire extinguisher and emptied the contents at the advancing line of flames, but it had no effect on the fire. He carried the little girl outside to his wife and then returned to the inferno, opening his Case pocketknife as he ran. He cut the wires holding the older girl. He had to help her walk outside; her legs had fallen asleep.
Inside the couple's Winnebago the little girl saw the older one's tears and decided it was time to start crying herself. Three minutes later the fire department arrived. They had the fire out in twenty. The police and fire department investigators knocked on the door. The girls stood up and went outside and the couple followed.
A huge black cloud hung over the pier. The air smelled of sour wood and burnt rubber - from the tires that had dangled off the side of the boat to cushion it against the pier. The vessel hadn't sunk but much of the structure on the deck had been destroyed.
One of the detectives asked the older girl, "Could you tell me what happened?" She paced in a tight circle. "That goddamn son of a bitch he tricked me he lied to me I'm going to find him and have his ass thrown back in jail so goddamn fast . . . Shit. Hell. Shit!" "Shit," Courtney said, and the husband and wife looked at each other.
The police asked questions for almost a half hour. The girl was telling a story about a man who was convicted wrongly of murder then got released, only now it was clear he'd done it after all and there was a big fat man named Jack - no last name - and Jack had a gun and wanted to kill them and he was involved in the first killing. The couple lost a lot of the details -just like the cops must have too - but they didn't really need to hear any more. They had enough of the facts for a good traveling story, which they'd tell to friends and to themselves and to anybody they happened to meet on the way to Maine and which unlike a lot of the stories they'd told didn't need much embellishment at all. Finally a tall, balding man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans and with a badge on his belt arrived and the girl fell into his arms, though she wasn't sobbing anymore or hysterical. Then she pushed him away and went into one of her tirades again. "Goodness," the wife said.
When the girl calmed down she told the cop the couple had saved her life and he introduced himself to them and said thank you. They talked about Ohio for a few minutes. Then the cop said that the girls could go to Bomb Squad and stay there until he was off duty and the little girl said, "Can we get another hand grenade? Please?"
And that was when the couple decided not to do what had crossed their Midwestern minds - ask the girls if they would like to stay with them in the camper that night - and figured it would probably be best if they pressed on to the alternate destination of Mystic, Connecticut, which came highly recommended in their guidebook.
At eleven that night, Jack Nestor said he needed a real drink and pulled off the highway at a motel somewhere in Virginia. "I could use some real food, too," Randy Boggs said. He wanted a steak burnt on the outside and red inside. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about steaks when he first went Inside. Then - as with with most of the things he enjoyed - he forgot about good meat. Or it was more that they became distant. Like facts in a history book. He understood them, he remembered them, but they had no meaning for him.
Now, though, he was out and he wanted a steak. And the way Nestor had said real drink, Boggs was now thinking that he'd like his first shot of whisky in three years.
