Left hand curled loosely over the thin plastic rim of the steering wheel, Randall grabbed at the can his partner cradled in strong, bony fingers.
‘What the fuck, man!’ Sturgis was not happy if you took his drink. ‘Get your own fuckin’ beer.’
‘Finished it a mile back.’
‘And this is my problem how?’
Randall looked right. Sturgis was smirking. Goddamn sipper. Made a Coors last for a half-hour, takin’ those girly little pecks at the rim.
A blaring car horn Doppler-shifted past them. The truck rocked in the slipstream.
Randall’s head snapped round.
‘Watch the fuckin’ road, man. You nearly got us killed.’
Randall shrugged. The straps of his biballs dug into his shoulders. They felt scratchy. Hot. Godammit, they felt sweaty, that was the problem, right there. This fuckin’ heat. Jesus, a hunnerd in the shade and damn near the same humidity. Jesus and all the little children, how was a guy supposed to work in this, for God’s sake?
It was Tina’s fault, whining all last night about how he forgot her birthday gift. ‘I never forgot it, baby,’ he’d said in the bar as the stripper on the stage behind their table finally peeled off her thong and the drinkers clustered at her feet cheered, catcalled and whistled. ‘I just gotta go collect it, is all.’
She smiled, the effects of seven Margaritas sending her fillered lips squirming together like slugs fucking.
‘Oh, baby, and there was me doubting y’all had remembered.’ She leaned closer, squeezing her wrists between her thighs so her titties got pushed together. ‘What didja get me, huh? Perfume? A charm bracelet? Somethin’ sexy from Victoria’s Secret?’
He made a show of deciding whether to tell her. Truth was, at that precise, exact point in time, he hadn’t actually got her anything. Not so much as a set of lacy panties and matching bra from Wally World down there in Gainesville.
So he improvised.
‘A car.’
Her eyes, bleary from all the tequila, sharpened like sparkling chrome trims on a brand new Dodge Ram.
‘A car? You serious, baby? Only I know money’s been, you know, kinda tight lately.’
He’d raised a hand then, scowling, but she flinched and drew it between her breasts.
‘I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,’ she crooned. ‘Don’t get mad when we’re havin’ such a good time. So-o-o,’—she drew out the word—‘what model?’
Randall had looked up behind the bar, where a framed poster hung aslant. A bangin’ Mercedes SL with gullwing doors and blood-red upholstery.
‘A Merc.’
She slapped him playfully. ‘Get outta here! A Mer-say-deez?’
He made like he weren’t bothered either way. ‘Oh, well, if y’all don’t want it, maybe I’ll tuck the keys down Candy’s G-string.’ He jerked his chin at the next dancer, just unwinding herself from the chromed pole, legs spread from here to Mineola. ‘Hey, Candy,’ he yelled over the noise. ‘You want a—’
‘No! I’ll take it, baby. You know I will.’
That settled it. And later that night, in her double-wide, she gave him a little birthday present of his own. Kneeling before him with the wardrobe door pulled open so he could watch her go to work on him in the mirror. He was almost too drunk to come but he imagined it was Candy digging her scarlet fingernails into his scrawny buttocks and that did the trick.
And now he and Sturgis were on US 377 out of town on their way to collect the Mercedes.
He’d learned of it a week earlier, queuing at an ATM on South and Williams behind this yuppie type in tan loafers and an ironed polo shirt. Fuckin’ ironed!
Out of ‘curse-iosity and devilment’ as Meemaw Randall used to say, he’d followed him all the way from the bank. Turned out the guy lived in this McMansion. Had to’ve been a three-acre lot, minimum, lawn out front mowed in stripes of a green so bright it hurt your eyes. Snow-white pillars each side of the door like off a fuckin’ wedding cake or a church, or something.
As he watched from across the street, parked under a live oak draped in Spanish moss, this total babe comes out to greet him. Blonde hair, fine, high titties and a round ass in skintight white jeans like two green apples in a kerchief. Also one of Meemaw Randall’s expressions. Man, that old gal was a one-woman fortune cookie factory, churnin’ out them wisecracks and dumb old country sayings.
Then, just when his day couldn’t seem to have gotten any better, two little girls sashayed out from round the side of the house. One about eleven, the other, taller, couple years older. Maybe three. Sweet things in matching chequered dresses that showed off their bare arms and legs. What was their Momma thinkin’? A man could get ideas.
Yuppie-dad had blipped the fob over his shoulder, setting the Merc’s winkers a flashin’ and went inside.
No security that Randall could see, when he could drag his eyes away from them little chickadees.
No dog neither, rushin’ round the happy family. Though there was a kennel just visible down the left side of the house. Must been left over from an old one what died.
Sturgis laughed, jerking Randall out of his daydream.
‘Look at this old fart. What the fuck is he ridin’ on, man? Swear to God, is that a tricycle?’
Hugging the edge of the pavement, this old dude, had to be eighty five if he was a day, was pedalling along on some bastard contraption, half racing bike, half kid’s tricycle. He had a goofy little orange plastic flag sticking out from the back axle a foot or so. To make car drivers give him room, was Randall’s guess.
Sturgis nodded at the old boy. ‘Five says you won’t.’
Randall grinned. Sturgis would gamble on which of two raindrops would reach the sill. Or which of two hogs would eat a dead piglet first.
‘Deal,’ he said.
He slowed till he matched the old guy’s pace. Shouted across Sturgis out the open window.
‘Hey, Grampaw, you gonna get yourself killed on that thing. What the hell did you do, steal it offa your grandkid?’
Up close, the guy looked like a snapping turtle, wattly neck and a vicious overbite, skin all dried up, coppery and crinkled.
He turned a mean eye on Randall and slowly took one hand off the bars. He raised his arm, flesh drooping off his bones like slow-cooked pork, and extended a gnarled middle finger.
Sturgis just about choked hisself to death laughing at that.
‘Oh, man, Rip Van-fuckin’-Winkle just flipped you the bird.’
Randall stamped on the brake, sending Sturgis flying forwards, hands outstretched so’s he didn’t ruin his teeth on the windscreen.
The old geezer pedalled on, a high-pitched cackle cutting through the rumble from the truck’s ageing V8.
‘Sonofabitch,’ was all Randall said.
He waited till Rip Van Winkle was fifty yards ahead, then he mashed the gas pedal into the floor.
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