slam afterward.
Gloria watched him reach the convertible, where Troy waited behind the wheel. Diesel threw his bags in the backseat and got in. He didn’t look back as Troy took off.
“Troy’s driving the whole show now,” she muttered, while inside she felt the hollowness of fear. Her husband was lost. “No,” she said, shaking her head; she didn’t want to think something that might jinx him or worsen his odds.
She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. Whatever happened, life went on—and she had to fix dinner for her son. Maybe the child would make something of his life. She hoped so. As she opened the refrigerator and looked at its meager contents, she thought: “Why wasn’t I born rich?” Then she grinned at her momentary self-pity. As she took out the bottle to warm, she hoped Carl would call regularly. He’d been better about that lately. Maybe there’d be a miracle and he would straighten up. Yeah … and they might hit Lotto, too.
Eighty miles an hour was fast enough even for flat empty stretches. More than that might attract the Highway Patrol. Seventy was better if there was any traffic whatsoever. Stay in the fast lane and keep a distance. Seventy split the difference just right—faster got a ticket, slower was wasting time. He remembered reading that long ago. Was it true now? He would see.
“How’m I driving?” he asked Diesel.
“Cool, man, considering.”
“It’s like fuckin’: Once you’ve learned it, you never forget.”
“Man, who was that chick I ran into?”
“Some chick Gigolo Perry cut me into.”
“I’d buy some pussy off her.”
Troy was surprised to feel a flash of possessiveness, and of consequent anger at Diesel’s casual remark. It was a meaningless nothing in their world. It wasn’t about a wife or lover, and it wasn’t even uncomplimentary by street thief standards. After all, she sold pussy for a living. If it wasn’t for George’s astute observation on life, Troy might have wondered if he was half in love. God knew that being with her was pleasurable, and he might look her up when they came back from L.A. She was lovely enough to have on his arm while dining in all the right places.
They crossed the Golden Gate at twilight. Westward an orange half disk sank below the horizon, making a fiery path across the sea and turning the pillars of the bridge into flaming monuments for a moment. The highway followed canyons whose bottoms were already dark. When they came out of the hills, the sun was gone and the light was inky. All the cars had their lights on, an opposing double river, white and ruby red.
A Highway Patrol cruiser passed them on the right.
“Will my driver’s license stand a check?” Troy asked.
“If they call in? Yeah, it’s cool.”
“Al Leon Klein. Born twelve fifteen fifty-nine. Denver, Colorado.” Troy made sure he had his pedigree ready. He remembered Boonie going down because he couldn’t spell the name on the driver’s license he was using for an alias. To give the devil his due, it was a Polish name. Still, he should have been able to spell the name he was using. “Who was this guy?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“Yeah. It’s his ID. We just changed the picture. He was a fruiter. He died in the Gay Men’s Hospice. He had that bad shit.”
“Cancer?”
“Cancer, my ass. AIDS!”
“Yeah, I know,” Troy said. “You don’t even like to say it, do you?”
“Scares me, man. It kills motherfuckers all kindsa ways. Some of ’em die horrible deaths. Shit growing in their throat, eating at their brain. How many dudes got it in the joint?”
“I dunno. I guess a few hundred are infected without bein’ sick—”
“They will be somewhere down the line.”
“So will all of us.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Anybody that comes up HIV positive, they get put in a segregated unit.”
“Dudes are scared of ’em, I bet.”
“You got it,” Troy said. “Some of ’em are scared shitless. You know
Gloria watched him reach the convertible, where Troy waited behind the wheel. Diesel threw his bags in the backseat and got in. He didn’t look back as Troy took off.
“Troy’s driving the whole show now,” she muttered, while inside she felt the hollowness of fear. Her husband was lost. “No,” she said, shaking her head; she didn’t want to think something that might jinx him or worsen his odds.
She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. Whatever happened, life went on—and she had to fix dinner for her son. Maybe the child would make something of his life. She hoped so. As she opened the refrigerator and looked at its meager contents, she thought: “Why wasn’t I born rich?” Then she grinned at her momentary self-pity. As she took out the bottle to warm, she hoped Carl would call regularly. He’d been better about that lately. Maybe there’d be a miracle and he would straighten up. Yeah … and they might hit Lotto, too.
Eighty miles an hour was fast enough even for flat empty stretches. More than that might attract the Highway Patrol. Seventy was better if there was any traffic whatsoever. Stay in the fast lane and keep a distance. Seventy split the difference just right—faster got a ticket, slower was wasting time. He remembered reading that long ago. Was it true now? He would see.
“How’m I driving?” he asked Diesel.
“Cool, man, considering.”
“It’s like fuckin’: Once you’ve learned it, you never forget.”
“Man, who was that chick I ran into?”
“Some chick Gigolo Perry cut me into.”
“I’d buy some pussy off her.”
Troy was surprised to feel a flash of possessiveness, and of consequent anger at Diesel’s casual remark. It was a meaningless nothing in their world. It wasn’t about a wife or lover, and it wasn’t even uncomplimentary by street thief standards. After all, she sold pussy for a living. If it wasn’t for George’s astute observation on life, Troy might have wondered if he was half in love. God knew that being with her was pleasurable, and he might look her up when they came back from L.A. She was lovely enough to have on his arm while dining in all the right places.
They crossed the Golden Gate at twilight. Westward an orange half disk sank below the horizon, making a fiery path across the sea and turning the pillars of the bridge into flaming monuments for a moment. The highway followed canyons whose bottoms were already dark. When they came out of the hills, the sun was gone and the light was inky. All the cars had their lights on, an opposing double river, white and ruby red.
A Highway Patrol cruiser passed them on the right.
“Will my driver’s license stand a check?” Troy asked.
“If they call in? Yeah, it’s cool.”
“Al Leon Klein. Born twelve fifteen fifty-nine. Denver, Colorado.” Troy made sure he had his pedigree ready. He remembered Boonie going down because he couldn’t spell the name on the driver’s license he was using for an alias. To give the devil his due, it was a Polish name. Still, he should have been able to spell the name he was using. “Who was this guy?” he asked. “Do you know?”
“Yeah. It’s his ID. We just changed the picture. He was a fruiter. He died in the Gay Men’s Hospice. He had that bad shit.”
“Cancer?”
“Cancer, my ass. AIDS!”
“Yeah, I know,” Troy said. “You don’t even like to say it, do you?”
“Scares me, man. It kills motherfuckers all kindsa ways. Some of ’em die horrible deaths. Shit growing in their throat, eating at their brain. How many dudes got it in the joint?”
“I dunno. I guess a few hundred are infected without bein’ sick—”
“They will be somewhere down the line.”
“So will all of us.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Anybody that comes up HIV positive, they get put in a segregated unit.”
“Dudes are scared of ’em, I bet.”
“You got it,” Troy said. “Some of ’em are scared shitless. You know
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