pushed in the cigarette lighter, told himself he was having a better time than in fact he was by now. It was just a car, after all; all he was doing was pressing on the gas pedal and holding the wheel, and no one but Piney was there to see him do it. Besides, his sober friend's worry was infecting him, he was beginning to feel a little spooked himself. He said, "I guess I shouldn't've taken you along."
Piney didn't respond to that. He'd found the button that made his seat recline; he was leaning way back and looking at the constellations. After a moment, he said, "What if this guy did something really bad, I mean really, really bad, and we're helping him get away with it?"
It was Fred's turn not to answer. He crossed from Stock Island onto Boca Chica; the ugly riot of down-market commerce yielded to the fenced-off bleakness of military property. Up ahead, driving in the opposite direction and weaving lane to lane, was a cop car with its blue lights flashing. Fred held his breath until he was good and sure the cop was after some other jerk. But now he was hardly enjoying the drive at all.
"Long ways off," he said, "the fucking Everglades."
"A deal's a deal," said Piney.
"Ya just said," Fred reminded him, "we shouldn't help this guy get away with something bad."
Pineapple kept looking at the stars. "Just as possible, I guess, he's a good guy that's in trouble."
"Piney," said Fred, "fuck we gonna get home from the Everglades?"
"Bus or something," said his friend. He didn't sound concerned. "Not like we're in a hurry."
"Look," said Fred. "I said I'd lose the car. Sink it. In a swamp." They were leaving Boca Chica and entering Big Coppitt; cinder-block taverns hunkered lower than the roadway between convenience stores and signs for RV hookups. Fred gestured broadly through the windshield. "Plenny a fucking swamps right here."
Pineapple said nothing.
"Lose it here as good as anywhere," Fred said.
"Better swamps up north," said Piney.
But Fred's mind was made up. His eyes were tired. His beer buzz had faded and left him paranoid about police. "What's good about a swamp?" he said, and he started looking for a turnoff that seemed promising.
He found one barely a mile farther on than Lazslo had driven with Suki, earlier that evening, and he steered the Caddy toward the mangroves.
"How's this look to you?" asked Fred.
They'd gotten out of the car at a spot that was like a thousand others in the Keys. A narrow dusty road, utterly flat, had petered out at a vague frontier between land and sea. On either side, mangroves grew so thick that it was impossible to see if their roots were sunk in dirt or water. Ahead, though, scattered shoots were pegged in what was clearly a last gasp, a lonely stranding of the overreaching ocean. Moonlight gleamed unwholesomely on that stagnant water, and with the car's engine finally switched off, the place was busy with tiny furtive sounds: scratching, lapping, dripping.
Pineapple said, "Looks a lot like where we live."
Fred gestured toward the liquid part. "Bet it's good and mucky under there."
"Hard to know," said Piney.
Fred stepped back, eyeballed the moonlit Fleetwood like an artist sizing up a painting. Suddenly the car looked huge and very tall, its tires like something off a tractor, its tail fins high as masts. Hopefully he said, "Just need a couple feet of water and then some good soft muck."
The thing about a swamp is that you could only see the top of it, but something was telling Pineapple that this place wasn't deep enough. "We could go a little farther north," he said.
Fred ignored him. He didn't want to get on the highway again. He said, "Trick's gonna be we gotta build up some momentum. Back up down the road, floor that sonofabitch, skate it in there good and hard."
Pineapple said, "We?"
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache, tossed his cigarettes and matches on the ground. "Chickenshit," he said.
He got back in the car, started up the engine once again. Absurdly, he
Piney didn't respond to that. He'd found the button that made his seat recline; he was leaning way back and looking at the constellations. After a moment, he said, "What if this guy did something really bad, I mean really, really bad, and we're helping him get away with it?"
It was Fred's turn not to answer. He crossed from Stock Island onto Boca Chica; the ugly riot of down-market commerce yielded to the fenced-off bleakness of military property. Up ahead, driving in the opposite direction and weaving lane to lane, was a cop car with its blue lights flashing. Fred held his breath until he was good and sure the cop was after some other jerk. But now he was hardly enjoying the drive at all.
"Long ways off," he said, "the fucking Everglades."
"A deal's a deal," said Piney.
"Ya just said," Fred reminded him, "we shouldn't help this guy get away with something bad."
Pineapple kept looking at the stars. "Just as possible, I guess, he's a good guy that's in trouble."
"Piney," said Fred, "fuck we gonna get home from the Everglades?"
"Bus or something," said his friend. He didn't sound concerned. "Not like we're in a hurry."
"Look," said Fred. "I said I'd lose the car. Sink it. In a swamp." They were leaving Boca Chica and entering Big Coppitt; cinder-block taverns hunkered lower than the roadway between convenience stores and signs for RV hookups. Fred gestured broadly through the windshield. "Plenny a fucking swamps right here."
Pineapple said nothing.
"Lose it here as good as anywhere," Fred said.
"Better swamps up north," said Piney.
But Fred's mind was made up. His eyes were tired. His beer buzz had faded and left him paranoid about police. "What's good about a swamp?" he said, and he started looking for a turnoff that seemed promising.
He found one barely a mile farther on than Lazslo had driven with Suki, earlier that evening, and he steered the Caddy toward the mangroves.
"How's this look to you?" asked Fred.
They'd gotten out of the car at a spot that was like a thousand others in the Keys. A narrow dusty road, utterly flat, had petered out at a vague frontier between land and sea. On either side, mangroves grew so thick that it was impossible to see if their roots were sunk in dirt or water. Ahead, though, scattered shoots were pegged in what was clearly a last gasp, a lonely stranding of the overreaching ocean. Moonlight gleamed unwholesomely on that stagnant water, and with the car's engine finally switched off, the place was busy with tiny furtive sounds: scratching, lapping, dripping.
Pineapple said, "Looks a lot like where we live."
Fred gestured toward the liquid part. "Bet it's good and mucky under there."
"Hard to know," said Piney.
Fred stepped back, eyeballed the moonlit Fleetwood like an artist sizing up a painting. Suddenly the car looked huge and very tall, its tires like something off a tractor, its tail fins high as masts. Hopefully he said, "Just need a couple feet of water and then some good soft muck."
The thing about a swamp is that you could only see the top of it, but something was telling Pineapple that this place wasn't deep enough. "We could go a little farther north," he said.
Fred ignored him. He didn't want to get on the highway again. He said, "Trick's gonna be we gotta build up some momentum. Back up down the road, floor that sonofabitch, skate it in there good and hard."
Pineapple said, "We?"
Fred rubbed his walrus moustache, tossed his cigarettes and matches on the ground. "Chickenshit," he said.
He got back in the car, started up the engine once again. Absurdly, he
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
