hard.
"Love ya to pieces and all that, Luther, but no way I'm taking a felony fall with you," Annie says in the parking lot outside HQ Friday night. "You steal this off the street, or put a gun to a drug dealer's head and make a little offer—he gives you the car, and you let him slide by not planting a half-kilo bag of smack in there and then busting him for it?"
She's got her old leather Gladstone hanging from her shoulder, her head's cocked to one side, and she takes a long step back as I slip in the key, pop the TT's trunk, and reach for the bag to cram it in.
"Hey, the car's mine," I say. "Bought it a couple of days ago. The Camaro died."
"You bought this? This midlife crisis toy? You went into
81
debt for this? Aren't you a little young for midlife crisis craziness?"
"Came on early and real sudden. Must be my high-pressure existence. Or an old soul." I grin at her. "What's that they say, 'Live fast, die young, and leave a good-lookin' corpse'?"
"You think I'm buying into that one, think again. I'm not planning on reaching my peak for at least another ten years, and then the decline's gonna be so gradual and graceful no-body'll even notice."
She's laughing when she hands me the Gladstone and then eases her slim self into the TT. When I climb in on the other side, I see her slyly stroking the black leather, checking out the cool instrument panel, sort of form-fitting herself into the seat. "Have to admit, it's a nice piece of work," she says, when I start the engine and she hears the very muted growl as I ease out of the lot and onto the road.
The past three days had yielded zero progress on the reservoir girl, so Annie kept her promise about the long weekend in Virginia, though I knew she'd have her cell clipped to her belt, or be otherwise within reach twenty-four hours a day. I slip into the heavy traffic on the Beltway toward Annapolis, then break free of it and head down the more lightly traveled Route 301 through Anne Arundel, Prince George's and Charles Counties. I punch the TT up very fast just once south of La Plata. "Oh, I'm digging this," Annie says, doing her version of a twenty-year-old college girl. "I adore speed."
So I ease off and we cruise just above the limits, cross the Potomac over the Governor Nice Memorial Bridge, and head southeast into the Tidewater country of Virginia. I like to make custom tapes, choosing favorite songs from bunches of CDs and putting them together in moods. Nothing sophisticated—a tape of opera arias with easy stuff like that wonderful duet from Lakme; a tape of ballad-rock by guys like Vic Chestnutt, Van Morrison, Mark Knopfler; my great chick tape: the Sineads, O'Conner and Lohan, some
82
Sarah, early Bjork, acoustic Chrissie Hynde, Joan Osborne, that girl with the Bosendorfer, Tori Amos. We don't talk much until we're within thirty miles or so of Tyding's Landing, a little town on one of the creeks off the Rappahannock River, where Gunny and Momma have retired.
"So do I need a briefing before we get into the bear pit, Luther? Rules of engagement, preferred behavior, anything like that?" Annie asks.
"Just Annie being Annie, that's all. Get into it as much or as little as you like," I say. "Mom's gonna be great. It's been five years. Gunny? I don't know. He's gonna love you even though you're with me. Me? Well, like I told you, when I went overseas in '94, he said he was through with me for good."
"You maybe want to tell me exactly why that was? Or where the hell it was you went, maybe some hint about what you did?"
"Classified." I laugh, but I don't feel too humorous now. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
"Damn, Luther. That's two huge, lame cliches in one breath. Well above your usual quota."
I realize I'm more scared of losing Annie's good opinion than I am even of facing Gunny. How to tell her and not lose that, though? Straight and true, I conclude, after considering how easily she'd see through any bullshit story.
"I'm out of the
"Love ya to pieces and all that, Luther, but no way I'm taking a felony fall with you," Annie says in the parking lot outside HQ Friday night. "You steal this off the street, or put a gun to a drug dealer's head and make a little offer—he gives you the car, and you let him slide by not planting a half-kilo bag of smack in there and then busting him for it?"
She's got her old leather Gladstone hanging from her shoulder, her head's cocked to one side, and she takes a long step back as I slip in the key, pop the TT's trunk, and reach for the bag to cram it in.
"Hey, the car's mine," I say. "Bought it a couple of days ago. The Camaro died."
"You bought this? This midlife crisis toy? You went into
81
debt for this? Aren't you a little young for midlife crisis craziness?"
"Came on early and real sudden. Must be my high-pressure existence. Or an old soul." I grin at her. "What's that they say, 'Live fast, die young, and leave a good-lookin' corpse'?"
"You think I'm buying into that one, think again. I'm not planning on reaching my peak for at least another ten years, and then the decline's gonna be so gradual and graceful no-body'll even notice."
She's laughing when she hands me the Gladstone and then eases her slim self into the TT. When I climb in on the other side, I see her slyly stroking the black leather, checking out the cool instrument panel, sort of form-fitting herself into the seat. "Have to admit, it's a nice piece of work," she says, when I start the engine and she hears the very muted growl as I ease out of the lot and onto the road.
The past three days had yielded zero progress on the reservoir girl, so Annie kept her promise about the long weekend in Virginia, though I knew she'd have her cell clipped to her belt, or be otherwise within reach twenty-four hours a day. I slip into the heavy traffic on the Beltway toward Annapolis, then break free of it and head down the more lightly traveled Route 301 through Anne Arundel, Prince George's and Charles Counties. I punch the TT up very fast just once south of La Plata. "Oh, I'm digging this," Annie says, doing her version of a twenty-year-old college girl. "I adore speed."
So I ease off and we cruise just above the limits, cross the Potomac over the Governor Nice Memorial Bridge, and head southeast into the Tidewater country of Virginia. I like to make custom tapes, choosing favorite songs from bunches of CDs and putting them together in moods. Nothing sophisticated—a tape of opera arias with easy stuff like that wonderful duet from Lakme; a tape of ballad-rock by guys like Vic Chestnutt, Van Morrison, Mark Knopfler; my great chick tape: the Sineads, O'Conner and Lohan, some
82
Sarah, early Bjork, acoustic Chrissie Hynde, Joan Osborne, that girl with the Bosendorfer, Tori Amos. We don't talk much until we're within thirty miles or so of Tyding's Landing, a little town on one of the creeks off the Rappahannock River, where Gunny and Momma have retired.
"So do I need a briefing before we get into the bear pit, Luther? Rules of engagement, preferred behavior, anything like that?" Annie asks.
"Just Annie being Annie, that's all. Get into it as much or as little as you like," I say. "Mom's gonna be great. It's been five years. Gunny? I don't know. He's gonna love you even though you're with me. Me? Well, like I told you, when I went overseas in '94, he said he was through with me for good."
"You maybe want to tell me exactly why that was? Or where the hell it was you went, maybe some hint about what you did?"
"Classified." I laugh, but I don't feel too humorous now. "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
"Damn, Luther. That's two huge, lame cliches in one breath. Well above your usual quota."
I realize I'm more scared of losing Annie's good opinion than I am even of facing Gunny. How to tell her and not lose that, though? Straight and true, I conclude, after considering how easily she'd see through any bullshit story.
"I'm out of the
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