The Black Train by Edward Lee Page B

knew that would be the wrong move.
    “Here’s your check, Justin.” She had his bill in her hand.
    Collier fumbled for his credit card, then exclaimed, “No!”
    She ripped it up. “But this one’s on the house.”
    “Dominique, please, that’s not necessary.” Collier got the same treatment in a lot of pubs, mostly from owners wanting mention on his show.
    “And, don’t worry, I’m not trying to bribe you for a good review. It’s just nice to have you here.”
    “Well, thanks very much. But I’m pretty sure that I want to put your lager in my book, if you don’t mind signing a release form.”
    “Oh, of course I don’t mind, but wait until you get your secondary impression first.”
    What an overtly ethical thing to say. She smiled at him again—a reserved yet confident expression. The cross at her bosom shined like her teeth. “Actually, it was a bribe for something.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “A picture, for our wall.” She pointed to several autographed snapshots: some sports figures, a horror author he’d never heard of, a soap opera star, and, yes, Bill Clinton.
    “I’d be happy to pose for a picture, just not tonight, please. Tomorrow, when I’m sober.”
    “You got a deal, Mr.—Justin.” Dominique glanced aside. “Here comes your charge.”
    Lottie limped back between some tables, the perennial nut-job grin on her face. She’d lost one of the overlarge high heels. What a nightmare, Collier thought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    “Good night.”
    Collier rushed to Lottie and turned her toward the door. “This way, Lottie.”
    She objected, pointing behind.
    “No, no more beer for you. Jesus, Lottie, your mother’s going to think I got you drunk.” He shouldered her out the door, an arm braced about her waist. She clipclopped along on one foot bare and one shoed. She appeared to be giggling in silence. Crossing the street was so cumbersome, Collier stopped, pulled off the remaining shoe, and threw it in the bushes. “They’re too big for you anyway. Lottie, you only had one beer! How can you be this drunk?”
    Her finger roved through his hair; then she tried to put the other hand down his shirt.
    “No, no, none of that! We’re going home!”
    In the parking lot he heard from a distance, “Hey, there’s that Prince of Beer guy with that drunk girl!”
    Shit! He fumbled at the passenger door.
    “Let’s go ask him for an autograph!” a woman’s voice shrilled.
    “Get in!” He dropped Lottie in the car like a couple of grocery bags, then huffed around, assed into the driver’s seat, and sped off. He thunked over a curb— Idiot! —then realized he hadn’t put his lights on. He thunked over another curb, then almost hit a corner mailbox searching for the headlights knob. This fuckin’ car! Finally he snapped them on and veered onto Penelope Street.
    Thank God it’s not far …He could see the Gast House all alight at the top of the hill. Nice and slow, he thought, settling down. Just another quarter mile—
    Suddenly Collier couldn’t see. His heart shouted in his chest when the wheel slipped, and he felt the vehicle go off the hardtop.
    Fwap! Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!
    He was mowing down bushes on the roadside. All he could see now were Lottie’s bare breasts in his face. She’d dropped her shoulder straps and was trying to straddle him in the driver’s seat—
    “Lottie, for shit’s sake!”
    One of her hands clamped his crotch and squeezed.
    “You’re going to get us killed!” He shoved her back, and—
    Thud!
    She slid across the dash and fell into the passengerside foot well, flat on her back. Then—
    No movement.
    Collier had managed to stop the car a yard short of the largest oak tree in the front court. He backed up slowly, then realized this:
    That’s the tree Harwood Gast hanged himself from…
    He pulled his eyes off the sprawling tree, then idled to the parking lot.
    No lights lit the half-filled lot; only moonlight traced into the car. Collier let his heart