The Nightcrawler by Mick Ridgewell Page B

the engine gleamed like it might have in a showroom forty plus years ago. Scott thought he could sell the car to this guy right now and get on a plane to LA where things would make sense.  
    “My name’s Scott,” he said extending his hand.
    The man took his hand and shook it firmly, the kind of handshake that oozed confidence and leadership. “Wayne Roberts. It’s a pleasure, Scott.” Wayne was now leaning both hands on the fender of the Charger admiring the big shiny V-8 under the hood.
    Scott had satisfaction on his face and with his best used-car salesman voice he asked, “Would you like to hear her purr?”
    “I sure would, Scott.”
    Before Wayne even finished, Scott had settled himself into the driver’s seat and was putting the key in the ignition switch.  
    “Wait till you hear this, Wayne,” he called out.  
    Wayne stood back from the car as it started up with a rumble that echoed off the walls of the Best Western like pit lane at Indianapolis. The fabric of his shirt fluttered in the breeze from the big motor’s fan.
    Wayne resumed his place at the side of the car, staring into the engine compartment in a trance. Scott joined him and noticed that old Wayne didn’t appear to be with him. He looked like he drifted off to another world, or another time. Could it be, Scott wondered, that Wayne was cruising his hometown strip, all his hair intact and down to his shoulders? Imagining himself driving fast with his left elbow resting out of the open window, his best girl in the passenger seat and the Beatles crackling from the AM radio.
    “What do you think, Wayne?” Scott stood directly in front of the Charger now, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and sporting a smile he hoped would be sincere and friendly. Wayne looked up with a bit of a start and Scott asked, “Would you like to take a quick spin? You can drive.”  
    Wayne looked down at his watch and reached out for Scott’s hand. “Thanks for showing me the car, Scott, but I have to get back inside. The wife is likely already wondering what happened to me.”
    Before Scott could even begin his sales pitch the old man was steps toward the hotel. He stopped once, turning to get another look at the car, and then waved at Scott still standing at the front bumper. Scott closed the hood and walked around to kill the engine.
    Without getting in the car, he shut the 440 down and removed the keys. Wayne was just getting to the side door of the Best Western when Scott slammed the door, the noise echoed loudly through the still morning. Scott watched Wayne enter the building, amused at the way the light over the door reflected off the top of his shiny head. It wasn’t until Wayne was out of sight that he noticed the orange glow of the rising sun silhouetting the hotel.  
    He looked down at the pavement and followed what he thought was the slime trail left behind by the worm he was watching before Wayne’s arrival. He couldn’t be sure it was the same one. The parking lot was crisscrossed with glistening lines that headed in every direction but didn’t seem to go anywhere.  
    He didn’t know why the gooey trails held his attention but his eyes followed one after another. He amused himself imagining the lines as a map of the LA freeways. This one’s the Harbor freeway, that one’s the Santa Ana and the one over there’s the Hollywood Freeway. He was about to start naming the surface streets when he heard it. That sound, the clicking sound the bum made with his tongue. He could feel his heartbeat quicken and had to force himself to breath.
    He fought back the fright taking over his conscious mind and slowly looked in the direction of the noise. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t even human. Twenty feet away a huge crow stood on the curb with a foot long worm dangling from his beak. He felt a bit of rage thinking that was his worm, the one he watched earlier. How stupid was that, getting mad at a bird for eating a worm. The bird was staring at Scott.