Chapter 7
"Sir, this is hardly a matter for the telephone company," snipped the telephone operator's voice, starched with Eastern arrogance. "I suggest you telephone your local police department."
Bob's face went livid with rage. "I want to know if my home telephone is working and that goddamned well is your fucking business!"
A loud tut and a final click was his answer.
Bob stood holding the dead telephone receiver in his white knuckled fist, glowering at it. "Goddamned telephone people think they own the world," he snorted, dropping another coin into the machine, his dial-weary finger retracing his home number again. It rang fourteen times before he conceded to defeat.
Sleep-deprived furrows wrinkled his forehead, deepening now with worry.
He feared the worst: Had Jill packed up and left ... or worse ... God, no! ... fallen into the false security of those damned tranquilizers that Dr. Kinder handed out like Halloween candy!
Behind him, Bacon & West's receptionist snickered, sitting demurely nibbling her lunch time yogurt, her wide green eyes sweeping over the six foot virility of Bob Carlson's lanky back. Sensing her curious stare, he glared over his shoulder at her, a glare that could slice steel. He stretched the telephone cord as far as the emptied conference room and pulled the door in after him.
"Long distance for Dr. Raymond Kinder in Dallas, please ... and make it collect!"
"Open up, Pete!" Charlie hammered ferociously on the truck's loading door.
Inside, Pete fumbled around in the dark, snapping shut the last fly in his coveralls. His penis gave one final dying jerk, spurting a little dime-sized wet spot to soak through his jockey shorts and leave a tell-tale stain. Charlie was nobody's fool; he'd been on the inside long enough to know the rap for kidnapping and he would bash his head in for taking the Carlson woman along! Charlie was like that-a veritable bedspring of tension ready to uncoil and puncture at any second.
In retrospect, it was a damned stupid move, taking that blonde haired jewel along. But God knows she might have gone into a lethal coma if he hadn't roused her up a bit and gotten her juices flowing. And flow they did! Now to dispose of her somewhere ... somehow. Maybe leave her in a motel room someplace along the way or maybe in a ladie's room rest stop.
Hastily, he prodded the vents shut with the pointed tip of an upright brass lamp and, pulling the sheet up over Jill's comatose body, he slid open the door a crack and jumped out.
The piercing light of day stung his eyes, temporarily blinding him, and when he could focus it was to see sagebrush and sandy prairie stretching flat as a plate as far as the eye could see. Christ, there wasn't even a tree to hide behind! Only rattlesnakes and armadillos could survive this cursed land. Pete scratched his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, congratulating himself on his impeccable timing. Fifteen minutes earlier and he and little Jill Carlson would be so much fodder for the vultures.
"Thought we'd get us a little motel room and freshen up. This fuckin' coal dust is makin' me itch." Speedy's pudgy hand made a white streak down his cheek. He brushed at his forehead, his hand coming away muddied. " 'Sides, I wouldn' want none of them jack-assed red necks thinkin' I'm a nigger in these parts."
"Yeah ... I could go for some grub. Been a helluva long night ... could use some protein."
The three of them climbed back into the cab and headed on down the freeway toward a dumpy, forgotten little town called Clovis, near the Texas/New Mexico border. Speedy pulled off the main highway into a crumbling, stucco-fronted gasoline station with a rusted flying red horse sign nailed with a two-penny spike to a telephone pole, behind of which stood a line of cabins that appeared to have been denied attention since the last rains ... and God knew when that was.
They took a room there, paid the owner-a toothless, leather faced ex-rodeo rider who apologized for the sorry state of affairs, explaining that since the new highway sliced him off from the line of traffic, business hadn't been so good. After a shower, the odd-threesome ambled over to Mamma Chico's Truck Stop for a man's breakfast of steak, eggs, hashed browns, pancakes and coffee. The breakfast was enough to feed a family of five.
A Tex-Mex waitress in a too-snug uniform with jelly smudges on her bulging bodice poured another round of coffee. "Anything else for y'all?" she asked, swiping a strand of greasy black hair behind her ear.
Charlie popped a rolaid into his mouth, and Speedy sat back massaging his blubbery middle and working up a belch. "Naw, thanks though."
Pete scanned the menu. "Yeah ... I'll have a hot ham sandwich with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise ... hold the mustard."
Charlie grimaced and cocked an eyebrow. "Where the hell you puttin' this grub, man?" He stared down at Pete's half emptied plate, then back at Pete.
"Somethin' to nibble on out on the road."
Charlie squinted suspiciously, but held his tongue. He wasn't totally convinced that was a Persian carpet Pete had slung over his shoulder back there at the Carlson house.
The door handle was almost too hot to touch in the scorching mid-morning sun, and Charlie climbed in first, sliding over in the wide girthed seat to make room for Pete. Speedy revved the engine, the exhaust pipe sputtering smoke hot as a dragon's breath. After a moment of indecision, followed by questioning stares, Pete stepped back.
"That's okay, man. I don't mind ridin' in the back. Ain' so bad back there with the vents open. He shrugged, making for the rear of the truck, leaving the two to stare at each other dumbfoundedly.
The truck glided along at a smooth fifty-five miles per hour when it jelled in Charlie's brain. Hot ham sandwich to go, riding in the back of the truck instead of the air conditioned cab ... he snapped his fingers. "I think we got more cargo than we bargained for," he said sourly, his jaws working on another Rolaid.
"Huh?" Speedy lazed back, driving with one hand, scratching at his genitals and munching on a butterscotch lifesaver.