Chapter 3
Tansy felt a hand on her breast.
At first she couldn't be sure that the hand wasn't part of her dream. She had been lying in a hammock, it seemed, swaying gently in the warm afternoon. Beneath her a flawless green carpet of grass swept off across landscaped grounds, stopping now and then to form a clump of perfectly shaped shrubs, split here and there by flagstone paths, and rising at last to the base of a great white house with gleaming windows and gold trim around the doors. The house was hers in the dream, and so were the shrubs, and the land, and the hammock.
But she couldn't imagine who the owner of that hand might be.
Thinking about that, her mind followed the touch up from her dream into reality. The hammock and everything around it blew off like so much mist, and the gentle swaying turned into the clatter and lurch of the bus. She became conscious of herself in a rush; became aware of the rough texture of the seat, the sleazy cling of her worn silk dress, the stale moist sensation of her feet in her shoes. She had been sweating while she slept, and the silk dress clung damply to the pale surface of her slim young body.
With this awareness came total recall of who and where she was. The glow left behind by her favorite dream flickered and died.
She opened her eyes.
Her face was turned toward the bus window. It was almost night outside; masses of green-black trees rushed past in a blur, now and again a light would gleam briefly through the eaves. Except for these occasional flashes, there was no sign of a human being anywhere.
The hand was still on her breast, cupped lightly over the upward rise of it so that the pinky finger rested across the delicate tip. The warmth of the hand was pleasant, and seemed to make the silk of the dress more comfortable against the bare skin.
The fact that she wasn't wearing a bra puzzled Tansy for a moment, until she remembered discarding it. After two days on the bus, the hard elastic of a brassiere had been too much for her tender skin. She could still feel where the straps had been, and knew that the marks hadn't yet disappeared.
How much better it was to leave your breasts unbound and just relax. Brassieres were stupid anyway-they were supposed to be only for support, and Tansy's breasts got all the support they needed from the muscles of her young torso.
How much better to just leave your breasts bare-because that way, when a hand....
The hand was still holding her, and now a voice came out of nowhere to join it.
"Tansy?"
She didn't want to look around. Turning her head even that small distance would mean a complete surrender to reality, and she wanted to cling to the cottony warmth of sleep. It was so nice to be asleep-one of the nicest sensations of all, except maybe for sex. Of course, sleep was such a nice sensation only because it took you beyond sensation. When you were asleep nothing could touch you. Awake, you could feel things.
And things could feel you.
The voice spoke again. "Tansy? You asleep?"
Now wasn't that the most stupid question in the world? It was like someone asking if you were dead. In either case, you couldn't expect an answer.
"Why don't you ask if I'm awake?" Tansy said.
The voice laughed, and the curled fingers moved against the mound of Tansy's breast. "Yeah-I guess I should have asked that. That's a funny one, Tansy."
She still didn't want to turn her head. She didn't want to admit that the waking world had captured her again. But it had; the feeling of the seat, the jolting of the bus, the warmth of the hand, all were part of reality, and there wasn't a thing she could do about it.
She turned her head.
The figure beside her sat in darkness; Tansy couldn't see the shadowed face, but she could feel the direction of the gaze and could picture the expression on the features. The look, she thought-the filled-up look, the look that betrayed all the crazy pressure inside. Tansy had seen the look often enough.
"Did I wake you, Baby?"
"Yes." Tansy hitched herself up straight in the seat. "What time is it, Pete?"
"Just past four. We ought to be hitting a stop soon."
"Where are we?" Tansy turned and peered again through the window. The country outside was still only a dark rush of trees.
"Who knows?" Pete said. "Another state by now. I figure we're halfway to the coast."
The hand left Tansy's breast. A moment later a match flared, and she glanced up at Pete's face in the sudden light.
Yes-the expression was there. No doubt about it.
And Tansy knew what that meant.
"Cigarette baby?"
She took the burning cigarette and drew heavily on it. After her long sleep it tasted even more foul than usual, but she felt it clearing her senses. There was a pain in the muscles of her neck, and she reached up a hand to touch it.
"Baby?" Pete leaned forward. "Something wrong?"
"Got a crick," Tansy said. "These seats are terrible. You get comfortable enough to get to sleep, but you wake up crippled."
"Poor baby. Here-let me do it."
Pete's hand slipped around the back of Tansy's neck, and she leaned her body forward. Her skirt had ridden up above her knees, but she made no move to pull it down. She just let her arms fall tiredly between her bare legs as Pete's massaging hand pressed down from behind.
Halfway to the coast, Pete had said. Thank God for that. Two days more on this creaking crate was more than any human being could stand, and any longer than two days was out of the question. If they had been able to stop over at night, sleep in a motel or even stretch out on the ground, things might have been easier to take. But riding all night, trying to find sleep in these straight, hard seats-it was pure torture.
A day and a half-maybe two at the most. If she could live through it, she would make it to the coast. And then, pow! Hollywood, Frisco, Long Beach. The works.
Pete's fingers worked tiredlessly, bringing fresh blood to the aching cords and muscles of Tansy's neck. The hand lulled her, and her mind was groping for sleep again, building her house in the moneyed shade of Beverly Hills, when it finally stopped.
"Better?"
She lifted her head and blinked awake. "Yes, Pete. Thank you."
"That's okay, baby, anytime. You just say the word."
Tansy glanced across the aisle. The seats opposite were empty, and from where she was sitting she couldn't see a soul.
"Where is everybody?" she asked.
"Up front," Pete said, puffing the cigarette and smiling. "Driver's throwing a fit again, and Meg's trying to shout him down. You know what Meg's like when she gets wound up. Everybody drifted front to watch the show."
Tansy looked over the top of the next seat and saw a group clustered around the driver's seat. "They look quiet enough now," she said.
"Oh the storm's past, I think. At least for the moment. But he's still bitching, and Meg's still arguing, so I guess they'll all be up there for a while yet."
"How come you didn't go up?"
"I wanted to stay here with you," Pete said.
Tansy nodded to herself. Pete was ready to go, all right. But that only stood to reason. After all, they had been on this bus for two days now, and two days was a long time to go without any. Pete wasn't the sort of person who could stand abstinence for any stretch of time.
For that matter, neither was Tansy.
Oh well, she thought, Pete'll just have to wait same as me. There isn't anything to do about it on a bus.
She settled back as far as the hard seat cushion would allow, and stretched her arms high above her head until the elbows cracked. She was aware that the movement lifted her breasts invitingly against the silk bodice of her dress, and she hoped it would be too dark for Pete to notice.
But as usual, Pete noticed.
The palm came out again, seeking a breast, and Tansy shifted her body to avoid it. "What's he got to bitch about?" she asked, trying to change the subject.
"Who?"
"The driver. He's just doing a job of work, ain't he? Running a charter bus service is his business, right?"
The lightness in Pete's voice sounded forced. "Oh, he's got his problems. It isn't every day of the week a driver takes on a bus-load like this. By him, we're all illegal."
"What's illegal? We ain't breaking no laws just riding his bus. So long as nobody don't take on no customers, he don't have a thing to worry about."
Pete drew on the cigarette and blew a smoke ring. "Maybe nobody's breaking any laws right now, but remember Clayville?"
Tansy took several puffs on her own cigarette, then dropped it and ground it out under her heel. "Clayville is two days back of us," she said. "That dutch is ancient history."
"Uh-uh," Pete said. "Just because we cleared out doesn't mean the trouble stopped existing. They'd like to catch up to us, make no mistake. They'll be laying for us if we ever pass through Clayville again."
Tansy looked out into the darkness again. This trip wouldn't be nearly so hard without Pete riding beside her. In spite of the discomfort, it was nice to be on the road, rolling away from the old life and its troubles and heading for a new horizon. There was no reason to suspect that horizon would be any better than the old one, of course; but at least it would be different.
But Pete was making it hard. The two of them had spent the last night before leaving in bed together, enjoying each other's bodies to the full, trying to glut their appetites sufficiently to go without any for four days.
It hadn't worked.
Pete had the itch almost continuously, kept touching and playing with Tansy in ways that excited both of them. But it was impossible to get very far with people watching, and the faces across the aisle were always on the lookout for anything to break the monotony. Everyone in the bus knew about Pete and Tansy, and they were just waiting for an opportunity to start jeering.
The hand touched her breast again.
She sighed, and a little quiver ran along the insides of her thighs.
"I was watching you," Pete said. "Were you?"
"Yes. While you were asleep. You looked so pretty, Tansy. You always look so pretty when you're sleeping-like a little angel. Did I ever tell you that?"
"Sure, Pete. Lots of times."
"Well, it's true. The-sun was going down outside, you know, and it made your hair look all gold. It looks like gold anyway, but the sun made it even more golden. Do you know what I mean?"
"Pete...."
"Real pretty. Like a little girl. But just your hair-only your hair looked like that. The rest of you doesn't look like a little girl at all."
Tansy smiled obediently at the old joke.
"And you know what I thought of when I looked at you?"
"No Pete. Tell me what you thought of."
"I thought of making love to you."
Tansy shuddered, and the soft meat of her breast moved in Pete's hand. "Come on,-" she said. "Don't do this."
"Don't do what, baby?"
"Get me all stirred up. Come on. Pete, please."
"I like to get you stirred up, baby. I like my little Tansy to get all hot for me."
"Pete-I can't take it. I get all riled, and there ain't nothing we can do about it. Don't you see? Playing around only makes it worse."
"I thought of making love to you."
"Stop!"
"I thought of being in bed with you, wrapping myself around that naked little body and pulling you close...."
Pete's voice was hypnotic, and Tansy could feel small electric tinglings running along the nerves of her cupped breast. The coral circle of the tip was tightening in hard excitement, and that excitement set her whole body trembling.
"I wanted to touch you first," Pete went on. "Like this, through your dress."
"Oh, Pete!"
"And then I wanted to touch you bare-put my hand right down inside and feel you."
The hand left her breast, paused just below her chin, then slipped into the neckline of the dress and rode down under the soft silk, down into the warm valley between the firm hemispheres. Then the fingers shifted, and the hand slid up and around until it was holding the naked shape of one stiff-tipped breast.
Tansy leaned her head back on the seat and breathed through the slack circle of her lips as Pete's fingers toyed with her, hefted her, teased the aching thrust of the nipple into further excitement.
"Like this-I wanted to hold you like this."
Tansy couldn't speak.
"And then-this is what I wanted to do."
The fingers of Pete's free hand curled suddenly around Tansy's bare thigh. She slid her trim buttocks across the seat cushion until her knees touched the back of the next seat. Then she opened her thighs.
The hem of her dress rode all the way up to her hips, and Pete's hand followed it. While the fingers moved inside her neckline, the palm hollowing to fit the round thrusting, the hand lifting against the flesh until a round swelling of breast rose from the low-cut bodice of her dress-while this caress was setting fires inside her, another caress was forming, another hand was cupping gently against the lacy softness of her panties.
"I wanted to hold you like this," Pete said, breathing in her ear. "Hold you just like this, with both hands, so I'd really know I owned you."
"Pete...." she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
"And then-you know what I thought? I looked around and saw that we were all alone back here, I saw there wasn't a soul to watch us. I thought-we're alone, you and I. We're all alone."
Something moved against Tansy's hip, and she realized dimly that Pete was pulling at the waistband of her panties. She slid her knees together, let the garment ride down her thighs, then slither along her smooth calves to the floor.
Pete's hand touched the closed thighs. Tansy opened them.
"We can do it," Pete said breathlessly. "Right here in the bus. Tansy baby, we don't have to wait anymore, don't have to go crazy. There's nobody to see us-we can do it right now."
Pete's hands filled with her. Inside her dress the palm kept shifting from one breast to the other, squeezing, lifting, pushing, stroking. Now and again the tip of a finger would brush the distended coins of her nipples, and the feel of it was almost too much to bear.
And down below, another touch-down there, where the backs of her thighs rounded off into the soft buttocks, where the tops of her thighs blended smoothly into belly, where the insides of her thighs stopped short to frame the ultimate core of her torso, down there Pete's fingers rested, the tips of them touching the beginnings of the buttocks, a thumb resting on the top of one thigh, a pinky flexing against the inside of the other thigh.
And in between all these fingers and touches, in the space marked off by that triangle of delicate sensation, Pete's warm palm hugged upward.
Tansy thought of love.
But there was no such thing, was there? Love was just an ordinary word people used to describe kicks-wasn't that what Pete always said? Sure. Love was stupid. When you loved somebody you had to surrender a part of yourself, give up some of your individuality so that you could tell the world: Look-this person here is as important to me as I am to myself.
And that was crazy. Pete said so, and Tansy believed it. Lovers were like Siamese twins; lashed together by a strand which could transmit the warm juices of their affection, but which also tied them down and held them to each other the way a convict is held by a ball and chain.
Lovers were trapped by love, and love was only a four-letter word for prison.
It was a kick, it was a form of fun, but that was all. It must never become any more important than that.
"Pete!" she said. "Oh, Pete!"
The voice blew hotly into her ear. "Call me by my name, Tansy."
"What?"
"My whole name-not just Pete. Everybody calls me Pete. When we're making love, I like you to call me by my whole name."
"Petunia," Tansy said.
"Yes, that's it. My whole stupid name. Call me that."
"Oh, yes Petunia."
And all of a sudden something was touching Tansy's hand. What have I got here? she wondered. Is it a breast? Isn't that nice?
Was it more foolish to fall in love with a woman than a man? In a way, maybe it was. Of course, there was a risk with a man-one false move could curse you with a fat belly and a lot of trouble-and making love to a woman eliminated that risk.
But wasn't there a risk with a woman, too? The other girls all made jokes about Pete and Tansy, and they were used to seeing things like that. So what about the rest of the world? Didn't you run the chance of being cast out by society when you played around with your own sex?
But that was silly-Tansy didn't love Pete. They had talked that out long ago, and promised each other they would never fall in love. And as long as they didn't love each other, why, they weren't really lesbians, were they?
It's all right, Tansy thought. There's nothing wrong with it if I hold Pete's breast while she holds mine. Where's the harm in that? I'm only playing a game.
And if I let my hand push up her dress and grab hold of a thigh, if I feel around until I can get my fingers inside the leg-bands, if I match her touch for touch and caress for caress-that's just part of the game, too. She's entitled to that in reuturn for the pleasure she's giving me.
What's she doing?
She's moving-there, I've lost her. She pulled herself right out of my hands. And now, she's ... Are those her breasts I feel? Pressing on my thigh? Is that-is that her breath?
Yes. Yes, it is. That's just what it is. And that's her hair brushing me. And those are her hands reaching around and grabbing on. And those are her lips....
It could happen so easily, Tansy thought. You have to fight it all the time. Drop your guard for just a second and it'll get you, and you'll be in love-you'll be a lesbian all the way. And it won't matter how many men you sell yourself to, how many times you lie down for a male with the price-you'll be a lesbain through and through, for ever and ever.
It'll get you, not because you're queer, not because you're a whore who's sick of men, not because you're a dope who believes there's such a thing as love-but because once you give in, you'll have somebody who cares about you.
Why is that so important?
Tansy's mind flickered out in the wash of terrible sensation, and she gave herself over to the frenzy of the moment. Somebody cared, and for the time being nothing else was important.
Later on, maybe she'd figure it out. When she grew older, perhaps she would begin to understand the chemistry of caring, why it was different from love, how to keep caring from turning into love.
Right now she couldn't make any sense out of the problem.
But, after all, she was only eighteen.
The man seemed to clamp everything he touched.
His hands clamped the steering wheel. The veins stood out so fiercely, and the knuckles were so white, one would almost think the finger-grip scalloping of the wheel hadn't been molded into it by the factory at all, but were depressions left behind by years of clamping.
He clamped his body with his elbows, hugging himself furiously as if he were a spy with microfilm in his armpits. He clamped his knees tightly against the steering column. He clamped the frayed butt of a dead cigar between his teeth. He seemed almost to clamp his rear end into the seat.
If he hand't been wearing shoes, he would probably have had his toes clamped around the accelerator pedal.
He sat bolt upright, his face pointed dead ahead, and clamped.
Meg couldn't recall ever having seen anything quite like it.
"Look, Mr. Samson," she said. "I ain't trying to...."
"It's Salmon," the man cried around his cigar. "How many times I gotta tell you my name before you get it straight? S-A-L-M-O-N. Salmon, like the damn fish."
"Salmon," Meg amended. "Right. I just forgot there for a minute."
"Like the fish," he said. "Just remember the damn fish, that's all I ask."
"All right, Mr. Salmon. Now all I'm trying to ask you is a simple question. There ain't no need for you to get excited over it. You don't have to shout, you don't have to stamp your feet, you don't have to do anything at all but listen to me, think about it, and give me a straight answer. What's so hard about that?"
He clamped furiously with all his clampers and shook his head. The movement made the battered driver's cap slide askew on his bald plate. "I'll tell you what's so hard about it-you been asking me that same question for the last two hundred miles, that's what's hard. I told you already I don't know how many times, we ain't gonna make Gasport by midnight."
Meg shifted her buttocks on the seat wearily. From behind her, she heard the giggling of the girls, and considered telling them all to get back to their seats. But she decided she had enough on her hands with the driver for the moment. Besides, the girls seemed to be enjoying the argument, and they hadn't been enjoying much of anything these past few days. It was worth having an audience and looking a little foolish in exchange for shutting up the constant bitching that had been going on in the bus.
Meg was a huge woman, formed of fleshy rolls which were only partially fat. In spite of her bulk, she was very agile and firm. Underneath the billowings of her flesh lay a bone and muscle structure as tough as the steel skeleton of a skyscraper. Some of this toughness was reflected in her eyes. But unless you looked deep, you'd never suspect it was there.
"Mr. Samson," she said, "Why are you giving us such a hard time?"
"Salmon, dammit. Like the fish!" He clamped madly. "If you don't get that straight, I'm gonna go out of my damn mind."
All right-Salmon." Meg yelled, waving her arms impatiently. "Stop telling me your name and answer the question. If we can't make it by midnight, then when the hell are we going to get to this Passport, or whatever it is?"
He unclamped one hand from the steering wheel long enough to smack his brow. "Holy good damn," he yelled. "Passport! It's Gasport-the name of the town's Gasport, and my name is Salmon."
"Like the damn fish," Meg yelled back. T know all about it."
"Like the damn fish," he said. "Damn right."
"Answer the question, will you please? When do we get to Gaspipe?"
His entire body clamped for an instant, and Meg had the crazy feeling that he was going to crumple up and suck in on himself like a deflated balloon. But the moment passed, and finally he unclamped enough to say. "I don't know. I told you before, I tell you know, I'll tell you five damn minutes from now-I just don't know."
"How far away from it are we? Can you tell me that?"
"Three, four hundred miles, give or take three or four hundred. How the hell should I know?"
The girls roared with laughter, and Mr. Salmon clamped his cigar hard enough to crack his jawbone.
"What do you mean, how should you know?" Meg cried. "You're the driver. What kind of driver are you if you don't even know where you are?"
"Listen," said Mr. Salmon. "I'll tell you what kind of a driver I am. I'm a man with a charter bus, been driving for thirty years, knows all the tricks of the road, knows practically every town on every main route between Long Island and Long Beach. You paid a million dollars, you couldn't get a better driver."
"I could get a better driver than you for ten bottle caps," Meg said.
"You think so, hah? You think you could just pick up any old driver and have him transport you and your load of damn hookers cross-country, without him flipping his damn cookie? You think that would be easy?"
"No-I just think you flipped your cookie about two hundred miles ago."
The girls laughed again, and the sound seemed to cut Mr. Salmon to the core.
"Well, the hell with you. I don't care what you or any of your damn hookers think. You're getting what you paid for, and that's all I have to worry about."
"We are not," shouted Meg. "We ain't getting what we paid for unless we hit Gasport by midnight."
"Damn," Mr. Salmon said, in admiration. "She got it right."
"Stop jawing around, Mr. Tunafish, and answer me." Meg's voice rose to full power on the last two words, and the sound of it filled the bus. An awed silence followed. Meg had big lungs, even in proportion to the rest of her.
This time Mr. Salmon didn't seem to clamp so much as crumple. Meg saw with amazement that all the fight had gone out of him-all at once, with no advance warning.
When he spoke, his voice was meek, and faintly pleading.
"Lay off me, lady. Please? Be a good lady, and just let me drive the bus."
"Why can't we make Gasport by midnight?" Meg persisted.
Mr. Salmon sighed hugely. "Look, Miss Meg-I can't tell you whether we'll get there at midnight or not. And the reason I can't tell you is because I don't know where we are. And the reason I don't know where we are is because you picked out this damn route through this nowhere country, and I don't know any of the towns along this stretch. If there are any towns-by now I ain't even sure we're in the U.S.A. any more."
"This is the shortest route," Meg said.
"Oh, the hell it is! Maybe it looks shortest on the map, but I told you before we left it wouldn't work out that way. You wanna make time, you should stick to the big roads."
"I didn't want to go through any big cities, Mr. Salmon. You know the reason for that."
He laughed. It was a harsh explosion of air coming from deep in his throat, and it didn't sound at all humorous. "Yeah-I guess a busload of whores would attract some attention, wouldn't it?"
Meg returned his smile thinly. She was beginning to feel very weary of this conversation, and the bus ride, and the frustrating way the trip was drawing itself out. She yearned to be back in her nice parlor on Canal Street in Clayville, relaxing after a good day's sleep, lining up the girls and getting things ready for the night's business. Funny that such a simple thing should seem so precious now that it was gone.
But it was gone completely, and there was no point in longing for it. After almost twenty years in the same location, twenty years of serving Clayville's fathers and sons and visiting firemen, twenty years in which Meg and her sporting house had become as much of a town fixture as the Methodist Church and the old stone police station on Water Street, where all the cops sat around and looked the other way-after all that, it was gone.
She thought sadly of Mayor Kinderhook. What a nice man he had been-so big and prosperous-looking in his gray striped pants and black coat and shiny hat. He had always been so gentlemanly, so considerate of Meg's interests. And he had never grown demanding enough to really cut into her profits. He was satisfied with a reasonable rake-off-for the boys in the Department, of course-and he took his own share the way a gentlemen should, in trade.
A nice man with a soft heart and a softer administration. Such a pity to have him go out the way he had. And yet, there was a certain poetry about it-after all, the truck which hit him had been filled with the same brand of beer he himself was full of at the time.
But who would have thought that the loss of Mayor Kinderhook would result in the loss of so many other things? Who would have believed that the people of Clayville-most of whom took advantage of Meg's services regularly-would ever elect a blue-nose, dried up little worm like Templeton to the office of Mayor? Who could have predicted what would happen to that friendly old administration once Templeton got his bloodless, sexless hooks into it.?
Unbelievable as it was, it happened, and it turned out a lot worse than anyone expected. There hadn't been any choice but to leave.
So Meg and her girls hired Mr. Salmon's charter bus, made their sad good-byes to the town of Clayville, the old house, and the few favorite police officers who hadn't yet succumbed to Mayor Templeton's orders, and left. It took every penny Meg could raise to get the troops on the road, but she decided it was worth it.
There was only one problem. The money wasn't enough.
As long as Meg and the girls were riding Mr. Salmon's bus, they weren't turning a single trick. The past two days and the two days more to come were dead as far as business was concerned. But the girls were still eating, naturally, and that cost money. Mr. Salmon had only been paid half of the agreed fee, and when the bus finally hit the coast he would want the balance. That would cost money, too. Then there was the further problem of finding a place to stay-a rather knotty problem, considering that there were twenty girls in the troop, not including Meg herself.
The money she had wasn't enough to cover all this. Her only hope was Gasport.
"Mr. Salmon," she said, trying to make her voice as sweet as possible. "I want to confess something to you."
"Do anything you damn well please," Mr. Salmon said.
"I know a hotel manager in Gasport-he's an old friend of mine, used to visit my place back at Clayville, where you picked us up."
"Good for you," said Mr. Salmon. "So what?"
"So I think this friend of mine would be willing to put us up for a while in his hotel-let us turn a few tricks and earn some money. I think we could work out some kind of arrangement with him."
Mr. Salmon shrugged. "That's fine. Make your damn point."
"We're going to have to stop off and earn some money, Mr. Salmon."
"You are?" He looked away from the road quickly, and the driver's cap slid down over one ear. "How come?"
"We ain't got enough, Mr. Salmon. The trip's taking longer than I expected for one thing, and none of the girls are earning, so that's eating up the stake. And besides...."
"Just a second," said Mr. Salmon. "What about the rest of my money?"
"Yes. Well, that's another thing, Mr. Salmon."
"Are you telling me you ain't got enough to cover the balance?"
Meg nodded. "That's about the size of it. Unless we stop over in Gasport and get some money in the till, this whole operation is up the creek."
For a while Mr. Salmon didn't say anything. Meg became conscious of the dead silence behind her, and suddenly remembered the girls. She hadn't meant for them to hear her confession, but it was too late now.
Oh well-maybe it was better that they know. After all, weren't they all in this thing together?
"Mr. Salmon?" Meg tried to read his expression. "You hear what I said?"
"Yeah," he replied. "I heard. I got a little confession to make to you."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He clamped his cigar. "I don't think we're gonna make it to Gasport at all."
"Not make it?" Meg stared at him. "Why the hell not?"
"Because this damn bus ain't gonna hold together long enough, that's why the hell not."
"Mr. Salmon, is there something wrong with the bus?"
He nodded sourly. "There wasn't nothing wrong with it when we left Clayville, and everything probably would have been all right if we'd stuck to the main roads. But this crazy route of yours goes over every cow path in the world. Roads like that shake a bus up, especially an old bus like this one."
"What's wrong? Can you fix it?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I got the feeling that if I stop I won't be able to start it again. What I should do is pull into a station next town we hit." He paused, and clamped his cigar even harder. "Only how in the hell can I pull into a station with a bus full of whores?"
Meg opened her mouth, but the words never left it.
From down beneath her feet came a sudden pounding and gnashing of machinery. The vibration set the whole bus shuddering, and a couple of the girls screamed.
"Hey!" yelled Meg, turning toward them. "Take it easy, girls."
"It's gonna explode," one of them cried.
"It is not." Meg yelled back. "Mr. Samson, it ain't going to explode, is it?"
The metallic screeching ran the entire length of the bus, rattling the old window panes. Somewhere in back, a loud clunking hammered at the floor. For a moment, the bus seemed to hang suspended a few inches off the road, trying to make up its mind whether to blow up or just die.
Then the motor went snork, and wheezed out its life in a long agonized exhalation.
The silence was fantastic. After living with the noise of the bus for forty-eight hours, the sudden quiet was as oppressive to Meg as a cemetery.
"Mr. Salmon?" she asked hesitantly.
He unclamped one clamper at a time, and leaned back wearily in his seat. "That's it," he said.
"It," Meg repeated.
"It," said Mr. Salmon, quite positively.
The girls milled around at the side of the road, stretching their tired legs and talking in nervous undertones. The coals of numerous cigarettes made little dots in the darkness.
At the edge of the road a girl called Crazy Pearl sat glumly on a rock, with her friend Anna beside her.
"Some people," said Crazy Pearl, "don't think of nothing but sex."
Anna thought it over. "I suppose so. Who you mean. Pearl?"
"Tansy and Pete," she said. "What about them?"
"They're still in the bus. Can you beat that? What a pair of loonies."
"They are? Hey Pearl, they going at it? You think they're going at it?"
Crazy Pearl shrugged. "What else?"
Anna stared at the hulking mass of the dead vehicle on the road. "Boy, I wish there was some light."
"Light? What the hell for?"
"I want to watch them go at it," Anna replied.
Crazy Pearl snorted. "What are you, a pervert or something?"
"Pervert? Hey, don't you go calling me no names, Pearl. You got no reason to call me names. I ain't a pervert and you know it."
"Then why you want to watch dykes, huh? Answer me that."
"Well...." Anna groped for an explanation. "It's interesting. I never seen dykes do it. Don't you think it's interesting, Pearl?"
"No," Pearl said. "I think it's disgusting. I hate dykes."
"Oh." Anna fell silent for a moment. "Well, I think it's interesting. I sure do wish we had some light."
"I killed a dyke once," Pearl said.
"Oh, now, Pearl-don't start, huh?"
"I did. What's the matter? Don't you believe it?"
"Aw, Pearl-you're talking that crazy stuff. What you want to talk about killing for?"
Crazy Pearl smiled in the darkness. "We were talking about dykes, weren't we? And that just reminded me of the time I killed one. Nothing crazy about that-it's just something that happened once."
"Yeah. Well, let's talk about something else."
"With a knife," said Crazy Pearl. "I killed her with a knife."
"Pearl, stop it now."
"I really did. Took a knife to her and carved her up real fine. Boy-she never expected it, let me tell you. Should have seen the expression on her when she got cut. She thought she was gonna get a piece of me, and I sliced a piece of her instead. Whole lot of pieces, in fact." She laughed gratingly.
"Now, that's enough, Pearl. It's plenty spooky out here as it is without none of your crazy stories."
"You want to know where I cut her first?" asked Pearl.
"I'm gonna vomit," Anna said. "You make me vomit, I'll do it all over you, so help me."
Pearl laughed again. After a pause, she said. "I wonder how long they're gonna be."
"Who? Tansy and Pete?"
"No, stupid. Meg and Mr. Salmon-fish. How long they been gone now?"
Anna shrugged. "I don't know. A while." Pearl squinted off through the blackness. "They might be gone all night. Who knows where the next town is?"
"Gee, I hope not. It's spooky out here with no lights."
"Listen," Pearl said. "You sure you don't want to hear where I cut that dyke?"
"Oh, shut your mouth! You and your crazy stories. I don't believe you never cut nobody with that knife."
"Sure I did," Pearl said. "Lots of people. I don't even remember how many it was. But I only cut a dyke once."
"Pearl, I'll vomit."
Crazy Pearl laughed.
Down the road the bright circle of a flashlight suddenly appeared and the girls beside the bus all turned to look at it. Their hushed laughter became more agitated.
"Hey," Crazy Pearl said. "I think that's them now."
"Good," said Anna.
The flashlight made its way slowly to the bus, followed by the figures of Meg and Mr. Salmon. They were both puffing as if from long exertion.
"We found a town," Meg said. "Now don't get excited.
Because it ain't much from the look of it. I don't think it's even got a hotel. But it's a place to go, at least for the night."
"We gonna hustle tonight, Meg?"
"Not till we see what kind of town it is. A lot of burgs along this way are preacher-happy, and we don't want no posse on our tails. We got enough trouble as it is."
"Damn right," said Mr. Salmon.
"So you all behave," continued Meg. "Act like little ladies until I tell you different. And walk nice when we get down there. Don't go flinging it around-remember we ain't in Clayville any more."
"Hey, Meg," yelled a girl. "Where are we, then? What's the name of this place?"
"I don't know, Mr. Salmon?"
The driver waved a hand. "I told you already, I don't know any towns through this stretch. What damn difference does it make? You wanna write to the folks, or something?"
The girls laughed, and the sound pained Mr. Salmon enough to make him wince.
"Well," said Meg. "Whatever it is, we're going there. Now all of you get your light stuff out of the bus. Leave the suitcases behind. Mr. Salmon's gonna lock up for us, so it'll be all safe. And shake a leg. "
The girls swarmed into the bus and collected their gear. Tansy and Pete were sitting and talking with exaggerated innocence, but nobody paid them any attention. Mr. Salmon waited outside on the road, clamping his cigar and clicking the button of his flashlight impatiently.
Finally the girls were ready. With Meg and Mr. Salmon leading the way they left the bus, came over the crest of the hill, and started the long walk down toward the faint lights of a town below.
Anna felt a figure move to her side, and knew it had to be Crazy Pearl.
"Hey Anna-I'll make you a bet."
"About what?" asked Anna suspiciously.
"I mean it," Pearl said. "A regular bet. For money."
"Go ahead-but no crazy stuff, Pearl. Please."
"You see that street down there?" Pearl asked.
"Is that a street?"
"Yeah-all those lights in a row. That's the street through town."
"What about it?"
"Anna. I'll bet you a dollar that's called Main Street."