Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (68 page)

They stepped inside the elevator. “I'm on the fifth level,” he explained as he pressed the appropriate button. “Don't you have family or friends who could help you?"

She did not answer. For the first time he saw her shiver and noticed that her dirty skin had a bluish hue. The elevator doors opened and he pointed to his right. “It's the blue Chevy over there."

He opened the trunk of his car and deposited the package.

“What's all that crap?” she asked, hugging herself in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

“Five reams of copy paper, envelopes and toner cartridges,” he replied. As they strapped on seatbelts he continued, “I pretend to be a writer. The weather forecast for the next several days is scary. I wanted to be sure I don't run out of supplies in case the roads get iced over."

As the ancient blue Chevrolet sedan roared to life he said, “She doesn't look like much, but the heater works great. It'll thaw you out in a couple of minutes.” He could not help but notice how the seatbelt, pressed between her breasts, forced her frigid nipples to poke into the thin fabric of the faded cotton dress she was wearing. “What's your name?"

“Anything you want it to be,” she answered.

He laughed as he steered his car into the heavy Charlotte traffic. “Okay, how about Jo? I've always liked Jo as a girl's name."

“Hey, good guess,” she replied. “It really is Jo, as in Josephine."

“Yeah, right."

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

“To you? I'm not going to do anything
to
you. I'm not quite certain what I am going to do
for
you either. Feel that warm air? I told you she has a good heater."

“What are you going to do to me?"

“Why do you keep asking me that?"

“Because you have a big hard-on. I told you I'd give you a good time for fifty bucks. You aren't getting it for free."

“You gave me a reduced rate of fifteen dollars, remember?"

“I was colder then. The price is back up to fifty."

He suddenly jerked the steering wheel and bounced into the Wal-Mart parking lot. He eased into a parking space and cut the engine. “Come on,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“I'm not going in there looking like this,” she replied.

“Look, its supper time and they have a nice little snack bar. We'll get a hamburger or something and buy you a few clothes."

“Why would you do that?” she asked.

“I'll be damned if I know.” He opened his door and headed for the huge, brightly illuminated, building. She hurried to catch up.

“What will people think of you when they see you with a tramp like me?” Her breath formed little clouds in front of her lips.

“Who cares,” he replied. “Besides, I am a newcomer to the area. Nobody knows me."

“Yeah, me too,” she said as she entered the glass door that automatically opened as they approached.

He got a shopping cart and pushed it towards the ladies clothing section and studied her as she selected a couple of jogging outfits, blouses, pants, socks, shoes and lingerie. She was about his height. Five feet eight is short for a man, he thought, and tall for a woman. She's a brunette but there is evidence in her long shaggy hair that at one time she was a blond. Nothing special about her figure, he observed, but those big brown peepers are certainly first class bedroom eyes.

“This coat's thirty bucks,” she said, holding up a pea-green, plastic garment.

“It's ugly and doesn't look very warm. How about this navy blue thing?” he asked, pulling a heavy cloth coat from the rack.

“Look at the price tag on that sucker."

“Don't you think you are worth a hundred and a half?"

“That'll get you three good times,” she replied, tossing the coat into their shopping cart.

“Ten,” he deadpanned as he pushed the shopping cart towards the toiletries section. “Buy what you need,” he said. “I know you need a toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb, but I'm in the dark as far as other ladies’ necessities are concerned."

“You're not married?” she asked.

“Nope. Came close once, but she got smart just in time."

“How old are you ... uh ... what did you say your name was?"

“Randy, and I'm thirty-two."

“Just a baby,” she laughed. “I'm thirty-seven."

It was the first time he had seen a real smile on her face and the first time he had heard her laugh. He liked it. “Okay, Mama,” he joked. “There's one more stop we need to make before we eat.” He headed for the jewelry counter where he selected a watch, a bracelet and a thin gold necklace.

She pulled him out of hearing of the amused clerk and said, “Baby, I don't need this stuff. You've spent too much on me already."

“Did Santa Claus visit you on Christmas day?"

“Don't be silly."

“I didn't think so. This is your belated Christmas present."

She wolfed down her burger so fast he thought she must have lied about eating dinner at the mission the previous night. She consumed two more before they checked out and returned to the Chevy.

“You spent over five hundred bucks on me,” she said as he pulled out onto the Old Charlotte Road. “Why?"

“Like I said before, I'll be damned if I know, and that's the truth."

Rain began to splatter the windshield and when he turned on the wipers the water turned to slush. She fingered her new bracelet as she asked, “Is your place far from here?"

“About thirty miles. I live in a quiet little community called Dot. I moved there a couple of months ago. I rented an old farmhouse and furnished it with the Salvation Army's best junk,” he laughed.

“I hope we get there before the roads get too bad. I noticed your tires are as bald as my dad's head."

“I thought you said you had no family."

“I didn't say that, and I don't want to talk about it."

“Look, Jo. I told you I am a writer. I want to know your story."

“Maybe some day, but not now."

“Okay, Little Mama,” he said, noting the ice beginning to build up on the side of the road. “I'll tell you my story. I was an only child, born in my parents old age—an accident I'm sure. Dad died my first year in college. He and Mom thought they were in good financial shape and Mom finished putting me through college. She's in a nursing home now in Maryland and I worry about her. The money's about to run out. She's sixty-eight and still handles her own affairs."

“Randy, slow down a little. The roads are getting a coating of ice."

He reduced his speed to fifty miles an hour. “For a few years I played at being a newspaper reporter, but doing obits and movie reviews wasn't my cup of tea. I lucked into a job with a major New York publisher, but found myself buried in the slush pile."

“What's a slush pile?” she asked.

“Everybody and his brother thinks he is a great novelist. They churn out crap by the carloads and send it to publishers while dreaming of fame and fortune. The accumulated unsolicited manuscripts are called the slush pile."

“And your job was..."

“I read the stuff. If I found something promising, I passed it on to an editor. Most of the manuscripts I just returned to the authors with a form rejection letter. Anyway, I stayed at the job until about a year ago."

“Why did you quit?"

“For one thing, I didn't get promoted out of the slush pile. For another, they never accepted any of the manuscripts I thought were good. I had written a couple of novels myself and I hoped the job would give me an inside track to publication, but it didn't. I found another way to put bread on the table and moved back to Maryland, to be closer to my mother."

“So why did you move to Dot?"

“For one thing, my mother was nosy. She wanted to know how I was making a living and it would have killed her if she ever found out. The other reason is that I heard that Sandra Dollar was about to start her own publishing company and I thought I might get in on the ground floor.” He was glad she didn't feel the tires slip and he slowed down to forty-five.

“Who is Sandra Dollar?"

Randy laughed. “She and her husband Tim practically own the town of Dot. She has written a couple of novels, which I think are very good. They both showed up in my slush pile and I passed them on with high praise. The editors didn't agree with my judgment. The rumor is that she plans to start her own company to get her books published."

“And you think she'll publish yours too?"

“That's my hope."

“And?"

“And nothing, so far. The farmhouse I am renting belongs to the Dollars, but I rented it through a agent with a colorful name—Creasy Green."

Jo laughed with him. “But surely you've talked with this Dollar lady."

“Nope. I'm having no trouble talking with you, but basically, I'm rather bashful. I saw the lady once at the Dot Diner, but I didn't get up the nerve to introduce myself."

The freezing rain turned to sleet, pounding the Chevy with its staccato pings. Randy slowed to thirty-five miles per hour. “It won't be long now,” he assured Jo. He glanced at her. She seemed to be asleep. He turned on the car radio just in time to hear the latest weather report. They were now predicting a major winter storm with as much as eight inches of snow.

“Randy?” she said.

“You startled me. I thought you were asleep."

“No, just thinking. How
do
you make a living?"

His gray eyes turned steely and his fingers gripped the steering wheel with a vengeance. Through clenched teeth he replied, “I found a genre that I can sell easily. In fact I can churn out a book every couple of months and get five thousand dollars for it—sometimes more. I'm not proud of it, but I suppose I can tell a whore. I write pornography."

Out of his peripheral vision, Randy caught a glimpse of red just as Jo screamed, “Look out, Randy!” He hit his brakes but there was no sound of screeching rubber as the Chevy spun in circles through the intersection of the Old Charlotte Road and Highway 13 and came to a stop in the driveway of the Dot Super Save.

“Are you all right, Jo?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Yeah. You?"

“I will be when my heart settles back down out of my throat."

“That damned Mustang didn't even slow down. You had the green light. I'll swear to it in court,” she said angrily.

“Oh boy,” he said, looking out of his rear window. “It looks like the Mustang is in trouble.” He climbed out of the Chevy and hurried as fast as the slippery footing would allow across the road to the red convertible which had come to rest partially wedged in a drainage ditch just short of the entrance to the Dot Speed Shop.

“You folks okay?” he shouted at the woman in the passenger seat.

She rolled down her window and the male driver said, “I can't get my door open."

“Ma'am,” Randy said opening the passenger door of the Mustang, “let me help you out and then your husband can climb out this way."

Jo joined the trio beside the Mustang, wrapped in her new coat and her hands buried deeply into its warm pockets.

“I'm sorry, man,” said the Mustang driver, extending his leather-gloved hand to Randy. “I was coming too fast and the brakes just didn't work on this ice. I don't know how you managed to avoid me."

“I don't know either,” Randy replied. “It all happened so fast."

“My name is Tim Dollar,” the Mustang driver said, “and this is my wife Sandy. I'll pay for any damages. It was my fault."

“I'm Randy Nickels, Mr. Dollar,” Randy replied and, nodding towards Sandra, added, “Mrs. Dollar, I'm renting the old Saunders place from you. This is my ... uh ... friend Jo. My car's okay, but it looks like you have a problem."

The two women crossed the street to the warmth of the Chevy while the men tried to figure a way to get the Mustang out of the ditch. Billy Frank, having witnessed the accident from his service station, joined them.

“Man, oh man, oh man,” Billy moaned. “You really messed up the side of your pride and joy."

“This is a classic, isn't it?” Randy asked.

“Close,” Tim moaned. “It's a ‘66 with all original parts and equipment. I should have known better than to take it out on a night like this. I thought we could get back before the bad weather began."

“We could push her out, Tim,” Billy observed, “but we'd risk scraping up the side even worse. I'll get the wrecker and pull you away from the ditch. I don't think the frame is bent, but you'd better leave it at the station until I can check it out."

Tim nodded his sad agreement. After they safely extracted the Mustang from the ditch and parked it in the Super Save lot, Randy offered to drive the Dollars home.

“No need,” Billy interrupted. “I have a four-wheel drive Ranger and I pass right by Double D Acres on my way home. I was just closing the station when you clowns played your game of daredevil."

“Look,” Tim said, grasping Randy's nearly frozen hand, “Sandy and I are having a few people over for a little New Year's celebration. Why don't you and your friend join us?"

“That's nice of you to offer,” Randy replied, “but Jo's a little under the weather. I think I'd better get her to bed."

Billy laughed at the double entendre and Tim winked. “I understand,” Tim said, gripping Randy's hand a little tighter.

“What did you and Mrs. Dollar talk about?” Randy asked as the Chevy inched up the driveway to his rented house.

“Just small talk,” Jo answered. “So this is it, huh?” she asked, looking at the dilapidated structure illuminated by the Chevy's headlights.

“I expect it's a sight better than sleeping in a Charlotte alley,” Randy replied defensively.

Carefully, arms loaded with packages, they made their way from the car to the front door. “Hey, this is okay,” Jo said when they entered the living room, hoping to redeem her earlier insult. “I love the fireplace."

“Me too,” Randy agreed. “They tell me it was made from rocks collected off the property. The house has an oil furnace, but there's plenty of dead limbs lying in the woods behind the house, so I keep a fire burning most of the time."

They dumped their packages on the faded sofa and while Jo warmed her backside Randy stirred the ashes with a poker and placed new logs on the smoldering embers.