The fastest way to LA from Las Vegas was the Interstate. The Mustang had a full tank of gas, but Driscoll exited into the desert. Route 160 was no short-cut and Sean asked, "Where are you going?"
"There's a place up ahead I wanna stop at." Driscoll's eyes concentrated on headlight’s funnel boring through the night.
"Stop where? There's nothing out here."
Off the unlit two-laner not a single dot of electricity challenged the star-lit desert and Sean grasped the door handle, ready to bail out at 80mph. The car locks popped down and Driscoll turned on the radio.
"Sure, there's nothin', but nothin' out here, except Pawrump."
"What's Pawrump?" The name sounded like a bodily function.
"Two roads crisscrossin' in the middle of nowhere between a coupla golf-courses, though they're closed now."
"So why we going, if everything is shut?" Sean hated surprises.
"Because they have a couple of whore houses that never close and nothin' makes me hornier than murder." Elvis was a welcome change from the boy band drivel on the other stations.
"I like the idea of driving straight to LA better."
"And I like the idea of killin' a couple of hours with some trailer park whores. I'll get you LA tomorrow morning. How's that sound?"
"Like it's my only choice."
“Free will doesn’t exist in this life.”
”Only things you had to do.”
"No one ever said anythin' about this bein' a democracy," Driscoll interrupted the discussion by turning up the music and hummed NOW OR NEVER out of tune. The Mustang accelerated to 90mph. "Seano, I know how you feel."
"I don't think so.” Their only common link was New York.
"Hell, I felt the same as you after my first time. Me, I popped my cherry back in 1980. I go into an Avenue C apartment on a 1054 call, expectin' to clonk some PR for beatin' up on his wife, only I walk in the wrong apartment and stumbled on a heroin deal. One of the spics whips out a piece and pulls the trigger. I almost shit in my pants. I mean I thought I was dead, 'cept the greaser's gun jams. You shoulda seen his face, when I popped 'im. Boom. One shot to the head." The ex-cop laughed with the recollected comfort of having dodged fate, though it came out more like a drum roll of coughs.
"This old guy was scared.” Sean looked at the desert. It was empty.
"You’d think after living that long he’d be happy someone put him out of his misery."
The car raced toward Mountain Summit Springs.
"No, he wanted to live." And Sean had spared him.
"What he wanted was unimportant, Seano. I'm proud of you for pulling this off like a man."
"Thanks.”
Driscoll might have bought the faked murder, but this detour was wrong.
The DJ announced the rest of his shift was dedicated to Elvis and Driscoll tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of DON'T BE CRUEL. At the top of the pass, he pointed to a ball of light shimmering on the dark horizon like a star fallen to earth.
"That's Pawrump up ahead. Maybe another thirty miles. You're gonna love it there."
"Yeah, I can hardly wait." It sounded like the perfect place to disappear off the face of the Earth.
"Once we get to the whorehouse, I'll give you the other five thousand, but you be careful, cause the 'girls' out here are kinda fast with their hands, if you get my drift."
Driscoll stepped on the accelerator and the car sped up to 110 mph. After several minutes the car slowed to less than seventy.
“Damn, I gotta take a pee. I'll stop at the next road."
"What road?" The desert was untouched by man.
Sean never saw the punch riveting four knuckles into his temple. His mouth tasted metal, as if all the fillings in his teeth had come loose before he tumbled down a narrowing black hole to hover above a pool of unconsciousness. Something had gone horribly wrong and he didn't need any fingers to add up what, because sum came up snake eyes.
The Mustang rocked onto a rutted dirt road for a quarter mile. Driscoll's right foot stomped the brakes and the car skittered to a stop. He opened the passenger door and Sean Tempo slumped from the car like a bag of potatoes. The ex-cop squinted back to Route 160.
No headlights lit either direction.
Driscoll might have lost his taste for killing strangers, but wasting an old acquaintance would be a treat and he kicked Sean Collan several times, until burying his toe in the fallen man's ribs knocked his left knee out of alignment.
”Goddammit.”
The big man turned Sean face down in the sand and slipped the five wallets his partner had Fed-Exed him into Sean's jacket, then dropped the empty .357 revolver on the sand.
"Frank, you're a genius."
Tomorrow the local cop would investigate the buzzards circling in the air.
The police chief would wire the NYPD about the wallets and revolver on the corpse.
If the NYPD were on the ball, they would link the revolver's forensics to five unsolved New York murders and tonight's killing in Vegas, clearing any suspicion on his partner and him.
A car was coming from Las Vegas on Route 160.
Probably two miles away. Driscoll lowered to the 9mm’s muzzle to his victim.
"Seano, you won't feel a thing."
The ex-cop's words broke through the rushing in Sean's ears. Black shoes bracketed his head. Why sand was in his mouth and what the cold metal stuck into the base of his skull came to Sean. Driscoll was ignoring his own instructions about placing the muzzle to the back of his victim's neck.
Sean twisted his head to the side.
An explosive crack broke the sound barrier next to his ear and a sword seared across his neck without decapitating him. He rolled over and wildly swung his fist. The punch connected with the ex-cop's knee and threw Driscoll off-balance into the Mustang.
Sean scrambled to his feet and juked from side to side.
Shots rang out and bullets hissed through the air. Sand squished beneath his feet. Cactus tore at this clothing. Jesus had lived up his end and now it was up to Sean to fulfill his part of the bargain by running for his life.
Driscoll emptied the 9mm at the disappearing target. He jammed another clip into his automatic and popped off every round without hearing a shriek of pain.
"Godfuckingdammit, I hit nothin', but the motherfuckin'' wind."
He jumped in the Mustang and shoved the shift into DRIVE. The spinning rubber excavated a hole in the loose sand and buried the rear tires up to the hubcaps. Driscoll beat the steering wheel and screamed, until a chunk of phlegm popped out of his lungs.
Looking into the black desert, the ex-cop rubbed his aching knee and said aloud, "Frank's not gonna like this."
And that was the god-awful truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment