“Yeah,” she agreed, laughing, the phrase “fucked up” as common to her as blue sky.
“I haven't been here in a few years,” he said. “Are you from here or what?” Big friendly smile.
“God, no. I came here with Mom a couple years ago. We're from California."
“No shit,” he said, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Where ‘bouts in California?
“Bakersfield,” she told him.
“Oh, God. That's wild. I'm from L.A."
They both laughed.
“No kiddin?” she said, having to stop herself from saying “no shit.” And he was telling her the first thirty-five things he could remember from doing time with cons from the Los Angeles area, saying things about how great it was out on the Coast, how much it sucked back here, and in the wave of California dreaming and nostalgia for the palm trees and the ocean and all, she was soon sitting in the front seat of the car and the car was moving then as he talked and, yeah, she agreed, “I can't wait to get outta this shitty city.” And he laughed like that was the funniest remark he'd ever heard in his life. And she smiled at his recognition of her wit and acumen and personality.
“God, what happened to you?” she said, natural as you please. He told her about the accident on his Harley, and they talked bikes for a while. God. How cool, she told him, “I love bikes.” And before he could stop her she was off and running on the long and intensely boring tale of how somebody named whatever asshole name—Kevin or whatever—used to take her riding in the “hills,” and that went on to the point where it was starting to give Daniel a headache to concentrate even fractionally on the pitch so he finally had to interrupt her and say, “Hey, excuse me and all, but shit, I just gotta ask. Have you ever done any modeling?"
“Modeling?” She looked over at him like she'd never heard the word before in her life.
“Yeah. You know. Posing for pictures in magazines. Being photographed. High fashion work. Swimsuits. That sort of thing."
“Naaaaw.” She laughed a little and looked to see if he were putting her on.
“Boy,” he said, his face deadly serious, “what a waste. You know, that's what I do."
“Photograph models?"
“Well, no, I don't photograph ‘em. Oh, sure, the story-boards and all I do, but I'm a concept producer, and I work with beautiful models all the time. God. You put ‘em all to shame. You're a knockout if you don't mind me saying so.” His eyes remained straight on the road, so sincere you'd think he were sitting next to Brooke Shields now. He began some double-talk gobbledygook about concept production for the “big slicks.” And she was beaming from the compliments.
“You know,” she said, “you might laugh at me but I've been thinking about trying some high fashion modeling."
He couldn't believe the nitwit said it—TRYING SOME HIGH FASHION MODELING. What an idiot. He smiled and shook his head in amazement. “I just can't believe nobody's ever asked you. Wow! Listen, I don't know if you'd have any interest, but I'm on my way back out to the Coast to do a big spread for a major advertiser and I need a girl who looks just tike you. But she has to be unspoiled-looking, pure, beautiful—like YOU. I need somebody new. A new face.” He was really getting into it now. Riffing. The rumbling basso profundo lapping at the listener's brain, never letting up, the stream of vocalese scatting away at reason, the rising tide drowning them in compliments, favors, begging, imploring, dangling lost opportunities and rich promises in front of them, giving their own language back to them slightly altered, the sea of words taking the victim under. “I need ... I can't use those skuzzes out there. I have to find a new girl."
“Hmmm,” she hummed in agreement, hanging on his words.
“Would you have any interest at all in going with me? I would pay all your expenses, and when we got to California you'd be getting a big cash fee for just a few hours’ work. How does that sound?"
“God! Yeah. I mean it sounds real good. What would I have to do?” Her face was wary.
“That's the beautiful part.” He beamed his biggest smile yet. “Absolutely nothing!” And her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and he read her for an easy yes.
“When would I have to go?"
“Well, see, that's the thing.” He was very earnest now, hurried, intense with the excitement and challenge and just that soupçon of threat mixed into it, like you know—"if we don't go right away you'll miss out on the job, and it's so perfect for you, and you're so beautiful and I can't believe my luck.” And on and on until she fancies herself a free spirit and she goes, “Well. Shit. Why not? I'll go home and tell Mom,” and what a crazy, spur-of-the-moment chick I am, and let's do it. Devil-may-care me, I'm always ready to try anything once, ha ha.
But then Chaingang tells her, “I've got even a better idea than that,” and he begins spinning this bullshit about how they can surprise her, and the best way to handle things of this nature based on his past experiences, and how he is going to personally buy her AN ALL-NEW WARDROBE so that she doesn't even have to stop to pack, not even pack a toothbrush, and here's a dime to call Mom and stuff soon as we stop for clothing, and he hands her a ten and peels it off a role of bills the size of a grenade that he can barely jam back in his pocket, or so it appears.
And even as she starts to protest, his foot has gently dropped just a little on the pedal and they are moving toward the city limits even as he speaks, that overflow of wordplay still inundating her with the dream of sunny Cal and the beach and the tan—my God how great she'd look with a deep tan.
“Yeah. I been wanting a tanning bed, but—"
“Why would you want a tanning bed when you can lay out in your new string bikini on the golden sandy beach—” But he misread her and she says, “Oh, I hate the hot beach,” and before the word “hot” has had time to resonate in his computer he has rephrased the whole thing and they are talking about how he will buy her the finest tanning bed on the market, and which kind of tanning bed is the safest, and he pours out the pitcher full of liquid charm and she settles back in the seat of the big stolen car, thrilled to her core that this is happening and beginning to consider the possibilities of this ego-stroking act of kind fate, and he intrudes upon her daydreaming fantasy as he says, “Hey. Listen. I don't even think we introduced ourselves. I'm Daniel. What's your name."
“Oh, yeah. Hi. Sissy Selkirk."
“Sissy?"
“Yeah,” she said apologetically, “I way—” but he quickly stopped her before she could begin some interminable tale about her goony name.
“Sissy is real different. Pretty. I like it. Like Sissy Spacek."
“Yeah, I spell it same as her."
“You LOOK a little like her too,” he lied. She was very ordinary-looking. Far from pretty but not homely. Her face was attractive in profile, but when she turned, the jawline was exaggerated like Sub-Mariner's in the old comic books, and she was so thin as to be almost without a figure.
“Sometime when I get two thousand dollars I'm goin’ to get my boobs done,” she said.
“Pardon me?” He had no idea what she'd said.
“You know.” She touched her chest. “I think it would give me more confidence to model and that. Kevin said I should get boobs exactly like Morgan Fairchild's.” She showed with her hands approximately where Morgan Fairchild's breasts would be if they were on her chest. For the first time Chaingang had just a little tremor of nagging regret. She was almost too stupid. He wondered how long he'd be able to tolerate her as a cover before he let the tide of rage wash over him and he lashed out and killed her.