“Morgan Fairchild's,” he mused aloud, having no idea who that was. “Well, we'll have that two thousand for you soon enough. What are you going to charge for modeling—do you know yet?” Anything to keep talking.
She didn't know what to say. He could sense he'd erred again, asking her a question that required some degree of intellect to respond to. He quickly said, “You'll have to set a fee. A bare minimum. Get it?” He laughed inanely. “A BARE minimum—for when you do bikini modeling."
“Yeah!” She laughed with him. He seemed like an okay dude. She thought for a moment and asked carefully, “How much do you pay?"
“Thousands,” he said expansively, nodding to show her he was serious, “so the bare minimum is even good.” They laughed again. Rarely heard, his natural laugh was a weird kind of barking noise. He knew it frightened the hell out of people, so he had learned to fake a passable human laugh, a cross between laughter and the sound of an outboard motor starting.
And there they were, Daniel Bunkowski and Sissy Selkirk, two strangers in the warm afternoon, getting to know all about each other in the front seat of a stolen car rolling along toward the sunset across the distant horizon.
Fifteen minutes before, Sissy had been on her way to pick up something she'd put on layaway downtown, just walking down Randolph minding her business. And now she was sitting next to a perfect stranger, a 460-pound lunatic killer, on her way to God knows where in California to model for thousands of dollars an hour. Life can sure play some big surprises on you, she thought, her heart beating rapidly with the unbelievable rush of this exciting offer.
Soon Daniel would begin his tale of how they'd need to keep their expenses as low as possible to get her a wardrobe or whatever, and would she mind terribly if they'd SHARE a motel room? And that would be just the beginning.
But the suggestion, while not even a hair off-key in tone, jars some vestige of caution in the girl and she begins a big number about how she just can't leave without calling home.
“I gotta tell Mom. God, she'd shit if I, you know, would just leave ‘n that—not say anything. GOD! ‘N you know, I gotta get some things, ‘n I gotta—” And he smiles, nodding with her as he decides how he'll handle it when Mom draws the line. He has a fluid game plan. He will go with the flow as always. Ride with the tide. Boogie with the oogie. What a MORON. I gotta feed my goldfish, wipe my ass ... He has tuned her out as he searches for a pay phone at sidewalk level. One where he can closely monitor the girl's side of the conversation.
He is parked. She is depositing money. He catches fragments of a no and he begins to formulate his next move until he hears, “HEY WELL YOU KNOW JUST FUCK IT THEN IF THAT'S THE WAY YOU FEEL FUCK IT!” The girl slamming down the receiver, Daniel fighting to look sincerely worried as she hurls herself back in the car. “You know, like you said, I just won't bother with any luggage ‘n that. I mean, we can PICK UP whatever I need. Right?"
He can't believe it himself. “Right, sure. Absolutely.” He starts back into traffic as she begins recounting the lifelong battle of wits between mother and daughter. Bunkowski scores again. Too facile, perhaps? Yes, for the average person, maybe. But he does not have Daniel's inner compass which points toward the vulnerable heartbeat. Somewhere you have your Sissy Selkirk. The thing is, you and Sissy may never meet. If you DO find her, will you be able to spot her in a crowd? Chaingang can always find them. It is part of his nature.
He looked over at the girl as if he'd homed in on that excited throbbing in the childlike bosom smiling his most disarming and trustworthy smile, the gruesome, bandaged face turned as far away as possible, the right side crinkled in warmth and good humor as he eyed her flat chest, smiling, beaming at her wonderfulness, and when she paused for a gasp of air, saying, “Morgan Fairchild,” nodding slowly, knowingly as he looked at her. “Yes. I think so. Definitely.” And that was just the incentive to set her back on course, and she started off on a long, aimless, circling butterfly flight of airheaded jabber as he let himself tune out with a contented smile.
WINDER
“Oh, man, shit, Bo, I done drew DOWN on ‘im.” They had ditched the Crown Vic. “God DAMN that's a good fuckin’ feelin—SHIIIIT.” John Monroe was toked and stoked. He started counting again, one hunnert, two hunnert, three hunnert, damn ... He lost track ag'in. “Oh, man. I mean I was cocked ‘n rocked, weren't I?"
“Uh huh."
“Bo, that sucker come out from behin’ that post ‘n shit ‘n just pop outta there like a rabbit tree'd outta a damn cornfield, POW—pops up and goes, Awright, Louie, drop the gat, er, some ole-timey shit an’ I just go cooler'n a damn snake I go PPPKKKKKSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! ‘n blast that fucker onta his shitty ass.” He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. A man dying. “Up jumps the devil and PPPPKKKSSSSSSSHHHHHEEEW WW! One rentacop"—he made the finger scoreboard gesture—"ten points! Hot dawgies."
He started to count again, this time out loud, “Twenty, forty, forty-five, ninety-five, and, uh, ninety-five and twenty well call ‘er a hunnert and twenty, hunnert and forty, hunnert forty-five, two hunnert and forty-five, two hunnert and sixty-five—"
“John.” Patient. Calm. His sweet, syrupy put-on voice.
“Ya sure kin shoot, John. I mean f'r some dum-fuck bum-fuck ya’ kin drill, boy."
“Ain't that the fuckin’ truth, Bo. Two hunnert and eighty-five. Three hunnert and eighty-five, uh, four hunnert and forty-five—"
“Real fine on the draw there. Ya done real good with that there pipe."
“Yeah.” He didn't like Wendell's tone. He kept counting in silence, six hunnert ... seven ... eight. Another thousand stack. That was ... what? He'd already lost count. Fifteen? Seventeen. Most he'd ever seen.
“Hey, Bo. Weuns got us about eighteen, nineteen thousand dollars here. Motherfucker! ‘Atsa most gaw-damned money ah'v ever seen in mah fuckin’ LIFE. Maybe nineteen, twenty thousand dollars.” It was getting more each time he said it.
“Uh huh. Thing is, f'r somebody with a fast pipe like youuns got that there was some serious BAD fuckin’ reflexes at the door. Ya know that, doncha, boy? Ya know ya fucked up back air—now say it, eh?"
“Huh?” He didn't like the tone at all.
“Yeah. Ya fucked up real purty, John."
“I don't know whatcha mean, Bo. I didn't do nothin’ wro—"
“'N another thang take ‘n spit out that there fuckin’ foam rubber in y'r cheeks, ah cain't understan'a fuckin’ word—okay?"
“Yeah.” He spat out the window. One of the sides he had to dislodge with a finger. “'N we can shave these mustaches off too like ya said. They gonna be lookin’ f'r two theefs with them caps ‘n pussy ticklers and big ole chipmunk cheeks."
“Ya fucked us out of about twenty thousand back air."
“Huh?"
“Ass right."
“No way, man.” He didn't have to take that shit. He'd gone and saved their shitty butts back there.
“Twenty thousand. My half is ten. So you owe me ten outta youuns share.” He was deadly serious.
“Shit. You was JOKIN’ with me.” He got it now. He thought Wendell had been serious. “You got some sense of humor, man. Shit chew had me a-goin'. Hell's bells."
“Uh huh."
ONE MILE FROM I-57
He drove through the congested traffic with a tenth of his mind, not even that, a fraction of his brain channeled on what he was seeing with his eyes and the rest of him out on some faraway level.