"You called Mr. Suntan before me!"
"Why are you so insecure about him?"
Steve heard a throaty roar from behind the Caddy. In the rearview mirror, he saw a motorcycle swoop closer, tailgating them. The road was only two lanes with a solid line, but the chopper-a cherry red Harley-shot past him, the rider in black leather with a Darth Vader helmet.
"You should have called me first," Steve told Victoria.
"Junior has an emotional stake in this. He's sharing my pain."
"What Junior wants to share is your bed."
There was silence on the line.
Steve listened to the Caddy's tires whining across the asphalt. The Harley had disappeared into the distance. He was still waiting for Victoria to say: "I'm not interested in Junior. You're the only man for me, even if sometimes you are the world's biggest dummy."
But she didn't say that, not even the "biggest dummy" part. He decided to make a tactical retreat. "Look, I'm sorry-I'm being a real shit."
Still nothing.
"I'll try to be more understanding of what you're going through."
Line static.
"We should talk about the case, Vic, just in case we're not fired."
"I'm tired, Steve. I'm going to sleep."
Avoidance. Steve had never been in therapy or couples counseling or Deepak Chopra seminars, but he intuitively knew that you had to talk through your problems. In his experience, there was a surefire, four-step method for making up:
Talk.
Hug.
Kiss.
Screw.
Occasionally, it was possible to skip a step or two on the way to number four, but women loved to talk as much as they loved to buy shoes, so it was best to start there.
"How 'bout waiting up for me?" he suggested. "It's a beautiful night. Maybe we can walk on the beach, sip some sour mash whiskey."
"I'm really tired."
"It's been a few days and I really miss you."
"Uh-huh."
Okay, he thought, just lay it on the line. "I've got an itch that needs scratching."
"Gross," Bobby said.
"Try calamine lotion," Victoria said, and the phone clicked dead.
Twenty-three
"Why do you always fight with everybody?" Bobby
drilled him.
"I'm a lawyer," Steve said.
"I don't mean in court. With Victoria and Gramps."
"I guess 'cause I love them, kiddo."
"So why not tell them that, then just let them do what they want?"
"Objection. Compound question."
"I mean it, Uncle Steve. When's the last time you told Victoria you loved her?"
Steve shrugged. No way he was going to tell a twelve-year-old kid that his "I love yous" were generally confined to moments of priapic, pre-orgasmic bliss. And now that he thought of it, their lovemaking had tailed off recently. Starting the day Hal Griffin's boat went airborne, there'd been a definite slowdown in the hot-and-saucy department. No doubt about it: life would be better if the Griffins-Senior and Junior- had never shown up.
"And why don't you listen to Gramps?" Bobby continued. "He's older than you, so he's gotta know more, right?"
"The old man's being stubborn about his case."
"He says you're an egg-sucking gallywampus."
"I'd deny it if I knew what the hell it was."
They were on the bridge crossing the Spanish Harbor Channel, thirty miles from Key West. On the oldies station, the Zombies were asking, "Who's your daddy?" and inquiring if he was a man of wealth like the singer.
"Victoria says you're overbearing," Bobby said. "What's that mean, exactly?"
"It means sometimes I care so much about her that I invade her space."
"Is that why she threw your autographed Jeff Conine baseball at your head the other day?"
"We were just playing pitch and catch."
"Then how'd the window get broken?"
"I ducked. Look, kiddo. Women act weird sometimes. Once every month, for a few days, they have this hormonal thing going on."
"I know all about that stuff, Uncle Steve."
"Good, but there's more to it. It's probably time I taught you everything I know about women."
"Go ahead. I've got a minute."
"I'm serious, kiddo. You can learn from my mistakes."
Steve was trying to figure where to start when he heard the roar. In the rearview mirror, another chopper. As it pulled around to pass, he saw that it was the same one, a red Harley, the Screaming Eagle, all steel and chrome, with Darth Vader still aboard. It must have pulled off the road somewhere after passing them earlier. Now it came alongside and hung there.
"What's with this cowboy?" Steve said.
"Maybe he wants to race," Bobby said.
"On a two-lane bridge? What a jerk." Steve eased off the gas, but the Harley did, too, hanging with him. They were neck and neck, a mile from Big Pine Key and dry land.
Steve gave the Caddy some gas, and the old speedometer wand wiggle-waggled to seventy, seventy-five, eighty, the engine clearing its throat, then snarling to life. The Harley kept alongside, effortlessly.
"Asshole," Steve muttered.
Darth Vader waved. He seemed to have something in his hand. Then he let go, and sheets of paper flew across the road.
"Litterbug," Steve said.
Darth reached into a saddlebag and came up with something else in his hand. A jar, or a jug, half-gallon size.
"What the hell?" Steve said.
The Harley pulled ahead of them and the object shot from the guy's hand, striking the Caddy's windshield with a crack. Seconds later, a black, greasy liquid covered the glass.
"Shit!" Steve flicked on the wipers. That only smeared the gunk. With zero visibility, he hit the brakes, trying to keep the wheel straight, but the front right tire hit the curb of the raised walkway and blew out with a bang. Steve steered left, but the exploded tire's rim was grinding into the concrete, throwing off sparks, and dragging the Caddy back into the curb. The car leapt onto the walkway. The right rear tire blew out, the right front fender grazed the railing with the skull-jarring rattle of a dentist's drill.
"Fuck!"
"Uncle Steve!"
Steve's right arm shot out reflexively and pushed Bobby back into the seat. His left hand gripped the shuddering steering wheel. The car bounced off the walkway and back onto the bridge, skidding straight into the oncoming lane. The wipers had cleared enough of the gunk from the windshield to see the Harley was gone. But something far worse was coming at them. Eight beams of light, which Steve hoped was only one car, its headlights quadrupled as the beams refracted through the black goo.
The oncoming car's horn blasted, and Steve yanked the steering wheel right again, but still the Caddy dragged left, screeching across the oncoming lane. As he fought the wheel, Steve was aware of several sounds.
The honking of the car rushing straight at them.
The grinding of the Caddy's rims on the pavement.
His own breathing.
Steve steadied the wheel, but the rear end fishtailed left. He gave it some gas-braking would only heighten the spin-and tried to straighten the wheel. The car fishtailed right, and when the rear end passed the midpoint, they slid backwards toward the oncoming car.
The next five seconds passed in slow motion.
The oncoming car swerved into the left lane and sideswiped the Caddy.
Sliding ass-backwards, the Caddy skipped over the walkway on the left side of the bridge and crashed through the guardrail.
They tumbled toward the water, Steve pressing an arm into Bobby's chest to lock him into his seat. The Caddy flipped over a half turn and landed on its side with a splash that was surprisingly quiet.