Boggs squinted for an instant. He swallowed and finally looked away.
"Lessgo, boy," Nestor called. "We got a date with the road."
Then they were gone.
Man, man, man, there's nothing like driving, Randy Boggs was thinking.
There's not a goddamn thing in the world like it.
The way the tires make that hissing sound on asphalt. The way the car dances over beat-up pavement. The way you know the road'11 always be there and that you can drive forever and never once cover the same spot twice, you don't want to.
The Ford Tempo, Jack Nestor driving, had left Jersey and Pennsylvania way behind and was cruising down the highway into Maryland. Heading south.
Motion is like smooth whisky. Motion, like a drug. Randy Boggs kept up his meditation.
And the best part of all – when you're driving, you're, a moving target. You're the safest you can ever be. Nothing can get you. Not bad love, not a job, not your kin, not the devil himself…
"Crabs," Nestor said. "Keep an eye out for a crab place."
They couldn't find any and instead got cheeseburgers at McDonald's, which Boggs preferred to crabs anyway and Nestor said was better for him because he was on a diet.
They drank beer out of tall Double-Arches waxed cups they'd emptied of soft drink. They drove the speed limit but at Boggs's request had rolled down all the windows; it seemed like they were racing at a hundred miles an hour.
Randy Boggs lowered the passenger seat and sat back, sucking the beer through a straw, and ate a double cheeseburger and thought again about freedom and moving and realized that was why prison had been so hard for him. That there are people who have to stay put and people who have to move and he was a mover.
These were thoughts he had and that he believed were true in some universal way. But they were thoughts that he didn't tell to Jack Nestor. Not that Jack was a stupid man. No, he'd probably understand but he was somebody Boggs didn't want to share much with.
"So," Jack Nestor asked, "how's it feel?"
"Feels good. Feels real good."
"How 'bout that little girl back there. She's a pistol. You get any?"
"Naw, wasn't that way."
"Didn't seem to have any tits to speak of."
"She was more like a friend, you know. Wish I could've leveled with her."
"Did what you had to though."
"I understand that. Couldn't've stayed Inside for any longer, Jack. I gave it my best. But I had to get out. Somebody was moving on me."
"Spades?"
"Nope. Was an asshole from, I don't know, Colombia or someplace. Venezuela. For some reason he didn't take to me. Got cut."
"Cut, huh?"
"Two weeks ago. Hardly hurts anymore."
"Yeah, I was cut once. I didn't like it. Better to get shot. Kind of more numb."
"Prefer to avoid either."
"That's a good way to thinks," Nestor offered. He was in a good mood. He was talking about restaurants down in Florida and fishing for tarpon and the quality of the pot they had down there and this Cuban woman with big tits and a tattoo somebody'd given her with his teeth and a Parker pen. Talking about the heat. About a house he was buying and how he had to live in a fucking hotel until the place was ready.
"How long to Atlanta?" Boggs asked.
"Tomorrow. Then I'm going on to Florida. You interested in coming with me, you'd be welcome. You like spic women?"
"Never had me one."
"Don't know what you're missing."
"That a fact?"
"Yessir. One I's telling you 'bout? Man, she could probably do both of us at once."
Boggs thought he'd pass on that. "I don't know."
"Well, just keep 'er in mind. So you gonna pick up that money?"
"Yessir."
"You got the passbook with you?"
"Got her good and safe."
Nestor said, "Funny about how that works. You just let some money sit in the bank and there she be, earning interest every day. They just throw a few more dollars into the till. And you don't do nothing."
"Yeah."
"Bet you made yourself another ten thousand dollars."
"You think, no foolin'?"
"For sure. I think that account earns maybe five, six percent."
Boggs felt a warm feeling. He hadn't remembered about interest. He'd never had a savings account to speak of.
"You know, there's something you ought to think about. You hear about all those bank failures?"
"What's that?"
"A lot of savings and loans went under. People lost money."
"Hell you say."
"Happens a lot. Last couple of years. Didn't you watch the news Inside?"
"Usually was cartoons and the game we were watching." Boggs was tired. He put the seat way back. The last car he'd owned was a big '76 Pontiac with a bench seat that didn't recline. He liked this car. He thought he was going to buy himself a car, a new one. He lay back, closed his eyes and tried not to think about Rune.
"So," Nestor said, "you might want to think about investing that money."
"I'll do that."
"You have any idea what?"
"Nope. Not yet. I'm going to keep my eyes peeled for the right thing. You got money, people listen to you."
"Money talks, shit walks," Nestor said.
"That's the truth," Randy Boggs said.
Three hours later Courtney woke up and wanted some juice.
The little girl sat up slowly and unwound herself from the cocoon of a blanket that had twisted around her as she slept. She eased forward and climbed over the edge of the rolled-up futon like Edmund Hillary taking the last step down from Everest, and then sat on the floor to put her shoes on. Laces were too much of a challenge but the shoes didn't look right with the white dangling strings, so after staring at them for five minutes she bent down and stuffed the plastic ends into her shoes.
She climbed carefully down the stairs, sideways, crablike, then walked up to Rune, who was tied into the butterfly chair. She looked at the cords, at Rune's red face. She heard hoarse, wordless sounds coming from behind the scarf.
"You're funny, Rune," Courtney said then went into the galley.
The refrigerator was pretty easy to open and she found a cardboard carton of apple juice on the second shelf. The problem was that she couldn't figure out how to open it. She looked at Rune, who was staring into the kitchen and still making those funny noises, and held up the carton in both hands then she turned it upside down to look for the spout.
The carton, which, it turned out, had been open after all, emptied itself onto the floor in a sticky surf. "Oh-oh." She looked at Rune guiltily, then set the empty container on top of the stove and went back to the refrigerator.
No more juice. A lot of coldpizza, which she was tired of, but there were dozens of Twinkies, which she loved. She started working on one and then wandered around the small kitchen to see what she could find to play with.
Not a lot. There was, however, a large filleting knife on the counter that intrigued her. She picked it up and pretended it was a sword, like in one of Rune's books, stabbing the refrigerator a few times.
Rune, watching this, was making more noise, and started jiggling around, rocking and swaying back and forth.
The girl then looked into drawers and opened up some pretty-much-unused cookbooks, looking for pictures of ducks, dragons or princesses. The books contained only photos of soups and casseroles and cakes and after five minutes she gave up on them and started playing with the knobs on the stove. They were old and heavy, glistening chrome and trimmed with red paint. Courtney reached up and turned one all the way to the right. Way above her head was apop. She couldn't see the top of the stove and she didn't know what the sound came from but she liked it. Pop.