“Forget about it this time and I honestly promise I won’t ever do it again.”
“I took an oath to enforce the law. Get in there like I tell you or by God I’ll put your ass in with my two hands — and you won’t like that, I can guarantee you.”
“I don’t think it’s legal to bust me when you didn’t see me thumbing.”
“I’ve been right behind you. I saw you take a ride in that Caddy. I’ve got the documentation this time, and we’re going to sock you with a fine of fifty dollars, and if you don’t have that, fifty days in the county jail.”
He grabbed at her. She evaded him.
“Please don’t, will you? My dad’s the original stickler for law and order. He’ll give me holy hell.”
“And that’s a lot better than you deserve. He ought to take down your jeans and whomp on your white ass.” She glanced back, as though thinking about running. He seized her. She flopped about in his grip, and one of his heavy boots came down on her sneakered foot. The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder.
“Goddamn you,” she cried. “I’ll get you kicked out into real life for this.”
He pulled her against him, feeling for the door-handle. She lost the bag in the struggle. When he had the door open, he thrust her in. The front and back seats were separated by heavy wire, and there were no inner handles on the doors. She went forward on her hands.
“Give me my things, bastard. If you scratch that guitar—”
“We’ll be going through everything with a fine-tooth comb, and you better hope we don’t find any of the wrong kind of grass — one single crumb, two years.”
He was calmer now. He put the bag and the guitar case in front and circled the car, which was still panting in neutral.
“You’re way out of line,” he told her after getting in. “Are you listening to me? Clothes from the Army and Navy, and carrying a Martin guitar. I know that make. Your daddy bought it for a birthday present, I’m sure. That set of teeth, perfect. Those kinds of dentists charge thousands and thousands. Everybody else has their own car or they take an airplane, but not you. Not you! You’d rather leech on people. Don’t give me any more mouth or I’ll climb in back and you’ll wish you were more polite.”
“Polite,” she said sarcastically.
She whipped her long scarf around her head, leaving one end loose so it would catch Shayne’s eye. The brake came off and they went back on the road with a whoosh, passing a sign announcing a food and fuel stop just ahead, where Shayne would be waiting.
“Fifty dollars or fifty days,” the cop shouted. “If it was up to me I’d make it a felony.”
He wound up to third, staying in each gear a little too long. Letting up on the gas suddenly, he swung to the left, through a gap in the divider labeled “Authorized Personnel Only, No U-Turn.” He headed north, coming down finally into fourth. She swung around to look out the back window. There was no sign of Shayne.
He left at the next exit, hardly cutting his speed at all, while his tires protested. There was slow-moving traffic in his way. He blasted it over with a blink of headlights and a quick goose from the siren.
“You’re going to want a lawyer,” he called back. “We’re not going to get you one. That civil liberties shit don’t trickle down this far. Everybody’s entitled to one phone call. Our phone’s been out of order all day.”
“There are worse things than jail.”
“You don’t know ours. Make it unpleasant, is the way we discourage crime. We don’t segregate, that wouldn’t be democratic. You’re going to be in there with nigger hoors.”
“Ghastly.”
“You may not be quite so much of a bleeding-heart after they’re done with you. Those are vicious women, in withdrawal, mainly. White hippy girls with guitars, they eat them alive.”
They were on two-lane blacktop and he was driving more slowly, one arm flung over the back of the seat. They approached a dirt road. He hit the brakes and turned in.
“Shortcut,” he said, showing his little uneven teeth. After a time he turned again, entering a citrus grove. They were still on dirt, and this road was heavily rutted. He scraped bottom twice before he stopped and snapped off the motor. Dust rose. Toads chirped cheerfully somewhere nearby.
“What is this?” Frieda said evenly.
He peeled off his dark glasses and pushed back the fancy-dress hat, leaving a red line across his forehead. He kneaded the flesh on the bridge of his nose.
“We got off on the wrong foot back there. We need to talk quiet, about where you stand legally. You pissed me off with your attitude.”
She waited.
“You know I don’t have to take you in if I don’t care to. I’ve already got my quota. Somebody gives me a hard time, I give them a hard time. That’s how the wheels go around, always has been.”
“I said please. What good did it do me?”
“You were fixing to run, and that would be a pretty picture, wouldn’t it, you and me chasing each other all over the countryside.”
“I plead not guilty. Now let me go. I’ll walk back.”
“It’s two miles, are you crazy? Not guilty! I can tell you one thing for damn sure, if I take you in front of that peace justice we’ve got, it won’t be not guilty. He dearly hates hitchhikers.”
“You’ve been coming on like a hitchhiker-hater yourself.”
“Some of them. You don’t seem as mangy as most. I’ve got a six-pack of Bud up here, not too icy cold by now but maybe you’re thirsty.”
“If I drink a warm beer with you, the bust is off?”
“More or less.” He kept swinging around to look through the wire, but he met her eyes directly only for a second or two at a time. He had the same blue eyes as the other driver who had scared her with his talk of Jesus.
“What we’re talking about is a little afternoon love-making?” she said.
“It could be great.”
Orange trees, in orderly rows, marched away in both directions. Some of the trees had recently been pruned, and the prunings had been left on the ground.
“I don’t suppose there’s anybody else within miles,” she said.
“I guess not within earshot.” He took off his hat, giving the act the same significance as if he had undressed completely, and got out of the car. “I can’t goof off the whole afternoon. I’m on duty.”
The back door opened. When she didn’t come out at once, he drummed his fingertips against the doorframe. “What are we waiting for, violins?”
“What if you go ahead and bust me anyway?”
“I’d be laying myself wide open.”
Pulling at her sweater, Frieda came out on the soft dirt. He groaned and grabbed for her. She slid away along the side of the car.
“Let me get my bag first. I want to put something in. You know, foam.”
“What are you talking?”
“You know, like for birth control. I don’t want to get messed up. It’s a tube and a plunger — you can watch me do it.”
The prospect made him breathe more quickly. His eyes seemed to retreat further into the pouches of sun-reddened flesh. He let her pass, and she opened the front door and reached across. That was long enough without contact. He caught her from behind, his hands going to her breasts, and thrust himself against her. She pulled away, and the bag was jarred off the seat, hitting the floor with a clunk. The pistol spilled out.
He saw it. She snatched downward. He hauled her back hard, still holding her breasts, and spinning around, slapped the door shut with a movement of his hip. She went with the pull. Hooking one foot behind his leg, she managed to drop him. She landed hard on his protruding paunch, and hot breath rushed past her ear.
Her sweater had ridden up and her breasts were out. He continued to grip her. He was stronger than he looked; a lot of the bulge proved to be muscle. Pinning her to the ground with one meaty leg and an elbow, he tore at the fastenings of her jeans.