But that night he didn’t have much of a choice; testosterone had taken over, and although there were slim pickins, he made his move to the end of the bar where she was standing. She had a thumb hooked into the pocket of her jeans, and in her other hand she held a cigarette over the ashtray on the bar. It was late, closing time. The barkeep announced last call. And rather quickly-it had been easier than he’d thought it would be-they left the bar together, and he found himself driving his truck farther and farther away from familiar territory. She asked him to get money for the dope. He drove to the closest bank and withdrew forty bucks, guaranteeing, he thought, he’d get laid.
“Lights off,” she said softly. “Turn your lights off and pull over. Yeah, right there, man. I see him. Ahí esta. Good. We lucked out.”
He coasted to a stop. “Where?”
“Over there. Shhh… I’ll be right back.”
She opened the door, slipped out, then closed it really carefully and walked over to a car parked on the other side of the street, a little behind where they had rolled to a stop. Through the rearview mirror, he saw the car’s door open slowly. A man stepped out, a gun stuck into his pants right above a big silver belt buckle, like a rodeo champion. The revolver sparkled in what little light shone from the moon shrouded in silvery clouds.
The windows fogged up quickly, the air hot with alcohol and adrenaline. Inside the cab of the truck, it smelled like a bedroom after two very drunk people had sex.
He was scared. “And all for pussy, all for pussy,” he whispered, eyes darting from the rearview to the mirror on the driver’s-side door, then ahead of him.
Suddenly she tapped at the window as he zoned, drunk, focusing on what he thought was someone inside a car two vehicles ahead. He twitched, then adjusted his vision, squinted to make out her face through the clouded window, had to double-check; the streetlamp had been shot out. Her earring clinked against the glass.
He rolled down the window. Even in this dark craziness, she looked beautiful, like a movie star, like a young Sophia Loren. Thumb hooked into her jeans pocket again. She had sad eyes, he thought, pleading and lost.
“Give me the money, man.”
“What? How much, how much?”
“Twenty, thirty, whatever. C’mon, man. He’s waiting.”
“Well, I’m a little uncomfortable-”
“Shhh… just gimme the money, man, come on.” She placed her hand on his mouth, pressed down hard like she meant business. It hurt a little. “Shhh… just gimme the money, man. He’s waiting. I gotta give him some money now or he’s gonna get mad at the both of us. C’mon.”
Her teeth clenched tight.
The urgency in her voice scared him. He fumbled through his shirt pocket, into which he had shoved the bills, and pulled out the two twenties, crisp, folded in half, fresh out of the ATM.
I’m gonna die. Dear Jesus, I’m gonna die, he thought, his upper jaw still smarting from her forceful grip.
She quickly counted the money he gave her and went back to the car across the street.
“Thank you, God. Gracias, Jesus Christo Redentor.” She was jonesing, jonesing really bad.
“Here, babe, two big rocks. Smoke ’em, man. Break ’em up a little, then smoke ’em. You’ll get the most mileage that way. It’s good stuff. Promise. Good stuff.”
“Thanks, Johnny Boy. You’re my man. You always got my back. Thanks, man.”
“Hey, Sonia, do me a favor. Don’t bring that dude back here no more.”
“No, Johnny Boy. He’s cool. Promise. He’s cool. He’s all square, man. He works at a bank. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t bring ’im here no more. Okay, mi morenita?”
“Okay, papacito. Love you, man.”
She put two fingers to her lips to flick him a kiss and went back to the truck. He would’ve hurt her if she had come here with no money-not badly, but he would have slapped her a couple of times. She knew it. She’d seen him do it.
But she was beautiful, and this had always helped her.
He acts all nice and all, but he’d hurt me, just like that, she thought as she walked back to the truck.
In one hand she held the dope in a tight fist-tight, tight fist; the thumb of her other hand was hooked into her jeans pocket.
“Thank you, Jesus.” She made the sign of the cross, and at the end, right at the end of the sign of the cross, right when she usually kissed her thumb as if holding the cross hanging at the end of a rosary, just as her mother had taught her to do, she kissed the sweet little plastic pouch and jumped back into the truck.
Once in, she put her face to her shoulder, sniffed her underarm. “Damn, I still smell like fish,” she said. “I gotta quit that job, I swear. Let’s get the hell outta here.” She leaned over, kissed him, slipped him some tongue, let him know she was grateful for the money, for the ride, for bringing her all the way across town, and sat back. The dope was in her hands. She could feel it there. It reassured her. Made her happy.
He put the truck in gear and drove off slowly, didn’t turn the lights on until the end of the block. He’d gotten the picture. He wasn’t stupid.
She checked her underarm again. “Do I smell like fish? You know, fried fish. You know, like my work. Do I smell like Long John Silver’s?”
He wrung the steering wheel. “No, you don’t smell like fish.”
“I told you I work at Long John Silver’s, right?”
He nodded yes, kept his eyes on the road, afraid to get stopped. He thought, Not only am I drunk, but there’s speed in the car now too. Fuck.
He had just wanted to loosen her up. Never thought it would be this dangerous. He could’ve gotten held up, hurt, the truck stolen. But no, had to go along with it, didn’t I? he thought. I gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home. Gotta get home.
“I have a degree, you know. Aha, an associate’s degree in food management. That’s right, from City College on the east side. You know, right? You know St. Philip’s, right?”
“Yes.”
“I graduated in May. My grades weren’t so hot. But I finished, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“What bank you work at?”
He thought up a lie, afraid now of the guy back there in the car, of her ilk.
“I work in real estate at the bank. Don’t really have anything to do with money.”
“Ooh, good. Yeah, me, I’m a home owner. That’s what you mean by real estate, right?”
She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and lit up.
She didn’t even ask me, he thought. He wanted to tell her not to smoke in his truck. Decided not to.
Be careful. Slow down, he thought. They got to a busy intersection. Slow down, slow down, he kept thinking.
“Take 35. Take the expressway,” she said. “I really gotta pee.”
“I can’t get on the expressway right now, like this. I’m drunk. Too many cops. Can you hold it for ten minutes? We’ll be at my house in ten minutes.”
“Can’t you pull over and let me pee? Just over there. Look, it’s dark. Pull over, man. I gotta pee.”
“I promise. We’re five minutes from my house now. Okay? You okay with that?”
“Okay. Okay.”
She really didn’t have to pee, just wanted to get to his house and smoke the crank. He knew it and started getting angry, feeling upset, used. But just then, just as he turned the corner, her purse rolled over and popped open. He saw it in there, clear as day, a knife, a big one, a switchblade. So he shut up.
She looked at him as she grabbed her purse, put it back in order. Leered at him. Hated him for not pulling over. For such a smart man, banker, real-estater, whatever, he’s a fucking idiot, she thought. Look at him, such a sissy, all scared and all. I ain’t gonna hurt you, honey. I just wanna smoke a little of this shit, man. I just wanna get out and smoke a little of this shit. Fuck him. Like he can’t pull over for just a minute? How much longer? How much longer?