She lowers her eyes. Perhaps she has seen in mine what she didn' t want to see.
"Good bye Debbie, and thanks," I say.
"Good bye," she says. "And thank you too." She is now looking at me again, with sad eyes. I resist my urge to embrace her and kiss her, kiss her on the mouth. I walk to my truck and I feel her eyes burning on my back, pleading for what I cannot deliver, for what my cowardice won' t let me do. I drive away from her and we wave good bye to each other. I see her in my rearview mirror, still standing on the street, both hands behind her back and it feels like some part of me has been left back there with her. A junkie and a whore, good God. I hit the gas and leave Dallas in a hurry, not wanting to look back, afraid of what I may see.
Life and Death in the Fast Lane
The narrow county roads north of Dallas are fun with so many curves. Debbie down shifts before entering one. The engine revs up and the little MG convertible grips the road on almost two wheels. Before the car is out of the turn, she accelerates and when the car is again facing a straight road, it already has picked up good speed. She up shifts and watches the speedometer go up. There is a buzz of speed in her head, mixed with a buzz of booze and coke. Life is grand.
Her blond hair flies in the air and whips around her face. The money Ken gave her has paid for the car, and the booze, and the drugs and many other things already used up and gone but she doesn' t worry about money spent because there is always more money when drugs are involved. Ken is gone and so is her idea of splitting and starting anew somewhere else. Still, despite the money and the fun, there is an emptiness inside her, a hole where friendship and love and care for others is missing. All she knows how to do is to take but to Ken she wanted to give, she wanted to run the risk of being fooled and taken for a ride because she felt that Ken wouldn' t do that to her. The thought of sharing her feelings and exposing her heart scared her to death but still didn' t stop her for wanting it.
Ken was gone. She could see why; he had enough. He has a future with his flying thing, and has a dad who needs him. She has nothing he needs, nothing he cannot find somewhere for far less headache and without complications. What was she thinking? She was not girl friend material; not even friend material. She just takes what she cans and enjoys it until it is depleted; nobody else matters because nobody else thinks she matters.
Not even Ken.
Hedgerows fly by. The stop sign flies by. A car pulls out of a cut in the hedgerow to her right. Debbie doesn' t slam her brakes; instead, her convertible smashes into the side of the car in front of her. Debbie remembers the horrified face of the woman at the wheel, her huge eyes, the mouth open in a soundless cry. There is an explosion of metal and glass and a jolt and an instant numbness before consciousness disappear.
The Dummy Talks
After the Dallas affair I drove straight to Youngstown to see my dad and try to explain things. Had he ever suspected what I was doing for a living? Probably. After bringing back Tony' s body with a belly full of holes I imagine that the gossip about our business down south had reached the inconceivable and the unbelievable but somewhere among the rubbish of tales and lies many folks had probably guessed what we were up to. Even before Tony' s funeral, when I bought and paid for with cash for my dad' s new truck, the old man gave me a look of disapproval that told me he knew something wasn' t right even though he said nothing. I made stories up about how I was working for this South American tycoon and how well I was getting paid to fly him around in his big jet. From flying bank checks and flipping burgers to be the anointed driver of the jet set; that was quite a leap and I knew that my dad didn' t buy the story. Besides, I' m not a good liar. I don' t know if at the time he kept his mouth shut because he couldn' t or didn' t want to contradict me, or because he figured that I was old enough to know what I was doing. These thoughts and the fabrication of an explanation and its delivery kept me occupied while the miles went by, driving in the company of my shame and my fears.
The day I had to return back south, after burying Tony, my dad stood next to my truck and said," Son, I think you need to quit that flying job you got." His grimace showed his feelings better than his words. I said nothing. Before I could make up any excuses my dad turned his back on me and walked back into the little clapboard house that had been our home since before I was born. He never looked back. Was he crying? Was he pissed off? Both? I don' t know and I don' t want to speculate. All I knew for sure was that he didn' t approve of my flying job. I couldn' t blame him. I was forcing on my dad the unsavory task of having to face Tony’ s parents almost everyday and be ashamed that his son was still alive and theirs was not. The old man didn' t deserve that crap.
Despite knowing I was hurting my dad, Youngstown and its misery had turned my stomach; I didn' t want to live from day to day on a few dollars, ever again, to get old and haggard and have to go to a funeral in threadbare cheap suits and shoes no better than cardboard. I ran out of Youngstown haunted by the hard times I saw in its people and its buildings and sought shelter in Ortega' s open arms.
After watching Sonia get whacked, of course, my attitude reversed. There is nothing like the sight of brains on a deck to make a person see things with a new perspective. There was nothing that could have stopped Ortega from spilling my brains on that deck that same day. That, as the cliche says, was an eye opener.
My dad was staying in the basement of an old Army buddy. Together they had faced the Chinese volunteers in Korea and together they now watched for… something. Mustached hitmen wearing dark glasses and driving big black cars? Cuban killers in guayabera shirts smoking big cigars? Brown faced killers with black hair disguised as telephone repairmen? Nobody knew but just to be safe my dad had avoided being seen in public and nobody knew where he was. Paranoia is a good thing when the enemy is unknown.
I met him in the dark and damp basement. It pained me to see him hiding like this because of my own troubles that had nothing to do with him.
"I' m sorry about this mess," I said.
"How are you holding up?"
"Fine, I think. I owe nothing to those guys and I quit fair and square."
My dad could see that my expression didn' t match the confidence of my speech.
"But you ain' t sure that they won' t come after you anyway."
I sighed. "No. I' m not sure. Like in a bad gangster movie, I' m the guy who knows too much."
The old man looked at me with sorrow printed on his face, sorrow not for him but for me.
"Where you some kind of capo for those guys?"
"Dad! You know me," I protested. "I was just the driver of drug smuggling airplanes, a gofer. I don' t even have agun!"
"What about Tony?" he asked.
"He? Well, he wished he could have been a big shot, but he was just a small time hustler…" and I proceeded to tell the old man the tale of the dismissal of Tony Szpiganowicz and how he came to die in my airplane. It felt good to let that off my chest.
"That one," my dad said after I was done," he died happy."