Blacktop Wasteland(24)

There were nights he would cruise around and find a race on his own without Kelvin. Mostly young kids with some aftermarket overseas windup toy of a car. Other times he took the Duster and blew it out on a backcountry road. Passing by the trees and the raccoons like a comet running on high-test. He’d get up to 160 before slamming on the brakes and drifting to a stop. No matter how fast he went or how many races he won it didn’t compare to driving for a crew. Being behind the wheel with the cops behind you and the road in front of you while everyone around you was wishing they had worn brown pants. It was a high that couldn’t be replicated with drugs or drinks. He’d tried both and they didn’t come close.

They had never spoken about it, but he was sure if he could talk to his Daddy he would have felt the same way. The words “need for speed” should have been burned onto the Montage family crest. Along with a skull and crossbones.

He locked up the garage and hopped in the truck. As he drove away the sun cast elongated shadows against the front of the garage. Narrow black fingers squeezing the building in their grip.





SEVEN



Beauregard navigated his way down a pothole-filled dirt road that the county in their infinite wisdom had decided to name Chitlin Lane. When Virginia went to a statewide emergency GPS system, they required any road, lane or cul-de-sac with more than three residents to have an actual name. The county administrators decided to fully embrace the stereotypical Southern ethos and name all the side roads with names that sounded like rejected country song titles. They thought it might help tourism. The only problem with that was that Red Hill was no one’s destination. It was a place you drove through, not to.

Wild blackberry bushes lined the lane, interspersed with the occasional pine tree or cypress. The black sky was moonless. The truck creaked and groaned as it rolled over the rough terrain. He passed a dilapidated one-story ranch and two newish double-wides similar to his own. Finally, the lane widened into a clearing with a rusty single-wide smack dab in the middle. The blue Toyota was parked near the door beside a tricked-out Bonneville with 24-inch rims and a matte black paint job. Beauregard parked behind the Bonneville, got out and knocked on the door of the trailer.

Ronnie Sessions opened the door and smiled at Beauregard. Beauregard didn’t return the smile. Ronnie stepped aside and beckoned for Beauregard to come in.

“Quan just got here. We was about to have some beers. You want one?” Ronnie asked. Beauregard surveyed the living area of the trailer. A huge brown couch covered in threadbare suede upholstery dominated the room. It was too big and too ostentatious for the small structure. It had the feel of a yard sale find that was shoehorned into the single-wide. A heavily scarred wooden coffee table composed of rough-hewn planks of timber sat in front of the couch. An easy chair sat at the head of the coffee table. Sitting in the chair was a chubby black guy with a forest of tiny braids protruding from his scalp. He was wearing a baggy T-shirt that was two sizes too big. On his feet were the latest incarnation of a washed-up basketball player’s most enduring legacy. His jeans were so baggy they could have been pantaloons. He had a wide face that was slick with sweat. An unruly goatee covered the lower half of his face and threatened to envelop his mouth.

Across from the couch was a love seat. It was covered in a bright red and yellow floral print. Beauregard thought it looked like a clown had vomited on it. Reggie was sitting there next to a large white woman with a rat’s nest of green and blue hair. Whoever had dyed her hair had missed a few places. Blond spots dotted her head like cheetah print. A wooden chair sat at the end of the coffee table nearest to Beauregard.

“No,” Beauregard said. He sat down in the wooden chair. Ronnie grabbed three beers out of the fridge and handed one to Reggie and one to the black man. Beauregard figured he was Quan. Ronnie plopped down on the couch and opened his beer.

“You got somewhere to be?” Beauregard said to the large woman sitting next to Reggie.

She scrunched up her face. “Uh … no. I mean not really,” she said.

“Yeah, you do,” Beauregard said.

The woman turned her head from Beauregard to Reggie then back to Beauregard.

“Huh?” she said.

“Reggie, go on and take her back to Wonderland,” Ronnie said.

Reggie opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again. “Come on, girl, I’ll take you back,” he said finally.

“I thought I was spending the night again?” she whined. Her eyes pleaded with Reggie. Reggie stood.

“Let’s go. I’ll just crash up there with you,” he said. The woman didn’t seem like she was going to move at first. She crossed her legs at the ankles and her arms across her ample bosom.

“You deaf? Get the fuck up,” Ronnie said. The woman flinched. Huffing and puffing she pulled herself off the love seat and got to her feet. Reggie shot Ronnie a dirty look, but Ronnie was studying the top of his can of beer.

“Let’s go, Ann,” Reggie said. He headed for the door. She followed him without saying a word.

“I bet people scream ‘Godzilla!’ when they see her walk into Walmart,” Quan said. He tittered at his own joke, then sipped his beer. Beauregard caught his gaze. Neither one of them said anything for a few seconds. Beauregard turned to Ronnie.

“Three things. One: We don’t talk to nobody about this but the five people that already know about it. Not no girl you might meet in the club. Not some homie you trying to impress. Not your mama or your daddy. Nobody. Two: When it’s done, we stay away from each other. We don’t go get drinks to celebrate. We don’t go to Atlantic City as a group and hit the slots. We go our separate ways and we stay separate. Three: The day it goes down, we are all straight. Don’t get high. Don’t pop no Oxy. Don’t smoke a blunt. Nothing. If y’all can get down with that, then I’m in. If not, I walk right now,” Beauregard said.