NIGHT CRUISING (10 page)

"Well, of course
not.."

"You don't
understand. You weren't even born yet. It was a stinking, sadistic
war and we didn't even win it, even with guys like Boots on our side.
We fucking gave up. Something Boots never did. Even after death."

Molly felt a wave of
intensity in the dark car that came off Cruise like invisible heat.
She had never heard him cuss so much before. He scared her into
silence.

"Open me a Coke,
will you?"

Molly lifted the Igloo
cooler's top and took out a bottle. She uncapped it and handed it to
him. It was lukewarm.

"My dad was in
Vietnam," she said carefully. "But he never talked about
it."

"I shouldn't have
either." He upended the Coke and drank several swallows.
"Talking about Boots gets me depressed."

He glanced at Molly and
saw she looked nerved up, on standby for any sort of emergency
action. "It's all right," he said, changing his tone of
voice so that it wasn't so hard and unrelenting. "That's one
story I shouldn't have told you. I hate thinking about Boots over
there in Vietnam. I never could tell them where he was buried. I
handed over his dog tags and tried to forget about him. I don't think
I'll ever forget, though."

Molly watched the road
ahead without comment.

Cruise tried to turn
his attention to his driving. They were passing through land where
uniformly flat-topped mountains stood off to the right and left of
the freeway. They

were a hundred seventy
miles east of El Paso and he had not mentioned going down into Mexico
to Molly. If she didn't want to, he'd make her, so it didn't make any
difference to tell her his plans.

They passed a small
hill where a diorama was set up.

Cruise pointed to it.
"Out here in the middle of nowhere," he said.

"What is it?"

"A diorama. That's
what the sign says. I guess it means some kind of stationary play.
See the crosses and the figures? Supposed to represent the
crucifixion."

"Oh. I don't know
much about religion. Dad never made me go to church or anything."

"More's the pity.
Everyone needs to start off with a little religion. Especially if
you're going to give it up."

"Have you given it
up?"

"Long time ago."
He had an image of his father beating his brothers and sisters.
Crucifixion in the home. Diorama come to life. All the bleeding
Jesuses. Where was God when anyone needed Him? Nowhere. That was the
point.

The highway began to
cut through the Apache Mountains. The sides of the cut-throughs were
pale, sparkling in the starlight. The mountains were made of shell or
limestone, Cruise decided, although he knew he didn't know shit about
geology. For all he knew they were made of diamond dust and
Kryptonite. Up the mountainsides were black dots of shrubs that
hugged the dry land like scabs on a dog.

The earth was brown and
rust. As a wind came up, Cruise saw tumbleweeds rolling side by side
in the roadside ditch. Outside of Stanton, Texas, a welcome sign read
HOME OF 3OOO FRIENDLY PEOPLE AND A FEW OLD SOREHEADS.

Molly had read it too.
She chuckled and mumbled, "Soreheads. Cool beans."

Cruise thought about
the Apaches who roamed this land on horseback, following buffalo
herds. Now semis prowled the roads going east and west. Some of the
mountains in view had sheared-off tops, some few were pointed skyward
like huge thrusting breasts of earth awaiting a touch from the hand
of a giant. Cruise wondered if a glacier had come through and lopped
off some of the mountaintops and bypassed others. There seemed no

other explanation for
the two distinct shapes. If they were made from volcanic action, then
it meant some volcanoes erupted, others didn't. He wished sometimes
he knew more about things, about the world. There were great chunks
of information lost to him because of his lack of formal schooling.
To hell with it. He knew all he needed to know.

The freeway began to
rise up through the mountains. Plains stretched out behind them. Long
lazy clouds streaked the night sky blowing to the south, strobe-lit
when the moonlight hit them, moving fast. As he drove off the prairie
into the Apaches, the four lanes were bounded on one side by
telephone poles, sentinels of civilization that cut through West
Texas carrying thousands of voices. Cruise noticed the names of the
exits for the few cities that tried to survive out here in the
blistering southwest: Van Horn, Kent, Boracho Station, Plateau,
Michigan Flat, Allamore, Hot Wells. Before they reached El Paso
they'd pass Sierra Blanca.

"There's a couple
of pumpkin trucks," Cruise said, pointing to the oncoming lanes.

"Pumpkin trucks?"

"Truckers' lingo
for those orange trucks owned by Schneider. If you see a semi that
hauls cars stacked on two levels, they're called parking lots. If one
truck is hauling two trailers, that's piggy-backing."

"Truckers have
their own language, don't they?"

Cruise said, "Rest
areas--they're called pickle parks because that's where four-wheelers
stop for picnics. You hear a trucker saying he's looking for a pickle
park, now you know what he means. He wants to pull over and rest
awhile. Although the pickle parks are also used for two truckers who
want to...get better acquainted..."

Molly decided to ignore
that. "What's some of the other stuff they say?"

"They call
prostitutes Lot Lizards. That other girl at the truck stop in Mobile,
remember her?"

Molly nodded her head.

"She was a Lot
Lizard. Truckers call them that behind their backs, of course. I
suppose it comes from Lounge Lizards. Some guys have a sticker on
their side windows that shows a lizard inside a circle with a line
drawn through it. That means they're not in the market.

When they want sex,
they talk to them nice, and call them baby dolls. Or commercial
company. The girls don't seem to mind that."

Molly laughed. "That's
good," she said. "That's what they are, all right."

"We'll stop at the
next truck stop for a few minutes, stretch our legs. I'll turn on the
CB, let you hear them talk."

"Okay."

"You're having a
good time?" He glanced at her.

"Better than I
ever had in school," she said.

"Good, that's
good. I want you to enjoy yourself."

He passed by two truck
stops that were deserted, dark, windblown. Cracked windows, broken
doors, rusting fuel pumps. "Guess they couldn't make it out here
in the desert and hills."

When he saw a billboard
for Love's Truck Stop, he took the exit. "Appropriate name,
isn't it? You'd think it was, but most of the Love stops are just
convenience stores with a little fast-food eating area. Never much
going on at them. Not much love happening."

"I could stand to
walk around a little anyway."

"I've got to get a
fill-up too." He pulled into the brightly lit truck stop with
the big yellow Love's sign. He filled the tank while Molly waited
inside the car. "Go ahead, I'll catch up with you in a minute,"
he said, switching on the CB to static. "Here's a twenty for the
gas. Pay them for me, will you?"

He circled to the back
and parked a little ways from five trucks lined up on the tarmac. He
watched Molly cross to the convenience store while he adjusted the
radio. He listened for the sound of a Lot Lizard, offering her wares
on the CB. No such luck. The truckers were alone, beefing about
California runs and the need to get loads there on time. Cruise
flicked off the CB and got out of the car. He breathed deeply of
cool, dry air that cleared his sinuses and dried his mucus membranes.
Ever since they'd left San Antonio, his nose had been drying up like
laundry hung in the hot sun. It made it almost painful to breathe

through his nostrils.

He thought about Boots,
then put his ghost away. He thought about Indians on ponies whipping
up dust storms across the valley floor. As much as he hated Texas and
Texas lawmen, he never failed to relish the past he imagined
lingering just at the edge of modern society out in the desert
regions. There were worlds beneath worlds, even if they

couldn't be seen.

Despite what he told
Molly, he liked the idea of ghosts, did not think them macabre or
frightening. If the ghost of an Apache warrior strode up to him right
this second, he

wouldn't be all that
surprised. It was Indian land, stolen from them, drenched in their

blood and tears. He
felt them all around him and was comforted in thinking they watched
the white man's progress through the sacred mountains. At least the
travelers weren't alone with just the desolate landscape and the dome
of the night sky pressing down overhead.

He took another deep
dry bracing breath before moving toward where Molly waited in the
building surrounded by reflected yellow Love light. He strained to
hear the hissing from the neon tubes but could hear nothing beyond
the throaty idle of semi-truck engines.

He spied Molly coming
out the ladies' room door and waved her over. "How about an
apple?" He led her to a refrigerated counter and gestured for
the clerk to give him

two red delicious
apples.

Molly took the fruit
and bit into it as they strolled over to the coffee machine. Cruise
poured a big cup, asked if she wanted any.

"No, thanks."
She worked at demolishing the apple.

Outside again, Cruise
sipped at the coffee. He frowned at the taste. Burned. Old. Pissed
him off when the fuckers didn't keep the coffee fresh. "No Lot
Lizards here tonight,"

he said. "They'll
be all over El Paso. It's a wide-open city because it's so close to
the border. Cops can't control the place."

"Are we far from
there?"

"Another hundred
miles or so. You ever been to Mexico?"

"New Mexico?"

"No, old Mexico.
The real Mexico."

"I haven't been
anywhere much. You're not going to Mexico, are you?" She sounded
suddenly worried.

"I was thinking of
crossing the border at El Paso. Just for one night." When Molly
didn't say anything as she climbed into the passenger seat he said,
"You're not on a tight schedule or anything, are you? I'll get
you to California."

"I don't care.
It's your car."

Cruise set the coffee
cup into the holder on the floorboard between the seats. It was horse
piss coffee, hardly worth drinking. He'd like to take it back inside
and pour it all over

someone's head.
Instead, he pulled back onto the freeway.

"You'll like it,"
he said. " Mexico.
Me-hi-co
. You ever see Richard Gere in
Breathless
? He was driving the stolen Porsche and beating the
steering wheel in time to a Jerry Lee Lewis song? Well, he said
Mexico like that.
Me-hi-co
. 'Me and Monica in
Me-hi-co
.'
There's a little town over the border I'd like you to see."

He could tell she was
in a silent stew over his pronouncement. She might even want to leave
him and catch another ride out of El Paso. He'd never let her, of
course, but she

might want to. He
wouldn't know until they got there. He wasn't sure yet how much of a
hold he had over the girl. He certainly didn't want to kill her so
soon. Wasn't time yet. He wasn't finished with her.

He contentedly munched
on the juicy apple, drank the bad coffee, and thought about Mexican
whores. Skinny ones, fat ones, dark brown skin or light skin like
cream, raven-haired, but, most of all, willing.

And he still needed
money. Soon he would kill to get it.

Molly slept as Cruise
drove toward the huddled lights spread at the feet of a mountain
range. Van Horn. Not far to El Paso.

A night breeze blew
through his partially lowered window. It swept aside his long hair
and caressed his neck. The metal of the knife he kept hidden there
cooled into a thin

strip of chilled flesh
at the base of his scalp. Sometimes the glue of the Velcro patch made
him itch. Sometimes it abraded his skin and caused a red, bumpy
irritation. And sometimes the glue came loose after he shampooed his
hair. He carried extra Velcro pads in his travel bag. Every so often
he had to take a Bic shaver to scrape off the bristly hair that tried
to grow back, then replace the old Velcro patch with a new one.

He reached behind his
head now and checked how well the knife was holding. Two edges of the
Velcro were loose and the little knife sagged. Tonight in El Paso
when he bathed, he would shave his hair there and replace the patch.

During the next hours
on the road Cruise indulged in fantasies and memories of his kills.
The miles disappeared.

Time ceased to exist.
As he approached El Paso, his mind wrenched itself into the present.
First there was a string of lights on the horizon, a sparkling
necklace of pearls

strewn all in a row.
Nearer the city the lights were scattered across the foot of the
mountains like multifaceted jewels.

The mountains to the
rear of the city blocked out the stars and moon. As Cruise drove, he
watched the skyline and saw a pure white sickle moon emerge,
suspended low over the city. If the Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, and
Lipan Indians who roamed West Texas living on buffalo before the
mid-l800s were to ride into El Paso today, the brilliance of the
lights would stun them into either reverent silence or a mad fury to
destroy the invading infidels.

Interstate l0's twin
lanes going west soon expanded to four lanes and filled with heavier
traffic. Minutes before he saw the huge green Metro Truck Stop sign,
Cruise woke Molly. "Here," he said. "Now I'll show you
a real truck stop. You're gonna love it."

Molly readjusted the
reclining seat so that she was sitting up. She rubbed her face and
spoke in a groggy voice. "Big, isn't it?"