The Nightcrawler (6 page)

“Well I guess it was a good night then.” That comment had them both chuckling a bit. “So, what do you think of the Charger?”

“It’s a great machine. I may have a buyer for it. He really wants a Hemi but I may be able to hook him if he drives yours. I thought I’d take a couple of weeks off and drive her to LA. Maybe hit the links here and there along the way. If this guy doesn’t buy the car I might buy her myself.”

“Sounds good to me, I’m sure all the paperwork you need is in the glove compartment. Do you think you can get thirty for it?”
 

“It’ll be close but let’s wait and see. I’m going to head out soon; thanks for dinner last night. It couldn’t have gone better. I’ll call you next week about the car.”
 

Thomas wished him a safe trip and Scott hung up the phone.

After a quick breakfast in his room, he packed his bags. He traveled light, a small carry-on bag, his laptop and a small suitcase. He called guest services and requested a bellhop to bring his things down.
 

At 10:37, there was a knock at the door. Scott opened it.

“Good morning, Mr. Randall. My name is Jimmy,” said a skinny, pimple faced kid who looked about nineteen. “I’m here to get your luggage.”
 

Scott didn’t say a word. He just held up a finger, and then sat on the bed to make another call. The bellhop worked slowly putting the bags on his trolley unable to avoid hearing Scott’s side of the conversation.

“Tina. Scott.”

“Are you at LAX?” Tina asked.

“No I’m still in Detroit. Missed the plane.”
 

“When’s the next flight, can I pick you up?”

“I’m driving. I’m going to bring a car back. It’s a 69 Charger.”

“From Detroit?”

“Ya, gonna take some time to see the country. Play some golf.”

“Did you bring your clubs?”

“Not a problem, I bought some new ones here. Can you stay there until I get back?”

“Sure, they’re renovating the pool in my building, so I can use yours for now.”

“Great. How’s Max?”

“As sweet as ever.”

“Good. Don’t feed her too much. I don’t want a fat dog when I get there.”

“You’re such a worrier.”

“Thanks again, Tina, and let them know at the office that I’m not coming back right away. I’ll call you again when I get to Vegas. Bye.”

Jimmy said he was ready to go down and Scott followed him out of the room, as though the bellhop knew a shortcut to the lobby.
 

“Where ya from?” Jimmy asked.
 

“LA” Scott replied, annoyed that this pimple faced, little pissant was talking to him.

“Nice clubs, Mr. Randall. Where did you play while you were here?”
 

“Didn’t. Just bought them yesterday.”

The elevator door opened. Scott was relieved that the Q & A with Jimmy was over. He approached the front desk where a cheerful woman asked, “Checking out?”
 

He just nodded and said, “Scott Randall.”

She typed his name into her computer and inquired, “Was everything satisfactory, Mr. Randall?”
 

He smiled and nodded without saying anything.
 

“Your bill has been taken care of by a Mr. Thomas Andrews. If you’ll just sign here.” He scribbled an illegible signature. “Thank you, please come back and stay with us again.”

Scott smiled again. “Thank you. I will.”
 

A few steps behind him Jimmy was waiting with Scott’s bags neatly placed on the trolley.

“Can I get you a cab, Mr. Randall?”

“No, I have a car in the garage.”

Jimmy pushed the cart inside the first available elevator and Scott stepped in behind him not bothering to say a word.
 

“Did you park on level one or two, Mr. Randall?” Scott held up two fingers.

The door slid open, the garage was near empty.
 

“Which one’s yours, Mr. Randall?”

“The red Charger just ahead on the right.”

The young lad stopped behind the Charger. “Whoa! Bitchin ride.”
 

A smile crossed Scott’s lips briefly.
 

While Jimmy stowed the luggage in the trunk, Scott looked at his watch, 11:15. “Jimmy, I need to pick up a road atlas. Any idea where I can get one?”

“Sure, Mr. Randall. There’s a bookstore across the street. I’m sure they would have one.”
 

You couldn’t figure that out, Scott thought to himself. You were just there yesterday. Jimmy pointed him in the direction of the stairwell.
 

“The stairs are the quickest way, Mr. Randall,” he said. Scott thanked him, handed him a twenty then walked up the stairs.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk he took a deep breath, exhaled and felt energized by the improved air quality compared with the dank garage. Then two steps toward the street, a familiar pungent odor made him feel nauseated.
 

“Say man, can ya spare some change?”
 

It was him, the same bum that spoiled his walk yesterday. So much for the rejuvenated feeling he got from the morning air. The stink on this guy was worse than yesterday. Who would have thought that possible? Scott was as angered by the intrusion as he was repulsed by the smell.
 

“I told you no yesterday, now fuck off.”
 

The bum just grinned, cocked his finger like a kid playing cops and robbers. He pointed at Scott, made that same clicking sound with his tongue and said “Okie-dokie.”

Scott crossed the street and when he looked back the bum was gone.

Inside the bookstore, the same clerk who rang in his purchase the previous day was working the cash register.
 

“I need a road atlas,” Scott announced.

Just then the phone rang and she answered it. “Books and More, can you please hold?” She looked at Scott and pointed him to the travel section. He quickly found the atlas and returned to the checkout, putting the atlas on the counter.
 

“Hold on,” the clerk said into the phone, and then rung in Scott’s purchase. “Will there be anything else today, sir?”
 

He looked out the window, no sign of the smelly man.
 

“That’ll be all,” he said.

She smiled that same smile that must be part of the training in retail. “$11.75,” she said. She took his money, made change and said, “Please come again.” Then she continued her phone conversation.
 

He put the change in his pocket without counting it and headed back to the hotel garage.
 

In the driver’s seat, Scott opened the road atlas and planned the first leg of his journey. He needed to get to the westbound I-94. Confident that he could get there, he closed the atlas and put the keys in the ignition. The 440 started with a roar that vibrated through the entire garage and then backed out smoothly. He smiled as the tires squawked from the slightest pressure on the gas pedal.
 

When he got to the sidewalk, a fine mist of water on the windshield blurred his vision. A man reached across the hood and removed the water with a squeegee. The guy leaned up close to the open driver side window with an outstretched hand.

“Jesus Christ,” Scott blurted out.
 

Scott didn’t expect to see him again. Yet there he was inches from his face, smiling. The teeth that were there were a decaying yellowish color. Scott’s sinuses were now flooded by the bum’s breath, the smell turning his stomach.

Offended and a bit shaken, Scott yelled, “Get the fuck away from me!”
 

The guy’s smile never waned. He backed up a step. Then made the same finger gun gesture and clicking sound with his tongue.
 

Scott squealed the Uniroyals as the back end of the Charger fishtailed a bit, and narrowly missed an oncoming car.

“Fucking freak. Smelly fucking freak.” he said to no one in particular.
 

He drove in silence for fifteen or twenty minutes, more than a little creeped out by too many encounters with the bum. Gradually his mood returned to where it was when the morning air first hit his face. He got to the I-94 with no traffic headaches. The sun was brilliant. The sky was as blue as he could ever remember it being. The wind rushing through the open windows of the car was exhilarating. The familiar drone of the Charger’s V-8 was very calming. He reached for the radio.

“Well that isn’t original equipment Thomas,” he said, not caring that he was alone in the car. AM/FM, four-disc CD changer. He turned it on and pressed the scan button. He stopped when he heard “You’re listening to Karen Savelly on 94.7 WCSX and here is Fleetwood Mac.”
Then Stevie Nicks started to sing “Gold Dust Woman.” What rock and roll loving American male doesn’t turn up the volume when Stevie starts singing? Thomas’ stereo was up to the challenge. Stevie came through loud and clear.

Chapter Eight
 

It took Roger about five hours to get to the rodeo grounds. He had spent the last hour riding with Bill Hicks. Now there’s a man who can talk. From the time he picked Roger up until the time they got to the rodeo he rambled about everything from the weather to the thrush in his favorite horse’s front feet. Roger made a sympathetic sigh at that news having no idea what thrush was. He just assumed by the tone of Bill’s voice that it wasn’t good. One bonus to catching a ride with Bill was his pass to the rodeo. In addition to getting Roger in free, he also offered to show him around after his calf-roping event. With his horse being lame, Bill didn’t expect to make the second round.

After Roger adjusted to the smell of livestock, he had a good time wandering around the rodeo. Everywhere the aroma of cotton candy and farm animals hung in the air. The announcer’s voice rang out with enthusiasm from cone shaped speakers mounted high on weather beaten wooden poles. Roger enjoyed the bull riding. He hung on the fence like the real cowboys, some of them with large paper numbers pinned to their backs. They all had a sense of purpose in their gaze, studying how the other riders handled each bull and how the bulls reacted.
 

Roger had just heard the bell indicating the release of the next competitor when he heard the voice of a young woman.
 

“Hey, you a cowboy?”
 

Everyone on Roger’s section of fence turned to see the source of that inquiry. They all looked down on two girls. Neither girl looked a day over twenty. Both had long dark hair that glistened in the sun. They were gorgeous, their tight jeans hugging their hips and thighs then disappearing into cowboy boots. The one on Roger’s left was wearing a white T-shirt that fit like a second skin, the one on the right a denim shirt rolled up in the middle and tied in a bow exposing her flat midriff. They were both smiling and their twinkling green eyes were locked on Roger. Everyone but Roger had returned to watch the end of the current ride.
 

Trying to look in control while thinking of a comeback, Roger released one hand from the fence and down he went. His foot had slipped off the metal rung of the fence and he found himself in the dust at their feet.

Just then, there was a loud rattling bang behind him, followed by four cowboys joining Roger on the ground. The bull in the ring had thrown its rider, lost its footing and crashed into the fence with two thousand pounds of force.

The girls giggled at the sight of five men floundering in the dirt and walked off, their jabbering interrupted only by the occasional chortle. The cowboys got right back up and dusted off. Roger sat there watching the girls trundle off toward the barrel racing ring.

“You’re real lucky you fell off the fence when you did. That bull’s head hit right where you was standing. You’da been stuck for sure,” one of the competitors said in a Texas drawl.

Roger looked up to see the source of the voice. A young man, dressed like the competitors, hat, jeans, denim shirt, boots, and a big number 51 on his back stood over him. Roger recognized him as the kid about his own age standing next to him on the fence. The kid turned and joined the other three cowboys who had already got back up on the fence.

Roger looked back to see where the girls went. Apparently they had saved him from serious injury, maybe even death. He had to find them to say thank you. The bull riding was entertaining but those two were the best sightseeing he had done so far on this vacation. He doubted the Grand Canyon would be as awe-inspiring. So he got up, dusted himself off and with an urgency in his stride, he headed in the direction he had last seen them.

“Fella, yer outta yer league.” Roger looked back to see number 51 looking down from the fence. He gave the cowboy a wave and walked away.

Roger walked the length of the bull riding ring, circled the calf roping enclosure and scanned the grandstand of both events. All the while the announcer’s voice echoed through the grounds. “Let’s have a hand for Tommy” or “That should get the newcomer to the next round.” Roger barely heard any of it. He had a mission, but there was no sign of those girls. He turned toward the concession stand, the line was long. If they were getting anything to eat or drink they would still be in line. Slowly he made his way along the line. Nothing. There were hundreds of people wandering the rodeo. Finding his rescuers would be a needle in a haystack effort.