Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (15 page)

“Keep rubbin’ ’em and they’re gonna pop out,” Ben said.

Ryan ignored him. His legs were stiff as nails; worse still, his head throbbed. And when he had looked at the drifter, just when Ben had asked what was wrong with Beaks and their eyes met, he’d seen something dark. Doubt? Worry? Yes, but something more. The guy was hiding something.

“You all right, Rye?”

“Just drive.”

“Hey. I got big news.”

They trailed a lumbering station wagon. There were five German shepherds in the vehicle, two in the back seat, and three crowded into the cargo area. Benny drove a fist into the horn. He was doing seventy-five, coming up fast. He laid on the horn again.

“Slow down, will ya?”

“Jeeze, I hate these old fogies,” Ben said, and he floored it. He pulled out to pass, half-blinded by the dust from the station wagon. He didn’t see the truck coming the other way until it was nearly too late.

“
Ben!
”

Ben Caldwell gave a quick wink to his passenger. The truck shot forward and cut off the car ahead, just missing the oncoming pickup. The driver of the other truck had to veer onto the shoulder and nearly lost control. Ryan whirled round in his seat and saw the pickup ease back onto the road. The station wagon had slowed, and both vehicles were lost in the swirling dust that swept into them. Beaks lay on his side, rolling a bit, but the old dog was none the worse for wear. Ryan slipped back into his seat.

“Nice goin’, Ben. I think my heart stopped.”

“Come on, no biggie.”

“That was Clara Brayfield, idiot. She’s gonna call your Ma. If she saw me, she’s gonna call mine, too.”

“She’s half blind, for cryin’ out loud. She shouldn’t even be drivin’ at her age. She’s a menace, drivin’ so slow.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “That was Tom Nolan’s pickup.”

“Don’t shit me, Rye.”

“I think it was.”

“Christ.”

Tom Nolan was the Nolan in Caldwell & Nolan, a small trucking outfit co-owned by Benny’s father. Ryan looked at Ben but didn’t say a word. If it had been Tom Nolan, Ben could pretty well kiss his wheels goodbye, at least for a month. Back in April, Ben had nearly struck a baby carriage, had missed it by inches; according to Ben it was no biggie, but the fact was, his old man took the keys for two weeks.

“Maybe it wasn’t Tom,” Ben said.

“Yeah … maybe.”

The driver had slowed to forty-five.

“So what’s the big news?” Ryan asked.

Ben’s face brightened, a twinkle in his eye. The truck picked up speed, just enough that Ryan noticed.

“Well?” Ryan said. “Spill it.”

“I did it.”

It took Ryan a moment before he realized what his best friend was on about. “
Now
who’s shittin’ who?”

“Told you I was gonna call her,” Ben said. “It’s not like she was gonna say no.”

“You just asked her? Just like that?”

Ben Caldwell grinned, the kind of grin only ex-virgins could muster. If there had been any doubt in Ryan’s mind, and there had been, just a little, it went up in smoke. Some things you just couldn’t bullshit.

“Just like that,” Benny said, and he was practically beaming, the son of a gun. “I just went up and knocked on her door. What was left of it, anyway.”

“I don’t believe it. No way. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you took her to a fancy motel. The Ritz.”

Ben punched him in the arm.

“So where’d you do it, huh?” Ryan said. “Come on, Mr. Bigshot.”

“Her place.”

“You did it
there?
In
that
dump?”

Marge Bonner, the Banshee of Clay County, called a twenty-foot trailer home, out near the river. The thing had been burned out two summers back by her fourth ex-husband (Jack Mitchell, if Ryan remembered right), but the woman still lived in it. Rats and all.

Ben shrugged. “Seemed as good a place as any.”

“Did it smell?”

“What?
Her?
”

“You dumbass. The
trailer.
”

“Like shit. Burnt rat turds.”

Ryan wasn’t sure what burnt rat turds smelled like, but he was pretty sure it was close to that slimy shit Beaks laid out in the backyard, after the old dog ate something he shouldn’t have. Something wicked.

“You coulda done it in the truck,” he said. “That’s what I woulda done.”

“Yeah, listen to Don Juan here.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“It was good. Really good.
Great.
”

“What’s she like? She’s got big tits.”

“The hugest. They get bigger when she’s goin’ at it.”

“Really?” Ryan had never heard of such a miracle, but he had to admit, you couldn’t just make up shit like that. Not even Bullshit Benny. After all, how would he know something like that?

Ben nodded proudly. He cupped a hand round an imaginary breast, one that had to be the size of a large melon. The speedometer read fifty-five suddenly.

“So what happened? Did she … you know.”

Ever since Ben boasted he was going to nail her (Ryan recalled the moment vividly, it was last July 4 during the fireworks in Spencer, she had strolled past them wearing the tightest pair of cut-off jeans, and a T-shirt three times too small for her eye-popping bosom), there had been a long-standing wager between them over one particular point—the
you know
—and from the widening grin on Ben’s face, Ryan knew he had lost the dollar.

“Shit, Ben … really?”

“She’s a banshee, all right.” Ben grinned. “Bet they heard her all the way to Spirit.”

Ryan chuckled. “Minnesota, maybe.”

Both of them laughed.

“She’s like some kinda animal,” Ben said. “She likes it from behind. Like a dog.”

“
What?
”

“I think she’d like Beaks.”

“Shut up. You’re makin’ me sick.”

“I’m just tellin’ you, is all. She likes it.”

“That why your legs are so sore?”

“Damn straight,” Benny said. “Damn straight. She couldn’t get enough of my sizzle … or my steak.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Your cap’s all bent to shit.”

Ben smiled knowingly. “She’s a wild one.”

Ryan had to ask. “So she was your first.”

“Heck no,” Benny told him, almost too defensively.

Bullshit. But it didn’t matter. Ben had bragging rights now. The only virgin in
this
vehicle was riding shotgun. Even Beaks was up on him, having sowed his oats with Clara Brayfield’s shepherd about seven years ago.

Ben grimaced. “I gotta piss.”

“Aw, come on, can’t you wait til we get gas, at least?”

“I gotta go bad.”

“It’s only a few miles.”

“How ‘bout I just tie it in a knot.”

“Any excuse to play with it,” Ryan said, and Ben swatted him before laying a solid foot on the gas.

~

They gassed up at Grossman’s Texaco, scraping together two-fifty-five (Ryan had a buck-sixty-two, Ben the rest), and the attendant, a rather rotund creature named Jake Maxwell—a toady of Ray Bishop—gave Ryan a look that was less than cordial as he pumped. His big belly dangling over his pants, Jake took the money with a small squealer of a fart, straightened his Texaco cap, and then waddled back to his little office and wedged himself through the door. Ten seconds later, Ben emerged from the restroom and hobbled to the truck.

“I hate that sonofabitch,” Ryan said, climbing in.

“Everyone hates Jake,” Ben said. “Don’t sweat him.”

“You get some crawlers?”

“We’ll get ’em up at McNall’s.”

“Tell me you got more money. I didn’t think of it until after we paid for the gas.”

Ben tapped his back pocket, then drew out a wrinkled coffee-stained single. More than enough for a large box.

Beaks stood up in the back and barked.

“What the hell did he get into, anyway?” Ben said.

“I dunno.”

“Looks like you both got whatever it is. Pinkeye?”

“Does it look like pinkeye to you?”

Ben chuckled. “Maybe it’s
yelloweye.
”

Ryan frowned. “All I know is, it hurts like a bugger.”

Ben started the engine. “How’d you get it, anyway?”

Ryan was about to say he didn’t know—he didn’t, not for certain, anyway, although he suspected it had more than a little to do with the drifter—but clammed right up when a red pickup pulled in. Ray Bishop parked outside the entrance to the gas bar and headed inside, most likely to get Jake Maxwell to hand over a free pack of Chesterfields. Jake was a toady, just like that other toady, Frank Wright. Neither one of them could stand up to his father. Few people could.

Ben knew enough to go. Ryan checked the side mirror and watched his father’s pickup shrink in the distance. Deep inside he felt the throbbing pangs of hatred and hurt, and suddenly, for now at least, he had forgotten all about Kain Richards and the strange magic.

~

“Team’s doin’ better,” Ben said. They were on their way north, up 71 now. “Two games outta first.”

Ryan hadn’t said a word since they left the Texaco. He didn’t now.

“Stu Bergman’s comin’ on,” Ben went on. “He almost blew his arm out last week, though.”

“He will. He always does.”

They didn’t discuss Jimmy Long, and Ryan was glad they didn’t. He figured Ben knew better.

“How’s Rudy’s bunting?” he asked dimly.

“Hopeless,” Ben said. “Coach gave up on him. Told him to just hit the damn ball.”

“That figures,” Ryan said. “If that was me, there’s no way Coach would let me give up. He woulda had me out there in a hailstorm til I got a bunt.”

It was true, at least from where Ryan stood. Coach Plummer treated him differently than the other players. The man pushed him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

“Rudy’s Rudy,” Ben said. “He just can’t bunt. No biggie.”

“Bullshit. I’d never get away with that.”

“Maybe not. But Coach did let you quit.”

“
Let,
” Ryan echoed. “That’s a laugh. The man wanted me out because he thinks I’m bad for the team.”

Ben kept driving. They were almost out of town now, just a few stops from the highway.

“Warner’s fillin’ in for you.”

“Warner? Great.” Ryan slunk down. “
Warner.
”

“He’s doin’ his best.”

“Come on, the guy can’t pitch. Can’t even hit.”

“You’re not exactly Mantle.”

“Yeah? Well, Warner’s the strikeout king.”

“So …”

“Don’t say it, Ben.”

“Why
not
come back? I was talkin’ with Coach and—”

“Plummer can shove it.”

Ben Caldwell shook his head. “I don’t get you. He’d take you back in a second.”

“Who cares?”

“The team does. And so does Coach.”

“I doubt it.”

“We need you, Rye. Warner’s just not cutting it.”

“But he’s doin’ his best, right?”

“Smartass.”

“Dumbass.”

“Look,” Ben said. “Just
talk
to Coach, will ya?”

“What do you want me to do? Kiss the man’s ass?”

“I’m just sayin’ maybe you should think about this.”

“No. No way.” Ryan turned to check on his dog, trying to make it look like he didn’t care.

“It’s not like you got anything else to do,” Ben said.

Ryan stewed. Sure, Coach would take him back. But no way he was
going
back. No way he was going to apologize. This wasn’t his fault. It was that bastard, Jones.

They paused at an intersection, and as they moved on, Ben spoke up. “Warner’s wearin’ your jersey, you know.”

Ryan was about to say something nasty about his replacement, then realized he had almost stepped into the bear trap that Ben Caldwell had set for him.

“Nice try.”

The driver shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

“I’m not goin’ back, Ben. Warner or no Warner.”

“You’re too damn stubborn, you know that? Just li—”

Ben Caldwell stopped himself.

“Just like my old man, right?”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“Thanks, Ben. That was low.”

“Rye … I … I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah.”

That pretty well ended the talk of baseball, at least the talk of the imminent return of Number 23 to the mound, and they carried on without a word. Ryan sat looking out the side window at nothing, thinking about how it might go if he did go back. Apologizing to Coach Plummer seemed as palatable as a plateful of maggots.

~

“You know what we need?” Ryan said, after three miles of sulking. They had just hit the last leg that would take them to Spirit. “Some Old Number Seven.”

Ben laughed. “Even if we had the cash—which we don’t—where the hell are we gonna get whiskey, Einstein? The Booze Fairy?”

Ryan gave him a knowing grin.

“Well, where is she?” Ben said.

“On the way. But we gotta double back a bit first.”

“Why?”

“You said it yourself. We’re broke.”

“
No way,
” Ben said, realizing. “Not again.”

“We won’t get caught.”

“We almost did last time. Or don’t you remember?”

“
Almost
did. Not the same as
did.
”

“Let’s just go fishin’. We’re late enough as it is.”

“Two minutes, that’s all we need. And whatever’s left over, you can keep. Put some gas in this thing.”

The shortstop considered, and just as he was about to say,
No, Ryan,
he stopped himself. He sighed.

“Two minutes.
Two.
Then I’m walkin’ out the door.”

~ 15

They didn’t get caught. Ben kept the old man busy, helping him rebuild the Great Pyramid of Campbell’s Soup in the window of Milton’s Hardware & Grocery, the display he had deliberately toppled for the third time this month. There had been some mild shouting and a few choice words from Gabe Milton as he threw his lone hand in the air (Gabe’s left is buried somewhere in the Ardennes, having been blown off during the Battle of the Bulge, where he had been a member of the Second Infantry Division), but mostly the vet had told Ben to get his damn eyes checked, next time just stay outside why don’tcha, and Ryan, who had worked there part-time last summer, didn’t make a sound. No one had come, not like last week when Sue Hanford and her sister had surprised him, and he managed to lift two tens and a single from the till. He bought some gum with the single when the cans were in place, and then, as sly as a fox, gave Ol’ Five Fingers (it was Dougie Warner,
Wienie
Warner, who had actually given the storekeeper the nickname four summers back) a polished smile before heading out the door.