CHAPTER 15, EXCERPT 3
Then Frank sensed something behind him, something new and unknown. He jerked around, half expecting to see someone inside the ancient, obsolete tollbooth. Perhaps the ghost of an ordinary man in a gray uniform, some long dead escapee from the past handing out bottles of Wisconsin whiskey confiscated at the Minnesota border for the lack of the proper tax stamp, the tollbooth attendant from a time when somebody actually cared about such things.
For the sake of his head, Frank stepped across the bolted planks and looked inside the tollbooth. It was empty, quiet, and bathed in the eerie glow of the yellow bridge lights, a wrinkled Old Dutch potato chip bag on the floor next to the flattened butt of a filter cigarette.
“Ray, you here?” Frank said to the breeze.
Ray didn’t answer.
Frank knew what a woman could do to you, the pain they could cause. Maybe Ray did jump off this goddamn firetrap. Maybe the little shit was just a sensitive candy ass with a big front built up. Something the mental health quasi-professionals might say, eh? Except for the candy-ass part.
Poor, miserable Ray-Ray… he was the goddamn baby of the family.
“Ray-Ray, goddamnit, can you hear me? I know now, man. I know that what happened to the old man really fucked you up. It fucked us all up, Ray—the whole goddamn family. We all have the scars, you know? But you were the baby and you got hurt the most, I know that now. Ma was half-dead for a while and you didn’t get enough of her. You had it the worst of all of us and I’m sorry, man. We just didn’t know.”
Getting no response but the hissing of the breeze and the groans of the ancient bridge pilings, Frank felt foolish and went back to leaning on the railing and staring down at the black water. And still no answers came. No gut feelings. No intuition. No premonitions. No insights. Just the demanding tug of the puppet strings on his shoulders and the wind pushing at his back.
Man, that water looks cold…
His legs were weightless. He felt himself floating.
And then a flash of stray light hit the corner of his eye and he turned to see a car approaching from the Bay City side, two little white circles back there pointing this way. It had to be trouble. Maybe Pillsbury’s goons were coming to throw him down to join Ray… or Artie Autry followed him, the leather-faced prick seeking revenge… might be the Baytown cops coming after cokeheads… or drunken louts on the way to Zenith, returning home womanless yet again and looking to kick the shit out of some helpless schmuck to ease their frustrations.
Man, it was fucking Baytown, you just never knew.
But it had to be something bad.
Why the fuck hadn’t he brought the pistol? Went through all the trouble to buy a gun and didn’t even bring it along, something an idiot or a born loser would do.
You ain’t any better than Ray was, Frank. Deserve to get your ass kicked, boy. Feel better after you’ve taken your punishment, son.
So the hell with it, he’d just wait. Just lean against this railing and stare down there in the distance at the big new Interstate Bridge, headlights arcing through the sky from tiny cars rolling across in a drunken rush for more alcohol.
Last call for alcohol.
Man, he’d said it a million times.
And then the goddamn intruder was pulling to a stop right behind him, exhaust fumes fouling Frank’s nose. Frank refused to turn and look. Not unless he heard a door open or a human voice.
But the engine did sound familiar.
“You’re gonna catch your death, Frank, you stand out there all night.”
Goddamn Waverly.
Catch your death, indeed.
Not tonight.
Frank turned to see Waverly leaning across the front seat of the Olds pushing open the passenger door. “You ran off with my coke, Franko. Had to chase you down to get my vial back. Need a ride, man? No fare in Keith’s Cab tonight.”
Frank shook his head, feeling a wry smile forming. Having a tiny moment of reason, he stepped inside the rusty ’65 Olds.
(End of Chapter 15)
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