"Catch him," Poke said serenely, and ripped another piece of tape from the roll.
Lloyd at last got him by the hair and managed to hold him still long enough for Poke to slap the second strip of adhesive neatly across George's nose, thereby sealing all of his tubes. George went purely crazy. He rolled out of the corner, bellywhopped, and then lay there, humping the floor and making muffled sounds which Lloyd supposed were supposed to be screams. Poor old fellow. It went on for almost five minutes before George was completely still. He bucked and scrabbled and thumped. His face got as red as the side of old Dad's barn. The last thing he did was to lift both legs eight or ten inches straight up off the floor and bring them down with a crash. It reminded Lloyd of something he had seen in a Bugs Bunny cartoon or something, and he chuckled a little, feeling a bit cheered up. Up until then it had been sort of gruesome to see.
Poke squatted beside George and felt for his pulse.
"Well?" Lloyd said.
"Nothin tickin but his watch, ole buddy," Poke said. "Speakin of which..." He lifted George's meaty arm and looked at his wrist. "Naw, just a Timex. I was thinkin it might be a Casio, somethin like that." He let George's arm drop.
George's car keys were in his front pants pocket. And in an upstairs cupboard they found a Skippy peanut butter jar half filled with dimes, and they took those, too. There was twenty dollars and sixty cents in dimes.
George's car was a wheezy old Mustang with a four on the floor and lousy shocks and tires that were as bald as Telly Savalas. They left Vegas on US 93 and went southeast into Arizona. By noon of the next day, day before yesterday, they had skirted Phoenix on the back roads. Yesterday around nine they had stopped at a dusty old general store two miles beyond Sheldon on Arizona Highway 75. They knocked over the store and pokerized the proprietor, an elderly gentleman with mail-order false teeth. They got sixty-three dollars and the old dudemar's pickup truck.
The pickup truck had blown two tires this morning. Two tires at the same time, and neither of them could find any tacks or nails on the road at all, although they spent nearly half an hour looking, swapping a bomber joint back and forth as they did so. Poke finally said it must have been a coincidence. Lloyd said he had heard of stranger things, by God. Then along came the white Connie, like an answer to their prayers. They had crossed the state line from Arizona into New Mexico earlier on, although neither of them knew it, and so they had become meat for the FBI.
The Connie's driver had pulled over, leaned out, and said: "Need any help?"
"Sure do," Poke had said, and pokerized the guy right on the spot. Got him dead-bang between the eyes with the .357 Mag. Poor sucker probably never even knew what had hit him.
"Why don't you turn here?" Lloyd said, pointing to the junction coming up. He was pleasantly stoned.
"Sure could," Poke said cheerfully. He let the Connie's speed drop from eighty to sixty. Drifted it to the left, right wheels barely leaving the ground, and then a new piece of road was unrolling in front of them. Route 78, due west. And so, not knowing they had ever left it or that they were now the perpetrators of what the newspapers were calling a TRI-STATE KILL-SPREE, they reentered Arizona.
About an hour later a sign came up on their right: BURRACK 6.
"Burlap?" Lloyd said foggily.
"Burrack," Poke said, and began twisting the Connie's wheel so that the car made big graceful loops back and forth across the road. "Whoop! Whoop!"
"You want to stop there? I'm hungry, man."
"You're always hungry."
"Fuck you. When I get stoned, I get the munchies."
"You can munch my nine-inch hogleg, how's that? Whoop! Whoop!"
"Seriously, Poke. Let's stop."
"Okay. Got to get some cash, too. We've thrown off enough f**kin pursuit for a while. We got to get some money and shag ass north. This desert shit makes no sense to me."
"Okay," Lloyd said. He didn't know if it was the dope working on him or what, but all of a sudden he felt paranoid as hell, even worse than when they had been on the turnpike. Poke was right. Stop outside this Burrack and pull a score like they had outside of Sheldon. Get some money and some gas station maps, ditch this f**kin Connie for something that would blend into the scenery, then head north and east by the secondary roads. Get the f**k out of Arizona.
"I'll tell you the truth, man," Poke said. "All of a sudden I feel as nervous as a longtail cat in a room fulla rockin chairs."
"I know what you mean, jellybean," Lloyd said gravely, and then it hit them both funny and they broke up.
Burrack was a wide place in the road. They shot through it and on the other side was a combination café, store, and gas station. There was an old Ford wagon and a dust-streaked Olds with a horse trailer behind it in the dirt parking lot. The horse stared out at them as Poke wheeled the Connie in.
"This looks like just the ticket," Lloyd said.