SIXTEEN
Gravity
Still night. Still pissing rain.
Ashley presses her up against the brick wall. He parked the car. He said he wanted to show her something. They got out, and now here they are. The city's noises play around them – mild for a city, but still loud: the honking, the yelling, the laughing, the music drifting from somewhere far away.
Miriam feels the brick against her back. Ashley's up against her.
"Fuck off of me," she says, pushing him back. But he moves right back into place, like one of those clowns you punch down just so he can stand back up, grinning.
"You knew him," he whispers, chuckling. "The trucker."
"He gave me a ride. He's just a guy."
She smells his breath. Mint. She's surprised to see him lolling a Lifesaver around on his tongue. Miriam hopes her breath smells like an ashtray.
Ashley's nose touches her own; then his cheek is against her cheek. His skin is smooth. No stubble. Feminine, almost. Hot breath reaches her ear.
"Just a guy? I don't buy it. You like him."
"I don't like him."
"No, you don't like me. But you do like him."
He bites her earlobe. Not hard enough to draw blood. But hard enough.
She pushes him away. He laughs. His hands hold her hips.
"I don't give a shit about that guy. I don't give a shit about anybody."
Ashley searches her face. She feels his eyes on her. The way his gaze roams, it's like a pair of hands. She gets a rush. Her heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.
"Something else is going on here," he says. His thumb undoes the top button of her jeans. His fingers play idly around the waistband. His eyes widen. Revelation. "He's your mark."
"Fuck you. Get your hands out of my pants."
She says it and doesn't mean it.
He asks her the big question.
"When does he die?"
His hand slides down deeper. His fingers tease at her. She's getting wet like a hot summer day, sodden like a swamp, and she hates it.
"Go to hell."
His fingers move up inside her. She gasps.
"Let me help you."
"I don't need your help." She wants to moan. She stifles it.
"He's a trucker. Truckers have lots of money. I'll help you get it."
"I said, I don't need–" He does this thing with thumb and forefinger. She shuts up. She feels weak. Controlled. Like she's a robot and he's got the remote control.
"You definitely need something."
His fingers thrust harder.
He laughs.
Motel room. Floral print bedspread. Gold-rimmed mirror with the old showbiz-style lights marking its perimeter. A painting of a magnolia tree on the wall. The room is clean, but smells of mold ill-concealed by disinfectant.
Miriam sits at the edge of the bed, smoking. She eyes the metal suitcase, wondering what's in it.
Naked, she massages the carpet with her toes. Another motel. Another fuck. Another cigarette. Circles and circles, the spinning snake, the endless carousel. She wants a drink to drown in.
Ashley comes out of the bedroom, brushing his teeth with one hand, hiking on a pair of boxers with the other.
"Rapist," she says.
"Can't rape the willing," he snaps back with a wink.
"I know. Besides, I could've broken your jaw. I just want you to feel icky, is all."
Around the toothbrush, he gleefully mumbles, "I don't."
"I know that, too."
Back in the bathroom, he swishes, spits, and swishes again.
"No means no," she calls after him.
"Not usually," he calls back, before exiting the bathroom. He wipes toothpaste froth from his chin with the back of his hand. "So let's hear the deets."
"The deets."
"Of the trucker's death."
"Louis. His name is Louis."
"Uh-huh. Whatever. His first name is Mark. His last name is Victim. He's got money, I know that much. Truckers always have money. They get big paydays but don't have the time or the place to spend it – unless they're married. He married?"
"Wife left him, he says."
She feels queasy. Traitorous. A dirty quisling.
"Then he's got money. Probably doesn't keep it in a bank, either, because one day you're in Toledo, the next you're in Portland, the third day you're in Assfuck, New Mexico – if you can't find a bank, and you want money, you gotta pay all those fees. Plus, half these trucker assholes are cranked up on amphetamines they buy at rest stops. Dealers and pimps don't take debit cards. Trust me."
"He's not a dope fiend."
Ashley shrugs. "Yeah, you know him so well. So, back to the original question: How does he bite it? Car wreck? That'll suck, because he probably keeps the cash in his truck. Won't help us if it all burns up."
"He dies in a lighthouse. In–" She does some quick math. "Two weeks. Fourteen days."
"How?"
"I'm not telling."
"That's awfully fourth grade of you."
"It's private. It's his death."
"You get to know it."
She takes a drag off her smoke. "And I wish I didn't."
"Fine. Whatever. A lighthouse is at least a scenic way to go, so how nice for him. We're in North Carolina, and up the coast are what I imagine to be a shit-ton of lighthouses." He starts pacing. "Okay, here's the plan. Get close to him. Call him tomorrow. Go out with him. We got two weeks, so we need to know where he's going to be when he sucks the pipe."
"That's your genius plan? That's why I need you?"
He shrugs. "I didn't hear you come up with it."
"And tell me, why don't we just take his money while he's still alive?"
"Because people who are alive don't like you taking their stuff. People who are dead make fewer calls to 911."
She watches him carefully. "And none of this bothers you? You're not jealous?"
"I don't mind being green with envy if I'm also green with a wad of hundred-dollar bills," he says. "Now let's hit the sack. I'm beat."