Lure (6 page)

"So tell me, why did you drive Miss Flock's vehicle and not your own?" Officer Winter asked with a smile that made it clear that he expected to come out on the winning end of this conversation.

"Because her car is kickass!" Shells said. "Who wouldn't want to take it for a spin?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Are we free to go?" Shells asked.

Officer Winter said nothing for a long moment. "I suppose you are."

Sam handed Shells the keys, and Officer Winter glared at them.

"Sorry," Shells said once in the car. "I didn't want you to get a DUI."

"Thanks," Sam said. "You have to double clutch it to get it into gear, and then tach it up a bit so you don't stall it. The clutch is a little touchy-" Sam was cut off when Shells slammed the shifter into first. There was a grinding sound and Shells tached it up. The shifter slid into gear. Sam was thrown back into the seat and Shells took them out of the parking lot sideways, leaving a pair of black marks arching out of the parking lot.

It was only a short distance back to Sam's place, and Officer Winter tailed them. When Shells pulled into the grass, he followed. Rolling up beside them, he lowered his passenger window. "I'll be watching you. Both of you." Then he backed out and roared back toward Elsinboro.

Sam and Shells made their way inside, silent and knowing their cheesesteaks were getting cold. Not a word was spoken until well after the hangover cure had been administered.

"You need to make some more money, dude." Shells said.

"I know," Sam admitted.

"Maybe we should do some local investigations and try to make some money that way."

"So far, that route has only cost us money."

"Yeah. I know." Shells said.

"But it's a good idea. Maybe we could just get one of those little handheld night vision cameras; those were pretty cheap, right?"

"Yeah. I could get us one of those."

"And I've got an old tape recorder." Sam rooted through the disaster that was her belongings and came out with a tape recorder circa 1975; it may have once been white but it was now yellow and brown.

"Does that thing even work?"

"I think so."

"Seriously, dude. That would be some ghetto ghost hunting there. Can you even buy cassette tapes any more?" Shells asked.

"Yeah. They're right next to the incandescent bulbs and dodo bird cages."

"Ok. So let's say we go ghost hunting with a night vision camera and John Lennon's tape recorder, where are we gonna investigate? Seven Stars Inn?"

"No way."

"Why not?" Shells asked. "Everybody around here knows that story."

"Yeah, I know. If they don't keep a candle lit in the baby's room, they hear crying all night. I don't want my big discovery to be a baby crying because it needs a paranormal diaper change. I want something that I can communicate with. I want something that can give me answers."

"The Hancock House?"

"They'll never let us in there. That's a historic monument; though I agree that it probably is haunted."

"Fort Mott?"

"We could probably get in there again, but last time all you could hear was the rednecks drag racing."

"Yeah, but-" Shells stopped when Sam stood and smacked herself on the forehead, and then immediately seemed to seriously regret it.

"I have an idea," Sam said once she'd recovered. "We've gotta go see Morton."

* * *

A frame rested on a trailer with a tarp secured over it, an old gas pump lent to the charm with its patina of age, and the vintage signs completed the impression that entering the garage would somehow transport you back in time. That was how it felt to Sam, at least. Once inside, Sam saw a mostly restored Henry J that looked to be only hours from cruising down the roadway. Tools and parts adorned the shelves and walls and were interspersed with pictures of women with large breasts. Sam had never quite understood the attraction of girls holding tools, but it seemed to work every time. Whenever she was on a creeper working on her exhaust or changing the oil, a man would appear from nowhere. It wasn't such a bad thing.

Morton himself was probably best described as an old codger with a smile that made you feel like you were home, and an attitude that would keep an angry cat at bay. Sam had known him for most of her life, and memories of going to the drag races were some of her fondest. There was nothing quite like the raucous fun of getting the people in the stands to chant, "The other side sucks!" or "Show us your tits!" The latter was a favorite of the men, and Sam recalled that there were always some rather lovely ladies on hand who were more than happy to oblige. Ah, good times. Sam was pretty sure the one picture in his garage of a woman with small breasts was there just to make her feel better. It was perhaps the oddest compliment anyone had ever paid her, but she took it as the dirty old codger intended it. In the end, they were friends, and that was the best part.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked when Sam and Shells walked into his garage.

"We were in the neighborhood and just thought we'd stop by," Sam said with her most innocent look, and Morton coughed. "And I might have a couple little favors to ask of you."

"You finally gonna to fix that solenoid? The screwdriver trick is just supposed to get you to the shop so you can get it fixed. How long have you been starting her that way?"

"Too long," Sam admitted, "but that isn't actually the favor I was going to ask for. Didn't you just finish building a street rod for Bert Richmond?"

"Yeah. Son of a bitch still owes me money."

Sam smiled. "And wouldn't you say that you know exactly how fast that car can turn a quarter mile?"

"Yeah," Morton said, looking intrigued.

"And wouldn't you say there are parts in this garage right now that could make my Camaro sound worse but turn a quarter mile faster?"

"With the right driver," Morton said, his grin turning wicked. "So you wanna go out there with a sleeper and make a fool of Richmond and take his money?"

"Yup."

Morton laughed from his belly, and Sam flashed her best smile.

"I don't actually have any cash to put up though."

"So let me get this straight, you want me to put my stuff on your car and give you money so you can go humiliate someone who already owes me money?"

Sam just nodded.

"Your ass don't look
that
good, girl."

After a quick shrug, Sam lifted her top and wiggled back and forth. Morton just stood there with his mouth hanging open for a minute.

"Yeah. Alright," he said. "But I have to ask, why's there duct tape over one of them?"

* * *

Salem County was not known for its nightlife; the locals had to find other ways of entertaining themselves, and as for the gear heads, drag racing was always a possibility, but you never really knew when or where races would occur. It wasn't like in Philly where people blocked off streets and ran semi-organized events; Salem County drag racing was spontaneous.

Shells ate organic, low-fat, low-sodium, gluten-free chips in the passenger seat.

"Want some?" she asked, her mouth still full.

"Uh, no thanks."

The night air had failed to cool down any, and Sam noticed the Camaro was running a little hot, not to mention sucking down the fuel. They had been riding around for two hours looking for the hotrodders, knowing there was a good chance Bert Richmond would be out showing off his new ride. They had been down by the dike, out to Alloway, and back through Muttontown Woods in Penton, a place said to be haunted by gypsies. Many times Sam had heard the tale of Muttontown woods, of how a pair of teenage lovers had broken down near the intersection, and how he had left her in the car alone while he went for help. The story said she spent a terrified night in the car, the sound of branches dragging across the roof scaring her, only to find in the morning that the gypsies had hung her boyfriend from the tree and it had been the toes of his shoes that had been dragging on the roof of the car.

Sam didn't believe the story, and yet she still felt that Muttontown Woods were creepy and quite possibly haunted. In a way, she was glad there were no hotrodders to be found there, and continued back into town. After cutting through the avenues, Sam rolled through town as quietly as she could, but the lopping of her exhaust echoed off the buildings that lined Main Street. Unoccupied buildings outnumbered those still occupied, and it was clear that this place had been hard hit and was still recovering. Many of the buildings had been recently restored, and there was a glimmer of hope amid the despair.

Rolling past what had once been a gas station and was now a detailing shop, Sam spotted their prey, and Shells wiped her fingers on her jeans. Sam donned her best dumb blonde look and pulled into the gas station. Bert Richmond leaned against the glassy surface of his '78 Z28. That style had never been her favorite, which was why she drove a '71 split bumper, her preferred style. Redneck Brian sat on the back of his Chevelle, and a deep blue Chevelle sat in front of a primered mid-50's Ford pickup.

"Fill 'er up," Sam said.

"Very funny," said redneck Brian. "Man, that thing sounds worse than usual."

Sam suppressed a smile. He was going to make this easy.

"She runs just fine. Faster than that shiny piece of shit," Shells said, aiming her thumb at Bert's car. "Sorry, Bandit." She said as Bert stood up straight.

"You must be kidding me," Bert said. "That thing is roached. I'll eat you alive."

"Tell it to Sally Fields," Shells said. Again, Sam suppressed a smile. She had planned on goading him herself, but Shells was doing an admirable job of it.

"That's some funny shit," redneck Brian said.

"Rodger that, Iceman," Sam finally said, and redneck Brian laughed a little too hard.

"I'd eat this thing alive," Bert said.

"You want to put some money behind that bullshit?"

"I ain't racing you," Bert said. "That thing'll probably spit chunks out the exhaust and scratch my paint."

"Told you that shiny piece of shit had nothing for you," Shells said.

"Oh, shit," redneck Brian said. "You gonna take that?"

Now Sam knew that redneck Brian would make sure her plan came together. He gave her a quick wink when Bert wasn't looking.

"If I tear something up, I actually have something to lose. That thing's already torn up. I don't need to prove anything to you. And I'm sure as hell not racing for pinks."

"How about twenty-five-hundred bucks," Sam said, flashing the cash, knowing that Bert was loaded, that was one of the reasons it annoyed her and Morton so much that he didn't pay his bills.

"You always ride around with that much cash?" Bert asked looking equal parts eager and suspicious.

"Only when we want to eat some shiny Smokey and the Bandit bullshit for lunch."

"I'm not talking to you, Stay Puff."

Shells took one step toward Bert, and Sam held her back. Using that nickname for Shells was a good way to get an ass kicking, and that wouldn't make them any money.

"If you've got any balls, throw 'em on the table, because I've got twenty-five hundred bucks that says my rust bucket will leave that shiny piece of shit in the dust. Put up or shut up."

Even redneck Brian couldn't seem to come up with something to say into that silence.

"I don't have that much cash."

"What's that thing worth? Two, three grand? How about my cash versus your pink slip?"

"Bitch, you're crazy. Wait here."

Bert couldn't resist and his Z28 let out a throaty growl as it smoked the tires out of the parking lot and onto Main. Only a moment later, Officer Asshole sped by, gumballs flashing.

"Wait here for Bert," Sam said to redneck Brian. "I'll meet you at the dike."

"No way," redneck Brian said. "There's a football game in Pennsville tonight, Muttontown Woods."

"I'll meet you there," Sam said.

"That's cool. I can't wait to see this shit!"

As quietly as she could, Sam crept out of town through the avenues. Once over Red Bridge, she opened the Camaro up a little bit and the wheel felt light in her hands, as if the front tires wanted to leave the road.

"Shit, dude. This thing is nasty."

"Morton knows what he's doing," Sam said. "I just need to take good care of the clutch and try not to abuse the rear end, and we should be fine."

"You sure about this, dude. I mean, I know the car is badass, but do you really want to take this risk?"

Sam thought about it for a moment. Following her gut, she said, "Yeah. I'm sure. Hold on. I'm gonna warm up the tires a bit and test the brakes."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Shells said, and then she sank back into her seat as Sam dropped the accelerator. Sam's face throbbed with the power and vibration, and when she snatched second gear, both were thrown back again, hard. The engine sang a glorious song, and the speedometer vibrated back and forth between eighty-five and a hundred-and-twenty. It felt like two hundred.