Shoot the Piano Player (17 page)

14

In Jersey, twenty miles south of Camden, the Chevy pulled into a service station. The waitress reached into her coat pocket and took out the week's salary she'd received from Harriet. She told the attendant to fill up the tank, and she bought some anti-freeze. Then she wanted skid chains. The attendant gave her a look. He wasn't happy about working on the skid chains, exposing himself to the freezing wind and the snow. "It's sure a mean night for driving," he commented. She said it sure was, but it was a nice night for selling skid chains. He gave her another look. She told him to get started with the skid chains. While he was working on the tires, the waitress went into the rest room. When she came out, she bought a pack of cigarettes from the machine. In the car, she gave a cigarette to Eddie and lit it for him. He didn't say thanks. He didn't seem to know he had a cigarette in his mouth. He was sitting up very straight and staring ahead through the windshield.

The attendant was finished with the skid chains. He was breathing hard as he came up to the car window. He cupped his hands and blew on them. He shivered, stamped his feet, and then gave the waitress an unfriendly look. He asked her if there was anything else she wanted. She said yes, she wanted him to do something about the windshield wipers. The wipers weren't giving much action, she said. The attendant looked up at the cold black sky and took a very deep breath. Then he opened the hood and began to examine the fuel pump and the lines coming off the pump and connecting with the wipers. He made an adjustment with the lines and said, "Try it now." She tried the wipers and they worked much faster than before. As she paid him, the attendant muttered, "You sure you got everything you need? Maybe you forgot something." The waitress thought it over for a moment. Then she said, "We could use a bracer." The attendant stamped his feet and shivered again and said, "Me too, lady." She looked down at the paper money in her hand, and murmured, "Got any to spare?" He shook his head somewhat hesitantly. She showed him a five-dollar bill. "Well," he said, "I got a pint bottle of something. But you might not like it. It's that homemade corn--"

"I'll take it," she said. The attendant hurried into the station shack. He came out with the bottle wrapped in some old newspaper. He handed it to the waitress and she handed it to Eddie. She paid for the liquor and the attendant put the money in his pocket and stood there at the car window, waiting for her to start the engine and drive away and go out of his life. She said, "You're welcome," and closed the car window and started the engine.

The skid chains helped considerably, as did the repaired windshield wipers. The Chevy had been averaging around twenty miles an hour. Now she wasn't worried about the skidding or running into something and she pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car did thirty and then thirty-five. It was headed south on Route 47. The wind was coming in from the southeast, from the Atlantic, and the Chevy went chugging into it sort of pugnaciously, the weary old engine giving loud and defiant back talk to the yowling blizzard. The waitress leaned low over the steering wheel, pressing harder on the gas pedal. The needle of the speedometer climbed to forty.

The waitress was feeling good. She talked to the Chevy. She said, "You wanna do fifty? Come on, you can do fifty."

"No, she can't," Eddie said. He was taking another drink from the bottle. They'd both had several drinks and the bottle was a third empty.

"I bet she can," the waitress said. The needle of the speedometer climbed toward forty-five.

"Quit that," Eddie said. "You're pushing her too much."

"She can take it. Come on, honeybunch, show him. Move, girl. That's it, move. You keep it up, you'll break a record."

"She'll break a rod, that's what she'll do," Eddie said. He said it tightly, through his teeth.

The waitress looked at him.

"Watch the road," he said. His voice was very tight and low.

"What gives with you?" the waitress asked.

"Watch the road." Now it was a growl. "Watch the goddam road."

She started to say something, held it back, and then focused her attention on the highway. Now her foot was lighter on the gas pedal, and the speed was slackened to thirty-five. It stayed at thirty-five while her hand came off the steering wheel, palm extended for the bottle. He passed it to her. She took a swig and gave it back to him.

He looked at the bottle and wondered if he could use another drink. He decided he could. He put his head back and tipped the bottle to his mouth.

As the liquor went down, he scarcely tasted it. He didn't feel the burning in his throat, the slashing of the alcohol going down through his innards. He was taking a very big drink, unaware of how much he was swallowing.

The waitress glanced at him as he drank. She said, "For Christ's sake--"

He lowered the bottle from his mouth.

She said, "You know what you drank just then? I bet that was two double shots. Maybe three."

He didn't look at her. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I don't mind. Why should I mind?"

"You want some?" He offered her the bottle.

"I've had enough," she said.

He smiled tightly at the bottle. "It's good booze."

"How would you know? You ain't no drinker."

"I'll tell you something. This is very good booze."

"You getting high?"

"No," he said. "It's the other way around. That's why I like this juice here." He patted the bottle fondly. "Keeps my feet on the floor. Holds me down to the facts."

"What facts?"

"Tell you later," he said.

"Tell me now."

"Ain't ready yet. Like with cooking. Can't serve the dish until it's ready. This needs a little more cooking."

"You're cooking, all right," the waitress said. "Keep gulping that fire-water and you'll cook your brains to a frazzle."

"Don't worry about it. I can steer the brains. You just steer this car and get me where I'm going."

For some moments she was quiet. And then, "Maybe I'll have that drink, after all."

He handed her the bottle. She took a fast gulp, then quickly opened the car window and tossed the bottle out.

"Why'd you do that?"

She didn't answer. She pressed harder on the gas pedal and the speedometer went up to forty. Now there was no talk between them and they didn't look at each other. Later, at a traffic circle, she glanced at him inquiringly and he told her what road to take. They were quiet again until they approached an intersection. He told her to turn left. It brought them onto a narrow road and they stayed on it for some five miles, the car slowing as they approached a three-pronged fork of narrower roads. He told her to take the road that slanted left, veering acutely into the woods.

It was a bumpy road. There were deep chugholes and she held the Chevy down to fifteen miles per hour. The snowdrifts were high, resisting the front tires, and there were moments when it seemed the car would stall. She shifted from second gear to first, adjusting the hand throttle to maintain a steady feed of gas. The car went into a very deep chughole, labored to get up and out, came out and ploughed its way through another high snowdrift. There was a wagon path branching off on the right and he told her to take it.

They went ahead at ten miles per hour. The wagon path was very difficult. There were a great many turns and in places the line of route was almost invisible, blanketed under the snow. She was working very hard to keep the car on the path and away from the trees.

The car crawled along. For more than an hour it was on the twisting path going deep into the woods. Then abruptly the path gave way to a clearing. It was a fairly wide clearing, around seventy-five yards in diameter. The headlights beamed across the snow and revealed the very old wooden house in the center of the clearing.

"Stop the car," he said.

"We're not there yet--"

"D'ja hear me?" He spoke louder. "I said stop the car."

The Chevy was in the clearing, going toward the house. He reached down and pulled up on the hand brake. The car came to a stop thirty yards from the house.

His fingers were on the door handle. He heard the waitress saying, "What are you doing?"

He didn't reply. He was getting out of the car.

The waitress pulled him back. "Answer me--"

"We split," he said. He wasn't looking at her. "You go back to Philly."

"Look at me."

He couldn't do it. He thought, Well, the booze helped a little, but not enough. You shoulda had some more of that liquor. A lot more. Maybe if you'd finished the bottle you'd be able to handle this.

He heard himself saying, "I'll tell you how to get to the bridge. You follow the path to that fork in the road--"

"Don't gimme directions. I know the directions."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Don't worry about it."

Again he started to get out of the car, hating himself for doing it. He told himself to do it and get it over with. The quicker it was done, the better.

But it was very difficult to get out of the car.

"Well?" the waitress said quietly. "Whatcha waitin' for?"

He turned his head and looked at her. Something burned into his eyes. Without sound he was saying, I want you with me. You know I want you with me. But the way it is, it's no dice.

"Thanks for the ride," he said, and was out of the car and closing the door.

Then he stood there in the snow and the car pulled away from him and made a turn and headed back toward the path in the woods.

He moved slowly across the clearing. In the darkness he could barely see the outlines of the house. It seemed to him that the house was miles away and he'd drop before he got there. He was trudging through deep snow. The snow was stifi coming down and the wind sliced at him, hacking away at his face, ripping into his chest. He wondered if he ought to sit down in the snow and rest a while. Just then the beam of a flashlight hit him in the eyes.

It came from the front of the house. He heard a voice saying, "Hold it there, buddy. Just stay right where you are."

That's Clifton, he thought. Yes, that's Clifton. You know that voice. It's a cinch he's got a gun. You better do this very carefully.

He stood motionless. He raised his arms over his head. But the glare of the flashlight was too much for his eyes and he had to turn his face aside. He wondered if he was showing enough of his face to be recognized.

"It's me," he said. "It's Eddie."

"Eddie? What Eddie?"

He kept his eyes open against the glare as he showed his full face to the flashlight.

"Well, I'll be--"

"Hello, Clifton."

"For Christ's sake," the older brother said. He came in closer, holding the flashlight so that they could look at each other. Clifton was tall and very lean. He had black hair and blue eyes and he was fairly good-looking except for the scars. There were quite a few scars on the right side of his face. One of the scars was wide and deep and it ran from a point just under his eye, slanting down to his jaw. He wore a cream-colored camel's-hair overcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons. Under it he wore flannel pajamas. The pajama pants were tucked into knee-length rubber boots. Clifton was holding the flashlight in his left hand. In his right hand, resting back over' his forearm, he had a sawed-off shotgun.

As they stood there, Clifton sprayed the ray of the flashlight across the clearing, spotting the path going into the woods. He murmured, "You sure you're alone? There was a car--"

"They took off."

"Who was it?"

"A friend. Just a friend."

Clifton kept aiming the flashlight across the clearing. He squinted tightly, checking the area at the edge of the woods. "I hope you weren't traced here," he said. "There's some people lookin' for me and Turley. I guess he told you about it. He said he saw you last night."

"He's here now? When'd he get back?"

"This afternoon," Clifton said. Then he chuckled softly. "Comes in all banged up, half froze, half dead, actually. Claims he hitched a few rides and then walked the rest of the way."

"Through them woods? In that storm?"

Clifton chuckled again. "You know Turley."

"Is he all right now?"

"Sure, he's fine. Fixed himself a dinner, knocked off a pint of whisky, and went to bed."

Eddie frowned slightly. "How come he fixed his own dinner? Where's Mom?"

"She left."

"Whaddya mean she left?"

"With Pop," Clifton said. He shrugged. "A few weeks ago. They just packed their things and shoved."

"Where'd they go?"

"Damned if I know," Clifton said. "We ain't heard from them." He shrugged again. And then, "Hey, I'm freezin' out here. Let's go in the house."