Джордж Хиггинс - The New Black Mask (No 4)

Foy couldn’t think of anything better to do, so he followed.

The Impala was at the exit. Foy heard the metallic crunch of Mrs. Rhine slamming her station wagon into the rear of Rocky Jay’s car. The impact pushed him out into traffic, and he almost sideswiped a livestock truck full of cattle. He swerved just in time, then straightened with Mrs. Rhine tailgating right behind. Foy followed, amazed that they all didn’t end up as steak on the highway.

Mrs. Rhine’s station wagon wove across the dividing line as they sped down the two-lane that wound through the foothills. Foy could hear her pounding her horn. He saw the two cars take a sharp right turn bumper-to-bumper and disappear behind a hill. When Foy made the turn, Rocky Jay’s car was suspended in midair. Foy blinked, then saw the car flipping over the trees. He skidded to a stop on the shoulder.

Mrs. Rhine’s brakes screeched ahead of him. She jumped out of the station wagon, leaving the door open, and ran across the road to edge of the ridge. Dogs piled out of her car, scuttling across the highway in all directions. It looked like a scene from “The Little Rascals” where the dogs all escape from the dogcatcher.

Foy had to get out of there. He drove past as Mrs. Rhine was waving her arms, and the Doppler effect distorted her screaming. He swerved to avoid hitting some dogs. A mile down the road, he changed his mind and made a U-turn, putting his foot to the floor. He almost hit Mrs. Rhine as she ran back across the road to her station wagon. She tore away and dogs swarmed under the trees.

Foy jumped out of his car. He heard a diesel climbing the hill. He froze, then kicked at his tires until the truck passed. He made his way down the ridge and saw Rocky Jay’s car wrapped around a pine. As he walked under the tree, something dripped on him. He looked up and saw Rocky Jay curled in the branches like a human bird nest.

Foy went to what was left of the back of the car. He tried the trunk, but it wouldn’t budge, so he got a crowbar from his car to open it. He lugged the canvas bag up the hill, thinking it would be bad luck to open it now.

“The way things are going,” Foy said to a mongrel who had run up to sniff his leg, “I’m probably either carrying Rocky Jay’s laundry or a pipe bomb.”

Foy’s breathing didn’t slow down until his car reached the interstate. If he had to put money on it, Foy would have bet the bag was filled with dope. He wanted to make a ceremony out of opening it — maybe have a beer first. Instead, he steered with his left hand and opened the bag with his right.

It was full of money. He almost plowed into the back of a semi. It was ridiculous trying to drive and count money at the same time, so he pulled off the road. When he was done counting the money, he spread a road map in his lap and thought. There were times in his life when he deserved a heavenly reward, but this wasn’t one of them. He had been thick and had gotten a man killed, and now he was sitting beside a bag full of $300,000 in cash.

When the sun set, he drove to the Red Rooster Motor Lodge. The pool was a luminous lime wedge glowing from the underwater headlights. Foy didn’t see Wanda’s truck in the parking lot. A lumpy family was unloading their camper, and he helped the father carry a cooler full of rattling ice up the stairs to their room.

Foy walked back to Wanda’s door and knocked. When there was no answer, he slipped inside. Her bathing suit was hanging over the bathtub, and he rubbed it against his face. He sat on her bed in the dark and waited. He heard the TV go on next door. Hours later he heard it go off. He got up and turned on the desk lamp. He got out a piece of motel stationery and realized he hadn’t written a letter to a girl since he was in the service. He wrote a short note telling her he was leaving the city, and he would probably never see her again. Then he folded the note around a wad of approximately $50,000 and slid it under her pillow.

fust before he left, he noticed a metallic jar sitting by the TV. He took off the lid and it was full of silver needles buried in coarse black sand.

Foy drove to his office and cleaned out his file cabinets. There had been no mention of the accident on the radio news. Foy knew his biggest worry wasn’t whether Mrs. Rhine gave his name to the police, but whether she gave his name to the two guys who put the canvas bag in Rocky Jay’s trunk.

He went home and packed all his family pictures into a box. He carried them and his office files out to the barbecue pit on the patio and started a fire.

Foy cocked his head and listened past the crackling fire. He heard the distant zap of a bug light. He realized he was listening for Wanda. If she ever came to him, she would walk to his front door in the middle of the night and ring the doorbell. Suddenly, he heard branches cracking in the bushes. At the edge of the yard a huge animal stared at him. He heard the animal panting, its red eyes reflecting the fire. Then the animal turned and ran back into the darkness.

Mike Handley characterizes his mystery fiction as “eccentric hard-boiled. ” He has been a professional writer for five years, writing mystery fiction and contemporary horror stories, mostly for small-press magazines. He cites film noir as a primary influence on his work and has tried his hand at teleplays. He is currently working on a feature-length horror filmplay and a mystery novel.

“Psychodrama” is a fictionalized version of a holdup that occurred in Oakland, California, in August 1983. Mr. Handley has written a teleplay from the story.

Hey, let me tell you, it started out playin’ like the dream come true, I mean, blueprint beautiful, textbook perfect. I was thinkin’ we were ready to talk Major Method, give workshops and whatnot.

We’d parked a street away where we could see the station across this rubbled lot. I was wheelin’, Oakly sittin’ shotgun. He had what he called “No Wave” music goin’ in the tape deck, which he was usin’ to psych up on, real militant stuff, all axe-edge rhythm and ambulance melody that shot straight to the nervous system, even at low volume.

We let the sun set so the night could work for us, sure, for cover and all that, but the way we were playin’ it, atmosphere was one more factor to be exploited in our favor.

“Let’s do it!” Oak snarled.

See, we always diced at the beginnin’ to cast the main role, and Oak had won this round, so he was directin’ the stop and go signs.

So I took the cue and rolled us around to Shelburne and on into the station, pullin’ it up in front of the full-service pumps, right next to the office. Oak he jumped out and met the attendant in the doorway, just a kid, sixteen or so, you know the type, gone a little goofy over some certain flag twirler from school he can’t get outa his head, standin’ there all gangly in this greasy uniform with his name sewn over the pocket, Biff, or Buddy, or somethin’.

Well, Oak he slips the blade outa his sleeve and puts on his best crazy face. Let me tell you it was most effective. When the face was on him, he looked like nobody you’d ever want to see, ’cept maybe in a B movie where you could watch him terrorize somebody else.

I’d seen him back off this grizzly biker one night in a bar and once even a trio of Street Beaters, a much-feared local teen gang, real id kids, who’da just as soon as doused us with fuel and warmed their hands on our fire as wear gloves. But when the Oak flashed the face, flarin’ the nostrils, bulgin’ big with the eyes, showin’ his teeth, well, it’s just like they say, don’t nobody mess with a crazy man!

And this kid, he knew that immediately. He must’ve just hit the bathroom ’cause he showed all the symptoms but the wet pants. Oak filled his fist with green and was back in less than a minute. I threw it in gear and gunned it, spinnin’ the wheels purely for the sound effect.