Dave Zeltserman - Fast Lane

* * * * *

After we settled into our seats, she tried talking to me. Somewhere over Texas, though, she gave up, and I was grateful. The finality of what I was doing hadn’t really hit me until the plane started moving, and then it all washed over me, leaving my stomach twisted worse than a blanket in a hurricane.

I looked at Marge. Even though her small talk had ripped through me worse than Rose’s nails, I was glad she was with me. I was going to need something to occupy myself with. Especially at night when it becomes so damn quiet.

I tried blanking out my thoughts. I tried concentrating on the hum of the engine. I tried thinking of Marge in that dress. I tried imagining myself fishing. I tried . . . .

Nothing worked. My mind kept flooding with images of Mary. I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t keep it out of my head.

Mary would find it suspicious that she couldn’t contact me. She’d wait until my two weeks were up but after that she’d hire another detective. It wouldn’t take long for him to find Rose. Another two weeks at the most.

So there it was. In four weeks the fuse was going to be lit. I couldn’t guess how long it would take after that for the explosion, but I knew it was going to come. And it was going to be one hell of a blast. It would have to be with Eddie Braggs doing everything he could to add gunpowder to it. Probably end up a national story. And after that . . . .

No matter how well you think you’ve planned things, there’s always something you missed. Or maybe you looked at all the angles but something from left field botches it up for you.

There was always the risk I’d be recognized. Maybe a foreign correspondent who’s heard of me, or some old biddy on vacation who used to clip out my stories. Or maybe a private investigator hired to find me. I knew Mary wouldn’t bother with something like that, but I wasn’t sure about Eddie Braggs. He just might be mad enough.

I also knew that I was always going to be looking over my shoulder. It wouldn’t matter how well I thought I was hidden, it wouldn’t be good enough. For the moment, maybe, but what about the next day or the day after that?

In a way I’d be willing to turn myself in if it could be done quietly. If folks could go on admiring me and slapping my back. If it didn’t end with the way it would have to. With people calling me those names. Or telling jokes about me. Or looking at me funny . . . or thinking they were better than me. That would be the worst part of it.

Worry was churning around in my stomach. I knew it was never going to go away, at least not entirely. All I could hope for was to learn to live with it.

On the way to the hotel, I told the cabbie to stop off at a liquor store. Marge started giving me funny looks, but tried holding in whatever it was she was dying to say. But she couldn’t.

“Johnny,” she said softly. “I was hoping we could lay off the stuff. You know, make this trip a fresh start.”

“I just want to get enough for a nightcap,” I muttered. “But we’ll watch what we drink.”

“Promise, Johnny?”

“Cross my heart.”

The cab pulled over and I got out. That was all I needed, Marge nagging me about drinking. Now more than ever I was going to need a few drinks to take the edge off my worrying.

I bought a quart of scotch and another of rye. When Marge saw the bottles her face went white but she didn’t say anything. During the cab ride she sat with her hands balled up into tiny fists. When we got to the hotel she grabbed both suitcases, ignoring my offer to help, and made sure she was two steps ahead of me. Inside the room, though, she loosened up. I guess she decided it wasn’t worth losing any sleep over.

“So, lover.” She wrapped both arms around my neck. “What should we do first?”

“Why don’t we have a drink and celebrate our first night in Mexico?”

I pulled away from her and reached for the scotch. Pouring it, my hand was shaking.

“I don’t want any.”

“No? I guess I’ll have to celebrate for you.”

“You bastard.” She laughed. “Okay then.” I filled a glass about a quarter way and handed it to her. I then took my drink in three gulps, spilling a little down my chin. The alcohol tightened my stomach, and then everything inside sort of dulled. I would have liked another drink, but I knew I’d like another one after that and sooner or later the bottle would be empty. Too much needed to be done over the next few days to start getting plastered.

She put her drink down and sat cross-legged on the bed. “What next?” she asked.

“You got any ideas?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe one.”

She straightened her legs, and, reaching behind her, pulled the dress over her head. It was a good thing her dress reached down past her panties. A damn good thing, since she wasn’t wearing any.

She asked, “Can you think of anything yet?”

I wanted another drink. My insides were begging for one, but I couldn’t afford to give in. I joined Marge on the bed. We started to go at it, or at least we tried to. I have to give Marge credit for giving it her best shot. She tried things I wouldn’t have dreamed of, but nothing worked. After a while she fell on her back, red-faced and breathing hard from her efforts. I prayed she wouldn’t say anything.

“These things happen,” she said, hesitating. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

I kept quiet, hoping she’d be smart enough to shut up. I held my breath. She couldn’t leave it alone, though. “You’re tired from all the traveling. Tomorrow you’ll be as good as new, you’ll see. I bet-”

“Shut up.”

“-that you’ll be a new man with a little sleep. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. It means nothing at-”

“Shut up!”

At least she had sense enough to listen to me. I put my pants on and left.

* * * * *

When I came back later Marge was in bed, snoring worse than a pack of dogs. I slipped in next to her and tried to get some sleep, but nothing was coming easy. I fell into this crazy cycle where, right before drifting into unconsciousness, I would jerk out of it, panicked that if I fell asleep I’d forget how to breathe. It got to the point where I was afraid to close my eyes.

After a while I became terrified that I’d collapse into sleep and then suffocate. I lay there sweating like a pig, and well, what Marge couldn’t do with all her effort, was accomplished out of pure necessity. I had to do something to keep my mind off all that craziness and what I did was to start rubbing her.

She groaned, and slowly became aware of what was going on. When we were finished she whispered to me that she knew I’d be okay if I just gave it a little time.

I prayed she was right but somehow I knew I wasn’t going to be. After the snoring started up again I tried closing my eyes but the same damn craziness took me over. Somehow I got the strength to crawl over to Marge. It kept up like that the whole night. Each time we finished I would try closing my eyes, but that same damn panic would overtake me. Somehow, even though I wouldn’t think it possible, I’d end up on top of her.

I guess at some point I must have collapsed into unconsciousness because Marge woke me up the next morning.

Her face was filled with that big easy smile of hers. In a soft, husky voice she said, “I’m all sore from last night. You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

I blinked, trying to get my bearings. As bad as my stomach felt the night before it would’ve been a blessing if it felt that way now. I got to my feet and staggered to the bathroom.

When I was done, I got up off my knees and sat quietly while a cold chill shook through me. I looked in the mirror and groaned at what I saw. My eyes were red and had a hollow look to them. The hollowness seemed magnified by a gray clamminess that tinged my skin. I bent over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I kept it up, hoping to wash away the nausea that had worked its way into my temples.