James Sallis: Drive

“Should have had the duck instead.”

Despite himself, Driver laughed.

Working their way through a second bottle of Cabernet-Merlot and the second inning of this expansive meal, ordinary life going on about them, they’d landed for the moment on a kind of island where they might pretend to be a part of it.

“Think we choose our lives?” Bernie Rose said as they cruised into coffee and cognac.

“No. But I don’t think they’re thrust upon us, either. What it feels like to me is, they’re forever seeping up under our feet.”

Bernie Rose nodded. “First time I heard about you, word was that you drove, that’s all you did.”

“True at the time. Times change.”

“Even if we don’t.”

Valerie brought the check, which Bernie Rose insisted upon paying. They walked out onto the parking lot. Stars bright in the sky. The carpet store was closing, families packing themselves into a fleet of battered trucks, decrepit Chevys, rip-off Hondas.

“Where’s your ride?”

“Over here,” Driver said. At the back edge of the lot, half hidden by a fenced area for garbage. Of course. “You don’t think we change, then.”

“Change? No. What we do is adapt. Get by. Time you’re ten, twelve years old, it’s pretty much set in you, what you’re going to be like, what your life’s going to be. That’s your ride?”

A Nineties Datsun, much battered and devoid of a number of parts such as bumpers and door handles, piebald with rustoleum and filler.

“I know, it doesn’t look like much. But then, neither do we. A friend of mine specializes in redoing these. Good cars to start with. When he finishes with them, they scream.”

“Another driver?”

“Used to be, till both hips got shattered in a crash. That’s when he started tearing them down, building them back up.”

The parking lot was empty now.

Bernie Rose stuck out his hand. “Guess we won’t be seeing one another again. Take care, boy.”

Reaching to shake, Driver saw the knife-caught the flash of moonlight on it, actually-as Bernie Rose brought it out, left-handed, in a low arc.

He drove his knee hard against Bernie Rose’s arm, caught his wrist as it shot up, and sank the knife into his throat. He’d struck a bit central, away from the carotids and other major vessels, so it took a while, but he’d taken out the pharynx and breached the trachea, through which Bernie Rose’s last breaths whistled. So not too long.

Looking into Bernie Rose’s failing eyes, he thought: This is what people mean when they use words like grace.

He drove the rest of the way down to the pier, bore Bernie’s body to the edge of water and released it. From water we come. To water we return. The tide was going out. It lifted the body, carried it ever so gently away. City lights spackled the water.

Afterwards Driver sat feeling the fine roar and throb of the Datsun around him.

He drove. That was what he did. What he’d always do.

Letting out the clutch, he pulled from beach parking onto the street, reentering the world here at its very edge, engine a purr beneath him, yellow moon above, hundreds upon hundreds of miles to go.

Far from the end for Driver, this. In years to come, years before he went down at three a.m. on a clear, cool morning in a Tijuana bar, years before Manny Gilden turned his life into a movie, there’d be other killings, other bodies.

Bernie Rose was the only one he ever mourned.