David Wisehart - Blood Alley

Easy now, Frankie. Just cool it.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He felt the tension ease in his shoulders and neck.

Of course, Frankie thought, she might be everything Darren says.

Samantha might be sweet and faithful and true. Frankie had never met a girl like that—and probably never would—but he sang songs about them.

If you can write a song about that kind of girl, she must be out there somewhere, right?

But was it Samantha?

Only one way to know.

She had to be tested. Tempted.

By Frankie.

He knew what he had to do. He had get Samantha in the sack. Or at least try.

If she turned Frankie down, then Darren was right, and she was everything he said she was. The perfect girl. The perfect little bride. Sure, if Samantha turned Frankie down, then she could resist anyone, and Darren was right to marry her.

But what if she went with Frankie?

Then she’s just like every other girl.

Darren would lose her one day—if not to Frankie, then to some other sweet-talking, soft-singing lothario with greasy hair, a black leather jacket, and a cheesy smile. But by then it would be too late for poor Darren. By then, Darren and Samantha would have a house and five kids and a mortgage and all that family crap, and one day Darren would stagger home drunk from some late-night gig to find the sheets cold and the wife gone.

Yes, Samantha had to be tested.

Tonight.

Frankie stared at Samantha across the diner. A couple of chicklets sat down beside Frankie and started talking about how great he was, how he was supercool and supercute and all that crap, but he paid them no attention. His eyes were on Samantha.

She was smiling at her boyfriend Darren, nuzzling up to him in their booth. They seemed to really love each other.

Frankie wasn’t so sure.

Samantha pulled back from Darren to sip her soda. Something changed in her expression. She seemed to feel the weight of Frankie’s stare. Samantha turned her cute face to Frankie and gave him a quick smile, then turned back to Darren and let the smile melt.

Frankie kept on staring as the teenie-boppers beside him pawed at him for attention, whispering endearments and promises and teases.

They meant nothing to Frankie.

He watched Samantha play with the ends of her own hair, twirling a blonde lock around her middle finger. He didn’t know if the gesture was intentional, if it was meant for Frankie, but it didn’t matter. It was a sign. She would look back at him if he kept on staring.

So he did.

A few moments later Samantha turned her head and caught his look again. The smile was bigger this time and more genuine.

Frankie knew he had her.

It was all so easy.

Samantha whispered something in her boyfriend’s ear, stood up alone, gave poor Darren a quick peck on the cheek, and went to the girls room.

Darren sat all by himself, looking pathetic. He gave Frankie a puzzled expression.

Frankie raised his glass to Darren, who raised his own, then came to join Frankie in the corner booth.

“Scram,” Frankie said to the girls in his booth, and the teenie-boppers withdrew with sulks and whimpers.

Darren said, “Hey, Frankie.”

“Where did Samantha go?”

“Girls room.”

“Keep an eye on that one,” Frankie said.

Darren chuckled. “Oh, she’s okay.”

“I know, but you gotta be sure, right?”

The chuckle died. “I’m sure.”

“How?”

“I just am.” Darren sat down in the booth with Frankie. “She loves me something fierce.”

“Yeah?”

“Says it all the time.”

“Maybe too much?” Frankie wondered aloud.

“No such thing.”

“Maybe she protested too much,” Frankie said, faking some Shakespeare.

He’d learned that in school last year, before he dropped out for the music scene. He liked quoting Shakespeare. It reminded people Frankie was not just a pretty face on a billboard, but smart, too.

Darren laughed. “You don’t know her, Frankie.”

“I could.”

The drummer’s look turned serious. “She’s my girl.”

Frankie shrugged.

He’d already won, but didn’t care to rub it in. Poor Darren.

“Oh, I know that,” Frankie said. “She’s your girl. Of course she’s your girl. But admit it, Darren. You’re worried about her.”

“Hell, no.”

“Don’t get me wrong, kid, she’s a great girl. One of the best. A real keeper, you ask me.” He poked a finger at Darren’s black leather jacket. “But she’s still a girl. And you know what that means.”

Darren shifted in his seat. “Keep your hands off her, Frankie.”

Frankie raised his hands in a gesture of peace, laced his fingers together behind his head, and leaned back in his seat. “Tell her to keep her eyes off me.”

Darren clammed up.

Frankie said, “Yeah, you saw that, right? The look she gave me?”

“Go to hell, Frankie.”

It was time to put an end to this. “Race you for her.”

Darren looked confused. “What?”

The room grew silent.

Frankie looked around. All eyes were on him and Darren. Frankie raised his voice a little. “You heard me. Drag race. Let’s go.”

Some other guy muttered, “Drag race,” and the phrase spread like polio around the room.

Darren stood up. “This is stupid.”

“Here to the Devil’s Tunnel,” said Frankie.

“You’re nuts, man.” Fear sparked in Darren’s eyes. “That’s forty miles.”

Frankie knew it wasn’t the miles or the tunnel that pumped fear into Darren’s veins. It was the road itself—and the legends of that road.

“Blood Alley,” they called it.

But Frankie wasn’t scared. He was top cat, and everyone knew it.

Frankie took the last sip from his glass, letting the sound of air and soda rattle in the straw. He paused for effect, then set the glass down with a hard, ice-chattering thunk .

“Winner gets to take Samantha home.”

“No way,” Darren protested. “That’s my girl, Frankie. That’s my girl.”

“Didn’t say she wasn’t. But if I win, I’ll drive her home for you. I’d be doing you favor.”

“I’ll drive her myself.”

Darren started to walk back to his own table, but when he saw that his girl wasn’t there, he stopped.

Frankie knew the crowd was itching for a fight. But it wasn’t a fight that Frankie wanted. Not with knuckles and elbows. Frankie fought with steel and rubber and an iron will. He fought with the smell of burning gasoline and the roar of a fine-tuned engine.

“Then race me,” he said.

He waited for an answer that didn’t come. The room was quiet, except for the wind outside and the howl of a coyote.

Frankie taunted his friend some more. “What’s the matter, buddy? You worried?”

Darren turned back around. The boy’s jaw was clenched. He lowered his voice. “I’d beat you in a fair race.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Frankie stood and stretched.

Darren threw some quarters on the table to tip the waitress. “You’re on.”

Samantha returned from the girls room. She looked around at the crowd, glanced at Frankie, then went to Darren’s side. “What’s happening?”

“Drag race!” someone shouted.

Samantha beamed. “Really? Who’s racing?”

Darren’s reply was low and surly. “Me and Frankie.”

“What’s the prize?” she asked.

Frankie smiled. “You are.”

Frankie was first to his machine, a spanking-new, matador-red, two-door, four-speed 1957 Chevy Bel Air hardtop. He’d bought the hot rod six weeks ago—next year’s model, first off the lot—and paid for her out of his royalty jackpot. Then he hired a race mechanic to tune, tighten, and tweak her to within an inch of perfection.