David Wisehart: Blood Alley

Mojave Desert, California

Saturday, November 17, 1956

The Highwayman cast no shadow on the mountain.

He stood on the summit of a cragged peak beneath the blood-red crescent of a lunar eclipse. A fierce wind whipped along the ridge but hardly disturbed the brim of his slouch hat or the black duster that cloaked him from shoulders to knees.

Below him stretched his road, Blood Alley, a narrow two-lane blacktop that cut across the desert like a naked scar. It itched and festered in his mind. The Highwayman had felt it gnawing at his slumber. Sometimes he slept for years, longing to forget, hoping to heal. But then, as always, the strangers came. They came spinning tires and belching fumes. And the old wound reopened.

Go away! Go back! You do not belong here!

It was an old curse meant for all who came this way. He cursed them and he killed them. For a time they would fear him, and for a time he would rest. But time drove on, and the legends of the Highwayman were lost—old stories and tall tales dying on the desert wind—and the strangers in the living world forgot once more to fear him.

They will fear me tonight.

The Highwayman saw a yellow automobile on the road. Smooth curves and polished steel. The car cruised toward a roadside diner where other trespassers gathered. Even from this distance the Highwayman could read the flashing letters of the neon sign: LAST STOP CAR HOP.

The building had not been there before.

How long have I slept?

Cars filled the parking lot. The place was crowded with teenagers. The Highwayman felt their gaiety and the sharp sting of their smiles. The intruders were happy. He wanted none of it. Laughter and joy had no place on his road. These people were mocking him, and he would not be mocked.

Not tonight.

They had not asked his permission, but they would pay his price.

As the Highwayman stepped down from the mountain, lizards and scorpions scurried from his path.

Frankie LaMarque sat in the corner booth of the roadside diner, checking out the girls. He’d broken up with Julie last night, and needed a new conquest. Julie was his third girlfriend in as many months.

There was a moment—when he first saw her at the recording studio, with her receptionist smile and sexy green eyes—that he thought Julie might be the right girl for him, the one who would last. But Frankie understood now that girls weren’t built to last. Even the pretty girls had a shelf life.

The diner was filled with pretty girls, bobby-soxers in short skirts and big smiles.

They all had eyes for Frankie.

A plain Jane put a dime in the jukebox, turned to him with a face full of freckles, and said, “Frankie! I love this one.”

He knew what would come next. They played the same song all night. His song. The song that had made Frankie a celebrity on two continents, lined his pockets with hundred dollar bills, and filled his bed with little darlings. It was the song that gave this snazzy new diner its name: “Last Stop Car Hop.”

Frankie hated that song.

He couldn’t escape it, and there it was again:

Girls stood up from their tables and began to dance in singles and pairs. Then in jittery groups of giggles and curls. The boys joined in, and sure as sunset the place was hopping.

The song grated on Frankie. He didn’t like his voice. He’d recorded “Last Stop Car Hop” almost a year ago. He was a much better singer now.

They didn’t even use his best take. The guitarist, Tommy-something, had messed up a lick in the bridge section. The producers went with another take, a version that was way too squeaky. But the girls liked it that way.

God, do they ever.

Frankie wanted to puke. He wanted to leave. He wanted to drive—but not alone.

Who would be the lucky girl?

Frankie scanned the room. He could have any girl in the joint. They were all here for him. Most had written him fan letters. Frankie eyed a few chicklets he’d already bedded. He dismissed them. No sense returning to old wells. He needed fresh water.

Yes, he could have any girl here, except…

Samantha.

She was Darren’s girl. Samantha and Darren had been going steady for, what, six months now? A little more? A lifetime, to Frankie’s way of thinking.

Darren was the drummer in Frankie’s band, and had confided to Frankie last week that he was thinking of popping the question. Frankie had laughed, but it was no joke to Darren. He was serious about her, real serious.

Poor Darren. He could have most of the girls here, too. Girls liked drummers almost as much as they liked singers. Once Frankie took his pick of the litter, Darren could clean up with one of the others, or maybe more than one, if that’s what Darren liked. But it wasn’t.

Frankie didn’t understand why Darren wanted to settle down with just one girl. That was just song-talk.

And why Samantha? he wondered.

The question intrigued him.

What was it about her, anyway? She was cute enough. Maybe a little plump for Frankie’s taste, but the tits were nice. Those were very much to Frankie’s taste, round and full and firm. A bright red sweater stretched tight across her man-catchers, revealing two little buttons where there were no buttons.

Darren swore that Samantha’s blessings were everything they seemed to be. No help from the costuming department.

Frankie smiled.

What he wouldn’t give to hold those tits tonight, suck on them, squeeze them till she squealed. Maybe slap her ass a little if she liked it. If not, he could teach her to like it. She seemed the type. Frankie had learned a few bedtime tricks since hitting the big time.

But Samantha was Darren’s girl. And that meant she was strictly off-limits.

Or is she?

Frankie wondered if he could get her into the sheets, then realized something. He didn’t know what Samantha felt for Darren. Frankie only knew one side of the story—Darren’s side. Sure, Darren was sweet on her, but what if Samantha didn’t feel the same?

What if Darren pops the question, and she says no?

A rejection from Samantha would crush poor Darren. What would the little drummer boy do then? Sulk in a corner? Lock himself in his room for months?

Probably.

It would hurt the band, that’s for sure. Darren and his miserable sulking.

Poor Darren. Such a sap. Letting a girl get in the way of the music.

A new realization hit Frankie like two cars smashed together. Samantha, that cunning little bitch, was just using Darren to break up the band.

Of course she is. Girls need attention, and once they get a little, they take a lot.

Samantha had gotten Darren’s attention, all right. Now she wanted it all. Marriage, kids, the works. She was going to lock that drummer boy away and swallow the key. That crazy bitch had already taken poor Darren’s heart, and now she’d take his career, too.

And mine, thought Frankie. She has to be stopped.

Frankie rubbed his eyes to cover his thoughts. He was tense. His shirt felt damp at the small of his back.