The Runner (13 page)

Bullet didn't care. He wasn't interested in talking, and what did they know anyway—thinking if the words came out right then everything was in control.

“But how can you not run?” Tommy asked him. “I saw you a couple of times last year. You're terrific. How can you give that up?”

They apparently thought he'd given it up, and they didn't understand anything. They thought they understood, but he'd always known better.

“I run,” he told them.

They didn't have words to wrap around that statement, so they let him be.

He ran because it was what he did, what he was. He didn't run to win races, or to beat anybody. He ran because his body was built for it. He ran for himself. Simple as that.

B
ullet moved along through the big doors with everybody else. Some of them funneled off to go get into the school buses. A group went on around to the student parking lot. A few, mostly younger kids, had bikes waiting in the racks by the door. Bullet drifted down the walk toward the road. It wasn't raining, for a change; it had been raining steadily for the last four days, a chilly, slanting fall rain that knocked the leaves off the trees and turned the ground into mud patches. The meet that weekend would have been run in the rain, which was always gruelling. Bullet had run his daily ten miles, but that wasn't as hard because he knew it too well. He glanced at a silver sports car pulled up alongside the curb, a low-slung convertible, top down, with a long hood swept over its motor. It was the kind of car that looked like it was doing ninety when it was standing still. A redhead sat behind the wheel, smoking. A man lounged against the hood. Bullet didn't know how the track team had done in the meet. He didn't ask and nobody told him.

The sun shone, weak and watery, but still sunshine. He thought about going to Patrice's. There'd probably be something he could do, and Patrice would feed him and invite him for supper too. He was pretty sick of his own cooking. He thought about stopping at Tydings' for a steak, but he didn't have a meet. He thought he'd go back home, then, and put in a couple of hours
hunting. Rabbits didn't come out until later in the day, but if he could bag a couple of rabbits he could probably stew them, or something. His mother kept him stocked with canned goods, soups and spaghetti and hash, but it had been a few weeks now and he was pretty sick of everything there. He thought he would drop in on Patrice after all—the rain had kept them shorebound that weekend. Patrice had called on Saturday, surprised to hear Bullet answer the phone, to say his joints couldn't take the weather so they wouldn't be going out Sunday.

There was something familiar about the figure lounging against the sports car, jeans low on narrow hips—Frank. Frank Verricker. Bullet strode over to greet him, with a quick glance at the redhead: Would Liza dye her hair? Or smoke?

“Frank?” he said.

The narrow face turned to him, eyes laughing. It wasn't Liza anyway, which explained the hair. “Hey, kid. I told Honey you'd find me. How've you been? Surprised to see me?”

“Well, yeah,” Bullet said. “Of course.” Frank looked the same, light eyes, thick, dark hair, the body long, lean.

“Good thing you saw me. I wouldn't have recognized you,” Frank said. “What's it been, four years? Seven? Why'd you shave your head? You aren't a monk or something, are you?”

Bullet grinned, shook his head, rubbed his hand over the top of it.

“What are you now, five-eleven? About one sixty, one seventy? You look strong, kid.”

“Frankie.” The woman called attention to herself.

Frank turned to introduce her. “Honey—meet my man, Bullet, a very old friend. Bullet, meet Honey, a recent acquaintance.”

“Hi,” Bullet said.

“Hi there.” She smiled up at him. She had a cat face. Her glossy red hair was arranged in waves around her head. Makeup
made her green eyes look larger, lipstick made her little mouth shine. She had a scarf around her shoulders and a white blouse that opened low in the front and bright red silk trousers. Her nails were long and as pink as her lips. She smiled at him like she really liked him. “We drove six hours to see you, you know. You must be somebody special.”

What was he supposed to say to that? He didn't much like the way she was looking at him, either. He turned to Frank.

“All the way down from Baltimore,” Frank said. “What do you think of her?” he asked Bullet.

Bullet didn't know how to answer.

“The car, kid.”

“Is it yours?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I'd believe anything,” Bullet said. “You could have borrowed it, or rented it, maybe stolen it. I admit, I can't imagine you bought it. Did you win it in a card game?”

Honey chuckled.

“You always were a lippy kid. You know what she is? An XKE, she'll hit one fifty without even trying hard. Want to go for a spin?”

The car had two low seats, both covered in black leather. Behind the seats was a narrow space, about big enough for a large suitcase. “Where would I sit?”

“Honey can squeeze herself into the tonneau, can't you?”

“Sure. I'm used to tight corners.”

She slid out from behind the wheel and stepped into the back of the car, slipped down into the narrow space and smiled at Bullet: “See?” Bullet got into the front seat and Frank got behind the wheel. The key chain had a wooden honey pot, with
HONEY
painted on it. Frank turned on the motor and turned to grin at Bullet. “Watch this.”

He gunned the motor, slipped the car into first, took off with a squeal of tires and shifted quickly into second. “Whaddaya think of that, kid?” Frank asked, above the smooth sound of the motor. Bullet nodded his head. Frank had such a good time, doing everything—anything was fun when Frank was around.

They took the highway out of town, a smooth, flat, two-lane road. The wind whipped around their heads. The speedometer kept moving—fifty-five, sixty, seventy, seventy-five, eighty-five. Bullet felt the machine moving under him, all of its parts in perfect synchronization, running smooth. Honey reached over to put her hand on Frank's shoulder. It rested there, its pink nails bright against the faded denim jacket. Frank turned his head to kiss it, briefly, his eyes still on the road ahead. The fingers tightened. “Okay, okay,” he said, and the speedometer began to slide down, more slowly than it had climbed up. At forty he swung the car around in a U-turn. The back fishtailed slightly and he gunned it back into control. “Some car, hunh, kid?” he asked. Bullet nodded.

They pulled off at a roadhouse, the Lazy-B, where a few cars were already parked in the oystershell lot. Frank turned around to face his passengers. “We could pick up a couple of six-packs or we can go in. Any preferences?”

Honey pulled herself up to sit on the trunk. She unwrapped the scarf from her head. “How grungy is it?”

“It's been years, but it wasn't too bad. There's a jukebox, all the golden oldies. People start coming in around five, it gets lively—lively for around here, that is. There's a dance floor.”

“I'm underage,” Bullet said.

“He doesn't care about that,” Honey reassured him. “He doesn't even have a driver's license, do you, Frankie?”

“You been going through my wallet?”

“Why would I do that when I know it's empty? It was just a guess, a smart guess—to show I know my man.”

Frank subsided.

“Besides,” Honey told Bullet, “you look old enough. With your head shaved and all. You look handsome enough. I don't mind being seen with you, not at all. And Frankie says you're something else. Let's go ahead in.”

“Fine by me,” Bullet agreed.

Inside, there were two rooms, one with a bar and bar stools, one with booths and an open dance floor. A couple of men sat at the bar. Nobody was in the other room. Frank led them into it and to a corner booth. He slid in first and Honey sat beside him. Bullet sat opposite. He looked around the room—it was paneled in dark wood and hung with wild west pictures, wild west wanted posters, branding irons, a few Stetsons and a sign that said, “Park your pistol with the lady, pardner.” Over the two bathroom doors, one labeled Bulls, the other Heifers, hung the gatepost to a ranch, the Lazy-B, with its brand—a capital B lying on its back on rockers—in the center. Fake, it was the fakest place Bullet had ever seen.

Against the back wall was a jukebox, with fluorescent colors running all around it, chasing each other. Overhead, wagon wheels suspended from the ceiling held lights.

“I'm gonna see what songs they have,” Honey said. “Order me a stinger, will you, Frankie? You'll be driving back, no problem.” She moved over to study the jukebox, her purse hanging from her shoulder.

Frank followed her with his eyes. “What do you think of her, kid?”

Bullet didn't say anything.

“She's a looker, isn't she?”

“Yeah.”

The bartender came over. “What'll you have?” Frank asked Bullet, who ordered ginger ale. Frank ordered two draft beers for himself, and “A stinger for the lady. The lady's paying. You don't drink?” he asked Bullet.

“Naw.”

“Why not? Can't you handle it?”

“It tastes bad.”

Frank laughed. “We call that an acquired taste, right, kid? You haven't changed, you always did shoot from the hip.”

“What're you doing here anyway?” Bullet asked. Their drinks came and he pulled the straw out of his glass before lifting it.

“I ran out of luck. Would you believe that three days ago I could put my hand into my pocket and pull out a couple of thousand dollars? Well, that's gone now, some New York sharper has my money in his pocket now. Bad luck. Sob sob.” Frank grinned at Bullet over the top of his glass. “So, I'm looking for a berth, and a friend of mine knows of one I can probably get, but there were a couple of days to kill. Honey had this car.” He moved over to give her room as she returned. The jukebox burst into song. “It stopped raining, and we felt like a drive. Right, doll?”

“I'm always ready for a trip,” she smiled.

“You
are
a trip. Anyway, so here we are,” Frank said. “You must be in high school by now, kid. Are you going to finish?”

“Why not?”

“How the hell would I know why not?” Frank asked. “I haven't seen you for years. Maybe you got thrown out? Maybe picked up by some talent scout to understudy Yul Brynner. I'm asking to find out. You got any plans?”

“They'll draft him,” Honey said.

“I don't mind,” Bullet told her.

“And after that? If you're still in one piece?” Frank asked.

“That depends,” Bullet said.

“I told you he was close-mouthed, didn't I,” Frank remarked to Honey.

He didn't answer that, but asked instead, “What is it, did you grow up around here or something? Is that how come you wanted to come back and find Bullet?” She didn't ask it like she cared about the answer, but she was too casual to fool Bullet.

Frank winked at him. “I didn't grow up around here. Did I, Bullet?”

“Nope.”

This frustrated her. “Where
did
you grow up then?”

“Here and there, I told you that.”

“That doesn't tell me anything. Bullet? Do you know?”

“No, ma'am, I don't,” Bullet said.

“Don't ma'am me, I'm not that old. I'm probably no more than a year or two older than you are.”

Frank laughed into his beer.

“Honestly, Frank Tompkins, I don't believe there's a word of truth in you.”

Frank shrugged. “You want to leave, you can go ahead. My man Bullet will get me back to Baltimore. Won't you?”

Bullet didn't say anything. He knew Frank wasn't the kind of man you ever lent money to, not if you expected to see it again.

“I'm not angry, Frankie, you know that. I don't want to leave. I don't care, whatever you want to tell, I don't need to know any more than I do. You know that. I know the really important stuff. Anyway, I want to dance. Let's dance, okay?”

“Not now, doll. I want to talk to Bullet here.” He looked at Bullet, his expression amused by Honey's antics, his eyes inviting Bullet to join in the joke. “So, anyway, kid, how's your family?”

“About the same.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Frank grinned.

“Yeah.” Bullet grinned back.

“I was sort of hoping your old man might have kicked off. Oh well. Sob sob, right?” Frank lifted his glass and drank, the other arm around Honey. The room began to fill up with people, sitting at the booths, standing around the jukebox, men and women. Frank raised his hand to get the bartender's attention and ordered another round of drinks.

“What about you?” Bullet asked. “What have you been doing? Where have you been?”

“Where haven't I been,” Frank told him. “Japan, Taiwan, Australia—I could live in Australia, that's one big country. Kuwait, J'burg, Vancouver. I've been all around the world, all the hell around it, crossways and top to bottom. Pineapples, bananas, TV components, copra, copper, oil, bauxite. You name it. The big money's in oil, of course—I spent some time on the run between New Orleans and Panama. That's what I do when I need money fast. But—my God it gets through to you.”

Honey got up and went into the other room, her drink in her hand. Frank watched her go.

“Those old tubs—I mean, kid, here are these derelict tankers filled with crude oil, right? The stuff could go up any minute. Every time you light a cigarette, you could blow it. They're coming apart at the seams, and fumes all over the place. I used to sleep out on deck—it made me sick at my stomach to spend time in the crew's quarters, the smell of oil. Besides, I figured—if she blew, I might just go flying clear, I'd have a chance at least. I couldn't sleep cooped up down there, knowing that if something happened I'd be trapped, like some—I dunno, some rabbit down a hole or something. Those engines are held together with string and bubble gum—and old, like some Humphrey Bogart movie. I worked with one guy, he had a scar right across his waist, just above the navel—a real scar, like some leather belt. He got caught by a boiler blowout. He was lucky he was moving when it
hit him. If he'd been standing still it would have just cut him in half, the steam. Well, that's why the oilers pay the way they do. And my nerves can hold up for a couple of runs. But only if I'm desperate for funds.”