Читать книгу The Impaler - Gregory Funaro - Страница 22

It was Saturday night, and Hank Biehn was worried he smelled like booze. He could never smell it on himself. But then again, Hank Biehn hadn’t been able to smell anything since about 1980 or so. All that snorting coke really did a number on the old factory nerves or whatever you called them; fucked with your balance, too, he thought as he walked along the side of Route 301. The dark didn’t help any either—couldn’t focus on nothing except random lights up ahead or the road in front of you; had to keep your head down more than when walking during the day. That’s where the old factory nerves became a problem. Head down and fucked-up sense of balance. Not a good combination.

He supposed he was a bit rusty, too. Used be a pro at walking—or “drifting” as his asshole boss at the diner used to call it. “I ain’t in the habit of hiring drifters,” he’d said, but Hank had talked him into it. Hank Biehn had always been able to talk a good game. That’d been over two years ago now; the longest stretch he’d stayed domestic since he was paroled back in ninety-eight. Fifteen years for armed rob- bery after he moved from coke to the needle. Boy, that smack was a high-maintenance bitch!

But Hank Biehn had been clean since he got out, didn’t even crave the methadone anymore. Besides, he’d found a new love—would always be married to the bottle—but he’d learned to keep her in line. Odd jobs here and there, day-laboring when you could get it was all she required. Short-order cook was a good gig, too, if you played it right. And Hank Biehn certainly thought he’d been playing this last one right, that’s for sure. Stayed sober for the most part during the day and paid his rent on time.

Until he got fired.

And for what? Slapping that spic busboy in the mouth cuz he dropped them dishes on his foot? Naw, boss, I ain’t been drinking! Okay, okay, I admit I had little nip on my break—just a little one—but that fucking Chihuahua did it on purpose! Kind of talk? Whaddya mean you don’t go for that kind of talk? How’s a good, hardworking white man supposed to get by when them wetbacks is taking all our jobs?

That had been the beginning of the end of his good run in Lucama, North Carolina. Same shit, different day. First you get canned; then you gotta weigh your options. And there hadn’t been any options in shit-bowl Lucama. Small-town politics, word of mouth, bad rep now and rent due soon. Been there done that. Better to say fuck it and get outta Dodge before the money runs out and the landlady sics the sheriff on you. If he left now he’d have enough money to get by—more than he usually did when he cut bait—plus he’d be able to stretch it somewhere different until something else came along. And something would come along.

Something always did.

Besides, what was he going to do now anyway? Go back to the kind of life he had before he went in? He was fifty-two years old and didn’t have them kind of reflexes no more. Being married to the bottle had seen to that; fucked with your muscles, too. But the bottle was a good girl—made you smarter, at least. Didn’t make you do stupid things like he did when he was riding the needle. Boy, that smack was a high-priced whore! Was her who made him shoot that convenience store clerk in Durham—popped him one right above the left eye and killed him instantly, he saw on the news the next day. Never thought he woulda been capable of a thing like that, but, boy oh boy, the things we do for love! Luckily, they never pinned that one on him—stuck it on some other chump and then picked him up a year later on the armed-robbery rap in Raleigh. Yeah, Hank Biehn was smart enough to know that you only get one freebie in life, and he’d already used up his.

“Fuck it,” he said, spitting into the underbrush. “Not my fault the kid didn’t just give me the money.”

And Hank Biehn walked on.

His plan was to make it to downtown Smithfield by Sunday morning—would check into a cheap motel and spend the rest of the day in his room drinking beer. Beer didn’t stick in your pores the next day like the hard stuff, and so he’d be clean and ready to work come Monday morning. Spring was here, and they’d be hiring day laborers outside this little storefront near where Route 301 intersected with the center of town. Or at least he hoped they’d be hiring; he’d worked out of there before the gig in Lucama, and as far as he knew, nothing had changed in the last two years. Well, there’d be a different bunch of fucking Mexicans he’d have to work with, but as long as he kept his mouth shut and didn’t smell like booze he should be fine. If they weren’t hiring, well, something else would come along.

Something always did.

Back in the days when he was a professional walker, Hank Biehn learned very quickly that folks didn’t like giving him a ride. Well, once he got inside and could talk his game they came around. It was just the getting-inside part that was the problem. He’d never been a looker, that’s for sure. Kids used to call him “Weasel” back in the day, enough said. But that wasn’t it. No, things were different now than before he went in. People nowadays were too uptight; fucked-up world, people paranoid, no one wanting to give a guy a break. Sad really, but simple as that.

And so Hank Biehn figured if he was going to have to walk, why not walk at night when it was cooler? Tomorrow was a Sunday to boot, and another thing Hank Biehn had learned since his parole was that Sundays were the worst days to try and hitch. Cops more likely to fuck with you on a Sunday, too. You’d think it’d be the opposite—people closer to God and whatnot—but for some reason that wasn’t the case. Hank Biehn had never figured out why.

He shifted the duffel bag on his back and spit once more into the brush. He figured he had about four or five miles left on Route 301 before it crossed I-95, which meant at least another hour and a half of walking before he’d rest a spell with a nip by the highway. No use getting on the Interstate, though; would be around 2 a.m. at that point, and the chances of hitching a ride were slim anyway. Better if he stuck to 301 the whole way; probably another fifteen miles from there, which meant he’d make it into town for breakfast. Then he’d find a room, a case of beer (have to buy it after noon on a Sunday, fucking North Carolina!) and then a good night’s sleep. Sounds like a plan.

Hank heard the car coming long before it reached him. It was quiet on 301. Only a handful of people were traveling at this hour, and all of them had passed by Hank Biehn without a second look. Fine with him. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of sticking out his thumb for any of them anyway. Paranoid motherfuckers.

Maybe that’s why, when he sensed the car slowing down behind him, he looked up from the road and stumbled a bit. Fucking old factory nerves.

“You need a ride, sir?” the driver asked. He’d rolled down the passenger side window, but Hank couldn’t make out his face in the dark. Chevy van, 1970s, not a lot of light coming from the dash. “Heading down the Interstate way if you’d like a lift.”

“I sure would,” said Hank, approaching the door. “That’s real kind of you, mister.” He could see the man more clearly now—just a kid, mid-twenties and pretty built from the look of the arms on the steering wheel. Spoke with a heavy Southern drawl, too; all-American good ol’ boy from the looks of it.

Hank pulled the door handle.

“Passenger door doesn’t work,” he said. “You gotta swing around back.”

“Gotchya.”

Maybe the booze had dulled his instincts over the years; maybe he’d been domesticated too long and gone all Pollyanna and shit, but Hank Biehn didn’t give his good fortune a second thought as he skirted around to the rear of the van.

“It’s unlocked,” the kid called, and Hank opened the door. “Just leave your stuff back there and come on up front. Need a hand?”

“No, no, I got it,” Hank said, hoisting his duffel bag inside. He climbed up after it, and was surprised to find the back of the van completely empty—just the grooved metal bed and the shell of the outer walls.

But what Hank Biehn didn’t notice was the strong smell of Pine-Sol and the subtle yet palpable scent of rotten meat underneath.

Oh no, his old factory nerves were simply too shot to pick up on that.

What a good kid, Hank said to himself. And here I am just thinking how the world’s gone to shit. Weasel, your luck is changing!

“You gotta make sure you slam that door tight,” the kid said. “Latch doesn’t work like it used to. Dang old-school Chevys.”

“I heard that,” Hank said. He was on all fours now, his back toward the driver as he pulled the door shut. It seemed to latch fine. But when he turned around again, he gasped when he discovered the driver was almost on top of him.

“What the—?”

“Your body is the doorway,” the kid said.

Then he raised his gun and fired.