Page 46 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #3

tailgating each other. The front one was a brown Chevy Nova, with a fat, bearded guy in a white T-Shirt, hunched over the wheel, scowling, impa- tient to pass.
“I been in Sing Sing where every damn one’s a killer,” said the kid in a haughty tone. “Didn’t none kill their own wives, either, nothing dumb like that. Most of them were hit-men working for the Mob, bumping off other Mob guys. They was a tough bunch but they took me in like a little brother.” Farnham again made no answer to this, which began to peeve the kid a little. “Better’n that little ol’ hick jail you’re talking about. They couldn’t keep me for long in a place like that. I betcha I woulda sprung that joint in a minute and be off like a pistol shot.”
“Didn’t I tell you to speed up?” Benson blurted out.
The old man shook his head slowly. “You can rob me, fella, take my money and my truck, kill me, but I ain’t going no faster.”
“Why not?”
They drove another five miles in silence. They passed a little town with a white church and a cemetery and two general stores, in grim compe- tition with each other, and both looking the worst for it. On the far edge of town, the cornfields started up again, their stalks swaying with their fat, burdensome sheaves.
“Bad bearings.”
“Bad bearings?” Benson echoed.
“Ay-yuh.”
“So what’ll happen? The wheels’ll fall off or what?”
After a while, Benson looked nervously to the rear again. Now a half-dozen vehicles or more stretched behind them. Every minute or so one would pass and the driver would glare inside the pickup cab for a long second. In a panic, the kid scrunched down further into his seat. A tiny moan escaped his lips.
“Jest about.”
“Suppose I kill you and then drive this rig my- self ?”
“You won’t get fair, leastways if you speed.”
“You saying we’re stuck doing thirty the whole way?”
“Can’t you get no more speed out of this rig?” he asked again.
“Depends. How fair ya aiming on going?” “I don’t know yet. I ain’t decided.”
“Nope.”
“She won’t go more than thirty, ‘cept on a down- grade.”
“We’re trailing a bunch of cars!”
The kid could think of no reply to this. After a minute he said, “Jesus H, then quit your yacking, wouldja? And I had you pegged the quiet type.”
“Can’t help it, fella.”
The brown Nova passed them during a brief straight stretch, and the fat guy gave them the finger on his way by. He kept his arm out the win- dow, middle finger pointed skyward, until he had motored out of sight around the next bend.
“They ain’t noticing you, I’d guess. I’m the one they’re sore at.”
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The old man shook his head. “Ain’t no reason I
“But they’re seeing me on their way by!”
But the kid was not reassured. “Damn rubber- neckers! Might as well be taking a snapshot. What the hell’s their damn hurry, anyways?”