Part 17 (1/2)
19.
”You might ought to pull over,” Lloyd said.
”Why?”
A red light flashed in the mirror, then I heard the siren.
My impulse went to flight. ”Let's make a run for it. I'll stop and wait for him to get out and walk up, then I'll peel out.”
”Peel out?” Lloyd rubbed his leg and blinked, as if I might really go Bonnie and Clyde on him. ”We aren't breaking any laws.”
”Oh, yeah, I forgot.” As I opened Moby d.i.c.k's door I glanced at the mess in the back end. It was hard to believe in that pile of trash and humans on the run we weren't breaking a law. ”Pull your pants up.”
”This is a legitimate procedure. I shall not be rushed.”
Lloyd spoke up. ”I've kicked around a lot of years, Shane, and I've found no matter how legitimate the procedure, it's always a mistake to show your d.i.c.k to a cop.”
Conjecture leapt to mind as to how Lloyd came by this experience. Too much conjecture. Handling the Highway Patrol would be less complex. Police figures are easy to deal with-don't make eye contact, act dingy, dumb, and flirty, and tell them what they want to hear. In other words, fulfill their definition of feminine.
The patrolman-thirty, sungla.s.ses, nice a.s.s-stood off to the road side of his car, writing on a clipboard balanced against his belt buckle. Mick Jagger lips-I swear they were plump and red as whole pimientos glued to his teeth.
”You look like somebody,” I said.
He opened his mouth and the sound came out Okie instead of English rock star. ”You know that gentleman?” he asked.
Hugo Sr. sat in his Oldsmobile fifty yards up the road, staring off at the lime green wheat.
”I met him this morning. His estranged wife and children are in the ambulance.” I couldn't come up with more explanation. I mean, I could have come up with more, but it was complicated and involved personal lives.
The patrolman didn't ask for explanation. ”May I see your license, ma'am.”
”Only if you call me Maurey. I'm not used to being called ma'am. Makes me nervous. What's your name?”
He didn't answer my question, but I spotted a silver name tag on his pocket flap that said Ben Lawson, OHP. Good western sheriff-type name, nothing English or prissy like Mick. He held out his hand. ”License.”
I dug in my back pocket. ”The picture's not very good. My eyes came out red and the camera made me look ten pounds heavier than I was. I've heard they always do that.”
The lips flexed. ”Your license plate on the trailer is expired, ma'am.”
Sure enough-1972. ”It's my father's trailer. He got killed last fall. It was awful and I guess we haven't taken the trailer on the road since then. I'm truly sorry.” I hate talking to sungla.s.ses. You can't tell if you're getting goodwill or contempt or what. All you can see is two versions of yourself playing the fool.
Ben Lawson compared the picture on the license to me. ”Merle Pierce?”
”Maurey Talbot. Maurey's a nickname and I forgot to change the license after I got married. It didn't seem to matter, or maybe I knew the marriage wouldn't last. Little signs like that make you realize the deal was doomed from the start. Don't you think so?”
Ben Lawson stood close with his thumbs deep behind his belt buckle. ”Get one thing straight, Mrs. Talbot. I'm not related to the f.a.ggot.”
”You sure look like him.”
”You are in no position to tell me I look like a f.a.ggot.”
”I didn't say you look like a f.a.ggot. He nails more chicks than any two men in Oklahoma.”
”You're in no position to make fun of Oklahoma, either.” Ben Lawson walked along the trailer, inspecting scratches and rust spots. At the wheel well he stopped and took off his sungla.s.ses to stare at Moby d.i.c.k. Andrew waved from the rear window, but Ben Lawson didn't wave back.
He nodded at the trailer. ”Hauling horses?”
Lloyd's door opened and Lloyd came hopping over the hitch, bony hand extended. ”Hi, I'm Lloyd Carbonneau and I'm a recovering alcoholic. I own a salvage yard in Las Vegas, Nevada. The vehicle belongs to me, but I don't drive it.” The hand not shaking with Ben Lawson offered Moby d.i.c.k's registration.
Ben Lawson sized up Lloyd from his sandals to the no s.h.i.+rt under the overalls, then he turned back to me. ”What's in the trailer, ma'am?”
A horse lie would have led to proof of inoculation and interstate livestock permits. ”Household goods. My friends are moving to North Carolina and I offered to drive them.”
He put his sungla.s.ses back on his face, where they definitely doubled as a psychological prop. ”Let's see.”
”What?”
”Open the door, ma'am. I'd like to see the household goods.”
”Wouldn't you rather look at my registration?” Lloyd said.
Thirty seconds of hemming and hawing later, Ben Lawson looked in at two battered suitcases, a tent, three bald tires and one rim, a dead battery, and one hundred cases of Coors. I hadn't actually seen our contraband yet. It was in boxed cases with the Coors logo, which I think was ripped off from the Coca-Cola logo, above the script thing about pure Rocky Mountain spring water. The cases were stacked four wide and five high. Quick math put them at five cases deep back in the double-wide horse trailer. Plenty of room for more. I wondered why we didn't buy more.
Ben Lawson said, ”Some household, ma'am.”
”That's not beer in the beer boxes. They packed those with books and dishes and stuff. Beer boxes stack nice,” I said.
He stepped into the trailer to gently shake the top box of a stack. Gla.s.s clinked.
”Sounds like we broke Marcella's china,” I said to Lloyd, who did nothing to back me up.
Sungla.s.ses and lips hovered over me from about eight feet in the air. ”Let's go look in the vehicle.”
As I followed him to the ambulance I once again reminded myself that a cute b.u.t.t does not a nice guy make. You always hope beautiful people will behave themselves accordingly, when, in fact, it may be the opposite. I haven't known enough nice guys to work out a pattern.
I said a little prayer to G.o.d to please make Shane hide his private parts. My prayer was answered and wasted at the same time. Sam Callahan says be careful what you pray for because G.o.d has a preset quota of granted wishes for each person and they shouldn't be wasted. It's like when you enter a contest you don't really care to win; you lower your odds in the contests that matter.
The very instant Ben Lawson pulled open Moby d.i.c.k's side door, a b.u.t.ter-knife-slicing-cardboard voice shrieked, ”Arrest her quick. Use your gun and arrest her.”
”Who, son?”
”That lady touched Uncle Shane's wienie.”
Critter beamed like a sunflower. ”Far out, it's Jumpin' Jack Flash. You're the spit-image of Mick Jagger. I mean, you two are twins.”