The driver of the pickup pulled his vehicle back onto the safety of the shoulder, leaning forward, waiting for Pete to speak again.
?Vikki?s sick?? Pete said.
?She was holding her stomach and looking kind of queasy. There?s a nasty kind of flu going around. It gives you the red scours for about a day or so.?
?Park up yonder,? Pete said. ?It?ll take me a minute.?
The driver didn?t try to conceal his vexation. He looked at the face of his watch and pulled into darkness under the chinaberry tree and cut his lights, waiting for Pete to pick up his groceries from the roadside and carry them to the bed of the truck. The driver did not get out of his vehicle or offer to help. Pete made one trip, then returned to pick up the bag that had not broken. The back window of the truck was black under the tree?s overhang, the hood ticking with heat. The driver sat with his arm propped casually on his window, rolling a matchstick on his teeth.
Pete walked to the passenger side and got in. A pair of handcuffs hung from the rearview mirror.
?Them are just plastic,? the driver said. He grinned again, his pleasant mood back in place. He wore a brass buckle on his belt that was embossed with the Stars and Bars and was burnished the color of browned butter. ?You got a knife??
?What for??
?This floor rug keeps tangling in my accelerator. It like to got me killed up the road.?
Pete worked his Swiss Army knife out of his jeans and opened the long blade and handed it to the driver. The driver started sawing at a piece of loose carpet with it. ?Strap yourself in. The latch is right there on your left. You got to dig for it.?
?How about we get on it??
?State law says you got to be buckled up. I tend to be conscious of the law. I did a postgraduate study in cotton-picking ?cause I wasn?t, know what I mean?? The driver saw the expression in Pete?s face. ?Ninety days on the P farm for nonsupport. Not necessarily anything I?d brag to John Dillinger about.?
Pete stretched the safety belt across his chest and pushed the metal tongue into the latch and heard it snap firmly into place. But the belt felt too tight. He pushed against it, trying to adjust its length.
The driver tossed the piece of sawed fabric out the window and folded the knife blade back into the handle with his palm. ?My niece was wearing it. Hang on. We ain?t got far to go,? he said. He took the gearshift out of park and dropped it into drive.
?Give me my knife.?
?Just a second, man.?
Pete pressed the release button on the latch, but nothing happened. ?What?s the deal?? he said.
?Deal??
?The belt is stuck.?
?I got my hands full, buddy,? the driver replied.
?Who are you??
?Give it a break, will you? I got a situation here. Do you believe this asshole??
An SUV had pulled off the road beyond the Sno-Ball stand and was now backing up.
?What the fuck?? the driver of the pickup said.
The SUV was accelerating, its bumper headed toward the pickup, the tires swerving through the gravel. The driver of the pickup dropped his gearshift into reverse and mashed on the accelerator, but it was too late. The trailer hitch on the SUV plowed into the truck?s grille, the steel ball on the hitch and the triangular steel mount plunging deep into the radiator?s mesh, ripping the fan blades from their shaft, jolting the pickup?s body sideways.
Pete jerked at the safety belt, but it was locked solid, and he realized he?d been had. But the events taking place around him were even more incongruous. The driver of the SUV had cut his lights and leaped onto the gravel, holding an object close to his thigh so it could not be seen from the road. The man moved hurriedly to the driver?s door of the pickup, jerked it open, and, in one motion, thrust himself inside and grabbed the driver by the throat with one hand and, with the other, jammed a blue-black .38 snub-nose revolver into the driver?s mouth. He fitted his thumb over the knurled surface of the hammer and cocked it back. ?I?ll blow your brains all over the dashboard, T-Bone. You?ve seen me do it,? he said.
T-Bone, the driver of the pickup, could not speak. His eyes bulged from his head, and saliva ran from both sides of his mouth.
?Blink your eyes if you got the message, moron,? the man from the SUV said.
T-Bone lowered his eyelids and opened them again. The driver of the SUV slid the revolver from T-Bone?s mouth and lowered the hammer with his thumb and wiped the saliva off the steel onto T-Bone?s shirt. Then, for no apparent reason other than unbridled rage, he hit him in the face with it.
T-Bone pressed the flat of his hand to the cut below his eye. ?Hugo sent me. The broad is at the Fiesta motel,? he said. ?We couldn?t find the Fiesta ?cause we were looking for the Siesta. We had the wrong name of the motel, Bobby Lee.?