Mustang Sally looks at me hard.
“Why do you want to go back? Escaping once was quite a feat. Are you trying to become famous by doing it twice?”
“I’m going to find a friend who shouldn’t be there. And then I’m going to kill someone. If I have time, maybe I’ll stop a war or two.”
That makes her laugh. A full-throated husky howl.
“You’re not frivolous. But you might be crazy.”
“My friends wouldn’t argue that point, so I won’t either.”
“This friend you’re going to rescue, is she your lover?”
“Yeah.”
Sally looks out at the road. Heat reflects off it, making the cars in the distance soft and dreamlike.
“u t00"> o you know what most people ask me when I stop for them?”
She waits. I’m supposed to ask the question.
“What?”
“You’d think it would be about where to find the boy who got away or the girl they left behind. But no. They want to know where they should go to be happy. How can I possibly answer that? The road isn’t here to make you happy. It’s here so you can find your own way. Because they bring me cigarettes, they expect me to cure their misery.”
“What do you say?”
“I tell them to go to a gas station and buy the biggest map they can find. It doesn’t matter if it’s the city, the state, or the world. I tell them to open it, close your eyes, and drop your finger somewhere on the map. That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“Running off into the unknown can sure clear your head. It sounds like pretty good advice.”
“Thank you.”
I smoke the cigarette as a highway-patrol car slows down and gives us the once-over. Sally throws the driver a tiny backhanded wave. The patrol cop’s eyes go blank. He turns his attention back to the road and drives on.
“Any thoughts on my problem?” I ask.
“Yes. What you want isn’t all that hard to do, but it isn’t easy if you get my meaning. What you need is a Black Dahlia.”
“And that means what?”
“You’re going to have to die. And not a going-gentle-into-that-good-night death. It’s going to be messy.”
Story of my life.
“I was hoping for something a little more in the hocus-pocus area. Getting Downtown dead and being stuck there kind of defeats the purpose of my coming to you.”
She flicks the Lucky butt out onto the road. It flies in a perfect arc like a falling star. Marking her territory so more cops won’t bother us.
“Silly boy. I said you had to die. I didn’t say you’d be dead. Dying is just the offering you make to gain passage. Once you’re on the other side, the debt is paid and you’ll be you again.”
“How violent are we talking about? I mean is the word ‘entrails’ involved?”
“Your death doesn’t have to be quite as baroque as poor Elizabeth Short’s Black Dahlia. A car accident should do it. At a .do it. crossroads, of course.”
“Is there anything I need to do?”
“You’ll need to carry an item worn by or touched by someone who suffered a violent death. Anything will do. A photo. A class ring. If the friend you want to find died violently, that’s perfect. Get something of hers. Keep it close so it’s touching your skin as you pass through. Love and death. There’s no more powerful combination.”