Green Eyes Page 0,38

stuck his head up between the seats. 'It was cool you runnin' the show when we was inside 'cause you could deal with the cameras and shit, but I ain't...' He nearly toppled into the front as the van hit a pothole, then he fell back. 'Look at this shit! She's gonna kill our ass!'

'Quit yelling in her ear, damn it! How the hell can she drive when you're yelling at her!'

Hearing them argue, Jocundra had a moment of hysteria, a happy little trickle of it eeling up from her depths, and all the unhappy particulars of the situation were bathed in a surreal light. There they sat like TV hoodlums planning a spree of Seven-11 stick-ups and high times, fighting over who was boss - to further this impression they were both wearing sunglasses which Richmond had stolen from the orderlies - and there she sat, the mute flunky, the moll. At length they agreed on a compromise: Donnell would serve as the mastermind, while Richmond would take charge in situations calling for swift action and street smarts. Donnell asked her if she knew a place nearby where they could be safe for a couple of days.

'The swamp,' she said. 'It's full of deserted shanties and cabins. But shouldn't we get as far away as possible?'

'Jesus!' said Richmond, disgusted. He scrunched around on the floor; his guitar banged hollowly. 'I'm gonna lay back for a while. You deal with her, man.'

'You weren't listening,' said Donnell exasperated.

'I'm sorry. I was concentrating on the road.'

'We're going to switch license plates. They'll expect us to run, I think, so we're going to stay nearby, maybe pick up another car. The swamp won't do. We need someplace near a town, within a couple of hours' drive. That's how long the gate and the phones should stay out.'

'Well, over on Bayou Lafourche there's a stretch of motels,' she said. 'Mostly dumps. I doubt they pay much attention to who their customers are.'

'Make it some place near a liquor store,' said Richmond. 'I need to get fucked up!'

When they reached the state highway, Jocundra boosted the speed to fifty and raised her window. Wind keened in the side vent. White houses bloomed phosphorescent among the brush and scrub pine; gas stations with broken windows and boarded-up restaurants. Near the town of Vernon's Parish they passed a low building with yellow light streaming from its doors and windows, a neon champagne glass atop it, surrounded by cars. Black stick figures, armless and faceless, jostled in the doorway, and their movements made them seem to be flickering, pulsing to the blare of light around them like spirits dancing in a fire. Then they were gone, the moon was occluded, and a wave of unrelieved darkness rolled over the van. Richmond chorded his guitar.

'Past the road to Vernon's Parish

Our tailpipe was sprayin' sparks.

The preacher in the Calvary Church

Felt cold fingers 'round his heart...'

The song and the air of stale, forced confinement in the van reminded Jocundra of traveling with Charlie's band. When he had described it to her, it had sounded romantic, but in reality it had been greasy food and never enough sleep and being groped by Quaaluded roadies. The only good part had been the music, which served to mythologize the experience. She glanced at Donnell; he rested his head wearily against the window as Richmond's cawing voice wove into the rush of the highway.

'Now if you see a fiery fall

Of comets in the East,

Or the shadow slinkin' 'cross the moon

Of some wiry, haggard beast,

If you feel your blood congeal

And you've the urge to call a priest,

Never fear, it'll disappear,

You can rest tonight in peace.

'Well, you might want to run outside

And fall down on your face,

You might scream or you might pray

Or you might vacillate,

You might give the United Way,

But no matter what you done,

I tell you, straight,

You can't escape the fate

Of Harley David's son!

Oh, the days they've swept away from me

Like fires through a slum.

But when I die I'll roam the night,

The Ghost of Harley David's son!

'Bullshit song,' said Richmond, dejected. He leaned between the seats. 'But what the hell, squeeze! It sure feels good to be hittin' the highway again.' He punched Donnell's arm and grunted laughter. 'Even if we never did feel it before.'

Chapter 9

May l7 - May 19, 1987

A stand of stunted oaks hemmed in Sealey's Motel-Restaurant against the highway. Bats wheeled in the parking lot lights, and toads hopped over the gravel drive and croaked under the cabins, which were