Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

lawyer once. Does that count?”
    She laughed, determined to keep it light. “What I meant was … what are your hobbies?”
    He didn’t seem to hear her. “The person I really envy is Michael.”
    “Why?”
    He shrugged. “He loves his job. He’s outdoors a lot, not shuffling paper. He makes stuff grow.” Another shrug. “Seems like a good life.”
    “You have a good life,” she said.
    “Do I?” he asked.

The Way ward RV
    B RANDISHING A HUGE SERRATED HUNTING KNIFE, THE gray-haired woman had returned. She knelt by Booter’s inert body and began sawing at the ropes around his wrists. “Dvorak did a job on this,” she said, breathing heavily.
    “Yes,” was all he could manage.
    He rubbed his wrists and swung his arms while she went to work on his legs. “I brought my Winnebago around,” she said, “but we gotta haul ass. It ain’t s’posed to be here.”
    When she’d pulled free the last bit of rope, he tried to stand up. His knees were exceptionally weak, but they did the job. He sucked in air and stretched his arms. The next signal he received was from his bladder.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “Would you mind … I haven’t been able …”
    “Go over there,” she said, getting the message. “I won’t look. You think I wanna see that ol’ thing?”
    When he was done, she led the way through a thicket to a narrow dirt road where a green RV was parked. He climbed into the front seat, sinking gratefully into the embrace of its cracked green vinyl.
    “Get in back,” said the woman.
    “What?”
    “We’re gonna pass the gate. Get in back and keep your head down.”
    He did as he was told.
    “If there’s trouble,” she added, “I can handle it. I’m packin’ heat.”
    She pointed to an unmade bunk and laughed. There, amidst the zebra-patterned sheets, lay a gleaming steel crossbow.
    “Hold on,” he said.
    “Joke,” she said, starting the engine. She gazed at him over her shoulder and winked. “You’re gullible, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
    “Uh … Roger.”
    “Mine’s Mable,” she said, handing him a pint of Jack Daniel’s. “Be my guest, Roger.”
    He accepted without protest. The whiskey stung his throat like iodine, then seeped into his aching limbs, warming them. He wiped off the bottle on the sleeve of his Viyella shirt and handed it back to her.
    “Take another,” she said.
    “No, thank you.”
    “Go on. If Dvorak didn’t kill you, a little Jack Daniel’s sure as hell won’t.”
    It reassured him to learn that his captor had such a reputation for heinousness. His subjugation had been the work of a mastermind, at least, not just some random woman. He returned the bottle to his cracked lips and took another swig.
    “Who is she?” he asked, handing back the bottle.
    “Security chief,” she said. “They’re all alike.”
    His knowledge of female security chiefs was woefully deficient.
    “I believe in law and order,” she added. “I voted for Reagan. But Dvorak is something else.” She swatted the air in his direction, her eyes still fixed on the road.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Get down!” she ordered darkly. “The gate.”
    He flattened out on the shag-carpeted floor. There were cigaret butts amidst the shag. Dust balls the size of gophers. A Debbie Reynolds album. His heart beat wildly.
    Someone outside the RV said: “You checking out?”
    Mabel said: “Nah. Takin’ her for a spin.”
    “It’s a little late, isn’t it?”
    “Listen, girlie,” said Mabel. “Don’t mess with me.”
    Somewhat more meekly, the guard said: “Well, it’s not like it’s a car.”
    “You through?” asked Mabel.
    “Go ahead,” said the guard.
    The RV lurched when Mabel hit the gas. “Stupid spic,” she muttered.
    Booter pressed against the yarny carpet to keep his equilibrium. They had reached asphalt and were barreling along at a disarming speed.
    “C’mon up,” called Mabel. “It’s over.”
    Grabbing the side of the bunk, he hoisted himself to a sitting position. “You’re going awfully fast,” he said.
    “Nah,” she said. “Jus’ seems that way from back there.”
    He rose on uncertain legs and hunched his way to the front, collapsing into the seat. The scrubby moonlit landscape flew past them like a painting on a freight train. It was freedom, he supposed, but a shaky one at best.
    “Where to?” asked Mabel.
    How, he wondered suddenly, would he explain this vehicle to the gatekeeper at the Grove? “Uh … Monte Rio,” he