Getting Higher (12 page)

*****

Chapter Nineteen

 

After his encounter with Benny, Joe did exactly as he'd planned...he went to the police station in the South Side and told the cops about Benny. The officer on duty was groggy and disinterested, but he took down the information and promised that it would be used in the investigation. Joe provided the officer with Benny's name, his address, his regular hangouts, everything that he knew about the goon; also, he mentioned the man at Rocky's party and gave the officer as accurate a description of him as he could. The cop took it all down.

"We'll get right on it," yawned the cop, closing his notepad.

"Yeah," said Joe. "Let me know what happens."

Then, Joe left the station and started walking toward Bartlett.

By this time, it was close to midnight, but Joe wasn't tired. He wanted to get a head start on his trip; it normally took about ninety minutes to reach Bartlett by car, and since he didn't have a car, his journey would last a lot longer. He'd never walked the whole way to Bartlett before, but he figured that it would take him about three or four hours. He could have taken a bus to Bartlett the next day, but he didn't have any money for fare; midnight or not, Joe was determined to leave immediately, wanting only to get as far away from Brownstown as he possibly could.

Joe thought that he could save some time on the road by hitchhiking once he got out on the highway. There was a chance that somebody might pick him up, and at the very least, take him down the road a few miles. Joe had traveled that way before, with varying degrees of success. Once, he'd made it from Brownstown to Philadelphia in half a day, carried by one driver after another. Another time, he'd walked the whole way to Pittsburgh, however, without getting a single lift; that trek had taken him four days to complete. Anyway, it couldn't hurt to try, and he'd never had any problems with crazy drivers before. Joe figured that most drivers were more scared of him than he was of them; if someone had the courage to pick him up on the highway at night, Joe didn't think that they would cause him any trouble.

And so, he set off, walking through the South Side of Brownstown toward the highway. Though the night was colder and darker than before, it didn't bother him. He had a goal now, something that he wanted to accomplish, somewhere he wanted to go. For the first time in the past several weeks, Joe felt as if he had a purpose.

Walking at a quick pace, he reached the outskirts of the city in about fifteen minutes. As he hiked, Brownstown was quiet and still, with only a handful of cars creeping down the streets of his route. Everything was silent and cold, lit only by the dim white light of the streetlamps. Joe just walked along, passing the closed shops and empty doorways like a phantom in a ghost town.

When he reached the on-ramp leading to the highway, he stopped and looked back for an instant. He saw the streets and the streetlights, the stolid brick buildings and the deserted sidewalks, and he felt an extra chill frisk his body. He remembered the good times he'd had long ago, wild times and younger days. Despite all the misfortune that had befallen him there, it had been his home for nearly thirty years; that, at least, counted for something. Joe knew that he'd be back, probably in a couple of days; at that moment, however, he suddenly realized how important the town had been to him. He'd lived there for most of his life, and had never left Brownstown for any lengthy period of time. Strangely, he felt nostalgic, missed the old days.

Then, he thought about Crank, and the nostalgia fled like a burglar through a window. Sighing, he turned and strode up the on-ramp, abandoning his memories.

The highway was even darker and quieter than Brownstown had been. There were no cars traveling down it and there were no streetlights, either. The long, straight road was pitch-black, and Joe could hardly see where he was walking.

The road was Route 219, and by following it, Joe could make the trip to Bartlett in one straight shot. He wouldn't need to make any detours or go through any other towns; 219 would deliver him to Bartlett like a river, like a single pure stream sluicing uninterrupted through the wilderness.

Joe started down the highway, walking along the gravelly berm. To his left, he saw the four lanes of pavement, separated into pairs by a raised medial strip. On his right, there was nothing but forest. He heard crickets singing, and something like an owl hooting in the distance. Joe felt strange; he hadn't been near any wildlife, aside from that at the parties he'd gone to, for ages. When he'd been near the forest before, he'd always been too drunk or preoccupied to notice any difference from the city.

Now, though, he did notice, and it all seemed very weird. On the highway, at one or two in the morning, the crickets and birds weren't just background noise. Their calls filled the night, flooded the woods and highway as they never could during the day. The raucous sounds of horns and engines were absent, and an eerie chorus echoed through the world.

For a long time, he continued onward in the same way, walking at a moderate pace along Route 219 toward Bartlett. After a while, he completely lost track of time, just kept scuffing forward through the darkness without any idea of how long he'd been marching.

Finally, he heard a car, the approaching whisper of tires on pavement. Turning, he saw headlights far behind him, quickly growing closer and brighter.

As the car neared him, he faced it and stuck his thumb in the air to hitchhike. The driver must have had his high-beams on, because the headlights flared so brightly that Joe was soon forced to squint. He squinted so hard that his eyes were almost shut, and he couldn't make out the shape of the oncoming auto. Soon, the car was right in front of him, blinding him with its holy brilliant beams, seeming to gradually decelerate as it entered the hitchhiker's perimeter. While he kept one hand extended to signal for a ride, Joe put the other hand over his eyes, trying to shade them from the brightness.

Then, the car stopped, and its headlights suddenly dimmed. It took a second for Joe's eyes to recover from the ambient assault; then, he strolled over to the car's window to speak with the driver.

Now that the high-beams were lowered, Joe could see that the car was a white Volkswagen Beetle. Like all Beetles, it was small and cramped, with a curved, sloping hood and a body so round that it looked like a big white ball. The white paint job, though covered with grime, stood out against the dark backdrop of the night.

When Joe reached the car window, he found that it was still tightly shut. Peering into the Volkswagen, he saw that the driver was a woman. Though it was dark inside the car, Joe could still make out her features in the faint light from the dashboard instruments: she was young, maybe in her twenties or very early thirties; she had brown, curly hair; and she was attractive. She looked back at him for a moment, as if debating whether she should talk to him or not; then, she leaned across the seat and reached for the window crank.

Slowly, she began to lower the window. Joe watched anxiously, hoping that he could charm her into giving him a ride. Then, to his surprise, she stopped turning the handle; the window was barely open, only an inch or two from the upper frame. Obviously, she was still suspicious and determined not to take any chances quite yet.

"Look, buddy," she said, her voice pleasant but firm. "It's four in the morning and I've gotta' be nuts, but I'm thinking about giving you a ride. Where you headed?"

"Bartlett," Joe announced, smiling winningly, "but I could use a lift anywhere between here and there."

"Yeah," smirked the woman, "I'll just bet you could." She paused for a moment, apparently thinking things over. Her brows pinched together and she stared at Joe, thoughtfully sizing him up. "Look, I think I'm gonna' give you a chance," she said finally, "just because I feel kind'a sorry for you. I probably shouldn't trust you, but I'm gonna' play the good Samaritan for once. Promise me you won't pull anything, okay?"

Joe tried his best to look sincere. "Don't worry, I won't. I'm harmless, believe me. The thought never even crossed my mind." He smiled endearingly and shrugged innocently, trying to allay the woman's fears. "All I want's a lift. My legs are tired, I don't got no car, an' I got a long way to go if I gotta' keep walkin'."

"I believe you, sir," grinned the woman, "but my friend here isn't quite as trusting." She lifted her purse to the window so that Joe could see it. Then, slowly, she drew a small, black pistol from the bag, holding it loosely in her fingers. Joe gazed at the weapon and shook his head; his streak of bad luck still didn't seem to be improving. "You catch my drift, kemosabe?" she asked.

Soberly, he nodded.

The driver seemed to be satisfied. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other. I don't mind giving you a ride, but a girl can't be too careful these days...especially on the highway at four in the morning with a total stranger in her car. If you're on the up-and-up, then fine-- I'll take you the whole way to Bartlett. That's where I'm headed, too, as a matter of fact. If you try any funny business, then look out, my friend." She hesitated one final time, then pulled up the lock button on the door. "Okay, hitchhiker, you got yourself a ride. Get in."

Joe opened the door and got into the car. The woman revved the Volkswagen's engine, then put it in gear and hit the accelerator. Soon, the little car was shooting down the road, carrying its passengers to Bartlett.

Once they were moving, Joe sat back and yawned. As he watched the murky scenery speed by, he tried to make conversation with the woman.

"Where're you comin' from?" he asked, glancing over at his companion.

"Brownstown," she replied, her eyes on the road. "You?"

"Same place. I'm goin' to visit a friend for a while. He used to live in Brownstown, too, but he moved."

The woman didn't look at Joe when she spoke, but her voice sounded pleasant enough. "I don't live in Brownstown. Actually, I live in Oakhurst, about twenty miles out of Bartlett. I'm a marketing agent for a company there, and I spend a lot of time traveling around the area on business. I've gotta' be back at the office later this morning, so that's why I'm driving so late...or so early, depending on how you look at it."

"Huh," nodded Joe, watching a green roadsign flick past.

"So, what's your name, anyway?" she wondered.

"Joe," he supplied. "Joe Jones. What's yours?"

"Linda," answered Linda. "Pleased to meet you."

"Yeah, you too." Joe looked over at Linda; her face, lit slightly by the dim dashboard glow, was appealing. Now that he got a good look at her, though, he realized that her features seemed familiar. He stared, straining to remember where he'd seen her before.

Then, it hit him. In a great blazing gusher, he remembered everything, all at once. He had met her about two weeks ago, right after his eviction from Mrs. Rufus' apartment house. He'd been walking down the street in the rain, and a white Volkswagen had pulled up beside him; a young woman with curly brown hair had asked him for directions, but Joe had been angry about getting evicted and had told her off. She had driven away, he had kept walking...and now here they were, together again. Once more, Joe felt the clammy hand of coincidence, the fist of fate that had socked him into that car with a woman he'd once offended...a woman who had just displayed a pistol.

Joe started to feel sick.

Luckily, Linda still didn't seem to recognize him, or at least she wasn't letting on that she did. She kept watching the road unfold in front of her, hardly ever darting a sideways glance at Joe. He knew her but she didn't know him; if she had recognized him, it didn't seem to bother her one bit. Joe thought of the gun and hoped that the situation would stay that way.

"You wanna' hear some music?" asked Linda, reaching for the radio knob.

"Uh, sure," mumbled Joe, settling back in his seat and turning his face as far as he could toward the side window.

For a moment or two, she fiddled with the radio, trying to tune in a station. Interference faded in and out, then was replaced with music. It was a twangy country song, and Joe automatically shut it out.

Through the window, he could see the sky slowly growing brighter. Soon, it would be dawn, and he would be in Bartlett. Tiredly, he yawned, hoping that he would make it there alive.

*****

Chapter Twenty

 

When the white Volkswagen rolled across Bartlett's city limits, the sun was just starting to nose up over the horizon. It was almost six o'clock in the morning, and Joe had just awakened. Somewhere back in the darkness of Route 219, he had dozed off, lulled by the rhythmic drone of the car radio, and had been sound asleep ever since. Linda had roused him only five minutes ago, telling him that they had finally reached Bartlett.

Joe came around quickly, suddenly remembering the gun; his fear of the weapon surged again through the drowsiness, and he realized how important it was for him to get away from the woman as fast as he could. Apparently, she still didn't recognize him, maybe because the car had been so dark until now. Joe figured that once daylight leaped in, though, and Linda got a clear look at him, the jig would be up. He didn't know how she would react if she identified him, and he certainly didn't want a bullet in his back, so he did his best to avoid her gaze at all times, to turn his face toward the window and mumbled under his breath when he spoke.

"Well," chimed Linda, "we're here. Where do you want off?"

Gazing out the window, Joe watched the buildings and streets slide by. "Uhhh..." Suddenly, he realized that he had absolutely no idea where Rocky lived. All Joe knew was that the guy lived in Bartlett; Rocky had never told him his new address or given him a phone number.

"Didn't you say you were visiting someone? Where's his place?" Expectantly, she glanced at him, then returned her eyes to the view ahead.

"Well..." Joe thought fast. He wanted to get away from Linda and her gun as soon as possible, but he didn't know where to go. He'd been to Bartlett before, but he didn't know the city very well, and he couldn't think of any logical places to stop.

"Back there," he said finally, pointing out the side window at a spot they had just swept past. "Right back there. You just missed it."

Linda jammed the brake pedal down and the Volkswagen jerked to a halt. Joe was thrown forward and his head bumped the low roof of the car. "Why didn't you say so before?" barked Linda, looking irritated. She put the car in reverse and started backing down the street, which luckily didn't hold up much traffic at that hour of the morning.

"Hey, don't worry about it," piped Joe. "Just let me out here. I can walk."

"Are you sure?" queried Linda.

"Yeah, no problem." He tugged the door handle and began to get out of the Beetle. "Hey, thanks a lot for the ride. I really appreciate it, y'know?"

"You're welcome," she replied. "I needed some company, anyway. Thanks for not trying any monkey business. I've gotta' admit, I was worried when I first picked you up."

"Hey," smiled Joe, "I'm a nice guy. Do I look like I'd try and take advantage of a poor, helpless woman?"

Snidely, she stared at him, examining his long hair, his scraggly, black beard, his filthy clothes. "Yes," she nodded. "Frankly, you do."

"Oh, well," he chuckled. "Don't judge a book by its cover, right?" Opening the door wide, he stepped out of the VW. His legs were stiff from being cramped in the tiny car, and it felt good to stand up at last. "Thanks again," he said, looking down at Linda. "Maybe I'll see ya' around."

"Sure," answered Linda. " 'Bye." As Joe shut the door, she revved the little car's engine. Joe started walking away, but stopped when he heard her voice again. "Oh, one more thing," she called to him. "Can you tell me how to get to the Reynolds Building?"

Joe nearly jumped out of his shoes. His mouth swung open like a drawbridge and his eyes splayed wide as fried eggs. That was what she had said to him a couple weeks ago, the first time he'd met her! She knew who he was, after all! Recalling the pistol in her purse, he considered running away.

Instead of running, though, he stood in place and stammered. "Uh, well...uh...I really don't, uh, know. It...uh..."

Linda smiled victoriously, satisfied with her moment of revenge. "Bye, asshole!" she crowed, turning away and stepping on the gas pedal.

As the Volkswagen poured away down the street, Joe heard laughter, high and happy and blowing along behind the car like wind-tossed leaves. Behind his beard, he blushed.

After Linda had driven away and Joe had recovered from the shock of her revelation, he tried to think of a way to find Rocky. For several minutes, he stood there and looked around, trying to get his bearings and searching his mind for a clue. Then, it hit him: Rocky had said that he was working for Donaldson Trucking. He would probably be at work right now, in fact. All that Joe had to do was go to Donaldson's and locate his pal; he knew roughly where the trucking firm was situated, and Rocky would direct him from there to his apartment with no problem.

Joe started walking. He recognized the area, knew that he was somewhere downtown, near Main Street; he vaguely remembered how to get from there to the outskirts of town, where Donaldson Trucking was based.

As he hiked, the sun shifted higher in the sky and morning inevitably pushed through the town. The chill of the previous night quickly faded, and the streets began to warm like the coils in a toaster.

Gradually, Bartlett grew busy; more cars trundled over the pavement, more people appeared on the sidewalks. As the sun flowed higher overhead, the city seemed to wake and come to life. All around Joe, people hustled to work and traffic crawled into formation for another morning rush hour.

Joe yawned like a grizzly and stretched his arms in front of him. He spotted a big digital clock on a bank's marquee, the readout alternately flashing the time and temperature. It was 7:43 A.M.

By nine o'clock, Joe had reached Donaldson Trucking. Somehow, he managed to pick his way through the maze of streets in Bartlett, only having to ask for directions once. When he was near the city limits, he again got lucky, flagging down a passing driver who was headed toward Donaldson's. The guy looked like he was in his sixties, wore a fishing cap and drove an ancient blue Chevy; he dropped Joe off about a half-mile down the road from the place.

It only took Joe a few minutes to walk the rest of the way. The road that he was on was long, stretching past Donaldson's far into the countryside. Ahead of him, on one side, he saw the trucking company, a paper mill and a farm on either side of the sprawling compound. By looking across the road, in the other direction, he caught a glimpse of Bartlett; the road and buildings perched on a hill overlooking the city, and though the hill was cloaked by trees, he could occasionally glimpse Bartlett through gaps in the growth. Hager's Pike, as the route was called, forged a beeline straight into Bartlett and also out into the rural tracts around it. That was why Donaldson Trucking had chosen the region for its headquarters: it was a central point with easy access to Bartlett, the surrounding area, and most importantly, the interstate highway.

The trucking base was composed of clusters of long, squat buildings. The complex was made up of garages, warehouses, and loading docks, all built around a central structure which housed the firm's offices. Altogether, there were ten or fifteen buildings, interconnected by a network of paved corridors.

The entrance to Donaldson's was a short, wide ramp which opened onto Hager's Pike. As Joe approached it, a large tractor-trailer began trawling out, pulling away from the compound and heading for the artery of the Pike. The truck was a sixteen-wheeler, with a big red cab and a long trailer that had "International" stamped across it in giant black letters.

Growling, the tractor-trailer cruised down the short ramp to the exit; then, its smokestack puffing a gray cloud, it pulled onto Hager's Pike, turning its nose down the road toward Joe. As he walked along, the monstrous vehicle roared past him, lumbering over the pavement with its sixteen massive wheels. Joe watched as it churned past, rolling away toward the highway like a trackless locomotive.

Then, he hiked a little further and went up the same ramp from which the truck had just emerged. As he tramped onward, he noticed how badly the air smelled, how strongly the atmosphere stunk there. The aroma was a combination of urgent ingredients, a mixture of potent and staggering gases: there was the smell of decaying manure from the nearby farm; the pungent, fierce odor of the paper mill down the road; the reek of oil and gasoline and diesel from the trucking compound. As he marched, Joe held his breath when he could, blocking out the fumes for a few seconds at a time; when he did this, though, he always ended up inhaling again, and this made the stink seem worse than ever.

Joe walked up the entry-ramp and found himself within the complex of buildings. Three structures spread around him: a long, low building with five open loading docks, and people and trucks bunched around three of them; a cement-block cube with a high, gaping maw, a unit which he guessed was a garage or maintenance center; and a small block building with a sloping metal roof and a single gray door that had "Office" printed across it.

Joe ambled up to the door and knocked twice, hoping that someone inside would hear him over all the racket from the loading docks.

Almost immediately, the metal latch on the door turned and the portal squeaked open before him. Joe found himself face-to-face with a short, hairy man; his paunch protruded hugely like the belly of a cast-iron stove and his once-white coveralls were caked with greasy splotches. When he spoke, a fat, stubby cigar squirmed around in his scowling lips, chugging smoke like the stack of a tractor-trailer.

"Yeah?" grunted the guy, planting hands on his hips. "Whatta' you want?"

"Uh, I'm lookin' for a friend a' mine," said Joe.

"So?" smoked the troll. "Try the phone book."

"He works here, and I really gotta' talk to him for a minute. His name's Rocky Petrusac."

"He's busy," puffed the grimy, burly guy. "He don't got time for no visitors today. Visitin' hours don't start till five o'clock."

"I really gotta' see him, man," Joe pleaded. "It'll just take a minute, but it's really important, okay?"

"You must be confusin' me with somebody who gives a shit," he grumbled. "I toldja', Rocky's busy, so hit the road."

"Aw, c'mon," Joe continued. "It's an emergency, I swear."

"What emergency?" asked the gnome suspiciously.

"His mother," lied Joe, newly inspired. "She fell down some steps today, and they hadda' take her to the hospital. She ain't doin' so good, y'know?"

"Huh," the lumpy guy considered. "That's too bad. I'll let 'im know when he's done with his shift." Brusquely, he turned and started to shut the door.

Joe flung an arm out and caught it, though, surprising the grouchy tyrant with sudden action. Slowly, the troll cranked his face around to glare, and Joe could see his temper sizzling like bacon. He started to talk fast, trying to reason with the guy before he exploded.

"Wait, man, please. It's really an emergency, I'm tellin' ya'. The doctors don't know if she's gonna' pull through! She broke a couple ribs, and one of 'em went right through her heart!"

"Bullshit," cooked the guy, beet-red and ready to blow. "I never heard a' no
rib
going through nobody's heart."

"But that's what happened!" whirled Joe, sounding desperate. "I swear to God, man! This ain't somethin' I'd
joke
about, y'know? One of her ribs snapped and jabbed right through when she fell!"

"You're full of it," copped the bully, sneering. "Go away before I have your ass
hauled
outta' here."

"Please!" wailed Joe, wincing pitifully. "Please, I'm not kiddin'! Rocky's mother might die, and I've gotta' at least let 'im know!"

At this, the troll seemed to cool slightly. "You got
balls
for waltzin' in here like this. You gimme' this lame-brained
story
and expect me to let you see one a' my people while he's still on the
clock
. I ain't
payin
' him to piss around with his
buddies!
"

"
Please
!" pressed Joe, acting frantic, hamming it up. "Lemme' talk to 'im for a
minute
and I'll leave! How would you feel if it was
your
mother, huh?"

"You got such a big damn emergency, then why didn't you just call? We got phones all over the place here."

"I wanted to tell him in person," Joe explained. "This is serious shit, y'know? I gotta' make sure he don't go nuts."

Chewing on his stogie, the guy fell silent, his eyes still fixed on Joe but with less rage than before. Gnawing, he considered, mulled it over, softened further, then surrendered. "Wait here," he muttered finally, turning and stalking back into the office.

Joe remained in the doorway, watching the gruff, stocky creature hunch around the interior of the office. A huge tractor-trailer thundered over the pavement behind him, whipping up a breeze in its wake.

At last, the grumpy troll returned to the door, gripping a crumpled sheet of paper in his ripe, stumpy paw. "Uh, accordin' to the manifest, Rocky's in building six. Go straight down this road here, make a right, and you're there."

"Got it," nodded Joe, glad that his ruse had been effective. "Thanks, man."

"Yeah, yeah," rumpled the guy, twisting his cigar between jaundice-yellow teeth. "Just make it quick, okay? Rocky's got work to do. I want you outta' here in fifteen minutes." Turning with a wobble like a punching bag, the sloth grunted once and slammed the door shut.

Joe easily found the building and tromped through its open whale maw. Two large truck cabs were parked inside and Joe could see a mechanic crossing the floor between them. The mechanic wasn't Rocky, and neither was another guy tinkering at a bench along one wall. Bleary eyes scanning the cavernous garage as he walked, Joe slowly infiltrated the place, looking for his pal.

As he curiously strolled forward, Joe felt a hand suddenly touch his shoulder and he jumped. Worried that the troll had changed his mind and come to expel him, Joe swept his head around to see who had made contact.

"Hey, Joey!" crooned Rocky, a wild grin lighting his face. "Whatcha' doin' here, pal?"

Relieved, Joe laughed and relaxed. "Oh, wow!" he said. "I found ya', man! All right!"

Rocky laughed, too, slapping Joe on the arm. "Hey hey, man, I told you you could come visit me! So, what's the deal? Where the hell's old Cranky?"

Joe stopped laughing and his mood immediately sank. "Uh, he's dead. Didn't you hear about it?"

Rocky froze. His face fell like a landslide, a wave, slumped heavily into open-mouthed shock. He stared unbelievingly at Joe, the sad messenger. "Holy shit...," he mumbled. "Are you serious?"