Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Rusty repeated.

“And what is it you’re doing down here?”

“Uh, picking up,” he nearly said Cary, but decided on distancing the man from the task—forgetting he was in Cary’s truck—and totally screwing it up anyway, “Linda Siegenthaler.”

“Who is Linda Siegenthaler and why does she need you to pick her up?”

“She’s, uh, Cary’s girlfriend, but she’s married and, like, you know. I’m picking her up for Cary. They have a fling, or whatever.”

“Where?”

“Not far, I been there twice. Don’t know the street numbers or nothing.” Rusty gave a look back over his shoulder, turning further this time, as a lifted Dodge pickup blew by them, shaking the truck and forcing the cop to put a hand on her hat. Rusty turned his face a bit, leaned a hair farther forward, letting the orange glow of the streetlight cross his face.

The cop tilted her head once everything was settled and pursed her lips for a moment. Appreciating the situation more fully. She then turned her face as well, but slowly, and just far enough to reveal the long scar running from her neck to her ear.

“Sounds like a bunch of drama I don’t care about. Go back and pick up a few pieces of garbage from the ditch and I can forget it.”

She handed the papers and card back to Rusty. He swallowed a chunky ball of relief and said, “Sure. Thanks.”

“That a burn?” she asked.

“Yeah. My house burned down when I was a toddler.”

“Terrible.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, grab some garbage. I’ll stay here and watch until you get back.”

“Right. Okay,” Rusty said and opened the door as the cop stepped a couple feet in reverse. He started jogging then glanced over a shoulder. The cop had a flashlight out, searching the box. He wasn’t sure how bad that might be, what might be left in there to find, but he picked up speed anyway.

He rounded the cop cruiser and worked in the shine offered by the brother light to the big highway lamppost that had fortuitously revealed his scar. He grabbed an empty bread bag, a Mac’s Froster cup, and hunk of retread from a transport tire. He ran back to the truck, seeing the interior light on and the cop leaning over the bench seat through the driver’s door.

“Hey!” he said once he got close, his hands full.

The cop straightened and swung the door closed like he’d caught her doing something that was a little by the book adjacent, but not quite right. She shined her flashlight on the junk Rusty had grabbed, then trailed to his face. She drew closer.

“Looks like you were in a fight?” She made it a question, as if she’d said explain your face.

“Uh, the deer got me, too. At first I thought it was dead. But it was, uh, like, stunned. I was trying to get it out of the bed of the truck…it was just a little one, but crazy. You know what I mean? Like injured but still plenty alive.”

“No.”

“Okay. But like, it kicked and head-butted, it was real crazy. I was lucky it was so small and didn’t have any antlers.”

They stood in silence for about thirty seconds before she said, “Go on and pick up Glenda.”

“Linda.”

“Of course.” She walked by him and he didn’t bother watching her.

Rusty took the exit to a stop sign and hooked a left once the road cleared. He began beeping the walkie-talkie in ten second intervals. He drove a full block and then a second, he heard nothing, and as he was turning right to head back in the direction he’d come, the little speaker crackled. He laid off the brakes and rolled until the crackle grew louder. At an intersection, mixed industrial and residential buildings in need of paint or in some cases bulldozing, he took a right. Cary’s voice was in the crackle, but not clear enough to understand.

He rolled another quarter mile and Cary’s voice came in through the static. “…ulled over? You okay? Rusty, talk to me. Rusty?”

“Here. I’m here. It’s okay. Got lucky,” he said, leaving out how stupid he was under pressure. He then checked his mirror, terrified the cop had followed him. A heavy sedan pulled through the intersection behind him and he gasped.

“Where are you?” Cary said.

The car rolled up a light. It was a Taurus, but a maroon one with as much rust as paint. Rusty exhaled a deeply held breath as he pulled to another stop sign and read the corners, and then said, “I think I see you. You parked at a great big warehouse? Looks like maybe it’s yellow?”

“Probably me. Think it’s the yard light making it look yellow. Probably grey. See me now?”

Rusty puffed out his lips, motor-boating them in relief as he saw the headlights of the parked transport truck flash. “Yeah, see you now.”

 22

Six men thumped up and down the steel ramp from the parking lot into the back of the truck. Big guys pushing dolly carts, they wore Fast Charlie’s uniforms, back braces, and new boots—yellow on black. Jim had once ranted to Rusty how Dwayne should’ve provided boots, coveralls, and gloves, and Rusty could only smirk at the idea, but here it was. A professional crew being treated professionally.

Cary and Charles Ranger stood under the parking lot light to the right of the ramp. Charles, Fast Charlie, held a clipboard and ticked away at listed items, only stopping the employees when they carted the small boxes of electronics. The speed and efficiency of the men shined a light on just how bad the Logic crew really were; beyond the matching gear. What could’ve taken an hour, took nine minutes and change.

Watching them made him think about the ant farm one of the kids at the foster home had kept