Pulp! 2

Chapter 2

It only took a few seconds for the entire train to speed past, but it felt like several days and nights. When it was gone, and all that could be seen of it was the final car as the train began to snake its way along the winding riverbank, I lifted myself up onto my knees and felt my entire body tremble.

“Baker,” Edge says, after a time. “You okay, buddy?”

Slowly, I turn and face him. He’s sucking on a cigarette, blue smoke oozing out his nostrils. He steps over the tracks, stands over me, his beer gut practically slapping me upside the head.

“Told you this would beat the crap out of SuspenseFest,” he says, as if we’ve been shopping at Trader Joe’s all morning instead of duct-taped to active train tracks.

Turning ever so slowly, I glance at my left hand. It’s still there. The force of the locomotive’s forward motion must have simply blown me away from the tracks, my wrist tearing away from the tape.

I wrap my fingers around my wrist. It’s sore, but nothing broken or sprained even. Edge smiles, slaps my back. So hard I nearly lose my balance. He also hands me my wallet and cash.

“I knew everything would be hunky dory,” he says. “You gotta have more faith in your elders, Baker.”

“You’re a good writer,” I say, stuffing the wallet and cash into my jeans pockets. “Maybe even a great writer, Edge. But you’re an asshole too.”

“You should go out to lunch with my ex-wives. You can all have a Leslie Edgerton-is-an-asshole fest over the all-you-can-eat shrimp buffet. Everybody else does.” He chuckles. “Oh, and be sure to tell them the checks are in the mail.”

“I just might do that.” I start walking towards the small patch of woods that separates the road from the tracks.

“Let’s grab a drink,” Edge says, following close behind. “I’m thirsty after all that excitement.”

I look at my watch.

“It’s 7:15 in the morning,” I say.

“Yeah, but you of all people should know it’s probably 7:15 p.m. in India. My thirst knows no bounds. Let’s find a bar that’s open and then see about finding that Dutch Schultz treasure.”

He’s right, I whisper to myself, as I enter the woods. Maybe a stiff drink is in order right about now.

He’s rightNaturally, the Russians are gone and along with them, our only mode of transport. Which leaves us no choice but to hitchhike. Something I haven’t done since high school. Edge is all smiles, waving his arm in the air, his thumb fully erect . . . his words, not mine. When a car finally stops, it’s a red convertible with two college-age girls inside it, the driver a brunette and the girl riding shotgun, a blonde.

fully erectWe couldn’t have scripted this any better, and by the glow on his face, Edge couldn’t be happier.

“Why, thank you ladies,” he says, jumping into the backseat with all the enthusiasm and youth of a man thirty years younger. “This is your lucky day.”

“And why is that?” asks the blonde. She’s wearing a low-cut tank with a black lacy b*a under it.

“I’m a famous author,” Edge says. “Perhaps you’ve read some of my books.”

“Anything I might know?” Brunette asks from behind the wheel. She’s also wearing a low-cut blouse, a pink lacy b*a, and aviator sunglasses. Chase the detail man.

Edge rattles off a half-dozen titles, including The b***h, The r****t, and Dead w****s Don’t Talk. Nice, pleasant titles only a mother could love.

The BitchThe RapistDead w****s Don’t TalkBoth girls eye one another and shake their heads. For a second, I get the feeling they might tell us to get out and hit the road.

Edge’s smile turns upside down.

“I’m a writer too,” I add, climbing aboard, plopping myself beside the big man.

“What books have you written?” Blondie asks.

Edge gives me a glare, like he wants to be the only writer in the car.

“The Shroud Key,” I say, tossing Edge a wink of my left eye.

“Oh my God,” Brunette says in a sing-song voice. “I freakin’ loved that book. The search for Jesus’ mortal remains in Egypt.” She turns, gazes into the backseat. “Are you the real Chase Baker?”

“In the flesh,” I smile.

Both girls scream, even though I’m pretty convinced the blonde has no idea who or what I am. Oh well, despite her n***d enthusiasm, she doesn’t seem like the literary type.

“You’re right, Mr. Baker,” Brunette says into the rearview mirror, as she pulls out onto the road. “This is my lucky day.”

isEdge shoots me a smirk. “You suck,” he says under his breath.

“Hey,” I say, “maybe you shouldn’t have tossed me that lighter back at the train tracks after all.”