| Writing Samples - Novels "Temptation Key" Chapter Twenty One - Broward County |
21. Broward County Since the radio always seemed to know what was happening "Summer in the City" blasted from the radio of the new red Olds as the boys sailed along N.E. 6th Avenue. Robbie watched the street signs, but with no reference point and no knowledge of how the city was laid out, none of it meant anything; just meaningless numbers over alien streets under an unlit sky which was becoming increasingly clouded over as they made their way into an early front, the moon now little more than a dim glow, behind. At 119th Street, Nick made a jog over to Miami Avenue and ran up to 135th Street, then turned and went toward I-95 where they would take the Expressway as far as the Cloverleaf, then drop down onto 441 and on into Broward County within a few miles—all the opposite direction of Liberty City. Kelly had made that command decision as they left Rollie's house. Broward was more rural, more desolate— better to dump someone and get away; and he was more than a little afraid of getting caught and beaten up himself in Liberty City where the ratio would be more like a hundred to six on any given block. Rich white boys riding through that part of town on a Saturday night in a brand new red Oldsmobile convertible would be a target for something, and highly visible to the police as well. Better to go the cowfield route. While Nick drove, Kelly turned back to Robbie and asked if Dan was going to be ready to fight when the time came, as if that was what he wanted. Robbie assured him that Dan would be and contemplated the best time to wake him. To make further breezy conversation, Kelly said they'd be looking for migrant workers. "Dumb migrants are so stupid they go out walking alone at night up here, sometimes. You can throw bottles at 'em or anything, the dumb- asses." Robbie was not impressed. "You guys do this a lot?" Kelly nodded. "Yeah, or roll queers down in Bayfront." That was big at his high school. "We got two-hundred bucks doin' that, one night. Stole their butt-money, then kicked the shit out of 'em. Great night." Nick and Jimbo nodded with enthusiasm at the sheer good fun of it all. Robbie shook his head in disgust and quietly told Buddy to take his shoes off, "In case we have to run." (Most people would have put them on; but a Conch took them off.) Buddy's heart rate started rising again. As Buddy clandestinely slipped off his shoes, Robbie gave him a reassuring fatherly squeeze on the knee and watched for signs of anything informative; but he didn't recognize the high radio towers in the cowfields or the occasional closed business, cheap used car lots and plywood produce stands. The empty dark fields. Robbie had no idea where they were, but when he saw the "Leaving Dade County, Entering Broward County" sign, he knew they headed north, away from the Keys, and the Shores boys were up to something. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. At one-thirty on a Sunday morning, anyone with any sense was home in bed. Shoes off, Robbie leaned across Buddy to try and bring Dan back to the world of the living. "Dan, wake up!" he enjoined. Kelly looked back. Robbie said, "He'll wake up. Don't worry." Kelly turned back forward, smiling. He didn't care one way or the other. He'd be happy as a clam to dump Dan's body on the side of the road in the middle of Niggertown and laugh all the way back home. He looked at Nick and Jimbo with a smirk that said all that and more. They returned it. This was going to be a night to remember. If they only knew. Robbie shook Dan some more. Hard. Dan stirred, grumbling, "What the... goddammit! Getcher fuckin' hands off..." and rolled away, fast asleep—probably never even woke up. Robbie leaned closer and spoke directly into Dan's ear. "Dan, it's me, Robbie. We're not gonna fight. We're gonna hitch home. Wake up." And he shook him some more. Dan bucked and shoved him away, mumbling, "Go home, yourself, ya fuckin' pansy-ass. I fight every colored sumbitch they got... big pussy... Shoulda brung Brian... ain't afraid... little rumble." And he laughed and passed out again. That sealed his fate with Robbie who was thinking he should have brought Brian and how Brian was never going to let any of them live this night down—if they lived through it. Still, Robbie had to marvel at Dan's tremendous gall, and sat still, wisely waiting for Kelly to check on them again, smirk and turn back forward. Then Robbie leaned against Buddy and said low, "At the next stoplight, get out and haul ass. Okay?" Buddy looked ahead. The traffic lights were about a mile apart up here, with no one else ever at them. He asked about Dan. "Forget him. Just follow me," was all Robbie said. Dan had his chance; he was on his own, now. Buddy nodded, looking a little pale—except for his nose. Suddenly, Kelly blurted out, unexpectedly, "Pull over, pull over! There's one! Get ready, get ready!" He was really pumped, ready to do serious harm to the hapless migrant who made the mistake of walking home alone in what he thought was a relatively safe ag' area. Mind racing, Robbie sat up as Nick guided the Olds across the gravel apron onto the grass shoulder several hundred feet back from the migrant worker. They needed a moment to work out a plan of attack. The black man looked back, apprehension rising in his stomach like bad fried food. He too sensed that someone in that big red car was up to no good. "All right," Kelly said to no one and everyone. "Get ready to prove to this jungle bunny what it's all about to be free, white and twenty-one." Buddy couldn't resist. "You're not twenty-one." Kelly snorted, "Well, I don't think he'll card me, pissant." The car was still rolling. Kelly shouted, "Stop, Nickie, dammit!" Nick stomped on the brakes and slid on the grass to a halt. That instant, Robbie said, "Buddy, now!" and hopped from the Olds, Buddy right behind. They sprinted the two lanes on their side, the tall-grass median and the far two paved lanes in three seconds flat. Befuddled, Kelly stood in the front seat. "Hey!" was all that came to mind; then, "Shit!" He looked at them, then at the migrant worker who was looking back at the loud voices and strange activity behind the quad bright lights with growing concern. Frustration knotting up his one-track mind, Kelly shouted at the fleeing boys, "If you scare my nigger off, I'll kill ya!" The boys didn't look back, didn't break stride as they reached the opposite shoulder and Robbie ordered, "Stay outa the grass, they're might be glass," and they stuck to the pavement, headed south. Kelly's few active circuits were unquestionably overloaded. He looked at the black man up ahead in the headlights, still, watching them, then at Robbie and Buddy who were getting away! What to do? It came to him: Order the others around! "Get 'em!" he shouted. But the others were equally confused. "Who?!" "The hicks!" Kelly yelled. "What about the nigger?!" Nick yelled right back. Kelly didn't know. Too many things were going wrong at the same time. He clearly did not possess poise under pressure, much less grace; his leadership skills had run off with his Big Plan. "Shit!" he hollered again and pounded the windshield frame. Then he remembered: They still had one hick! The one who had been insulting him all day; the one who had beaten him at pool and cost him his fraternity (and therefore his one chance at legitimizing himself and maybe becoming more than a used car salesman); the one who really represented all the others and all that Kelly hated about them—which was all that he hated about himself (their poverty, their lack of "sophistication," their lack of opportunity; their second-string relegation, second-hand wardrobe and third-rate lifestyle; their zero lot in life; their basic inconsequentiality). The one most like him. "Danny Boy," Kelly said low, a feral smile twisting up his lips as his pterodactyl brain sparked back to life. Suddenly, he leapt over the seatback and started shaking Dan violently. "Wake up! Nigger on deck!" Then he turned to the other guys, pointing out, "Nig's gotta see at least one of 'em," and he shook Dan some more, shouting, "Wake up, asshole, it's time to rumble!" The R-word did it. Dan popped up, ready to inflict bodily harm on anybody within reach. "Where're they?!" he slurred and blurted as he stood up too fast, took a step and flipped out onto the shoulder, much as he had done at the house, only in reverse. "I'm okay," he said, propping himself against the fender and trying to focus, looking for the hoards of worthy adversaries. "Kell", Jimbo said, and nodded down the dark road. About a hundred yards to the south, Robbie and Buddy were wading through the shallow drainage ditch below the shoulder. Only a barbed wire fence separated them from a cowfield that stretched out a good half-a mile or better, on the far side of which were some buildings and a lighted silo that said MacArthur's Dairy. Kelly quietly said, "We'll get them in a minute. " He hopped out of the car next to Dan who was having a hard time locating the attacking throng. Pulling his knife and clicking it open, Dan asked where the fuck they were and shouted, "Come on you black bastards!" into the night. "Shut up, asshole! You'll scare 'im off!" Kelly said with angry incredulity. These hicks were something else! As Kelly checked to make sure their target victim was still there, Dan followed his gaze and spotted the migrant, then searched in other directions, saw no one else and, bewildered, brought his eyes back to rest on the sole black man. "Him?" "Yeah! Him!" Kelly said and pointed down the road to the solitary farm-worker who was now slowly and discreetly backing up. Dan squinted. "That guy?" "You're not afraid, are ya?" Kelly laughed derisively. Dan let his knife drop to his side and swayed. "There's..." he appraised the situation and odds quickly for being so ripped "... four of us and one'a him." "Right," Kelly said. "But we have bats." Nick nodded, reached under the seat and removed a short bat. Dan looked at these... amateurs with full revulsion. "Shit," he said, clearly let down. "What kinda fight is that?" Dan was a record-holder! He answered his own question. "That's bullshit." His tone was so dismissive as to leave Kelly with no retort. So, Kelly reached into the car to help Jimbo dig for the other bat. Dan looked around. "Where'd Robbie and the little turd go?" Not that he really cared. "They turned chickenshit and ran off," Kelly said from under the seat. Nick threw in with, "Yeah. They were afraid'a one spook," and laughed as derisively as Kelly had. Dan said sarcastically, "Well, maybe they didn't know you had bats." Nick didn't get it. "Yeah. Maybe not." As drunk as he still was, Dan knew this was a pathetic heap of sorry-assed steaming horseshit they'd gotten him into. Hell, it was embarrassing! So, while the Shores boys were totally ensconced in trying to find the other weapons, he stumbled toward the front of the car and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Hey you, Nigger! Go get ten'a yer friends, come back and make this a fair fight!" The black man stopped backing up and stood still. Kelly stood up, bat in hand, not believing what he was hearing as Dan yelled, "That's right. Go on! Git! Bring back some fuckin' firepower, dammit! Shit!" Dan shook his woozy head and muttered something about a real fight. Kelly screamed, "You dumb shit!" stepped over the windshield, onto the hood, and whacked Dan across the upper back with the bat, full force, knocking him to the ground. On seeing that, the migrant took off running for the concrete slat-fence twenty feet off to his right. Nick shrieked, "Kelly, get off the fuckin' hood! You got shoes on!" His father would yank his entire college allowance if there was as much as a scratch on new wife's new Olds. "Shut up," Kelly snapped viciously, uncaring, as he hopped off the hood to stand over Dad who had fallen to his knees, swimming, then onto his face on the ground, and was now rolling around silently in what appeared to be a stupefied haze. He was either drunk or dying. As Kelly's cohorts came around the front of the car and looked down, Jimbo's eyes went wide at the prospect of a kill, a real one, while Nick stopped worrying about the hood long enough to warn: "Nigger's gettin' away!" Kelly turned just in time to see the man flip over the wall and disappear. "Goddammit! Fuck!" "He's gonna bring help," Nick worried, instantly. "Probably his whole family, man, and his pickaninny cousins and everything. He probably has a hundred of 'em all living in one house over that damn wall! Shit!" Nick's panic spread like wildfire through Jimbo's confidence, burning it to a crisp in seconds. "What do we do, man?! We better get outa here! Now!" he said, hoping Nick wasn't right, but fearing he was. Kelly doubted that the guy really lived over that particular fence with a hundred others and wasn't ready to abandon the mission. "No! We gotta beat the shit outa this white trash, then go get the others... then, we'll leave 'em all here in a pile for the spooks. They'll do the rest for us. They're good for that." Kelly was a cocksure sadistic racist, if he was anything. Nick wasn't so sure. He had a better-refined sixth sense for survival, one that was telling him: "We should just get the hell outa here, Kell." He didn't bother to cover the concern in his voice, the fear. Kelly shouted, "Shut up! This fuck humiliated me! He beat me at pool in front of my friends, took my money, got me kicked out of Phi Beta, knocked me out and laughed at me!" Quite a list of accomplishments for a Keys hick. Kelly was orangy-red with rage, looking like a giant animated pomegranate. There was no way he was leaving Dan alive or able to defend himself. Nick corrected that it was Rollie's money and Jimbo pointed out that Kelly was the one who invited the Keys kids, and Kelly told them both to shut up again and kicked Dan in the ribs. Dan rolled over in increased pain, but never once made a sound. So, Kelly kicked at him again, of course. Suddenly, Dan rolled over, grabbed Kelly's foot and shoved up, flipping Kelly back into the car, then down onto the ground. Far from dead or even injured, Dan stood, looking stone sober suddenly, though he was far from that as well. "Come on!" he said, flashing the switchblade. "Make me stick you, you fuckin' rich piece'a Miami dogshit!" He knew he was much more than they had bargained for and was loving this, waving the knife around for effect. He knew you didn't do that in a real knife fight, but it scared hell out of the puds. Kelly yelled for the others to "Get the knife, get the knife!" But the knife got Jimbo first. When he reached for Dan, Dan slashed, catching the dim twin on his upper arm and leaving a shallow red slice about two inches long. Jimbo reeled back more in shock than pain. He'd never seen a knife actually employed in a fight, much less been on the receiving end of it. It scared the shit out of him. Dan continued his lunge with a swipe at Nick who danced safely out of the way. Accustomed to avoiding charging defensive linemen, he was nimble and quickly removed himself from the strike zone, forcing Dan to lean forward at an awkward angle to stab at him, again. In that moment, Kelly swung the bat with all his might into Dan's gut, doubling him over so violently that his body, including his hands, went reflexively limp. The knife went flying. Not a second passed before Nick and Kelly were cudgeling Dan mercilessly while Jimbo unleashed a barrage of hard-shoed place-kicks. Dan tried to protect his head and face, his groin, and succeeding for the first few seconds; but the sheer number and ferocity of blows quickly overpowered any defense he could muster. Then, one of Jimbo's stomping heel shots to Dan's head knocked him out altogether. He was unconscious and theirs for the beating. They didn't let up for a full minute. Finally, Kelly stood over their victim victoriously, bloodlust spiking his adrenaline levels off the scale and growled, "Now who's the asshole, asshole?!" and gave him one last whack across the kidneys for good luck. Dan didn't respond, didn't move. He didn't seem to be breathing. Blood poured from every part of him. He had gaping gashes over both eyes. One ear leaked blood; the other lobe hung loose. Two teeth were gone. His lip was split in five different places. His cheek was burst open almost to the bone. His hair was soaked red in four places. The flesh on his arms and hands were torn in numerous places and blood oozed steadily. He hadn’t been this badly beaten by the bikers, that night at Ducky’s. And he was still. So still. Nick's eyes were wide with adrenaline—then with growing misgiving and paranoia. "Did we... kill him?" In all their attacks, they had never struck with such unbridled rage, never even come close. In most cases (despite their retelling of the events) a few un-telegraphed punches were thrown and they were on their way, running and whooping like the socially retarded adolescent miscreants they were. This was different; Dan looked to be dead. Very different. "Who fucking cares?" Kelly said with venomous satisfaction. "Roll him down the bank so no one sees him until the niggers get back." He and Jimbo put a foot to Dan's torso and shoved; his body flipped over three times down the short bank for the ditch water, stopping in a twisted heap at the bottom. He didn’t moved or make a sound. As Nick and Jimbo’s apprehension over what they’d done continued to increase, Kelly looked across the highway and thought he saw Robbie's and Buddy's shadowy forms against the distant lights of the dairy. "We gotta hurry," he said and started for the car. Nick was getting panicky. "Let's just go!! Forget them!" Kelly spun on him with unexpected ferocity. "No, goddammit!" he shouted. "You big, fucking, worthless skank pussy! Be a man for once in your sorry, fuckin' pussy-assed life!! They wronged us, man, and we're gonna get 'em for it!! Now, shut up about it or I'm gonna beat your ass to death and leave you in that ditch, too!" He spun, searched the ground with eyes hungry for further killing. And spotted the switchblade. Swooping it up, Kelly then leapt into the Olds and spun the key. Accustomed to Kelly's tirades, if not appreciative of them, Nick and Jimbo did little more than share angry looks then jump in as Kelly squealed a u-turn across the median, sped down to about where Robbie and Buddy had crossed the fence, slid to a stop on the grassy shoulder and shut it down. He then ran across the front seat, hopped the door and headed for the ditch. Jimbo followed. Worried that someone might come and steal his father's wife's car while he was off doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing, Nick snatched the keys out of the ignition, then caught up as Kelly sat down hard, just above the standing water of the runoff ditch, and tore off his worn Weejuns and socks. Jimbo tugged his off, standing, and the two of them slogged through the water quickly, but delicately, as they were unused to barefooting it in the wild. As they approached the fence, Kelly yelled back at Nick to hurry. Not big on barefooting anywhere at any time, Nick sloshed through the bog with his new cordovan loafers on, but on the other side realized wet shoes and soggy Goldcups weren't going to make for an easy chase-down—his shoes were already pulling off from the wet and the weight—so he yanked them off and tossed them back across the moat by the others'. By now, Kelly was over the fence. Jimbo got hung up on a barb, yelped and flipped over onto his head, gashing his thigh and shredding his twenty-dollar powder blue shorts from Mr. J's in the Shores; but he had little time to lament over it as Kelly was running off and again yelling for them to speed it up. After seeing Jimbo's mishap with the barbed wire, Nick decided to duck through the wire rather than go over the top. It took out the entire back of his plaid Gant shortsleeve, and left a scratch from lat to lat, straight across his spine. He howled, cussed and ran after the others, reaching around to feel the damage to his shirt and skin, his feet as unsure about all of this as his id. Up ahead, the Keys boys had done some zig-zagging, trying to decide which way to go, and weren't as far ahead as they'd liked to have been. At one point they had started back for the road; then they saw the red Olds coming back for them and turned away again. Robbie couldn't decide whether they were better off trying to find help at the dairy in the middle of the night or simply disappearing off to one side in the darkness. With the moon gone now, and the low cloud-cover, this was one very dark field. He and Buddy stopped, breathing hard, and tried to regroup. Buddy said he wished Brian was there and Robbie said he did, too; they both knew Brian would instinctively know what to do. Robbie then remembered Brian's warning and wished he had listened; the temptation of the Grand Life in Miami had superseded his good sense and he owed Brian a huge apology when they got back. Brian would make Robbie eat crow, but Robbie figured he deserved it. As a lone car whooshed down 441, Robbie's eyes followed the gleam of its headlights. For a fleeting moment, he saw the three shadowy forms of their trackers backlit by the glow. "They're coming," he said to Buddy, trying to sound calm. The tone didn't help much as, in his mind's eye, Buddy saw himself getting pounded mercilessly into a pulp by Kelly, Nick and Jimbo. Dan, for all he knew. "Oh no." Buddy's panic was reborn. His voice quivered, weak and low. "What are we gonna do, Robbie?" Robbie thought fast, but came up with little more than encouragement which at least appeared composed on the surface. "Just... don't worry. Keep your mind clear." That's what he was trying to do. Brian had taught him that. Robbie looked around, clear-minded. Too clear-minded—nothing was coming at all! He forced a decision. "Okay. This way," he said, toward the dairy. "Maybe somebody's over there." "I hope so," Buddy said, his voice small. "Me, too," Robbie agreed and they started running again as fast as they dared in the dense darkness. Robbie looked back to see if he could get another triangulation on their pursuers and warned Buddy to "Watch out for the cowshit. You'll slip." But he barely got the words out when he very suddenly dropped down out of sight and started cussing, apparently in great pain. "Owwww! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!!! Owwww!! Damn it!!" He gripped his head as hard as he could and rocked back and forth as his eyes turned red and tears flowed, unstoppable, on their own. It took Buddy a few steps to stop and come back. When he saw Robbie's situation, his great panic only grew greater. "You're bleeding!" he said, "I think." It was hard to tell in the dark, but Robbie felt his forehead and said, "Yeah," and repeated, "Damn it!" Buddy searched the horizon, desperately trying to locate their pursuers, with no success. "What happened? Did you slip in poop?" "No! I fell in a goddam HOLE! SHIT! I twisted the shit outa my knee and hit my fucking head on that fucking LOG!" Buddy surmised that it must have been bad because he had never heard Robbie use so much profanity at one time, ever. His blood pressure rose. Robbie lifted himself out of the hole, angrily shoving the offending wood away on his way up, ready to race off; but when he put weight on the bad knee, it buckled. He cussed and groaned some more. At least it took some of the focus off the gash in his head. Buddy scanned again, both hopeful and fearful that he might spot Kelly and the others. He thought he saw some shadowy movement but couldn't tell if it was cows or humans or mirages. "Are... Are you gonna be okay?" God, how he hoped the answer was Yes. Robbie steadied himself as much as he could, blood streaming down the side of his head. A clump of hair was gone and a patch of red, peeled skin almost glowed in the night. Fortunately, he'd grazed the log rather than hitting it straight on. Had the latter been the case, he'd probably still be out cold instead of feeling the stinging on his scalp and throbbing in his knee and trying to ignore it while developing some sort of plan! Robbie knew there was only one option which could best protect Buddy—and even that wasn't a sure thing—but it was the only choice: He told Buddy to go on ahead. Buddy protested before Robbie got all the words out. Robbie's retort was surprisingly sharp. "Buddy! Just do what I'm telling you! Go over to those buildings and see if you can find someone and get help! Tell 'em to call the police if they have to. Just hurry! And don't stop 'til you find someone!" Buddy didn't move. "Go!" Robbie said, even sharper, and started working on the other part of the plan: what he was going to do to save his own ass. Buddy said he didn't want to leave Robbie alone, injured. "Buddy, just go! I'll be okay!" Buddy didn't move. So, Robbie softened his tone. "We need help, Buddy. Just go, please. We've got no choice but to split up and hope for the best." When Buddy didn't move, Robbie just started hobbling away; he knew it was the only way Buddy would get moving. But Buddy remained motionless, terrified at all the prospects which coursed through his mind and set his body ablaze with foreboding. Already fading into the darkness, Robbie said, "I'm gonna go over here and hide, there's some buildings or something." He thought he could make it that far. He could also see that Buddy still hadn't moved. "Buddy, go! There's no time!" Two seconds later, Robbie was little more than a fading smudge. Buddy looked back toward the highway and fretted. He would be scared on his own, and the responsibility to find help and bring it back, was a lot to carry on his small shoulders. But he quickly realized that Robbie was right: Buddy had no choice but to go; their lives were at stake. So, Buddy started running for the dairy and, unexpectedly found himself feeling very clear-headed. He'd been given a task, it was important, and he wasn't going to let Robbie down. With this newfound purpose, Buddy felt the hardest edges of the terror melt away. He wasn't just a potential victim anymore, he was part of the solution, and he didn't even consider the possibility of failure. That made him feel free. And Buddy ran like the wind. |
