Page 31 of Reaper
No, I don’t. But I can’t let her know that.
It takes every effort I have to keep surprise out of my voice. “I do. Wait here.”
“You want me to order you something?”
“The whiskey.”
Fuck.
Too late to take it back.
I start toward the trucker in the corner I saw snorting substances earlier. Not because there’s a part of me — the always-there addict part — that wants to share in whatever he’s snorting, but because he’s the furthest away and I hope that the longer walk of an extra ten steps will give me enough time to figure out what the hell my plan is.
Then it hits me: Volkov’s in Sacramento.
We need to get back to Sacramento if we’re going to take care of him.
Well, fuck, that sounds like the beginning of a plan. Get us back to Sacramento.
Now, how to do that with a drug-snorting trucker?
That question tumbles through my skull while I slide into the booth opposite him, place both hands palm-down onto the table, and look straight into a pair of eyes so bloodshot it’s like looking at a sunset.
“The hell you want?” His voice is as thick and slow as frozen molasses, and his breath smells like a garbage dump at noon in the middle of July.
“Need a ride. You heading to Sacramento?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Are you willing to take us on? We can pay.”
He blinks. “I said ‘maybe’ I am. Don’t you know what that fucking word means?”
“I do, but — “
“It means maybe. Not quite yes, not quite no.”
“Do you know whether you’re going to Sacramento or not?”
“Maybe.”
“What the fuck? Where the fuck are you headed?”
He just laughs, then digs around in his pocket, pulls out a baggie, and spreads a small gritty mountain on the table in front of him. Bending over, he snorts, then laughs again. “You want some?”
Frowning, I look closer. “Is that fucking sand? Are you snorting sand?”
“Maybe.”
I stand and go to another table. This one is occupied by a burly trucker who looks like he was the inspiration for Grizzly Adams, if Grizzly Adams spent a year isolating himself in the gym and doing steroids.
“I need a ride to Sacramento,” I say, deciding that straightforward is the way to go. No questions, no hesitation, no room for anyone to bring up snorting sand while cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“And I need my dick sucked.”
“She won’t be down for that.”
“I ain’t asking her.”
