4 – A million dollar debt
They
were back there somewhere-- though the rear-view mirror showed only the passing
glitter of Denver suburb street lights, like stars glowing from a bowl of
water. Dan Newhaul gripped the wheel as the van followed the winding road up
and out of it, circling the belly of the mountain like a lopsided belt.
Back there riding the curve behind him with
their headlights off.
He
tried to picture their grim faces and grey suits, wondering if they would break
his legs or toss him off a cliff. He glanced forward in time to swerve away
from the guard rail.
Calm down, boy! Don't do their job for them.
The grade increased sharply, and Dan downshifted. The weak Volkswagen engine struggling to keep up speed. It hadn't been built for mountains like these. And the thin air effected its fuel mixture. It coughed and grunted. The additions he and Lance had built into the thing weighing it down. Like the wood bed frame and the boxes of clothing. They swayed with each turn, dragging at the wheel as the speedometer needle descended from 45 to 40 to 35, then 30.
Dan coughed, too-- the pain in his chest
bringing back the horrors of East Coast life and the frightful medical
predictions which had said: Go West or Die. They had meant Arizona or New
Mexico. Not Colorado. No one came to Colorado for their health. No one gave up Wall
Street for citrus groves and retirement villages either. Not at 25. Which was
all Phoenix had been.
He coughed again, down shifted as the needle
dropped and the engine threatened to stall.
"Easy baby," he mumbled, patting
down his pockets till he found a package of Vicks Cough Silencers and pack of
Sherman cigarettes. He lit one of the cigarettes, the smoke relieving the
tickle in his throat.
The hill leveled off and he shifted again. The
road dipped, making one last dive before the big climb. He gunned the engine to
gather speed. Every mile an hour would help on the upswing. Behind him, approaching
the hair-pin curve around which he'd just come, the other car's headlights
flicked on.
"Got ya!" he shouted, then coughed.
He crushed the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, though many of the other
butts were Lance's Marlboros.
Smoking was bad for him, the doctors said. As
was drinking, and big city pollution. He knew little about the disease. He
hadn't wanted to know details. But fleeing New York had mean a serious change
of life.
One lost wife, career and life style.
"Phoenix isn't as bad as it looks from
here," he'd told his wife, then found himself buying a single one-way
ticket out of town. Two months later, he'd packed up again, heading straight
for L.A.
Wall Street?
That was a capitalist plot, man. Street life
and free love were "in" these days, smoking dope and promoting peace.
Even his exterior had changed, from the suit & tie indignity to a floppy leather
hat and beard. After all, one didn't have to get jeans dry cleaned twice a
week. Nor did he have to worry about alimony payments in California, which
didn't recognize divorce laws from other states.
The lights stayed on after the curve and grew
larger in the rear-view mirror. Dan shifted again, but the big hill had already
begun, sapping the power out of the van. To one side, the sheer stone face of
the mountain grinned down, while the guard rail kept back the darkness and drop
on the other side.
All this was Bobo's fault, of course. Dan's
partner sticking his pudgy little fingers into the operation with all the
surgical skill of a construction worker.
"I'll take care of it," Dan had told
him in L.A.
"Are you sure, Danny-boy? I mean-- you’re
going out of state is dangerous business."
Had Bobo tried to keep him from Denver even
then? Had there been a note of deception in the voice? Bobo was a man of words—and
with words had dominated the L.A. street scene conning Peter to play Paul. But
Dan had presumed Bobo straight with him. That was until he got to Denver and
talked with the men from the drug
company.
You say you're Mr. Bobo's partner? the grey-haired
man had asked, then handed Dan the million-dollar tab. For product already delivered.
Three shipments worth of dope to be precise.
Your partner never paid us.
Worse was the odd sense of fright in the
grey-haired man, and the close examination Dan had to endure, as if they'd
suspected Dan of being someone else. Someone they had no great affection for.
A cop perhaps?
"There's obviously been a mistake," Dan
told them. "I came to tell you people we were taking over the L.A. side of
the route. That seems old news to you. I'll have to speak with my partner and
see what's what."
The man nodded. But the stare did not grow
less intense. And Dan didn't wait till the motel, feeding coins into a downtown
pay phone for the call back to L.A.
He got a recording. Pacific Bell saying Bobo's
phone had been disconnected at the customer's request!
The son of a bitch!
The headlights closed in on him, the shape of
the car almost visible against the back drop of city lights. A sports car of sorts.
Low to the ground and fast. A two-seater. It eased up to the wooden bumper of
the van, slow and steady. It was Dan's hands that shook, the van swaying ever
so slightly from side to side.
"Steady, boy," he mumbled.
The car made its move when the road
straightened-- the curving ascent from Denver had become a single steady rise
lasting for miles.
Dan
shifted and pressed his foot on the gas. The van sputtered but moved no faster.
"Don't stall, damn it!"
The car pulled beside him, riding the opposite
lane. A dark colored Mercedes with the shape of two heads inside. Something flashed.
The glass of the vent window cracked as a small round hole appeared.
Dan slammed on the brakes!
While the tires didn't squeal or burn, the van
twisted around, its painted body sideways to both lanes. The engine sputtered
out. The Mercedes stopped, too, a few hundred feet farther up hill, and struggled
to make a three-point turn on the narrow road. Dan turned the key; the engine
grunted but didn't start.
"Come on, baby," he said. Footsteps
sounded on the gravel coming towards him. In front of the van, Denver spread
out like a jewel blanket, car lights moving along its web work of streets. Life
still throbbed there; the cops still patrolled the streets.
"Start, damn it!" he yelled and hit
the dashboard with his fist.
The
engine whined once, then started weakly. He slammed the gear shift into first.
The men on the road gave a start-- a surprised
growl immediately followed by spurts and flashes. Two more cracks appeared in
the glass, inches from Dan's head. But he turned the van downhill. At first,
they ran after the van, their figures visible in the driver side mirror.
Dan slammed the gear shift into 2nd, then 3rd.
The van picked up speed. The weight which had held it back coming up, now
propelled it downward into the abyss. He kept it close to the belly of the mountain,
protruding pine branches scraping the roof and side. But he dared not move out
into the center of the roar where the coming sharp curves could drive him over
the other side. A chunk of jutting stone scraped the van. The speedometer read
sixty and still climbed. He shifted into neutral to keep the engine from
slowing him down. This fast, the gears acted like a brake, and he needed all
the
speed
he could get. Denver's lights smeared on the left. He had to get back into the
maze of streets where his tail lights didn't attract bullets.
He
wanted to explain-- to tell them it was Bobo who'd taken their money, and if
they had approached him more respectably, he might even have helped in the
hunt. But something had frightened them, driving them into a desire to clean
house. Bobo's time would come.
As
would the others along the route to L.A. But they wanted Dan first.
The headlights reappeared in the driver's side
mirror, coming up fast despite Dan's head long plunge. The other car kept close
to the mountain as well-- and there was just a chance Dan might make the city
limits. If the van could handle the hair-pin turns. It would be hairy. Dan had
no intention of slowing down.
The first of very sharp curves came. The
steering wheel nearly jerked out of his hand. He fought it, keeping it solidly
right as stone and branches whacked the passenger side. Behind him, the Mercedes
made its move, creeping up to his rear bumper. The headlights vanished, then
reappeared on the left side as the road straightened again. It pulled up
slowly, the bumper first, then the hood, windshield, and finally a face in the
open window.
Spark! Splat. Tinkling glass.
The curve came. Dan slammed on the brakes, turning
the wheel towards the Mercedes, not the mountain, the wood front bumper striking
the car's side.
The Mercedes hit the guard rail and plunged
right through. By the time Dan stopped the van, the car had hit the ground
below and burst into flames. Dan stood for a long time, too shaken to light a
cigarette. Too shaken to think about the cold, his disease or the thin air.
He thought only of Bobo.
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