Drive Like Hell: A Novel Read online

  I rifled through the glove compartment until I found Nick’s stash. He’d tucked it behind a Texaco road map. I rolled a modest joint—strictly for medicinal purposes—sparked it, and lay down in the back of the van. I closed my eyes and smoked, feeling the headache lighten and float away like a balloon. My ears were still ringing from the show, and the radio was barely a mumble in my head. After a while, I sunk into a hazy cloud of sleep.

  Dewey woke me. “Shit, man. Are you trying to burn your ass up?”

  He was holding the nub of the joint in his hand. He considered it with some reluctance, as though it were a dangerous item, before remembering what it was meant for and holding it to his lips.

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Fuck, I must have fallen asleep.”

  “It’s all right,” Dewey said. “You’re entitled. Court dates do the same thing to me. It’s a lot of stress.”

  “It’s been a long fucking day,” I told him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.”

  Dewey was looking fairly beleaguered himself. I think the Jack-and-Cokes had finally caught up to him. At the very least, they were nipping at his ass.

  Dewey laid his head back against the side of the van. “Don’t worry, things are gonna get better. You’re gonna like living with us.”

  I asked him what had happened to the rest of the band.

  “They oughta be here soon,” he said. “Nick was trying to get Bev to leave. But you know how she is when she’s doing that cocaine. Just yap, yap, yap, like a little Chihuahua.”

  There were footsteps on the pavement, clomping toward the van in a hurried manner.

  “That sounds like Liberace,” Dewey said. “He don’t even have rhythm when he walks.”

  I raised my head and looked out the windshield. Carlton and his red shirt were headed our way. “Yeah, it’s him,” I said.

  “He’s always fucking me up onstage,” Dewey said. “I’ve been telling Nick he’s not working out, but he won’t listen to me. I may be the heartbeat of the band, but I’m still low rung on the totem pole.”

  Carlton opened the driver’s side door and stuck his head inside. He had this silly grin plastered to his face, and he was panting and trying to catch his breath. “Guess who’s across the street?” he asked.

  Dewey was playing possum, pretending to be passed out. So I went ahead and asked Carlton who he’d seen.

  “It’s Jack motherfucking Nicklaus, man. That’s who.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, it’s really him. I swear.”

  “Where?”

  “Right across the street, at the Waffle House.”

  “Are you high? What the hell would Jack Nicklaus be doing at a Waffle House?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Eating pecan waffles or some shit. Come on, I’m gonna get some autographs.”

  Carlton sounded so sure of his discovery that I crawled to the back of the van and looked out the window. The only car in the Waffle House lot was a blue Park Avenue. Two guys were walking away from it, and one of them was plump and blond, with big forearms sticking out of his baby blue knit shirt. He looked enough like Nicklaus to get my attention, but I still had serious doubts.

  Carlton slammed the door and took off running across the four-lane avenue in front of the hotel, dodging the sparse late-night traffic and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Hey, Bear! How ‘boutcha Golden Bear!”

  “I think you’re right,” I told Dewey. “Some of that perm solution must have seeped into his brain.”

  But Dewey wasn’t answering. By that time, he’d passed out for real. There was nothing left of the joint. His alligator clip smoldered between his fingers.

  I heard more voices in the parking lot, so I crawled up front to take a look. Nick and Bev were walking out the hotel’s side door. Bev was still wired up. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and took off walking really fast, as if she was mad about something. Nick, who appeared to be tore-up drunk, was weaving along the sidewalk, almost taking a header into the bushes on one occasion, struggling to keep pace with Bev. He was wearing his motorcycle jacket and a green sock hat.

  The windows were down in the front of the van, so I could hear them arguing. Bev said something about “that fucking broadcasting school.”

  “Come on,” Nick said, “you don’t have to get all hostile about it.”

  She stopped and spun around to face him. “The hell I don’t. You don’t even tell me about it, like it’s some big secret.”

  “I’m just thinking about it, is all. What’s the big damn deal? It could be a good thing. I could get free concert tickets and shit.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. It’s still a job. What about all the stuff we do? Shit, do you think a job is gonna give you time to run off whenever you want?”

  It was strange hearing a person try to talk someone out of pursuing an honest job. For some reason, I pictured Bev kicking Judge Knox’s ass, just walking right into that woman’s office and stacking some furniture. It gave me a thrill.

  “You’ve got the perfect setup right now,” Bev said. “You’ve got a job you don’t even have to go to, and your parole officer’s happy. The band kicks ass. Shit, this is the best we’ve ever had it.”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders, but she jerked away from him and started walking toward the van again. Nick stood by himself atop the damp pavement, looking whipped.

  “Come on, Bev. I mean, goddamn.”

  About that time a pair of car doors thunked shut. The two brothers who’d bought the tickets stepped away from their Caddy and walked in Nick’s direction. The one with socks was carrying a golf club.

  Nick turned their way. He didn’t appear to be all that concerned over their surprise appearance.

  The sockless brother tossed the Masters tickets at Nick’s feet. “Remember us, asshole?”

  Nick gazed from one face to the other and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fellas, I’m in no condition to handle business right now. I’m only the slightest bit inebriated.”

  Bev had stopped in her tracks. She stood there watching while the club-wielding brother took a step toward Nick.

  “Look,” the guy said, “I’m pretty fond of my two-iron. So if you’ll just give us our money back, we might be willing to let this shit slide.”

  Nick considered the club head. It glinted like a huge dental instrument in the hotel’s floodlights.

  “You know, the two-iron’s a tough club to handle,” Nick said. “I find that I’m always slicing the ball, so I usually pull out my three-wood and take a shorter…”

  Just as Nick started into his shadow backswing, the guy swung the club and grazed the side of his head. Nick’s cap went flying through the air. Nick staggered a little but didn’t go down. He reached up and touched his scalp, then studied the tips of his fingers.

  “Hey, man! What the fuck?”

  “We want our goddamn money, you shit-ass sonuvabitch!” Mr. Socks whacked the pavement with the club head to emphasize the urgency of the matter. “I got a buddy who just bought tickets. He says there’s no such thing as a green badge.”

  His brother stepped forward and grabbed Nick by the front of his shirt, but Nick shoved him away and popped him in the nose with the heel of his hand. The other brother took another swing with the two-iron, this time catching Nick in the back. Nick dropped to his knees.

  “Goddammit,” he said, “will you just give it a fucking rest with the Tommy Armours?”

  I scrambled to the back of the van and tried to wake Dewey, but he was too far gone. “It’s a four-four,” he mumbled. “Try to keep up.”

  I looked out the back window to see if Carlton had finally realized that the guy in the Buick wasn’t Nicklaus. But he was still standing in the Waffle House parking lot with the two men from the car. They were facing me now, and the blond one really did look like the Golden Bear. He was pressing a piece of paper against Carlton’s back and signing it with a pen.

  I needed a weapon
. My first thought was a tire iron, but there was none to be found in the van. The best I could do was to snap one of the rabbit ears from the top of the Emerson. I pulled it out to its full length and swiped it through the air, Zorro style. It whistled like a fencing saber.

  Bev reached the melee before me. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Stop it, you motherfuckers! You’re killing him!” She waved the envelope over her head, apparently planning to return the brothers’ money.

  When Nick saw what she was attempting to do, he shook his head and tried to grab the envelope from her. “Bev, no. Just hold on a minute.”

  The guy with the club took the envelope from Bev, but Nick jumped up and grabbed him from behind. He took hold of the club shaft, too, and pulled it tight against the guy’s windpipe.

  I ran in soon after, drew back my antenna, and took a swipe at the sockless brother’s ankle.

  “Oww! Goddamn sonuvabitch! That fucking stings!”

  He grabbed his ankle and started hopping around on one foot. I struck again while he was stunned, lining up his face and catching him across the cheek with the next shot. That one spun him and dropped him to his knees. He was holding his left eye, screaming that I’d blinded him.

  “Oh, Jesus. I can’t see. I can’t fucking see.”

  Nick was still wrestling with the other brother, and Bev was chomping down on the guy’s hand, trying to pry it away from the envelope. When Nick saw me standing at the edge of the fray, he told me to get the van.

  “Hurry. Bring it over here.”

  I sprinted back to the vehicle and fired up the motor. Only after I’d dropped the transmission into drive did my heart fold itself up like a cold animal. I could hear Judge Knox’s voice and see those steel gray doors in her eyes. You better bring your damn toothbrush and a clean pair of underwear. Because your little fanny’s going straight to the youth correctional institute.

  The tide had turned again, leaving Nick in desperate need of some backup. Both brothers were on top of him. The sockless one had seized the envelope. He reached out and shoved Bev to the ground. She hopped up, ran back to the van, and climbed in beside me.

  “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?” she said. “Run those motherfuckers over.”

  I gazed into her dilated pupils. “I can’t. I don’t have a license.”

  “No fucking shit, Sherlock.” And then she laid her foot atop mine and stomped the accelerator to the floor.

  Nick and the brothers scrambled to their feet and scattered like pigeons. The sockless brother ran right out of a shoe. The other one managed to scoop up the envelope but left his two-iron in my crosshairs. I clattered right over the top of it, then slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel to the left, trying to pull a bootlegger’s turn. It was something Lyndell used to do when we were out driving in the night. I quickly learned that such maneuvers are best performed in Chevelles and not delivery vans, as we found ourselves traveling only on the two right-side tires. The van finally came back down on all four, but only after I’d broadsided a light pole. The collision sounded like a huge set of gears grinding together.

  We sat there idling, with the two brothers crouched behind their Seville looking scared. Mr. No Socks still had his hand over his eye. He looked like he was taking an exam at the ophthalmologist’s office.

  I switched on my high beams and revved the motor in a menacing way, just to keep them guessing. Bev threw open the door, and Nick jumped in. He rolled over to the space between the seats. He was pissed at Bev.

  “Goddammit,” he said, “why did you give them the fucking money?”

  “Because I was trying to save your ass,” she said. “Those motherfuckers were gonna kill you.”

  “Well, I had a plan,” he said. “I had a fucking plan.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, what was it?”

  Nick threw his hands in the air. “Hell, I don’t know. I was still working it out.”

  The brothers had worked up enough nerve to step out from behind their car. The one with socks eyed his mangled two-iron. He looked like he wanted to retrieve it. But I didn’t give him a chance. I hit the gas again and took off for the road, nailing his club in the process. The brothers turned tail and jumped back behind their car.

  I’d managed to put Judge Knox completely out of my head. I suppose Bev had beaten her ass down when she stomped the accelerator. I felt better than I’d felt all day. The smell of gasoline swelled the air as I careened around a row of parked motorcycles. “Unwind and stomp that sonuvabitch.” I could hear the voice giving me instructions. I hopped the curb and intersected the quiet four lanes of asphalt, finally hitting the brakes and sliding to a stop in the Waffle House parking lot. Three men stood in the glare of the high beams, looking awfully frightened by what had just transpired in front of them.

  Nick raised his head and gazed through the windshield. He narrowed his eyes and studied the vision before him.

  “Holy fucking shit. Is that Jack Nicklaus?”

  Nick, Bev, and I climbed out of the van. Somehow, Dewey had remained peacefully passed out through everything.

  Carlton’s mouth dropped open when he saw the dent and the scratches running along the side of the van. “Oh, shit,” he said. “My ass is grass.”

  He dropped the pieces of paper he’d been carrying. They were napkins from the Waffle House. They all had Nicklaus’s signature on them. Carlton stepped over to the van and ran his fingers along the damage.

  The man who I now understood to be Jack Nicklaus appeared shocked and frightened, almost unable to move. But then he surprised me and spoke. He looked right into my face like I was Ken Venturi or something.

  “Are you okay, son?”

  He sounded just like he did on TV, his voice as flat as a tee box. I lied in response.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. The accelerator just stuck on me for a second.”

  I gazed over my shoulder to make sure the brothers hadn’t followed us. They were nowhere in sight. I listened for sirens, too. Thankfully, the night remained silent.

  By that time, Nick and Bev had walked around from the other side of the van. A gash had opened up on the side of Nick’s head thanks to the now-deceased two-iron. Nick was pressing a bloody towel against the wound.

  Nick’s face was pale, his eyes bright and wild, hair swept all over the place. He offered his free hand to Nicklaus in a very gentlemanly way. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Nicklaus. A big fan.”

  Nicklaus eyed the towel. It looked like it had been soaked in a bucket of cherry Kool-Aid. The Golden Bear cringed and finally obliged Nick’s handshake offer.

  “That looks like a nasty cut.” Nicklaus gestured toward the Waffle House. “Maybe you should let someone inside call an ambulance.”

  Nick was quick to put that club back in the bag, shaking his head and saying no.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Nick said. “Actually, it’s just a golf injury.”

  Nicklaus looked at his friend. His eyes were pleading with the guy. Unfortunately, the man in the blazer appeared even more frightened than Nicklaus.

  Carlton got down on his hands and knees to gather up his autographs. Nicklaus’s friend took the lapse in conversation as an opportunity to hustle the Bear out of harm’s way. He placed his hand on Nicklaus’s elbow and tugged him back toward the Buick. “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” he said.

  “There’s a Huddle House up the street,” I told them. “I saw it on the way into town.”

  We all stood there like a viewing gallery while the two men walked back to the Buick. Just as Nicklaus was ducking his head into the Park Avenue, Nick called out to him, “Hey, Jack. You don’t know anybody who’s looking to buy some Masters tickets, do you?”

  Nicklaus shut the door without answering. His buddy hit the automatic locks and started the engine. Nick, Carlton, and I cracked up.

  “I guess not,” Nick said.

  “Fuck him, anyway.” Carlton had a sour look on his face.

  “What are you talking about?” Nick s
aid. “He was a true gentleman, considering the circumstances.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t sign my autograph the way I wanted him to.”

  “What the hell did you want him to write?” I asked.

  “To the guy with the biggest balls on the course…” Carlton said.

  We started laughing again. Nick grabbed at his head and let out a groan. “Don’t make me laugh, Carlton. My head’s killing me.”

  We watched the taillights on the Buick shrink. Nick draped his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder.

  “Look at that,” he said. “One day with me, and you’re already hobnobbing with legends.”

  “I think we scared the shit out of him.”

  “We may well have taken him right off his game.”

  I looked into Nick’s glassy eyes. “You don’t think we cost him the Masters, do you?”

  Nick smiled and pulled me close with his free arm. “Thanks for coming to get me back there, bro. That was a rather impressive display of high-performance driving.”

  “Not impressive enough.” I gazed at the damaged van. Carlton was running his fingers over the dent and the scratches. He looked like a faith healer, only without the faith.

  Nick waved his hand through the air. “Don’t worry about that shit, Carlton. I know somebody who can knock that out before the sun comes up.”

  Nick wobbled a little. His face was pale. I grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. “How’s your head?”

  He pulled the towel away from the wound. His hair was matted and sticky with blood. He studied the crimson towel for a moment, like it was an X-ray.

  “It’s nothing four stitches and some Percocet won’t cure. I can tell you that right now.”

  6

  Nicklaus missed a three-way play-off by one stroke, allowing some guy named Fuzzy to go on and win the Masters. Nick and I watched it all unfold at his and Dewey’s place. Nick switched off the TV before they had even awarded that ugly green jacket.

  “I think I’ve seen enough golf.”

  He sat down beside me on the sofa and lit a cigarette. It’s fair to say a cloud of responsibility hung over the room.