Road Rules Online

Mason wished he’d gassed up in Parkersburg.  His bowels, however, seemed to be more of a priority.  As the gas light flashed on north of Charleston, he decided chasing Stan Yarazelski was a bad idea.  He’d give it until Beckley before he gave it up.  He could call Estevez and Aston on his cell and at least put in the appearance of working.  No one had to know he’d crashed for the night at some hicktown motel.

Of course, somehow, he’d have to explain it to Deanna.  The usual excuses weren’t working anymore.  Then again, once he had his payoff, Deanna would no longer be a problem.  She could go back to that loser Blake and live her loser life.  He was done, baby.  Done with the rat race.

He saw a truckstop a few miles north of Charleston.  It sat on a bluff overlooking 77.  Seemed as good a place as any to fill up.

As he entered the truckstop’s parking lot, a big black Cadillac, one JFK might have ridden in, judging from the looks of it, came at him, horn blaring.  Mason cut the wheel hard and narrowly missed hitting both the Caddie and a utility pole.  He sat there, foot on the brake, pulse pounding in his throat.

“Motherfucking rednecks!” he said, and eased the Lexus over to one of the fuel islands.

While pumping gas, he saw a busty bleach blonde in tight jeans and a white halter top move toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t old home week here,” she said.

Mason looked up again and realized she was coming right for him.  “Do I know you?”

“Cheryl Copek.  We went to high school together.  Tim Mason, right?”

Mason locked the pump handle and shoved his hands in his pockets.  Was that Cheryl Copek?  The volleyball player?  Prom queen?  Wanted to be an executive at Smuckers Jelly down in Orville?  Mason tried not to shudder visibly.  “Cheryl?  How are you?  What did you mean old home week?”

She smiled.  “Well, I just spent a lovely time in the arms of one Mr. Stan Yarazelski.”

“Really…”

Sharon headed for the manager’s office when she saw Yarazelski coming.  The manager, a heavy guy with a beard, looked up from his coffee.

“The fuck?” he said.  “I thought I told you girls don’t come around here until after sundown.”

Sharon kicked the door shut behind.  “I’m not a hooker; I’m just dressed like one.”

“Well, it’s a clever disguise.”  He looked her over with an appraising eye.  “Why don’t you show me how convincing you can be?”  He reached under his desk.

Sharon heard his fly unzip.  She took two steps forward and slammed her fist on his desk, making everything on it rattle.

“Alright, whiteboy, listen up!”  Gone was her effected soft southern twang.  She spat each syllable out with a voice more suited for the Mid Atlantic.  “I’m undercover on a very important case, and you’re going to help me.  Unless you want us to do a background check.”

The color drained from the manager’s face.  “Well, now, I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Sharon reached into her purse and pulled out two twenties and a ten.  “That’s to make sure the Jetta with Ohio plates doesn’t get towed for the next two days.”

“That’s all?”

“Aren’t you sorry you asked me to suck your dick?”

“I’m just glad you didn’t.  You scare your boyfriend like this?”

“I killed him.”

Back at the bar, Sharon spotted Yarazelski talking to Mike.  Seeing Yarazelski up close like this, she understood now why Mike wanted someone else along for the ride.  She grabbed her bag from below her barstool and tapped Mike on the back.

“Ready to go, sugar,” she said, the southern twang back.

Yarazelski glared at her.  “Who the hell is this?”

“Stan Yarazelski,” said Mike, “this is my new friend…”

“Cinnamon,” she said, leaning around Mike and offering her hand to Yarazelski.

He didn’t take her hand.  “What’s going on?”

“She’s going to be helping us drive to Miami.  If that’s okay with you.  She said she’ll pay us to take her as far as Daytona.”

Yarazelski looked her up and down.  “Ass, grass, or gas, baby.  No one rides for free.”

She smiled at him.  “I told Mikey I’d fill up your tank on the way down.”  She slipped an arm around Mike’s waist.  “As for the other two things, I’ll have to think about that.”

Mike seemed to relax when she touched him.  Was he so desperate even the touch of a truckstop whore would make him feel better?  Then again, after the story he told, she understood exactly how he felt.

“Well, let’s go,” she said.  “It’s a long way to Florida, and I want to hit the beach in the morning.”

The man named Beamer looked like a basset hound to Estevez, a basset hound with thick-lensed glasses.  He sat in the interrogation room with his back to the wall, making himself as small a target as possible.

“This guy really think we’re gonna kick his ass?” said Wendt, a fat detective prone to wearing button-down shirts a size too small.

“He assumes it,” said Estevez, watching him through the mirrored glass.  “We haven’t exactly told him otherwise.”

“Good move.”  Wendt scarfed another donut from the Dunkin’ Donuts box someone had brought in.

The door opened, and in walked a dirty blonde woman of about forty, maybe forty-two.  She’d fought the aging battle well, but had started to lose it in the hips.  She wore a dark blue jacket over a white blouse and jeans tucked into a pair of cowboy boots.  An FBI badge hung from her belt.

“Agent Kennedy,” said Estevez.

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“And that’s how I ended up in Charleston on a Saturday morning,” said Mike told Cinnamon.  “Bored?”

Cinnamon still rested her chin against her fist, still held his gaze with her own, and even managed to laugh at some of his lame attempts at humor.  If he didn’t think it’d cost him forty bucks, he’d be tempted to go off somewhere with her.  Why not?  He’d never been with a black woman before.  He hadn’t been with anyone in over a year, actually.

“Not bored at all,” she said.  “Well, the insurance part sounds boring, but that’s all behind you.”

“I hope,” he said.  He turned to take a bite of his food, which had been cooling for several minutes.  He started to take a bite of his burger and stopped.  “I’m sorry.  Can I order you something?  I don’t mean to be rude.”

She reached out and squeezed his knee.  “You’re fine, sugar.  You enjoy your meal.”

He started to bite in again when she asked, “I do have something I’d like to ask, though.”

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Chapter 9

When Mason’s phone rang, the sound reverberated throughout the gas station’s restroom.  Mason would have left it if Aston’s phone number hadn’t popped up on the display.  He resisted the urge to stand up as he answered.

“Mason,” he said.

“Where are you?” said Aston.  “Half the morning’s gone, and that Cleveland cop says he hasn’t seen or heard from you.”

Nothing like the truth to buy time.  “I’m in Parkersburg, West Virginia, sir.”

“Parkersburg?  Why?”

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