The naked edge

8

"Sounds a little rough," Carl said.

"Hey, I'm not pretending she don't need a tune-up. I figured that into the price."

"What about oil changes, regular maintenance, stuff like that?"

"Four months ago. Then the twins got born. I'm so tired working two jobs to pay the bills, I ain't driven her since. Truth is, I didn't take her out much before the twins got born. Guess I'm getting too old for kid stuff."

"Naw, you're never too old to act like a kid."

"Tell that to my old lady."

"Well, if you're sure you want to sell…"

"Need to. Don't have two jobs anymore. That's how you caught me at home. The factory where I worked my day job got shut down and moved to Mexico. I really need the money. But like I told you on the phone, I won't take a check."

"Don't blame you. Can't be too careful. Here's the three thousand in cash. Now all you need to do is sign the ownership papers, and I'll make sure the title's transferred to me."

"Hate to part with her."

"Well, you can count on me taking care of her for you."

"Thanks, mister."

"I don't suppose you've got a helmet."

"In the garage some place. My wife got it for me, but I never bothered. Always made me feel trapped."

"Bad for your health. Gotta stay safe you know."

"You're a decent enough guy. Tell you what, I'll throw in the helmet and my goggles."

"Naw, that wouldn't be right. Sounds like the twins are waking up. As you say, you can use the cash. I wouldn't want to take advantage. Here's another fifty bucks."

"Much obliged, mister."

A minute later, his helmet and goggles adjusted, Carl fired up the old Yamaha and drove from the modest neighborhood.

By then, it was twelve fifteen. The sun was pleasantly warm. The breeze created by the motorcycle soothed him. It had been years since he'd driven a bike, and now he wondered why he had ever stopped: the mobility, the freedom, the independence. Plus, unless you wore leathers and a Hells Angels' scowl, people tended not to pay attention to you, as the number of accidents in which cars ran into motorcycles confirmed.

Enjoying the vibration of the engine between his legs, Carl passed a police cruiser. Looking straight ahead, he concentrated on traffic and obeyed the speed limit, confident that the cops in the cruiser wouldn't pay attention to him. The goggles and helmet indicated how safety-conscious and law-abiding he was.

He found his way to Interstate 10 and headed west, skirting Lake Pontchartrain. Impressed by the expanse of the water, he reached Interstate 55 and proceeded north, soon passing Lake Maurepas: the fishing boats, the waves, the evocative smell of the water, the feeling of freedom. Blending with the flow of cars, he luxuriated in each moment and discovered that eighty miles went by like they were nothing. Before he realized, he was in the small Louisiana city of Hammond, which for his purposes had one major asset: an Amtrak station. He knew this because familiarity with the train routes out of New Orleans was part of his contingency plan, just as he'd known the bus routes.

But after getting directions to the train station, he decided that if the station in New Orleans would be under surveillance, didn't it make sense that the nearest Amtrak station in another city would be under surveillance also? Hell, eighty miles was nothing. He stopped for a burger, fries, and a Coke at a drive-in restaurant. They tasted as delicious as when he'd been a kid. Then he returned to Interstate 55 and headed farther north.

In an hour, he crossed into Mississippi, and now he felt less threatened, although he didn't delude himself that the hunt for him would not continue to be urgent and widespread. The next Amtrak station was twenty miles farther in another small city, McComb. But again, his instincts warned him away. Too small a station. Too easy to be spotted. By then, it was four in the afternoon. Fatigue insisted, but he couldn't rest until he was confident that he'd found sanctuary. And food. He couldn't seem to get enough to eat. But there wasn't time.

He drove another ninety minutes to the large Amtrak station in Jackson, Mississippi. Making sure that his fingerprints were wiped clean, he left the motorcycle on a side street a few blocks from the station. By midnight, the bike would be gone, no way to trace it to him.

Trying not to attract attention by hurrying, he went to a convenience store. He kept his back to the security camera while he bought shampoo, toothpaste, a toothbrush, shaving soap, a razor, and a packet of Kleenex. Subduing his urgency, he shaved in a men's room in the train station, making himself as presentable as possible. He went into a toilet stall, locked it, then stuffed Kleenex under his lips and into his cheeks, changing the profile of his face, making it look puffy rather than gaunt-cheeked, as the newspaper described him.

He leaned forward at the ticket counter, reducing his height.

"Chicago," he said. "This evening."

"You just made it. Arrives at nine tomorrow morning."

"Got anything in the sleeping car?"

"Let's see. Yep. One compartment left."

"Must be my lucky day."