Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [65]
The engine rumbles. The glove compartment door clicks shut. Stacy leans forward, then settles back with arms outstretched and hands gripping the wheel. With a few deft, seemingly practiced maneuvers, she manages to exit the curbside spot and enter the open lane, which appears, in a suspended moment of pure potential, to lead straightaway toward a positively magnificent, if shadowy, future, lined with inferior automobiles.
There is an explosion of force, and they are sailing forward. It is not long before the car veers vaguely right and Nicky leans left, as if to counteract this unfortunate detour. A faint, feminine yelp—followed by the snap, like a mushroom cap, of a sideview mirror—signals the beginning of the end.
The rest feels patently catastrophic, these seconds an eternity of unending metallic screeching. It is as if Nicky is poised at the crotch of a giant zipper, its teeth off kilter, some stubborn force willing these two discordant halves to unite, only so that they can be free of each other once and for all. It makes no sense that they haven’t yet come to a stop, in spite of this ribcurling resistance. How many have they already sideswiped? Three? Ten? She must be gassing it, in spite of the mounting disaster, as if to race toward the inevitable, or from it.
At last, they have come to the T at the end of the road, an instinctive foot on a brake, with the help of the curb, having saved them from the profile of the oblivious brownstone straight ahead. They are heaving in unison, taking in the common air. “I’m bleeding.” Her eyes are locked on her reflection in the rearview mirror. She dabs a fingertip to her forehead. Outside, the world has stopped, while inside, their hearts and thoughts become entwined in mutual terror—albeit born of independent fears.
“I can’t get a D.U.I.,” she utters.
“I have to go back,” he says.
The sidewalks are empty, the windows of the surrounding houses dark or, if lit, free of shadows.
“I make $750,000 a year.” She seems to be in a trance. “I’m the lead anchor on a major network in the fourth largest market in the country.” She sets her hollow gaze on Nicky and asks, apparently in earnest, “What the fuck am I thinking?” After a pause, she screams, “I’m asking you! What the fuck am I doing here?”
“In Philly, you mean?”
“No! With you! Here! Now! Why do I keep letting asshole men ruin my life?”
“I don’t know,” Nicky says. “Just—go.”
In this merciful moment in time, there is no one in sight, not even through the rear windshield.
“What do you mean?” Her voice softens. “Walk away?”
“Run.” He means it. “I’ll take the heat. Forget this. Me.”
Her lips quiver. She blinks out waves of tears that tumble down her cheeks. It’s too late. In the distance, light spills from doorways, onto stoops, as slumped silhouettes make their way toward the wreckage.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean what I said—about you.”
“Get in the back,” he hisses.
Her grace has returned. She understands the plan. In one swift, elegant gymnastic feat, she becomes one with the leather, heaving herself through the narrow gap between seats, hips twisting, legs and heels and toes all pointed in their mission to clear the way for Nicky, who with undramatic haste removes them from the scene of the crime.
Even in these dark streets, there is no way for this car to be discreet. Curious, envious eyes flash from the sidewalk, as Nicky wraps around a corner or two before quietly pulling over.
“Why are you stopping?” Stacy whispers nervously.
“We won’t get far in this thing,” Nicky states. “We’ll go to my brother’s. It’s right around the corner.” He gets out and offers his hand, scanning the empty sidewalk, as one stiletto boot follows another onto the concrete.
When she takes his arm, crossing the street, a shiver of recognition shoots up his spine, his chivalry tainted.
She looks back, puzzled. “What about your car?”
He forgot that the car is his. “I’ll call it in as stolen.”
She seems to consider this. “Okay,” she says softly.
He nods and remembers