Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [84]
“Oh, stop, it’s not so bad.” Laurie moved Barnett’s hand to her thigh. “Where I come from, that’s a perfectly fine name. Clare Barnett.”
“Well, down here it’s a pussy name, so just call me chief.”
“Don’t pout,” Laurie said crossly.
“I’m not, damnit. It’s this goddamn traffic.”
A semitractor rig had lurched into the road ahead of them on Summerland Key. Barnett had been trying to pass it for five miles. Every time he swung the Chrysler into the left lane, the semi had sped up. Barnett had become so enraged that he had lost his erection.
“It’ll be morning before we get to fucking Marathon,” he howled. “I’m going to try one more time.”
The truck weaved into the left lane, then cut erratically back to the right.
“God,” Laurie whispered.
Back and forth, the truck snaked down the Overseas Highway, gaining speed as it seemed to lose control.
“Do something!” Laurie said.
“Fucker’s drunk,” Barnett grumbled. He mashed a switch on the dashboard panel, and the blue light on top of the Chrysler began to flash. Still, the big truck did not yield. Next, Barnett tried the siren.
“He’s going to kill somebody,” Laurie cried. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m backin’ off, darlin’, because you’re right. He is going to kill somebody, and that somebody isn’t going to be me.” Barnett reached for his police radio. “Think I’ll call ahead for a state trooper.”
At that moment, the brake lights of the semitractor winked twice. Ahead, the truck was slowing, lumbering off the highway into a roadside gas stop. A flaking billboard announced it as the Big Pine Exxon.
In a cloud of dust and gravel, the semitractor gasped to a stop. Barnett parked the Chrysler off to the side, near the gas pumps.
“This won’t take long,” he told Laurie.
“I’m going in the grocery store for a beer,” she said.
Barnett snatched his Stetson from the backseat and lurched out of the squad car. Clumsily, he tried to hoist himself to the running board of the truck; failing that, he stood below the cab, shouting obscenities up at the driver.
The man was lean and smooth-faced. He wore a red Budweiser cap. “I’m very sorry, officer,” he said weakly.
“Get your ass down here,” Barnett shouted.
“In a second, please.” The driver held up a small brown pharmacy bottle for Barnett to see. “I’m waiting for my pills to work.”
“Get down here!”
“It’s angina,” the driver said through gritted teeth. “These are heart pills. I was having an attack back there on the highway—”
“Gimme your license,” Barnett said. A conspiracy, that’s what it was; a man can’t even get laid anymore. Murders, riots, pansy lunatic truck drivers. A conspiracy.
The truck driver handed down his driver’s license.
“Your name is Calvin Mo … Mo-something here.”
“Moriel.”
“Whatever,” Barnett said impatiently. “Calvin, I’m not going to give you a ticket, but I’m ordering you to stay off the fucking highway with your bad heart. You’re gonna kill some taxpayer, the way you drive.”
“I had an attack. I’m sorry, officer, really. I’m feeling better now.” Calvin inhaled deeply, as if testing his chest for pain. “I’ll call the company and have them send another driver down from Miami.”
“Excellent,” muttered Huge Barnett, stomping back toward the squad car.
“Chief! Come here.” It was Laurie, calling from the doorway of a small convenience store that adjoined the service station.
“It’s gettin’ late, darlin’.”
“Just for a second, come here,” Laurie implored.
The Exxon attendant stopped Barnett on his way across the parking lot. “Want me to fill it up, chief?”
“Just give me ten bucks of high test and check the radiator. Make it fast, too.”
Barnett found Laurie in the aisle where the cosmetics were displayed. She pulled him close and pointed to a small lavender bottle. “I’m going to buy this,” she said mischievously. “For us.”
“What is it?”
Laurie removed the cap and held the bottle to his nose. Barnett winced.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “It’s cranberry oil.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a lotion.”
“What kind of lotion?”
Laurie smiled