Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [85]
Barnett suddenly realized that the back of his Western shirt was drenched. He shivered in the air conditioning.
“You use that stuff? Really?”
“It tastes wonderful. Very sensual,” she said. “You can spread it all over.” She felt his ham-sized hand drop heavily from her waist to her buttocks.
“Well, then,” Barnett said. “All right.”
Outside, the gas station man worked swiftly. He lifted the hood of the police car and pulled the radiator cap. Then he crouched down, out of view of the grocery store, and crabbed to the driver’s side of the car. In a matter of seconds, the keys were out of the ignition and the trunk was open.
Inside the grocery, Huge Barnett pulled a Michelob from the six-pack under his arm and cracked it open.
“Three bottles of Venetian Cranberry Oil,” remarked the cashier, a red-haired girl of high school age. “I don’t think we’ve ever had anybody buy three bottles.”
“A little’s got to go a long way,” Barnett said with a leer. “Now, how much do we owe you?”
BARNETT JAMMED a ten-dollar bill into the gas station man’s hand and squeezed his bulk into the Chrysler.
“Where’d that damn truck go off to?”
“Who cares?” Laurie said, moving close. “Let’s just go.”
Barnett acceded with a grunt and wheeled back on the Overseas Highway, heading east toward Marathon. At the Exxon, the gas station man went to his CB radio and passed a brief message.
As the police car crossed the Bahia Honda bridge, Laurie pressed a soft hand to Barnett’s crotch.
“You’re sweet to buy me that lotion.”
“It’s for both of us, right?”
Laurie smiled. “My, my. This must be how you got your nickname.” She played with Barnett’s cowboy shirt until it came out of his pants. She struggled to unhitch the belt buckle, a brass star with his name embossed in the center.
“What are you doing, darlin’?”
“Don’t mind me.”
“I’m trying to drive here … Lord!”
Laurie rubbed Barnett’s marbled belly with both hands. She leaned over and traced circles with her tongue, lower and lower on his midriff. With one hand she unzipped his trousers.
“Lord Jesus!”
Laurie sat up. “You want me to stop?”
“No, honey. Don’t stop.” Barnett hooked her around the neck with his arm and pulled her back down, but not before Laurie got a glimpse of the sign which announced the Seven Mile Bridge.
Huge Barnett’s head spun euphorically; he felt himself grow achingly hard as Laurie kneaded him gently. The disasters of the day—Boone’s murder, Tom’s disappearance—dissolved with his own tumescence. Barnett kept one meaty hand on the wheel, the other on the back of Laurie’s neck, guiding, encouraging. Her tongue tickled and teased, but would not go where he wanted.
Barnett navigated the narrow, pitted bridge with only half a mind to the task. Campers, tanker trucks, and tourist cars flew at him, a hairbreadth away. Barnett’s squad car domineered the roadway, listing to port, weaving as he throbbed. The occasional horn of a terrified southbound car barely disturbed his trance. Twenty feet below, a stippled carpet of water stretched out to all horizons.
“Be careful, hon,” Laurie whispered from the folds of Barnett’s trousers, realizing all that lay between certain orgasm and certain death were the peeling, corroded railroad ties which constituted the sole guardrail. Laurie fought back her revulsion. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Come on darlin’,” Barnett urged huskily. “I think he wants to come out and play now.”
Three miles ahead, in the bridge tender’s house a friend of Councilman Bobby Freed received a radio call. From his perch, the bridge tender could see a lobster boat in Moser Channel, waiting to pass from the Gulf side to the Atlantic. He pressed a button and bells rang along the Seven Mile Bridge; two sets of red-and-white barrier gates descended on each side of the turntable bridge. Slowly, the cumbersome iron span began to pivot. The bridge tender looked toward the line of traffic approaching from the south. The lead car was a big white Chrysler with a bubble on top. It appeared to be carrying only one person.
Huge Barnett watched the gates come