Drive by James Sallis Read Free Book Online

Driver was feeling the drinks too.
    “Be that as it may,” Manny went on, “I was wondering if you’d consider driving me. I’d pay top dollar.”
    “Don’t see how I can. I’ve got shoots scheduled. But even if I could, no way I’d ever take your money.”
    Having wrestled his way out of the car, Manny leaned back down to the window: “Just keep it in mind, okay?”
    “Sure I will. Why not? Get some sleep, my friend.”
    Ten blocks away, a police unit hove up in his rear view mirror. Careful to maintain speed and to signal turns well in advance, Driver pulled into a Denny’s and parked facing the street.
    The cop went by. He was patrolling solo. Window rolled down, takeout cup of coffee from 7-Eleven in one hand, radio crackling.
    Coffee sounded good.
    Might as well have some while he was here.

Chapter Fourteen
    From inside he heard the bleating of a terminally wounded saxophone. Doc had ideas about music different from most people’s.
    “Been a while,” Driver said when the door opened to a nose like a bloated mushroom, soft-poached eyes.
    “Seems like just yesterday,” Doc said. “Course, to me everything seems like just yesterday. When I remember it at all.”
    Then he just stood there. The sax went on bleating behind him. He glanced back that way, and for a moment Driver thought he might be getting ready to yell over his shoulder for it to shut up.
    “No one plays like that anymore,” Doc said with a sigh.
    He looked down.
    “You’re dripping on my welcome mat.”
    “You don’t have a welcome mat.”
    “No—but I used to. A nice one. Then people somehow started getting the notion I meant it.” That strangled sound—a laugh? “You could be the blood man, you know. Like the milk man. Making deliveries. People’d put out bottles with a list of what they need rolled up in the mouth. Half a pint of serum, two pints of whole, small container of packed cells….I don’t need any blood, blood man.”
    “But I will, and a lot more besides, if you don’t let me in.”
    Doc backed off, gap in the door widening. Man had been living in a garage when he and Driver first met. Here he was, still living in a garage. Bigger one, though; Driver’d give him that. Doc had spent half a lifetime dispensing marginally legal drugs to the Hollywood crowd before he got shut down and moved to Arizona. Had a mansion up in the Hills, people said, so many rooms that no one, even Doc himself, ever knew who was living there. Guests wandered up stairwells during parties and didn’t show up again for days.
    “Have a taste?” Doc asked, pouring from a half-gallon jug of generic bourbon.
    “Why not?”
    Doc handed him a half-filled water tumbler so bleary it might have been smeared with Vaseline.
    “Cheers,” Driver said.
    “That arm doesn’t look so good.”
    “You think?”
    “You want, I could have a look at it.”
    “I didn’t call ahead.”
    “I’ll work you in.”
    Driver watched as dissembling fell away.
    “Be good to be of use again.”
    Doc scurried about gathering things. Some of the things he gathered and laid out in a perfect line were a little scary.
    Easing Driver out of his coat, scissoring blood-soaked shirt and pasty T-shirt away, Doc whistled tunelessly, squinting.
    “Eyesight’s not what it used to be.” As he reached to probe at the wound with a hemostat, his hand shook. “But then again, what is?”
    He smiled.
    “Takes me right back. All those muscle groups. Used to read Gray’s Anatomy obsessively when I was in high school. Lugged the damn thing around like a Bible.”
    “Following in your father’s footsteps?”
    “Not hardly. My old man was eighty-six per cent white bread and a hundred per cent asshole. Spent his life selling roomfuls of furniture on credit to families he knew couldn’t afford it only so he could repossess it and go on charging them.”
    Pulling the top off a bottle of Betadine, Doc dumped it into a saucepan, found a packet of cotton squares and threw them