Driven: The Sequel to Drive by James Sallis Read Free Book Online Page B

now, I’m gonna need to see some ID.”
Driver’s hesitation before reaching for his wallet was instinctive and fleeting. He didn’t think it showed. But afterwards he wondered if somehow Billie hadn’t caught it. She stepped toward the cop, pulling a drivers license out of the rear pocket of her jeans. The license was as well-worn as the jeans.
The cop took it, looked up at her, then back to the license.
“You Bill Cooper’s kid? The one in, what, law school?”
“At ASU, yes sir.” She held out her hand. He gave her the license. It went back in the rear pocket.
He stood a moment, glanced at Driver one more time, and said, “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.” The two of them walked out. Driver heard both doors, heard the car start up. The cops had parked some distance from the garage.
“Wasn’t that interesting,” Billie said. “Broke the monotony of just another night running up someone’s bill, sopping up more grease, hanging out with a dude that came in off the street.”
She stepped almost up to him. The awareness was still there, but the watchfulness, for whatever reason, was gone.
“Could you do with a cup of coffee, piece of pie, something on that order? There’s a place up the street. If it’s a slow night we stand a fair chance of not getting shot, robbed, or poisoned by the food.”
— • —
     
In past lives, Butch’s had been a Steak Pit, a Hamburger Palace, a Mexican restaurant, and quite possibly a drive-through bank. Artifacts of those lives—general layout, smell, signs and tiles, an extensive driveway system—lingered. A “piece” at Butch’s turned out to be a quarter of a pie, and came on a dinner plate. Coffee arrived in cups the size of soup bowls. Probably did killer business once the bars skirting the edge of town shut down for the night. Which wasn’t too far off, come to think of it.
He stirred milk into his coffee, looked at his piece of pie, and felt vaguely challenged by both. “Your father’s a cop.”
“One of them , yeah. And my mother was an illegal. He married her, made an honest woman of her. What does that make me?”
“Interesting?”
“Not really.”
“Like your name then. Not interesting, you said before.”
“When I was little, I climbed on everything. Chairs, trees, people’s legs, toilets, cardboard boxes. Like a goat, my mother said. And Dad was Bill—”
“I get it.”
“With an - ie to make it feminine.”
Outside, two cars tried to pull into the parking lot at the same time. Both stopped. One driver got out, leaving the door open, and started toward the other car. That driver threw it in reverse, backed into the street, and floored it.
And just like that, for no good reason at all, he found himself telling Billie about his mother. How he’d sat chewing his Spam sandwich watching her go after his old man with a butcher knife and a bread knife, one ear on his plate and blood shooting out of the gash in his neck. How that was about it for the rest of her life, she’d used it all up.
“They were good knives, I hope,” Billie said.
“Probably not, it was a cheap house. But they did their work.”
“Her too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last thing she did, from what you say. A mother, protecting you.”
Somehow that had never occurred to him. He always figured she’d just had enough.
“What’s the story there?” Billie nodded to a booth where a fiftyish woman and a man in his twenties sat, she with eggs and bacon, he with salad. Was Billie picking up on his uneasiness, changing the subject in accord?
“Not mother and son,” he said.
“And not lovers, the body language is all wrong.”
“Yet they’re both leaning in slightly.”
“Dispensing and ignoring advice?”
“Confessing to one another, maybe.” He braved the pie and for moments they were silent. The couple rose from the booth to leave by separate doors. “Law school, huh?”
“Second year.”
“That’s a longish walk from fixing people’s cars.”
“I don’t know. How