Playtime by Bart Hopkins Jr. Read Free Book Online Page B

roll in and out of town, floats and tubes and fishing gear standing
up dancing in the wind, stuff strapped on top or back, the beach deal going on
in all its glory and variety. He gets his gas and rolls inside with his sheath
of preselected numbers for the lottery and the power ball and the mega
millions, hands it to a hard-looking brunette at the register to risk a few
bucks for the chance to dream of riches and the good life. Seems like a fair
trade. Though he knows the math doesn't hold up, he likes the feeling of
possibility it gives him.   
     Apparently his brother Todd doesn't believe him,
or thinks he needs checking up on, because he calls and tells him he's coming into
Hobby the next afternoon, and can he get a lift to his house, and stay there by
the way? 
     All of that is good with Blaine. He will be happy
to see his sorry ass. He straightens up the guest bedroom and throws a fresh
set of sheets on the bed, tidies the rest of the house and heads up I-45 the
next day, Dodge gassed up and rumbling, sounding mighty fine. 
     The sky is cloudy, and he runs in and out of
showers on the way up to the airport. I-45 has become a river of the modern
age, with all sorts of malls and restaurants and other entrepreneurial
emporiums to sell you stuff, on the banks. Plenty of pawn shops. The traffic is
always heavy these days, people going to and from work, families on vacation
headed to the beach. The road is full of billboards, the conventional and the
newer electric that change constantly: brighter, with more bang for the buck,
he guesses. The dog track juts up on the left, a huge, modern stadium, but his
understanding is that it had never really made the money they thought it would.
Whataburgers, with those distinctive orange and white triangle shapes, seem
like they are every few miles, along with Schlotzsky's and McDonald's. The
medical branch of the University of Texas had diversified its properties after
Hurricane Ike had shut down Galveston for so long, and here and there are derm
clinics, cardiac, various and sundry others. Fitness clubs and oriental
restaurants. Some television show had made a big deal about all the girls that
had been killed on this stretch of road throughout the years, or disappeared.
The show had given this sinister aura to the area, like killers lurked behind
every bush, but Blaine had been driving up and down it his entire life, almost,
and it doesn't seem particularly sinister to him. 
     It was an ungodly number of girls killed
in the past 30 years or so, but he didn't think that some serial killer was
running loose. It was just a major thoroughfare with a ton of traffic, and a
growing number of towns tucked into the sides of it.   
     Texas City, La Marque, Webster, Clear Lake. And
more. Growing constantly. Back in the day, when it was mostly overgrown fields
full of trees in a lot of places, it probably made a convenient place to dump a
body. I-45 mystery solved. 
     
     Todd is standing waiting with one rolling piece
of luggage in the pickup area when Blaine drives up, and he collapses the handle
and throws it into the rear seat, hops in and they are off. Like an Indy race
car, they used to say. 
     "You look pretty good for a dead man,"
Todd says, smiling at him from behind an expensive pair of shades, reaching
over to grab his shoulder. He is a younger, slightly better-looking version of Blaine;
he's got the same thick brown hair, lighter blue eyes, and a bigger smile.
People tend to like him right off the bat.   
     "Never heard that before," says Blaine.
"You look pretty good yourself. Single life must agree with you." Todd
had gone through a divorce about four years ago. It had been rough on him,
mainly because of the two kids. He has a boy, Donnie, and a girl Tara. Blaine
had always thought his wife April was a bit of a bitch. Though he'd never said
anything. You didn't rain on a guy's parade like that. Until it was over, of
course. Then it was fair game. Then they asked you