Debt

“Now let's see, there's a right, and about 3 miles down, there's a landmark, what was it?” The farmer removed his baseball cap, scratching the back of his neck with the brim. The direct sunlight revealed a brow glistening with sweat. “Barn,” he said. “Big ol' red one with a star on the side, and that's white.”

The man gave him a knowing smile as he twisted his baseball cap back over his stringy grey hair.

“I know you're probably thinkin', a barn ain't much of a landmark 'round here, but you'll know it when you see it. It's close to the road and it's got that big star on the side of it.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Charlie replied.

“Sure thing. You folks're lucky I was out this far by the road. Not too many people once you get further down, and even less that know the place you're talking about.”

“Sorry? I was told it was a fairly large town?”

The farmer scrunched his face. He clasped his hands over one another and rested them atop his hoe. As he shifted his weight onto it, its prongs dug into the soil.

“Once upon a time, maybe.”

Charlie felt an elbow digging into his side and ignored it. “Ah. Well, easy mistake. You see we're renting a place from my-” he paused for a fraction of a beat, clicking his tongue. “brother in law's grandmother, but she hasn't been to the town in- oh, decades. Anyway, thank you very much, you've been a great help.”

“Uh huh. Good luck, you two.” The older man waved them off, and the Impala kicked up dust as it sped off down the hard-packed dirt path they called a street.

Rolling closer to the fork in the road, Charlie wondered briefly if the sensation of eyes on the car was real or imagined. Of course, he didn't doubt Old Farmer Brown to watch after the lost travelers to make sure they'd followed his directions, but...  He turned left.

Rocco's head spun over his shoulder, looking back at the fork, then to Charlie. He frowned. “Charlie, whose right is this that you turned?” He extended his index fingers and thumbs in mirror L shapes and with a serious look on his face, he picked up his right hand and showed it to Charlie. “This is my right, Charlie. See? It don't look like an L.”

Charlie spared him a glance. “It does to me,” he said.

Rocco jutted out his lower lip and studied to his hands with intensity. He opened his mouth to protest.

Charlie cut him off. “I turned left,” he said.

“How come?”

Charlie wasn't entirely sure himself. Didn't he trust the old farmer? Was it the discrepancy between what he'd been told about the town and the apparent reality the local had informed him of? Maybe it was the phantom leer he sensed as the car peeled down the dirt road. Whatever it was...

“Bad feeling,” he replied.

Beside him, Rocco lowered his brow and slowly nodded. “Bad feeling like in Texas, you mean?” he asked, gesturing to the sparse patches of trees huddled together, out of place in the endless farmlands. “Ya know, in the woods.”

Charlie felt a chill in his chest at the memory. He swallowed and gave a nervous breath of a laugh. “I thought we agreed no further discussion of what happened in Texas?”

Rocco's lips clamped shut. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Forgot.”

Charlie gave no reply, hoping his silence would say everything words could. Partly because he'd told Rocco at least 30 times it wasn't up for discussion, but mostly, to keep the involuntary tremble in his throat from leaking out in his voice. Ever since they'd crossed the state-line into Oklahoma, he hoped that the shiver he got when he thought about what he saw in the woods would subside. It didn't.  

When he finally spoke, his voice came out sounding as tense as his grip on the wheel. “I guess the feeling is sorta the same, but it's a little more specific than that,” he was lying, but only partially. “It's one you should be familiar with, honestly.”

This time Rocco nodded much more sharply. “Oh. It felt like a set up, you mean?”

“Right.”

Rocco rustled a hand through his hair, crushing what remained of his already road-crumpled pompadour. “So what, you don't trust Caroline all of a sudden? Even after Florida?”

“Incidentally, Florida's exactly why I'm having trouble trusting her. If you recall, we didn't exactly end that little road trip on the best of terms.”

The unchanging landscape of sun-baked grass stretched on as far as the eye could see, probably even further. Charlie realized he hadn't seen so much as another car or the usual green destination sign even since long before they'd talked to the old farmer. Suddenly what the old farmer said seemed to make more sense, he couldn't imagine anyone living out here.

He reached over to the radio dial and flicked through the stations. Nothing but static and car commercials.  Remembering the little cheat sheet of rock stations Caroline kept tucked under her visor,  he wished he had her foresight. With a sigh, he clicked it off.

“Roc, grab the GPS outta the glove compartment and set it up for Elk City, willya? Think I saw it on a sign a couple miles back. If nothing else, there's gotta be a place there we can grab a meal.”

Rocco rooted through the glovebox and removed the little device. He entered the letters slowly, swearing under his breath and cursing his bulky fingers for hitting almost every key but the ones he wanted. With its strange mechanical inflection, it came to life, “Continue to OK-152 W for” the little machine paused like it was thinking, “FIVE Minutes.”

Charlie nodded. “Can do,” he replied. “Where's it say after that?”

Rocco poked the machine a few more times, “We turn left, and uh.... then we're on the same road for,” he paused, double checking the route. “'bout an hour.”

“Thanks. Hey, why don'cha try and find a decent radio station? Give us somethin' to listen to while we drive?”

Rocco shrugged and began scanning through the stations. In the corner of his eye, Charlie noticed the sullen vacancy of Rocco's face. It was an expression he'd seen a lot of ever since they'd left Boston. Still, whenever he caught Rocco staring out windows with that look, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. For all his pissing and moaning, especially about the south,  he'd been a trooper about this whole thing.

Because there wasn't any other choice, Charlie thought. Boston wasn't safe anymore, not even for Charlie, and he'd been officially a dead man since November. Hell, maybe they even thought Rocco was dead too. He didn't know how long David stuck around after everything or whether or not he knew Rocco was alive. Aside from him, who would know Charlie survived to pull Rocco's blistering body from the warehouse fire? Either way, he'd given them as good of an exit as any. Just two dead men on the run, from everything and anything.

Yet, miles and miles away, even in the strange summer-spring of the south, it always felt like there was a shadow somewhere. Eyes on the car, an impending sense of dread, the distinct feeling like something was wrong, a knot in your stomach or a weight on your back. A bad feeling. Like in the woods, he thought for a flash. Of course, they'd find them eventually, Charlie had no doubt about that. Leaving Boston was a head start but that was all it was.

Rocco settled on a station playing jazz and leaned back into his seat with a faint smile on his face. “Reminds me of the old days.”

“Which old days would those be?” Charlie replied, his mind snapped back to the reality inside the car.

“Little before we met, lil bit after too” Rocco said. His smile broadened, thank god (or whoever) for that.“You pulled into a jazz club that night, 'member that?”

He did, and smiled as well. He arched an eyebrow and spared Rocco a glance. “Do you remember or is that somethin' I told you?”

Rocco scrunched up his face and rolled his eyes to the sky in a caricature of deep thought. “Dunno, really.” He sighed and his smile waned. He looked to Charlie with a hard expression on his soft face.  “Charlie, be honest, what are we gonna do when we get to Elk City?”

“Well, like I said, we're gonna get a meal and then,” he trailed off, “I don't know, Roc. I really don't know.” He didn't have to look over to see that Rocco was making that face again. Rocco always counted on him to have the plans, the schedule, the ideas. Right now, he had none of those.

Charlie reached for his hand and grasped it tight. “We're gonna figure it out, alright? I'll call Caroline- see what's up, if it feels right and not like a set up, we can stay in her safe house for a bit until we can figure out where we're goin' next.” With a tight final squeeze, Charlie let go and before he could look back to the road, he caught another faint smile. 

They pulled into the parking lot of the Flamingo Inn around 7pm and Charlie was surprised to see the sun was already ducking down for the night. Well, it was still only early spring after all, even if it was 78 degrees. The red-orange sunset painted the buildings along route 66 with a creamsicle orange glow. As Charlie stepped out of the car, his unease lessened. There was some pleasant comfort in the small roadside motels, as much as he hated to admit it. It reminded him of simpler times, back in the days when he'd go on jobs with Oscar crammed with his knees to his chest into the backseat of whatever hunk of shit Oscar's chauffeur was escorting them around in.

Rocco let himself out. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, his joints popping audibly as he did. With a tired groan, he sat himself down on the trunk of the car (which sagged under his weight) and craned his head around, taking in the scenery. A small grin brightened up his face. “Well, I like the looks of it,” he said.

“At the very least, I doubt anyone would look for us here, maybe 'cept Oscar,”

Charlie gave him a tap on his backside and he rocked forward off the car on the heels of his shoes. From the trunk, he gathered their suitcases, handing them one after another to Rocco and stacking them on his arms.

“Yeah, You never told me much 'bout those jobs you used to run with him,” Rocco replied, peering over the mountain of luggage. “Just the uh- occasional mention 'a cheap motels an' a lotta annoyin' leg work” Carefully, he began to set them on top of the trunk as Charlie locked everything up.

“''Cos that's what most of it was, sugar,” He replied.

“Still, I wouldn't mind hearin' more, I like ya stories.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows and gave him a sliver of a smile. “Maybe later then.”

“I'll hold you to that. Should I just wait here with the bags, then?”

“Might as well, I'll check us in, if we're in the lobby together, I'm checking in under the name Ben, three letters, easy to remember, even for you.”

“Don't suit ya.”

“Good, that's the whole point.”

The inside lobby was small and looked like every other roadside motel lobby he'd seen.  On the counter was a cheerful little Jade Buddha with his hands raised to the heavens, and a pink plastic flamingo, representative of the hotel's namesake. Two signs on the wall addressed what must have been the biggest concerns of the other travelers. The first confirmed, “Yes, we have HBO”, and the other informed that check out time was at 11 am. He rang the bell and waited.

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Things had been weird since Florida; maybe before that. Maybe with the theme park lights, green grass and blue skies, he hadn't noticed it. But now it was March and wherever they were going, they hadn't gotten any closer since they'd left Boston a little before Christmastime.

Days were long and continuous, a smear of nearly identical southern cities, states, and rest stops. Of greasy food and greasier victims killed in bathroom stalls or alleyways.  There was never any time to rest either. Charlie got them back on the road again like the devil was at his heels. Rocco had a pit of worry in his stomach since the night Charlie “died” back in November. For two months in Florida, it disappeared, but after that night, with all the guns and noise, it took up a permanent residence.

He could live with it. The ever present anxiety of some unseen threat was nothing new for Rocco. Hell, that's what landed him in Boston's finest depression-era loony-bin when he was a kid. What bothered him more than anything, was that Charlie felt it too. Whatever he saw in the woods rattled him, bad. The fact that he wouldn't talk about it was all the proof Rocco needed.

He tuned out the volume in his brain until it was a low buzz in the back of his head. He turned his attention to the sky. The sun began to sink behind the Braum's ice cream sign.  He'd say this for the south, it might've been hot enough to stick his balls to his leg, but they had some nice sunsets.

He felt a swift smack on the side of his leg and Rocco's eyes tore away from the skyline. Thrust into his face were a set of keys, dangling from Charlie's slender fingers.

“Room 213, that's it, over there,” Charlie gestured toward the building and Rocco's eyes followed to a door, surrounded by identical others.

He nodded. “I can bring the stuff up if you hold the doors for me.”

The walk to the door was short and Rocco was thankful for it. It wasn't that the luggage itself was particularly heavy, but you could only balance four suitcases and a couple duffel bags so well before they were bound to take a tumble. Charlie was slow to put his key in the lock and took a deep breath as he twisted the doorknob. Rocco found himself wondering what kinds of horrors Charlie was possibly anticipating behind the chipped white painted door of the Flamingo Inn.

The fading sunlight crept around their frames, and shed a glow on the room through the door. Charlie sighed. From behind him, Rocco looked over the suitcases. With simple white walls and matching framed “art” above the beds, it was as modern as any chain hotel he'd ever stayed in, (except for the high-end ones Charlie footed the bill on) There was even a flat screen TV and a fridge. If not for the lack of hallways, It could've been any Ramada or Radisson. He dropped the suitcases off on the window-side desk and sat himself down on the bed while Charlie slinked away to the bathroom.

“Well, they ain't got robes or fancy toiletries, but I'll say it's sure an improvement over the motels from my shitkickin' days with Oscar.”

“Yeah?” Rocco let himself fall back into the mattress. It didn't sink or creak under him. Not bad.

 “They got HBO,” Charlie informed, setting onto the bed across from him.

Rocco gave an impressed whistle. “No shit? Man, we're really livin' the high life now.”

Charlie hugged his arms across himself and a deep, full laugh rose from his chest. Rocco smiled and joined in. The two of them laughed until the corners of Rocco's eyes were damp and he'd forgotten what was so funny in the first place. When they finally stopped, Charlie let out a heavy exhale but his smile didn't fade.

“Oh, before I forget, can you go get some ice? The machine should be on the first level but just down the stairs. I'll put the drinks in the fridge and maybe scope out some menus online. What're you in the mood for?”

Rocco rose from the bed, and grabbed the ice bucket off the fridge. He looked back to Charlie and shrugged. “Real food,” he said, “if ya know what I mean.”

“Got a feelin' we ain't gonna have the best of luck with that tonight, but I could go for lo mein.”

“Alright.”

Rocco opened the door and stepped out into the Oklahoma twilight. The sun had set now, but the air still held onto the faint dusky light and the warmth of the day. He hopped down the stairs, happy to stretch his legs. For a second, he was transported somewhere else in his mind, the themed corkscrew stairs at the “budget” resorts in Disney World. He smiled as big as his face would let him. There was something good here at the Flamingo Inn. Anything that got you thinkin' of the house of the mouse had to be a nice thing. While the pit in his stomach didn't budge, it didn't bother him as much, and just the way Charlie was able to laugh, maybe things would be alright after all.