Wild, Hard, Sweet | Page 5

it in New York. He could disappear here forever, but it felt too close, like he'd be drawn back to Maine. Also, he wasn't crazy about living in such a big city. Screw it. He walked to Penn Station and bought a ticket to Savannah on The Silver Meteor, leaving at 6:30.
He ate a steak sandwich, drank a couple of beers, and boarded as soon as he could. The train left the city through a tunnel, emerging in the evening light to glide slowly by refineries and warehouses. Where was he going' Fear and loneliness began to take over. Instinctively, he forced them down into a hard place inside him, out of the way. If he gave in to feeling shitty he might just as well turn around and go home. Resisting arrest, a big buy--if he got five years, he'd be twenty-nine when he got out. No way. The hard place got harder. Like uranium compacted, it began to give off energy.
He looked through his wallet, removed his driver's license and a credit card, and stashed the license inside a sock at the bottom of his pack. The credit card was useless; any slip he signed would signal where he was. He took his knife and cut the card into six pieces. A women's magazine lay on the seat next to him. He tore out a page, folded the plastic pieces into it, and threw it away in the lavatory. Probably he should toss the license, too. But he might need photo ID somewhere. He could get rid of it when he figured out how to get some other ID.
That had to be soon. Charley Walker was dead. No, not dead. Behind him. The hard place inside him said: get a name. He thought about this and decided that he could keep Charley. It wasn't taking much of a chance; there were a lot of Charleys. Charley Dunn. The name came to him, familiar and easy. It had a rhythm to it. Then he remembered it was from a Jerry Jeff Walker song about a guy who made boots in Texas. Charley Dunn, he sang to himself. The sound of the wheels sang along. Charley Dunn.
Charley dozed, waking in Philly and again in Washington, D.C. Strangers walked by his window, faces pale in the station lights. At dawn, the train was moving through low country. He washed, got a cup of coffee from the club car, and watched small fields and trees go by, patches of swamp, dirt roads, a few horses, cows, old wooden houses, a gas station. The train stopped at a short platform. An older woman was standing silently by a large suitcase. She boarded, several cars behind him.
He got off in Savannah, feeling numb and stiff. He hadn't slept in a bed for three nights. The station was outside the city. 'About three miles,' a cab driver told him. 'But you don't want to walk it.'
'No, guess I don't.' Charley put his pack in the back seat and got in front. The driver eased from the station, reaching out and setting the meter when they turned onto an access road.
'Where you from?'
'Maine.'
'Maine' Supposed to be nice. Cold.'
'Not too bad,' Charley said.
'Any place is good, you got money in your pocket.'
'You know a place I could stay, not too expensive?'
'Oh, Lord. The cheerleaders are in town. Filled right up. State cheerleader convention.' He rapped out a rhythm on the wheel with his thumbs. 'It's early, you might get a room at the Howard Johnson's. That ain't too bad. Not right in the middle of town, but not too far neither.'
'Good deal,' Charley said.
They drove through an industrial district and stopped outside a HoJo's that had seen better days. He gave the guy a ten.
'You want change?'
'Nope.'
'Thanks, Brother. This is going to be a good day.' He had a hard round face with eyes that seemed to close when he smiled.
'I hope so,' Charley said.
'I'll hang on in case you need to go somewheres else.'
There were two rooms left. Charley waved from the door, and the driver left.
He registered as Charley Dunn, 1126 Needham Street, Boston, MA, an invented address. He probably shouldn't have told the cab driver that he was from Maine. But he had to be from somewhere. He collapsed on the bed and slept all afternoon.
He got up at dark, took a shower, and ate fried shrimp in the restaurant, still half asleep. The only thing between him and jail was thirteen thousand dollars--well, twelve something, now. Money, work, there was a lot to figure out. He went back to his room and watched a Braves game. The catcher threw out a runner stealing, and Charley felt a flash of satisfaction. How it's done. Charley had the best arm in the state. Roland was