Why did she take the wine with her?
Who knows? Fingerprints? DNA? Maybe she really likes the wine.
Where did she go?
I think about it.
She probably had it planned in advance with whoever dropped her off at the junk yard. Maybe Chris, from the bowling alley.
Or her real boyfriend.
I sigh.
She left me my wallet. All things considered, that was damn nice of her. She certainly didn’t have to do that.
So why did she take my keys?
I think about it a few minutes and come up with this: she had to walk up the hill carrying the handbag. Probably thought I might turn around on my way to pee. If so, I would’ve seen her. Maybe she was afraid I’d drive up the hill to save her the walk. And maybe I’d catch her climbing into her boyfriend’s car, or Chris’s truck.
Then I start thinking about the policeman.
It dawns on me he just showed up.
He didn’t drive up in a police car, he just walked down the hill and chewed me out. Then he walked back up the hill.
Did he visit any of the other cars?
No.
So either Zander ran into him on the hill and told him I was jerking off in the car…
Or he’s the boyfriend.
I think he’s the boyfriend.
Because if he really thought I was a pervert, wouldn’t he have arrested me?
I get a sudden sinking feeling, remembering how long he had my wallet when I was leaning against the car with my back to him.
He probably copied all my information in a notebook.
Name. Address. Driver’s License. Credit cards, including the security codes.
Shit!
Since he didn’t take me in, and didn’t have a cop car, he’s probably not even a cop.
I call the rental car agency in Nashville and report stolen keys.
It takes ten minutes to convince them the car is safely in my possession.
“Why didn’t you say so?” the lady says. “We’re hooked up to satellite. We can start your car for you. When you get where you’re going, call us back and we’ll turn it off and lock it. When you’re ready to go again, call us and we’ll unlock it and start it up for you again.”
I’m amazed, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go through.
“Is there an easier way?”
“You could download the key app and do it yourself from your cell phone.”
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“The key app costs ninety-nine cents.”
I shake my head. Like I’d spend a hundred-fifty a day to rent the car, but wouldn’t spend another buck to make it work. “I’ll spring for it,” I say. “How do I find the app?”
“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.
37.
THE PHONE APP to start the car is amazing. The sort of thing I wish I’d invented. When you bring it up it looks exactly like the remote control that was built into the key. There are four buttons. The top one locks the car. Bottom left unlocks it. Bottom right unlocks the trunk. Center button starts or shuts off the engine. I press the center button, and the engine starts. Like I say, amazing. I put the car in gear and make my way up the riverbank. When I get to the top, I park while deciding what to do next.
I think about driving to Zander’s house, but realize I don’t know her address. I consider filing a police report, but apart from a wounded ego and the loss of what to me is a small amount of cash, it would be a complete hassle.
There are two women still in the mix: Trudy, who probably doesn’t want me now that she’s independently wealthy, and Renee Williams, the thirty-year-old kindergarten teacher whose husband ran off with her best friend. Renee being my sure thing.
Given the choice, I’d take Trudy over Renee in a heartbeat. Except that I’m ninety minutes from Starbucks, where Trudy lies in a hospital bed, currently unable to have sex.
I call Renee.
“Hello?”
“Hi Renee, It’s Gideon Box, from Manhattan.”
“Kansas?”
“New York City.”
“Gideon Box?”
“The doctor. We met on the dating site?”
She pauses a beat.
“Omigod!” she squeals. “I’m so sorry! You’re Dr. Box! Yes, absolutely! Hi! How are you?”
“I’m great.”
“What’s up, Doc?” she says, then laughs hysterically.
“Funny,” I say. Then say, “Have you met a handsome, famous movie star yet?”
“Nope.”
“How about an airplane pilot?”
She giggles. “Nope.”
“In that case, I thought you should know I’m in Kentucky.”
“Omigod! Where?”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Paducah?”
“Of course, silly! It’s not but thirty minutes from here! Can I come see you?”
See me? That happy thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.
“Yes, of course!” I say. “But I don’t have a hotel room yet.”
“You won’t get one, either. Not in Paducah.”
“Why, is there a convention?”
“In Paducah?”
She laughs. “Not that I know of. I just mean there are no hotels in Paducah. But they’ve got some decent motels. How about I jump in the car and head that way? When I get to town I’ll call and you can tell me where you are.”
“Sounds great. I’ll get a room, check in, and wait to hear from you.”
“I’m so excited, Gideon!”
“Me, too!”
“By the way,” she says, “I love your name! Gideon sounds noble, and grand. I’m sorry I didn’t remember it. I always think of you as Dr. Box.”
“That’s quite alright.”
“See you soon!”
“Can’t wait.”
Here’s what I know about Renee Williams: she’s thirty, she’s a kindergarten teacher, her husband ran off with her best friend, and she’s looking for revenge. According to Renee, the best revenge would be to have an affair with her best friend’s husband.
If her best friend’s husband was successful.
Or even good-looking.
Or even clean.
Since he’s none of those things, her first choice is a handsome, famous movie star, an airplane pilot, or a rich doctor.
She didn’t say a young, good-looking doctor.
She said a rich one.
Like I said, Renee Williams is a sure thing.
38.
RENEE WAS WRONG. Paducah actually does have a hotel, and it’s a famous one. But I want to be in a newer area, near the interstate, so I found a surprisingly decent, clean, king suite with a kitchen, desk, couch and all the amenities you could hope to get for a hundred thirty-five a night. I’m not trying to impress you with the room. It’s not that nice. Even in New York City it wouldn’t run more than two-twenty.
But in New York City it wouldn’t be this clean.
I call Renee to tell her I’m staying at the Royal Landmark Inn, and she says, “Wow! Perfect timing!”
“You can’t already be here,” I say.
“No, silly!” she says. “I’m still at home getting all pretty for you. But I’m standing here in tub water, naked, with a razor in my hand.”
I wonder if she’s contemplating suicide. Surely she can wait till after our date for that.
She says, “How do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“Yes.” Because I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“Oh, so you like dirty talk?”
I now have even less idea what she’s talking about.
But I do like dirty talk when a naked woman’s on top, bitch-slapping me with her tits. Or yelling at me as I hammer her from behind when she’s face-down, ass-up, on her knees. In contrast, I didn’t care for the dirty talk I got from Zander’s fake-cop boyfriend a few minu
tes ago. If Renee is anything like her photos, she’s nothing like Zander’s boyfriend. So I’m probably on safe ground by saying, “I love dirty talk!”
“Oooh, I bet you do-oo-oooh,” she says with what she considers a sexy voice. “Well, aren’t you a bad doctor boy! You are a bad doctor, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Renee’s got me pegged. I may be a great surgeon, but I am a bad doctor. I hear it all the time. I’ve got a terrible bedside manner, and have problems communicating with people. Half the time I have no idea what they’re even talking about.
Like now.
She says, “Oh, bad boy?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget, I’m standing here, completely naked.”
“Wow!”
“Mmmm! And you know what I’m doing?”
“What?”
“I’m looking at my pussy.”
“Wow!”
“Would you like to see it?”
“Absolutely!”
“Try to picture it right now.”
“Okay.”
“Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m trying to decide how you like it.”
I get it.
She’s role-playing.
I say, “Doggie-style!”
She pauses a few seconds, then laughs. “I guess that means full bush. Well, you surprised me, but no problem. I’ll just be there that much sooner! Should I pack an overnight bag?”
Seriously? She plans to stay after having sex with me? And does that mean there could be an encore? Or morning sex?
I can’t remember the last time I had morning sex.
You know, sober morning sex.
I like it.
On the other hand, do I really want a total stranger spending the night in my room?
It’s one thing to fuck a total stranger. Quite another to trust her while you’re sleeping.
What if Renee turns out to be the love child of Hell Bitch and Night of the Living Dead?
“Bring the overnight bag and we’ll see how things develop,” I say, realizing I have plenty of time to work out my trust issues before giving my final answer.
She hangs up.
What was it she said? Full bush?
What the hell did that mean?
She had a razor in her hand. Wondered how I like it. And I said doggie style, and she said full bush, and…
Ah! I get it.
Shit.
I might be fucking Wolfman Jack tonight.
39.
I’VE GOT FORTY minutes to kill while waiting for Renee to show up. If I were an author, writing a book, instead of a guy telling you a story, I’d fill the next ten pages telling you how this area was originally a Chickasaw village, and how Chief Paduke welcomed the settlers and lived in harmony till 1827, when William Clark, of Lewis and Clark, showed up with a phony five dollar land deed and forced the Indians to move to Mississippi. I’d tell you that after building the town, Clark was brazen enough to invite Chief Paduke to the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and that the Chief showed up, but died of malaria on the way home.
To impress you with my research I might mention Paducah is one of two cities mentioned in the song, Hooray for Hollywood.
But do you really care?
I don’t think so.
My guess is you’d rather hear about Renee Williams.
Here’s my take on the kindergarten teacher: she’s medium cute. I realize that statement requires clarification, and I’m not sure I’m up to it, but I’ll try.
You know how a puppy’s adorable when he’s sleeping or playing but a grown dog’s disgusting when he humps your leg or licks his dick?
Renee’s the opposite.
Meaning, she’s not the least bit adorable, but I like the way she humps me and licks my dick. I like it so much I hardly look up when the door flies open and Zander’s fake cop boyfriend enters the room with two other guys dressed as policemen.
What gets our attention is all three are holding guns on us.
40.
TURNS OUT ZANDER’S boyfriend is a real cop. Also, he’s not Zander’s boyfriend.
Turns out the reason he didn’t arrest me at the riverbank is because I hadn’t exposed myself, and he’s experienced enough to know a good attorney could reasonably argue I parked there to take a nap and was simply scratching an itch when he happened by.
Turns out the reason he didn’t drive his car down the riverbank is because his partner was busy flirting with the cute young lady with the big handbag (Zander) who said there was a creepy guy in a rental car down the hill, pleasuring himself (me).
Then a car pulled up, Zander climbed in, and they drove away.
No, they didn’t have any reason to question the driver or record the license plate.
I learned the nicest way possible that Renee trimmed her orange bush in the shape of a heart for my benefit, and didn’t appreciate the attention it received from the policemen, particularly the one whose son attended her kindergarten class at Logan Elementary.
The good news is, they allow Renee to go free after being convinced she had nothing to do with the armed robbery that took place at the bowling alley earlier in the day. The one where a female employee named Chris wrote down the make, model, and license number of the rental car she saw in the employee’s parking lot.
After giving police a detailed description of me.
41.
THIS IS EMBARRASSING.
I’m in a police lineup with two black guys, an old wino who’s pissing his pants as we speak, and a cross-dressing punk rocker who shit in hers long before I got here.
Guess which of us was eye-witnessed driving the rental car?
Me.
No surprise there.
But there is a surprise.
A big one.
Chris, a.k.a. Zander’s “friend”, fingers me as the guy who, acting alone, forced his way into the bowling alley, put a gun to her head, and made her open the owner’s private safe.
The cops aren’t overly impressed with my story, that Zander scheduled a date with me in order to dupe me into being the getaway driver for her robbery.
Can you blame them?
So they book me and it appears I’ll be spending the night at city jail.
But when my background check comes back and Paducah police learn I’m the world’s greatest Cardiothoracic surgeon, a guy who earns two hundred grand per operation, my story suddenly sounds better than Chris’s.
After an hour of rigorous interrogation, Chris admits Zander set the whole thing up and gave her half the money.
Chris’s boyfriend picked Zander up from the riverbank, accepted Chris’s half of the money for her, and drove Zander to a truck stop in Eddyville, Kentucky. When he dropped her off, he called Chris’s cellphone, and Chris reported the robbery.
Nearly two hours after it took place.
What made Chris finally spill her guts?
Outrage.
Zander gave Chris and her boyfriend half the bowling alley money, as promised.
But when Chris heard about the eight-thousand dollar robbery that took place around my ankles at the riverbank, she freaked out. She felt half of that should have gone into her pocket.
Police can’t locate anyone named Zander Evans in their data banks. The detectives can’t even get a hit on Google.
I tell them about the dating website, but they tell me she’s pulled her photo and closed her account. It could take the police department weeks to gain access to the original records.
They’re happy to hear I’ve got recent photos of Zander on my cell phone.
They download the photos, take down my information, and tell me I’ll need to come back to town at some point to testify against Zander and/or Chris.
I tell the cop who’s not Zander’s boyfriend I’m willing to come back if I can fit it into my schedule.
“I could jail you till then, if that would make things easier for you,” he says.
I hope they never catch Zander. br />
Not because she has my support, but because if I have to testify against her the entire riverbank episode will be on the public record. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be for me if the multi-million dollar donors to my hospital found out their top surgeon was unable to sustain an erection during a routine blowjob?
It’s late by the time I get back to the hotel, and I’m exhausted. But not too exhausted to open the door for Renee, who wants to spend the night despite the unwelcome police visit earlier.
“What made you decide to come back?” I say.
“You know that cop whose son was in my class at school last semester?”
“Yeah?”
“I figure it won’t matter so much that he saw me naked if you and I wind up getting married,” she says, hopefully.
“That’s quite true,” I say, shamelessly.
“There’s been a slight change since I saw you,” she says. “I went to McDonalds to get one of their dollar meals, you know?”
No. I don’t, but I say, “What happened?”
“I had to use the bathroom.”
“And?”
“I got my period, is all. That’s not a problem for you, is it? I mean, being a doctor and all?”
“Depends on how you feel.”
“About doing it?”
“I mean, do you feel up to having sex?”
“Yes, of course!” she says. “I’m not one to let it slow me down!”
“Well, that’s a damn fine piece of news,” I say, and mean it.
“So it’s not a problem?”
“Not for me.”
“You know what really feels good this time of the month?” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Oral sex.”
“I know. You showed me. And you know what?”
“What?”
“You’re damned good at it!”
“Really?”
“Really. You want to have another go?”
“Thanks, Gideon. That’s really sweet of you. But I meant me.”
“What about you?”
“It feels extra good to me when…you know.”
“Whoa. You want me to give you oral?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“A real man would!” she says.