hitchhikers. I pulled two quick blasts out of the air horn and let the grade help me slow so I could steer onto the shoulder and wait.
He had almost a half a mile to run with the old suitcase, and I sat watching him in the right-hand mirror. A string of four-wheelers swished by me on the left and headed like bright-colored darts toward the crest of the rise. The big diesel under the hood rumbled like it wanted to give chase.
The hitchhiker was breathing hard when he reached the truck. Even over the rumble of the diesel I could hear him panting as he opened the passenger-side door and hoisted his suitcase up onto the floor. The cab's seat was higher than he'd thought, and I reached over and grabbed him by the wrist to help him in. He seemed to resent that as he pulled the door shut with a slam and settled back in the upholstery. I dropped the Kenworth into low range and steered back onto the highway, working through the gears as I took the rest of the grade.
"Ruddy Kane," I said by way of introduction. "Where you headed?"
"Far as you're goin' in this direction."
He hadn't given me his name. That should have clued me. Up close he was a scruffy-looking little guy with a twice-broke nose and a U-shaped scar on his forehead. Too bad he couldn't grow that beard over the rest of his face.
"I'll be turnin' north at Seventy-seven," I told him.
"My name's Brogan," he said, as if he'd thought it over. I nodded like Brogan was everybody's name. "I'm headin' east to get a job."
"What do you do?"
"Most anything."
What he was best at was being vague. I caught a faint mildewed odor from his wrinkled fatigue jacket and faded denim Levis, and I recognized what that scent might mean. I'd slept outside on the ground before.
The hell with it. None of my business.
"You had supper yet?" I asked Brogan.
He looked sharply at me and shook his head no.
"Place up there around the next curve I usually stop at," I told him. "Dale's Speed Grill. They serve top hamburgers fast and so are the waitresses."
Brogan said nothing, dug his hands into the baggy pockets of his jacket.
We took the curve and I saw the big neon hamburger on the roof of Dale's, bright red and green in the fast-fading light. The restaurant was small and kind of dumpy-looking, but it was neat and clean inside, and almost everyone who traveled this highway regularly made it their meal stop if they were in the area.
I slowed the Kenworth, waited for a station wagon to pass, and edged into the right lane. There were half a dozen road rigs parked in Dale's big graveled lot, and a Highway Patrol car nosed up against the side of the low building.
Brogan's hands came out of his jacket pockets. The right one held a revolver. I couldn't say I was surprised.
"Keep right on drivin'," Brogan said.
I hit the accelerator and glanced at him as I shifted gears. "To where?"
"Wherever I tell you."
He pressed the barrel of the gun into my ribs to show me he was sincere. I saw Dale's bright neon hamburger fall away and disappear in the right outside mirror.
"The law on you?" I asked.
Brogan looked at me from beneath the curved scar on his forehead. You could've chilled beer with his eyes. "You don't need to know nothin' except how to drive this hunk of iron."
I made high range and considered. "And when you don't need me for that anymore, you don't need me at all."
He held the gun out where it would attract my eyes. "You scared, Mr. Driver?"
"Some." I concentrated on my driving with half my mind while the other half wondered just who this mildewed little desperado thought he was.
"Stick to the speed limit!" he ordered, purposely working the pistol barrel on my ribs to produce pain. I edged back to within the law.
"Somethin' you oughta know," I told him. "I'm haulin' explosives. Quick-dry cement and blasting powder for a big engineering project in Pennsylvania."
Brogan shrugged. "If it wasn't safe, you wouldn't be haulin' it."
"It's safe as long as I'm on smooth highway. Otherwise
He had almost a half a mile to run with the old suitcase, and I sat watching him in the right-hand mirror. A string of four-wheelers swished by me on the left and headed like bright-colored darts toward the crest of the rise. The big diesel under the hood rumbled like it wanted to give chase.
The hitchhiker was breathing hard when he reached the truck. Even over the rumble of the diesel I could hear him panting as he opened the passenger-side door and hoisted his suitcase up onto the floor. The cab's seat was higher than he'd thought, and I reached over and grabbed him by the wrist to help him in. He seemed to resent that as he pulled the door shut with a slam and settled back in the upholstery. I dropped the Kenworth into low range and steered back onto the highway, working through the gears as I took the rest of the grade.
"Ruddy Kane," I said by way of introduction. "Where you headed?"
"Far as you're goin' in this direction."
He hadn't given me his name. That should have clued me. Up close he was a scruffy-looking little guy with a twice-broke nose and a U-shaped scar on his forehead. Too bad he couldn't grow that beard over the rest of his face.
"I'll be turnin' north at Seventy-seven," I told him.
"My name's Brogan," he said, as if he'd thought it over. I nodded like Brogan was everybody's name. "I'm headin' east to get a job."
"What do you do?"
"Most anything."
What he was best at was being vague. I caught a faint mildewed odor from his wrinkled fatigue jacket and faded denim Levis, and I recognized what that scent might mean. I'd slept outside on the ground before.
The hell with it. None of my business.
"You had supper yet?" I asked Brogan.
He looked sharply at me and shook his head no.
"Place up there around the next curve I usually stop at," I told him. "Dale's Speed Grill. They serve top hamburgers fast and so are the waitresses."
Brogan said nothing, dug his hands into the baggy pockets of his jacket.
We took the curve and I saw the big neon hamburger on the roof of Dale's, bright red and green in the fast-fading light. The restaurant was small and kind of dumpy-looking, but it was neat and clean inside, and almost everyone who traveled this highway regularly made it their meal stop if they were in the area.
I slowed the Kenworth, waited for a station wagon to pass, and edged into the right lane. There were half a dozen road rigs parked in Dale's big graveled lot, and a Highway Patrol car nosed up against the side of the low building.
Brogan's hands came out of his jacket pockets. The right one held a revolver. I couldn't say I was surprised.
"Keep right on drivin'," Brogan said.
I hit the accelerator and glanced at him as I shifted gears. "To where?"
"Wherever I tell you."
He pressed the barrel of the gun into my ribs to show me he was sincere. I saw Dale's bright neon hamburger fall away and disappear in the right outside mirror.
"The law on you?" I asked.
Brogan looked at me from beneath the curved scar on his forehead. You could've chilled beer with his eyes. "You don't need to know nothin' except how to drive this hunk of iron."
I made high range and considered. "And when you don't need me for that anymore, you don't need me at all."
He held the gun out where it would attract my eyes. "You scared, Mr. Driver?"
"Some." I concentrated on my driving with half my mind while the other half wondered just who this mildewed little desperado thought he was.
"Stick to the speed limit!" he ordered, purposely working the pistol barrel on my ribs to produce pain. I edged back to within the law.
"Somethin' you oughta know," I told him. "I'm haulin' explosives. Quick-dry cement and blasting powder for a big engineering project in Pennsylvania."
Brogan shrugged. "If it wasn't safe, you wouldn't be haulin' it."
"It's safe as long as I'm on smooth highway. Otherwise
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