Never Beat a Full House

Derek first saw the hitchhikers when he took the expressway turnoff just after Rapids, Kentucky. The first thing he wondered was whether it was anyone in particular that they wanted to kill. They stood on what narrow shoulder there was to the tightly curving access road--a pinched lean man in a tennis windbreaker and a blonde girl, maybe in her teens, in denims and a T-shirt--and Derek thought that anyone who stopped for them deserved the Mack that you couldn't see behind you, 20 tons of kick and a long twisted roll.

At the Shell station, the attendant, a kid all scoured with acne, spent more time petting the white Continental than cleaning the windshield. As usual, Derek distrusted him. Feckless way the kid stroked the Continental, suspicious way the kid looked at him. Not the type. You're supposed to look sleek and suburban to drive a Lincoln. Even with his new Sundance Kid mustache, Derek looked like somebody who sold fabricated sidings to developers (which he did), possibly in deals salted with kickback action (when it helped). But you don't explain to a stranger that there are ways anyone can afford a Lincoln--anyone, that is, who's mastered the Byzantine possibilities of the modern expense account. Just so you make sure your boss gets to see only your wife's car.

He paid with a credit card and swung back onto the road and squinted as he tried again to remember Wyona's last name: Shaker Heights, husband a proctologist--do they list MDs anywhere by their specialty?--and she had played some marvelous games with a peeled peach; this time he'd take a basket of peaches. He followed a Mazda into the access curve; saw that the hitchhikers were still there, now fighting. The man--he had to be twice her age--had both her arms by the wrists, and she was kicking; and she was lovely. Was she trying to free her arms and wave to him? Did he know her? Impulsively, Derek drummed his horn twice as he approached, distracting both of them. He pointed ahead as he swung past; couldn't hurt to wait a minute, see if they showed.

He began braking as soon as he reached the highway. Wide, voluble mouth and upswung hair that flashed with her anger. A fantasy flashed through Derek's mind: Just take off, shoot off without him if she made it to the car first. Driver's prerogative, and maybe she'd like to go to Cleveland with him. He glanced back and she came into view.

He wasn't so far behind her, but he was carrying both suitcases and shouting something that got lost in the whoosh of passing cars. Derek reached over and opened the passenger door. Panting, she reached the car and slid inside and gave Derek a smile that he had never seen before. She was soft-featured, a child--she could be 12 or 20--whom you might expect to be demure and modest, but there was a glint of craziness in her smile. As if anticipating Derek's wish, she closed the door behind her and locked it. Derek wanted to start the car and wave goodbye to the man still running toward them with the heavy suitcases dragging. She was definitely young, but her T-shirt and bell-bottomed jeans weren't saying how young. Thinking that too many judges had daughters under 18, Derek waited and smiled back at her.

The older man reached the car and opened the back door to sling the suitcases inside. He looked 40, going on a sullen 70. He had a crabbed crow's mouth and dots for eyes, long hair thinned across his scalp, with one ugly strand that came down over his forehead almost to the sharp corner of his nose. His breath was hard and ragged. He tried the front door and discovered it was locked.

"Open it, Nat," he said. His voice had the texture of sandpaper rubbing against sandpaper. She made a mock sour frown and flicked the lock. Derek watched apprehensively as he got inside. What the hell was she doing, traveling with this Neanderthal?

"Thank you, sir, thank you," he said with that voluble sincerity that always made Derek instantly suspicious. Gruffly, he added, "Over, Nat."

"There's a back seat, you know," she said to him with fluted lips. Derek watched him to see how long it took before he brushed that ugly forelock back above his forehead.

"Over, Nat." She squirmed emphatically toward Derek, as if to ensure maximum space between her and the companion.

"I'm Lowell Perry," the man said to Derek, reaching a hand around Nat. Derek made a wan smile.

"Derek Feld." Like giving your name to a panhandling wino: Derek resented it. "And you're ... Nat? For Natalie?"

She cast a malignant glance at Lowell and sulked. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she said, pouting. The words rolled from her mouth as distinctly as marbles. Derek put the car in drive and pulled it out onto the highway. She must be 12, he decided; she had a 12-year-old's contempt for Lowell, whoever he was. Her father? Somehow, that didn't fit.

"Nat, be nice to the man. He gave us a ride."

"He gave me a ride. He wouldn't have picked you up if you weren't with meee. Isn't that so?" she asked Derek with a sudden sprightly lift to her voice and a finger plucking as a cue at his sleeve.

If she were 12, Derek thought, it was a devious 12. "I wanted to stop a fight. What were you fighting about?"

"He started it," Nat flashed. "He likes to pick on people."

"Derek, you'll have to excuse my niece. She has a temper."

"Would you like to see my temper?" she said with raised eyebrows and a piquant smile. Wasn't Lolita 12? Derek thought. He adjusted his rearview mirror to watch her.

"Nat. We're going to Cincinnati. Where are you going, Derek?"

The use of his first name grated on Derek. He lied. "Louisville. Sales conference. Do you hitchhike much?" Pointedly, he directed it at Nat.

"Not with him."

"Shut up, Nat. What happened, the Pinto fell apart in Rapids. Clutch, transmission, what a mess. I called the bus station and we would have had to wait all day."

"You weren't likely to get a ride, standing in the crook of the road back there. Nobody's going to stop on a curve like that."

"That's what I told him. He never listens."

She squirmed lower, out of the range of the mirror. Derek decided to be direct. At least indirectly. "What year of school are you in, Nat?"

"I don't like school," she said sullenly, folding her arms.

"What do you like?"

She rose high enough to become visible again in the mirror. "Ohhhh, mostly, I guess, I like to play" Her lips gave the last word as much succulence as a nectarine, and she added a bright vivid smile, without turning. So she knew she was in the mirror. That had promise. Then she lifted her index finger to her open mouth, at first tapping her lips, but gradually closing her mouth round the finger and sucking on it, withdrawing it slowly, distressingly slowly, till it burst loose in a loud pop. "I don't like to play alone," she added, half-poutingly, then made another, longer, even more fetching smile, straight into the mirror, directly at Derek. The Continental skirted the shoulder.

"I still can't decide whether you're twelve or eighteen. Maybe it doesn't matter," Derek said.

"She acts like twelve, that's her problem," Lowell grunted. He'd been glancing out the window and missed the performance: Just as well. "She wants people to think she's still a child."

"I'm eighteen," she said with wonderful insouciance. "That's old enough to do whatever I want." She nodded with a child's sure authority. "Don't you think?" she asked Derek brightly, tugging again at his sleeve.

"Absolutely," Derek assured her. "But what do you want?"

She squeezed her hands between her thighs and bounced her knees together. "I want to play a game. Do you want to play?"

"Nat, the man is driving. He should keep his attention on his driving."

"Sure," Derek said, ignoring Lowell. "What kind of game?"

Listlessly, she traced a finger across her leg and down to the seat and across the scant inches of seat to Derek's leg and paused, touching his leg so gently that he tingled everywhere. He knew what kind of game.

"I know one game we can play in a car," she said, leaving her mouth oval and playing her tongue slowly over her lips, as if to taste lingering traces of earlier ice cream.

"For how many?"

"Ohhh, just for two. I wouldn't play with him, anyway. He's a sore loser."

"How do you play this game?"

"Derek, I think it would be safer if (continued on page 98)Never Beat a Full House(continued from page 94) you just kept your attention on the road. Nat, leave the man alone."

"You're in my car now, Lowell," Derek flashed. "In my car."

Nat giggled and clapped. "You tell him. Here, here, I'll show you how to play. First you have to let that car pass." She twisted in her seat, against Derek's side, to point to a beige Volvo, and Derek slowed to let it pass. She leaned forward into the windshield and Derek couldn't avoid glancing at the outline of her high and not-so-small breasts. So. "AAJ737. Ohhhh, that's good. That's very good." She giggled excitedly. "Do you know what that means?"

"I'd like to."

"That's two aces and two sevens. And, of course, a jack and a three, but they're not worth anything."

"Poker."

"Uh-huh. It's got to have at least five numbers or letters. A's and ones both count for aces, 'cause you get better hands. And K, you know, is a king, and Q is a queen, and Os and zeros are tens. Only there're no suits, so you can't get flushes. Do you want to play?" She turned and her smile was dazzling.

"Sure. What kind of stakes?"

She leaned back and, perfectly framed in the mirror, her tongue slid forward and made a slow winding progression around the sides of her lips, wetting them to a gleaming vermilion. Derek forced his eyes forward, at the road. And he felt something flicking lightly at the flap of his fly. "Not money, something else. OK?" she said.

Derek glanced at Lowell, who was looking sideways at Nat darkly. Could he see what her left hand was doing? Still doing? "All right," Derek said. "Against what?"

"Oh, him. Of course."

"Lowell."

"If you win, well...." She rubbed her finger against the straining zipper, then drew it to her mouth and rolled her tongue round it, like a lollipop. "Then I give you a surprise! But if I win, you let him out. At the side of the road."

"Natalie, stop this nonsense at once." Iron shavings had gathered in Lowell's voice.

Derek tried to hide a grin and wiped his mouth when he couldn't. "Costly for Lowell."

"Don't, don't, Derek," Lowell said. His voice shook. "She's ... she's not well. She does things sometimes with strangers. It's embarrassing."

"We each get three hands," Nat said, sitting up straight. "And after all three, you pick your best hand against my best hand. We take turns on the cars that pass. But only cars count, no trucks or trailers or, yecchhhhh, motorbikes. OK?" Her smile was superb and Derek decided that she had no business traveling with Lowell, anyway.

"Great."

Impulsively, she hugged his arm and sat closer to him.

"Derek ..." Lowell began.

"That's yours, the first one," she said, squirming against his arm. Derek slowed to let a maroon Cougar pass.

"NGK555. Oooooo, three fives. Bet I can beat three fives."

Derek slowed again and let a Volkswagen pass.

"BCJ236. Yech. Bugs are always such yech hands."

"Derek ... ?" Lowell sounded pitiful.

"Can't you just shut up, Lowell?"

"Yours is the next one. Ha! KJT990. Almost a straight, just dinky nines. Junk."

"I'm really taking her to a hospital in Cincinnati," Lowell said gravely, in a new tone. "This twelve-year-old act she puts on. There are others."

Derek frowned, but he couldn't keep out a brief inexplicable chill. Of course, it was a ruse, Lowell was desperate. He glanced at Lowell: The forelock had slipped down again.

"I want the Cadillac! I want the Cadillac! Caddies are the luckiest, next to Rollses, but you'll never see a Rolls in Kentucky."

The Cadillac shot past too quickly to read the full plate. Derek changed lanes and accelerated.

"The Powell Clinic in Cincinnati," Lowell said. "Have you heard of it?"

"Never." Derek bit his lip: Ignore him.

"AAL919. Full house! Ha-ha! Full house! I win! I win!" Exuberantly, she kissed Derek on the cheek, and her delighted shivers rolled against his arm, against his leg and through his blood stream.

"One more hand. I'll win yet."

"Never beat a full house, never beat a full house," she chanted, rocking in her seat.

"The Powell Clinic specializes in nervous and emotional disorders," Lowell said darkly. "Her father had the choice of sending her there quietly or having her stand a manslaughter rap. Right, Nat?"

"Never beat a full house," she chanted, and on a rock forward flashed a quick expletive finger at Lowell. "Never beat a full house."

"Nat," Derek said, patting her knee to quiet her.

"She ran over a filling-station attendant, didn't you, Nat?"

"Never beat a full house," she whispered.

"Here," Derek said, pointing to an approaching Volvo in his rearview mirror. "This is mine."

"He lived three days, he had a chance to tell about it. It wasn't just hit-and-run, either. Do you want to tell him, Nat?"

"Ha! JDM652. I win. Stop the car."

Too late, Derek realized he could have chosen which cars passed him. But he didn't slow. It might be a problem getting Lowell to leave the car; besides, there just might be something in what Lowell was saying.

"Heyyyyyy. Come on, I won. I won."

"Not here," Derek said. "Wait'll we get to some kind of turnoff, at least. Nobody'll stop for him here."

"Well, that's the idea," she said sarcastically, with a great mock frown of disgust. She slumped deep into the seat and crossed her arms.

"Thanks, Derek. You'd be a fool if you did. That attendant ... he was barely able to talk. But he said she backed up and drove over him again. Twice again. Every rib broken, one of his arms, both of his legs, he couldn't crawl to the phone. Nat, do you want to tell Derek what you told the doctor at the hospital? About why you did it?"

"What lies!" she said, heaving her lips.

"Lowell, I'm not sure I believe any of this."

"He called her by her full name. Natalie Gretchen, after her grandmother. She hates being called that, don't you, Natalie Gretchen?"

"You'd better let him out," she said to Derek in a lower, hostile voice.

"Is any of this true, Nat?"

"Of course not. It's all lies." Her hand wandered across his waist and began fingering his belt buckle. "Can't you let him out now?"

Derek rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a vague pale swarming in his head; below, he was beginning to feel like a jackhammer.

"I have a photostat of the arrest record," Lowell said. "Have you ever seen an arrest record, Derek?"

Derek swallowed. Could he be right? And even if he was ... she had the flap of the belt out, between two fingers, and she flopped it down, up, down, up--

"No," he answered finally.

A hand curled slowly where the belt had been flapping. Lowell reached into the back seat and fumbled with a soft leather bag of many zippered compartments. He tugged at one of the zippers.

"He's lying, he's lying," Nat said, reaching with her free hand to turn the radio on at full volume. Derek turned it off: He had enough chaos without that.

Run over him three times? No; whatever she was, Nat didn't go in for vengeance multiplied. Lowell found what he was looking for--a large manila envelope that he set on his lap. He pricked at the metal clips with his fingernails.

Nat, increasingly restless, leaned against Derek's shoulder and he could (continued on page 216)Never Beat a Full House(continued from page 98) feel the silkiness of her hair against his neck and cheek. "I know another game," she whispered.

Sure. "Just wait," Derek said.

Lowell opened the envelope. Abruptly, Nat jerked forward and snatched the envelope from him, reaching inside.

"Nat, you bitch!"

Her hand came out with two banker's packs of 20s.

"Uncle Lowell," she breathed. "So this is what he's paying you."

He tore the money from her hand, grabbed the envelope, thrust both packs back into his lap and slapped her soundly on the face.

"Hey!" Derek yelled.

"How much?" she taunted Lowell.

Lowell wedged the money back into the envelope, wrapped it tightly and wedged it beneath him, sitting on it.

"There's more, too, isn't there?"

Her voice had lost much of its little-girl inflection: Something in it was becoming raw and caustic.

"Come on, come on, I want to know what I'm worth. Ha! What I'm worth to Daddy to stay out of the pa-pers. "

"It's not my money," Lowell said nervously. "Ten thousand, but it's for your father, so shut up."

Nat leaned on Derek's shoulder again and tickled his ear lobe with a finger. "Let's take it," she whispered.

Derek shook his head. He didn't like that: banker's packs of 20s. "Nat," he said uncomfortably.

"You'd better not listen to her. For your own sake."

"Let's," she said, clapping her hands twice.

"Do you still need proof?"

Derek was silent. She returned to his shoulder, warm on his shoulder, and her right hand began to run tender circles round his chest, moving slowly downward. Some monster. Hell, maybe he should just pull over, drop both of them off. But ... banker's packs.

"We could play another game," she said, popping her lips.

"Nat."

She tapped his fly lightly. "Knock-knock."

"Nat, I'm thinking."

"You're supposed to say, 'Who's there?' "

"Who's there?"

"Me." She squeezed.

"Me who?" Damn her, damn her.

"Meeeeorrrowwwwww," and her fingernails scratched along the inside of his thigh, through his cordovan slacks. Then, abruptly, she jerked back and sat stock-still, with folded arms.

"I'll pay you," Lowell said in slow even tones, "five hundred dollars if you keep driving on to Cincinnati, deliver us to the Powell Clinic."

"Not enough," Derek said immediately. He wondered if anything were enough to keep him driving for hours with the two of them in this car. One had to go, and he had a fairly certain idea which one.

"Then a thousand."

"Who's her father?" Derek asked. There were too many things he didn't know. Those banker's packs disturbed him.

"He's, uh, he's a well-known lawyer."

"He's a poli-ti-cian. He lies for a living."

"We'll see." Derek saw the sign ahead, announcing the first exit to Bowling Green. He could let Lowell off there: He'd half promised it to Nat, and surely there were motels off later exits--if they needed a motel; plenty of room in a Lincoln. But those banker's packs. Twenties....

"There it is ... there it is ... let him off now."

"Lowell, how about some poker?" The idea struck him as inescapable. Ten thousand dollars? Why not? It would put this whole question of keeping Lowell in the car to a test, at least.

"Forget it."

Derek let up on the accelerator and started braking.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Derek pulled onto the shoulder and let the car come to a gentle stop. Far ahead was the green sign, barely visible, announcing the next exit to Bowling Green. "Out, Lowell," Derek said. Clean. He liked that.

Nat clapped and giggled and rubbed his sleeve. "Good for you, good for you."

Lowell paled. "You wouldn't." The forelock dangled and Derek sensed that he was beyond brushing it away.

"License-plate poker," Derek said. "Three hands each. Your ten thousand against"--he patted the dashboard. "Worth that easy. I paid eleven-five for it. Less than a year ago."

"You're mad."

"Then get out."

Nat smiled at Lowell and slowly made a fist and out of the fist rose her middle finger.

"Nat," he growled, reaching for her arm.

"Leave her alone. Get out. Take your bag. Take your money. Go."

Lowell wiped a hand over his face. "You could be in trouble ... with the courts. And with her. All kinds of trouble."

"Yeah. Goodbye, Lowell."

"You haven't even seen my proof. You don't believe me." He wet his lips. "The Powell Clinic. Pay you ... two thousand."

"All ten. We play poker."

"That's no bet. That's larceny."

Derek reached over both of them and jerked the passenger door open.

"Out, Lowell," Derek said through clenched teeth.

"All right, all right. Fucking bastard, I'll play."

"Now, wait a minute, Lowell. You play, you play on my terms. Get into the back seat."

"What?"

"Get the hell into the back seat." His nerves were taut, cracking.

Lowell got into the back and slammed the door angrily. Derek winced.

"We each get three cars." Derek was driving, and he had two rearview mirrors and dynamite pickup. Up to him who passed and when they passed. Fair bet. Sure.

"Son of a fucking bitch."

"Sticks and stones can break his bones, but names, you motherfucker, can never hurrrrt him," Nat chanted.

Derek told Lowell to put the envelope atop the dashboard and glanced inside to be certain. Yes, a batch of lovely, lovely packets. He could count them later. A slow, lingering count. It was already as good as his money. In the euphoria of Lowell's compliance, Derek jotted a note on the envelope to facilitate transfer of title--ha!--and took out his registration and title and laid those atop the envelope and started the car.

"You'll beat him, you'll beat him, you'll beat him," Nat rushed, rubbing against him. He reached a hand over her shoulder and shaped her right breast. Sloping so ripely: ahhh.

"Yours first, Lowell, OK?" He wanted the last one. Just in case.

"You're as bad as she is, you know. Just as messed up."

"Here it comes." He slowed for a vinyl-top Ford with Illinois plates. It passed and Nat read off the number and cheered: fives and sixes. Derek lowered his hand to cup the underside of her breast and he bounced if. yes, fine firm stuff. Nat giggled and leaned over to kiss his ear. French kiss. Derek even let a Chevy past. He announced kings and eights.

"Hah!" Nat chirped. "Yours, Uncle, oooooooo. Just a dinky pair of threes. Too bad. Too bad."

Derek smoothed his right hand down the T-shirt and slipped beneath it at the bottom and rubbed her belly. Trim and smooth. His fingers worked under her belt.

"Kidnaping. That's a felony. Extortion. That's a felony. You could spend a long time regretting what you're doing, Derek. Do you realize that?"

"Tickles," she giggled.

A yellow Volks sedan picked up quickly from behind. Straight except for a five.

A semi was hogging good highway space. He'd just found warm fur. Ahhhhh, lower, moist warm pocket beneath that fur: His finger snuggled inside, then slid slowly back out. Nat caught her breath. Let the semi pass.

Warmer. Deeper. Moist heaven. Slow slide back, she's thriving.

The truck whipped past in a flash of sucked air, followed by a tailgating Chrysler. Son of a bitch, Derek thought; but they were both going at least 65 in a 55 zone, and nobody had a chance to read the entire plate. There were a lot of figures on the plate, though. And Derek didn't like what he saw: AA1.

"Damn it, there's mine. Catch up, come on, catch up."

"He's speeding," Derek said lamely.

"Then speed. That's my car, that's mine."

"Give you the next car."

"Oh, no. You catch up to that car." In an abrupt and furious motion, Lowell lunged over the front seat and jammed his hand down hard on Derek's right knee. The Lincoln shot crazily forward and Derek withdrew his preoccupied hand to lock the steering wheel back onto the road. Nat bit Lowell's wrist as he withdrew his hand. Lowell screamed.

"You're mad!" Derek shouted.

"That is my car." Lowell's voice shook through bit teeth.

Derek shivered. The Chrysler was in sight; he could catch up to it easily enough. So what? He had the last car and there's always a higher hand in the deck. He accelerated.

"HAA177. You lose." Lowell leaned forward between Nat and Derek and collected the envelope and the pink slip and the white slip.

"Not yet," Derek said, feeling a chill that wasn't coming from the whipped air of the vents.

Nat was silent. Derek readjusted the rearview mirror to focus behind him. He could see Lowell's smug smile in the mirror. Highway roulette, he was the croupier's little ball. Now find double zero. He shot forward, keeping to the left lane. Read them from behind, find the winner, pass and slow and wait for them to pass. Eighty-mile-an-hour cinch.

"Wait, wait. You let them pass," Lowell ordered.

"Shut up, Lowell."

Past the Chrysler and the truck that didn't count. Valiant with only four figures. Dodge, plate too dirty to read. The earlier vinyltop Ford. Derek hunched forward, concentrating on a plate that didn't exist yet, but would.

"I demand that you stop my car this instant!"

Volks, kings and fours. Merc, three deuces. Getting warm. Pontiac, not even a pair. Couple of damned semis.

"What are you doing--seventy-five? Derek, I have no intention of becoming a highway casualty."

"We can beat your full house, we can beat your full house," Nat chanted.

A blue car behind him, picking up speed. Damn--might want to pass. Faster, then. Volks ahead and beyond that a Caddy. Black Caddy. Same as earlier? Nat's winning hand, a full house. What was it? Aces and--yes--nines. But that blue sedan behind him, a Rambler, was distinctly closer already.

"Hey! Hey!" Nat pointed eagerly at the Cadillac. "That was mine. From earlier. Aces and nines, remember?"

The rush of knowing he had the hand, the game, swept through Derek. Except for that Rambler behind him that would want to pass. If he pulled in front of the Cadillac, the Rambler would probably pass him before the Cadillac did. He slowed as he approached the Caddy but stayed in the left-hand lane.

"If you're slowing, get in the lane where you belong," Lowell snapped.

"Gonna beat your full house."

There. Even with the Caddy: Keep it that way, instant roadblock, make the Caddy budge. Driver won't like it, think somebody's crazy, good for him. The Rambler was almost tailgating now. No front license plate. Damn.

"Christ, you asshole. There's a car right behind us. Will you move it."

The Caddy driver, in a sweater and cap, stared at them unbelieving; but he didn't move forward. The bastard slowed when Derek couldn't. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Derek shot forward. A race with the Rambler: He didn't need that.

"Ooooooo," Nat moaned. "We lost it."

The Rambler slid into the right-hand lane. Derek picked up speed to discourage it. But the Rambler didn't slow; it kept picking up, till the driver pulled abreast of Derek, and Derek made the mistake of glancing over at him. A bald, dapper man was at the wheel, pressing into the windshield much as Derek was; and he looked at Derek helplessly, pathetically, making a painful frown and slowly shaking his head. It was the look a condemned man might give his executioner. Whoever he was, Derek recognized that he wasn't someone who relished speeding and highway games. He was a man desperate to get somewhere. Derek felt wretched. Instinctively, forgetting the game, he slowed.

Louisiana plates. 45D821. Crap-out. For the first time that Derek had heard, Lowell laughed. It was a grimy laugh, obscenely triumphant. Nat's fingers tightened around Derek's arm.

"What's going to happen?" she asked.

"You're going to the clinic. In my new car," Lowell smirked.

"Don't let him take me there, Derek."

"He won't." Derek avoided Lowell's glare.

"It's awful there; they won't let you do anything."

"You won't have to go." Whatever else happened, she was already promised.

"The hell she won't."

Derek flashed a look of anger and contempt at Lowell, but he felt too sick and too small to match Lowell's brazen hostility. At least he had Nat. That much.

"I know." She had curled up in her seat against him, whispering through cupped hands into his ear. "First we stop and then we make Uncle Lowell get out and then we take off."

"No secrets in my car." Lowell leaned over the front seat, tugged at Nat, jerking her away from Derek.

"Leave her alone, Lowell."

She shot her favorite finger up at Lowell without turning around and resumed whispering. "If anything goes wrong, there's a Howard Johnson's motel just off the Chestnut Street exit into Louisville. All right?" She gave a pert, lovely smile and Derek nodded dubiously.

"What the hell is going on?" Lowell growled.

Abruptly, Nat curled forward in fetal agony. "Owwwww. I have to go to the bathroom. Really bad."

"Ha!" Lowell mocked.

"I do! I do!" Her knees clapped anxiously.

Derek slowed. Woods bled back from the highway on the shoulder to the right, melding into weedy fields. He parked at the far edge of the shoulder.

"You're not leaving this car. Myyyy car." In a swift motion, Lowell punched the lock, keeping his finger on the button.

"Let me out. I have to go to the bath room," Nat squealed, squirming toward the door.

Nat lunged over the seat into the back and grabbed Lowell's suitcase, with all the zippered compartments.

"Bitch!" Lowell howled, letting go of the lock.

In a flash, Nat was out the door, dragging the suitcase, and began racing toward the woods.

"Nat, you bitch! Bring that back!" But Lowell wouldn't budge.

Nat danced to the nearest tree, holding the bag aloft. "What's in it, Uncle? More money?" She swung the middle zipper open and split the bag apart to let clothing fall out, into high grass. "Awww, just stupid clothing."

"Na-a-a-a-a-t...." His voice was a low, terrible growl. His fingers tightened around the inset door handle, but he wasn't moving.

"What's in here?" She tugged at the zipper to a smaller compartment. A shaving bag tumbled out and she set the bag down to recover it. "Ohhh, it's heavy. Goodies, Uncle?"

"Nat, I'm warning you; Nat, I'm warning you." His voice sounded autonomic, like a recording loop. The door swung open, but still he didn't move.

She had the zipper open and brought out a handful of small bottles and vials and tiny boxes. "A drugstore! Lookit all this!" She flung the bottles helter-skelter over her shoulder. "The rabbits will love you, Uncle. Stoned rabbits! Here, rabbits." She reached for another handful and tossed them even more broadly.

Lowell suddenly turned toward Derek: His face was white and the ugly forelock swung like a misplaced naked tail. "Give me my keys."

Derek took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. He glared back at Lowell, half regretting that Lowell remained in the car, because that made it difficult to laugh.

"Uncle's feeding the rab-bits," Nat sang, upending the shaving bag and letting the remaining items fall out. She knelt down to try another compartment of the suitcase.

"Leave it alone," Lowell cried, but in a dim voice, with scarce energy.

Nat rose with an armful of manila envelopes. She tore one open and shook the contents out. Some swarmed for a moment in the breeze; most fell to a clump at her feet. "Just bonds and stocks and stuff. They're no fun." She kicked scornfully at the pile at her feet and more papers wafted around like blown oversized confetti.

Lowell lumbered clumsily out the door, as if unable to stop himself. "No, Nat, you can't; I'll kill you, Nat, you little bitch...."

She tore open the next envelope and poured the contents into her other hand, shaking her head. "Anybody want to open up a bank? Lookit all these checks." Disdainfully she added, "But they're all canceled." As Lowell went toward her like some slow wounded beast, she tore loose the rubber band and swung the packet of checks high into the air. The checks flew everywhere, in a fluttery brief storm. "It's raaayyyy-ning. Watch you don't get yourself wet, Uncle."

Lowell was paralyzed by the blitz. He stood and stared unbelievingly at the fluttering checks, some of them traveling onto the shoulder down the road, some onto the road itself; and he made a futile, pitiful effort to grab at several in mid-air. Then, with a cry of alarm and pain, he rushed at Nat.

Derek swung open his door and raced toward the tableau: Lowell struggling with Natalie for the last of the manila envelopes; knowing that he could hurt her, he would hurt her. By the time Derek reached them, though, Nat had somehow squirmed away and Lowell, clutching the envelopes to his breast, turned and grabbed for Derek's pocket.

"Those keys, give me my keys." His hand reached inside Derek's pocket and Derek jerked back, ripping the seam. He reached for the keys to hold them tightly in his fist.

"Cool it, Lowell, relax." Derek didn't relish any kind of fight with Lowell; not this Lowell.

Lowell's head shook; he dropped the envelopes, all but the earlier envelope, which was wedged down inside his belt. "My keys, let me have my keys."

Behind him, Nat was waving toward Derek excitedly, reaching her hands up together to signal that Derek throw the keys to her. Derek hesitated, long enough for Lowell to grab at his wrist. It was a tight, torturous grip, and Lowell tried to squeeze Derek's wrist around. Derek tore loose and pitched the keys to Nat. She dashed back to the Lincoln and shut and began locking the doors. Lowell turned to stare at the car, almost stupefied.

"You dumb fool," he said hollowly, only half to Derek. "You dumb, dumb fool."

Nat started the car and suddenly took off in a jetting spurt that made Derek's stomach wrench. He raced after her and Lowell, hesitating to watch the papers flutter, began to race after Derek.

She stayed on the shoulder, driving too fast for the shoulder, shooting stones and a great spume of dust behind her that Derek had to wince against as he ran, barely able to see the car in front of him. Get onto the highway, at least, he thought frantically; he was afraid to run too fast, get too close, for fear of being hit in the eye with a spewed pebble. But she stayed on the shoulder, stopping as abruptly as she had started, about 100 yards ahead.

Lowell was fast. He kept just behind Derek, and as fast as Derek could race, he couldn't create any fresh distance between himself and Lowell. About 30 yards yet from the Continental, already severely winded, Derek saw Nat looking back at both of them, making a disappointed face that Lowell was so close. She rocketed the car forward again, this time entering the highway and becoming a fading white blur in the distance. Derek stopped, feeling sick and nauseated and dizzy. The first Howard Johnson's in Louisville; meantime, she'd left him here, with Lowell.

"You'll never see it again, you'll never see her again," Lowell said between ragged breaths.

"Go away." Derek bent forward, breathing heavily. Lousy spot for hitchhiking.

"At least you can help me collect my things. You're responsible."

"Get out of here."

Lowell turned and began walking down the road.

Derek began hurtling his thumb at the cars that kept hurtling back only air and an occasional stone; he had only one thought in his mind: Get to the Howard Johnson's in Louisville. Down the road, Lowell stooped in the grass, collecting the things from his suitcase. He didn't take long at it. Within a few minutes he was out at the edge of the shoulder, but he didn't wave a thumb or an arm: He waited till the traffic was clear and crossed to the median. Derek couldn't figure it; was he going to hitchhike from the other side? Return to Rapids for his Pinto? Not that it mattered: Lowell was such an uncanny compound of stupidity and arrogance that despite everything that had gone wrong, Derek enjoyed at least his powerlessness--feeble, lone, helpless man on an island in an asphalt ocean, with his suitcase that certainly couldn't contain everything it had contained earlier. Derek almost felt sorry for him.

When Lowell reached the far side of the highway, he walked back toward the trees, into the shade, and sat down on his suitcase. He wasn't hitchhiking? Curious, Derek began walking down the highway, lifting his thumb automatically at passing cars. The air seemed warmer and he rolled up his shirt sleeves as he walked. Still no movement in Lowell, nothing. When he reached the point on the highway opposite Lowell, he paused. Was he grinning? Derek couldn't be sure. Maybe it was a psych-out: Lowell giving Derek that empty, unveering stare, a pauper's revenge. Derek tried to concentrate on his hitchhiking, but that was impossible. He didn't believe a car would stop; and he was more curious about Lowell. The bastard was grinning, he was certain of it. But why? The man gave new meaning to the word loser. Yet he could sit there and grin at Derek--evil, hexing grin--till a car, a blue Rambler sedan, pulled off on Lowell's side of the highway, braking after spotting Lowell.

Derek looked carefully. No, no, no. Bald driver. And Lowell--who hadn't used his thumb, who'd simply waited--was dashing toward the car. Derek raced across the highway and onto the median. Lowell was inside the car now, and over the sound of passing cars Derek could hear the door slam. He looked at the plate--acquired habit, he could read them from a distance now--but it wasn't the same plate, it wasn't Louisiana, and the figures crazily read AAA310. No, another plate: can't be. And Derek would have screamed and cursed and futilely chased after the moving Rambler with its different plate if he hadn't seen another car, a white Lincoln Continental, driven by a young lovely girl with blonde hair, following in the same lane just behind the Rambler. And she glanced in his direction, but she didn't even wave.