Saccha Moreau #4, Aug Writ Opus 606
"You're going to light up as soon as we get outside, aren't you?"
"Yes. Just to spite you."
Which was actually partially true. He'd had a long damned day, and he needed a cigarette, so after his third drag, just as they were about to cross the quiet street, he laid it out. "Here's what's happening. I am committing a crime, knowingly aiding and abetting a fugitive from the Law - regardless of whether she's innocent or not," he added, because she had been about to protest. "Plus you're underage, and I know this, too. So basically, if the cops stop either one of us, the other is equally screwed."
"So why do it?" she asked, and he saw she wanted to trust him, wanted him to give her a reason.
But he couldn't, not yet. "Because I am."
She stopped walking in the middle of the road. "That's not good enough."
He snapped around, using his frustration to mask everything else, "Look, I don't know, okay? It seems like a good idea at the time! Are you going to take the offer, or do you want to stay here and get hit by a car?"
She started walking again, head down. Pinter flicked his cig out at the headlights approaching from a ways off, because he wanted to defy something, then he fell into step behind her.
"Tomorrow morning we stop at a pharmacy. I go in, and I buy you clippers and hair dye. Decide on your new style first thing in the morning. At the next gas station after that, you go into the bathroom and emerge a new woman. You'll be borrowing Donnie's clothes, just for the time being. I'll pick up some underwear and toiletries while I'm at the pharmacy, too. Make a list."
"34C. And medium. I don't like thongs, and I'd appreciate it if you could avoid buying me grannie briefs, too."
She was chuckling softly. It was all so absurd, so he joined her.
She stopped again, halfway between the road and the bus, searching his eyes for something she could latch on to. Pinter found himself not only liking her, but admiring her as well, so Saccha found what she needed to see. "Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome," he answered honestly. She thought that was it, but he wasn't moving, so she checked herself, and he continued.
"We are not telling the rest of the band yet. I am telling Mick, everything." She looked about to protest, but he held up his hand. "I will not allow the boys to get involved in our life of crime, not knowingly, not yet. I know them, and they will not understand what's at stake properly. I'm pretty sure you don't, either. But Mick... Listen, kid, if you're ever running from guys in black suits with sunglasses, earpieces, and 9mm sidearms, you'll have a better chance of getting away if you run to Mick and not to me; that's a fact."
She was satisfied about the latter, but, "When do we tell the band?"
Did he detect a sense of belonging already?
"We tell them when you're ready, and when I judge that they're ready. Deal?"
"Deal." She stuck out her hand and he shook it.
They resumed their walk to the bus, where Mick was pacing outside with a cigarette. "There's no smoking on the bus," Pinter informed her. "Mick likes to frontload."
"That's why he smells like that."
"You're awfully judgmental for a wanted felon."
He kept his head pointed forward, because he knew she was going to check if he was playing or not. He was, and he thought she could tell.
And then they were there, and she boarded while Pinter stayed behind.
"What's up?" Mick asked him, because he knew something was.
"Short version," said Pinter, accepting Mick's butt and letting the smoke out slowly, "is that she's underage and running from the cops."
"Did she do it?"
"Nope. She provided a friend with grass, and that friend's father made a bad mistake. He's a big political player, so he pinned what he did on her."
"Did he kill her? His daughter?"
That was an interesting question, and it reminded Pinter of something Saccha had to do. "Yeah, he did." Pinter got on the bus to end the conversation. Mick stayed behind to finish frontloading.
The rest of the band was lying in the bus seats, sleeping or listening to headphones with their eyes shut. Saccha had followed suit, trying to curl up into a comfortable position. Pinter leaned over her. "Saccha," he said quietly, "you have to tell me something."
"What?"
"Toni. Your friend Toni. How is she?"
"She... she didn't survive."
"No," Pinter said, patting her leg once, gently. "That's not enough. You have to say it. You know you do."
She closed her eyes tightly, not allowing any light into the thought. "Toni... Toni's dead."
Pinter patted her again. "I'm sorry, Saccha. Try to get some sleep, now."
But as he moved to the front of the bus, where Mick was closing the door with his usual flourish, Pinter knew that she would not succeed, that Saccha, who had told him her entire story without ever using the word "dead," was finally since it happened going to allow the grief she had been denying herself to enter, and was likely to stay up all night softly crying.
"Yes. Just to spite you."
Which was actually partially true. He'd had a long damned day, and he needed a cigarette, so after his third drag, just as they were about to cross the quiet street, he laid it out. "Here's what's happening. I am committing a crime, knowingly aiding and abetting a fugitive from the Law - regardless of whether she's innocent or not," he added, because she had been about to protest. "Plus you're underage, and I know this, too. So basically, if the cops stop either one of us, the other is equally screwed."
"So why do it?" she asked, and he saw she wanted to trust him, wanted him to give her a reason.
But he couldn't, not yet. "Because I am."
She stopped walking in the middle of the road. "That's not good enough."
He snapped around, using his frustration to mask everything else, "Look, I don't know, okay? It seems like a good idea at the time! Are you going to take the offer, or do you want to stay here and get hit by a car?"
She started walking again, head down. Pinter flicked his cig out at the headlights approaching from a ways off, because he wanted to defy something, then he fell into step behind her.
"Tomorrow morning we stop at a pharmacy. I go in, and I buy you clippers and hair dye. Decide on your new style first thing in the morning. At the next gas station after that, you go into the bathroom and emerge a new woman. You'll be borrowing Donnie's clothes, just for the time being. I'll pick up some underwear and toiletries while I'm at the pharmacy, too. Make a list."
"34C. And medium. I don't like thongs, and I'd appreciate it if you could avoid buying me grannie briefs, too."
She was chuckling softly. It was all so absurd, so he joined her.
She stopped again, halfway between the road and the bus, searching his eyes for something she could latch on to. Pinter found himself not only liking her, but admiring her as well, so Saccha found what she needed to see. "Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome," he answered honestly. She thought that was it, but he wasn't moving, so she checked herself, and he continued.
"We are not telling the rest of the band yet. I am telling Mick, everything." She looked about to protest, but he held up his hand. "I will not allow the boys to get involved in our life of crime, not knowingly, not yet. I know them, and they will not understand what's at stake properly. I'm pretty sure you don't, either. But Mick... Listen, kid, if you're ever running from guys in black suits with sunglasses, earpieces, and 9mm sidearms, you'll have a better chance of getting away if you run to Mick and not to me; that's a fact."
She was satisfied about the latter, but, "When do we tell the band?"
Did he detect a sense of belonging already?
"We tell them when you're ready, and when I judge that they're ready. Deal?"
"Deal." She stuck out her hand and he shook it.
They resumed their walk to the bus, where Mick was pacing outside with a cigarette. "There's no smoking on the bus," Pinter informed her. "Mick likes to frontload."
"That's why he smells like that."
"You're awfully judgmental for a wanted felon."
He kept his head pointed forward, because he knew she was going to check if he was playing or not. He was, and he thought she could tell.
And then they were there, and she boarded while Pinter stayed behind.
"What's up?" Mick asked him, because he knew something was.
"Short version," said Pinter, accepting Mick's butt and letting the smoke out slowly, "is that she's underage and running from the cops."
"Did she do it?"
"Nope. She provided a friend with grass, and that friend's father made a bad mistake. He's a big political player, so he pinned what he did on her."
"Did he kill her? His daughter?"
That was an interesting question, and it reminded Pinter of something Saccha had to do. "Yeah, he did." Pinter got on the bus to end the conversation. Mick stayed behind to finish frontloading.
The rest of the band was lying in the bus seats, sleeping or listening to headphones with their eyes shut. Saccha had followed suit, trying to curl up into a comfortable position. Pinter leaned over her. "Saccha," he said quietly, "you have to tell me something."
"What?"
"Toni. Your friend Toni. How is she?"
"She... she didn't survive."
"No," Pinter said, patting her leg once, gently. "That's not enough. You have to say it. You know you do."
She closed her eyes tightly, not allowing any light into the thought. "Toni... Toni's dead."
Pinter patted her again. "I'm sorry, Saccha. Try to get some sleep, now."
But as he moved to the front of the bus, where Mick was closing the door with his usual flourish, Pinter knew that she would not succeed, that Saccha, who had told him her entire story without ever using the word "dead," was finally since it happened going to allow the grief she had been denying herself to enter, and was likely to stay up all night softly crying.