“Got that light?” I won’t call him Captain anymore.

“Matches are in the glove box. Help yourself.” He drives with both hands. Nicely positioned at Nine and Two.

I pull out a smoke, squeeze the filter and roll it with my fingertips. Ah, the old habits, they die hard. I don’t reach for the glove box. Instead,

“You gotta name?” I’m thinking he looks like a Gregory.

"Bill.”

“Ah, Billy.” Maybe Gregory is his middle name.

“No. Bill.”

“That’s what I just said. Billy.” I stuff the cigarette in between my lips, let it dangle. “Do you want to know mine?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“What the **** did I just ask you, Billy? Do you want to know my name? That’s an invite, my friend.”

“Okay.” Hands still at Nine and Two. Which is, of course, eleven. Big ****’ surprise. “Yes, I’d like to know your name.”

“Eddie.”

“Alright, Eddie. It’s good to meet you. My house is not too far up ahead, here.” He eases around a curve in the highway without breaking hand positions. “I think you’ll find yourself comfortable.”

“Sounds **** fantastic, Billy Bob.”

“Bill.”

“That’s what I said.”

******************************************************************************

The cigg still hangs from the corner of my mouth when we pull up to the two story stucco located at,

Oh **** it already! Don’t even look. If the mother **** says eleven, I’m gonna tear out my hair. Or Bills hair.

The house is pinkish stucco, like diluted Pepto Bismal and there are dozens of perfectly trimmed shrubs lining the drive. I search for the little sign in his manicured front lawn. You know the one. Says something like, “A-Number-One-Bitchin’-Lawn-Of-The-Month.”

Where in the **** am I going? To the Goddamned suburbs? Seriously? I’m running from the cops, got blood on my hands, and prints all the hell over that piece of **** Buick or whatever the **** it was, that’s sitting back at the Conoco Station. The cops are probably crawling in it by now. And I am here. Driving up in a spotless sedan with Rainbow Bright Bill, to his pepto-pink pad. Billy’s gonna serve refreshments and try to coax the devil out of me. Just like Grandmother used to do. That or try to blow me.  For his sake, I hope he likes to talk. Rule numero uno; If he serves me Key Lime Pie, like good 'ole granny used to do, then I get to kill him.

Agreed?

Agreed.

Billy shows me to a guest room, on the first floor, with a shower and towels that are monogrammed, WGH. **** lied. He’s no Billy. He’s a Willy. But I definitely got the Gregory part right. I’ll remember to verify that later.

The clothes go in the trashcan. I stuff them in, one gluey, chunk of meat falling out from the inside of my tee shirt and plopping on the tile. I leave it. The still un-lit cigarette goes on the back of the toilet.

****. Why didn’t I light the damn smoke? Why didn't I grab the matches? 

The shower is roomy and the water is hot.  I get the gore and blood and crime off of my body. I come clean, but I haven’t washed away much of anything, really. The stuff that stains is up in the attic, in my belfry and God be damned if there aren’t bats. Bats **** everywhere. I haven’t found anything to wash that out. Some of the red won’t come out from under my fingernails. I leave it; as a reminder.  I see that Billy has placed clean clothes on the foot of the bed. They fit like the sweats; short. I leave the tightie whities on the bed. I’m not wearing the **** underwear.

****************************************************************************

When I come out, Billy is serving refreshments. Of course. He takes a small plate, a fork and sets it down on the counter in front of me. It’s pie. I’m guessing Key Lime, ‘cause my life’s been working like that lately. I won’t know until I try it.

Before I can try the pie, I feel the urge to shake my head, back and forth, hard and quick. I attempt to jar the sound of the screams from my head. I’m beginning to think of them like elevator musak, just back ground filler for daily deeds. Something to bob the head to.

Mute.  Good.  Keep it down fellas, I'm trying to enjoy the refreshments.

The pie is good. Too good. Indeed, it’s Key Lime, but this is Florida and that’s par for the course.

“Thought we could have some pie together. But I see you’ve started without me, Eddie. It’s my birthday, you see. I’m not too fond of cake, or candles, but Key Lime, I can do.” Billy chuckles a bit and reaches for his fork.

It’s moments like these, when I ask myself why bad things taste so good.