Billy is in the graveyard, finishing off the last of a bottle of vodka and grieving for his recently departed dad when his best bud turned chief nemesis Bull Grimes confronts him. A fight ensues…
Billy Luck remembered only one vivid image before he saw stars- yes STARS, same as in a Batman comic book. See, Bull Grimes’ right fist was powerfully big. Why, the boy had been top in his category in Southern Delaware All-High School Boxer for 1966, and that big hunk ‘ham- when lughead centre b’tween BillLuck, Jr’eyes– Ahem!!
What Billy saw- as afterimage- was the sweet oval pleading face of his gal Annie Readen. “God, Bull Grimes, can’t ya get it straight– I’m Billy’s not Yorn’ to have…”
Then Luck the younger went under, buoyed by a sweeping motion of the sense of being stuffed like a sausage on a hot, cramped ripple skinned Greyhound bus, aluminum glistening in the swirly April tidewater rain.
Billy thought he heard in his brainpan a faint helpless shriek, but no, nothing to be done.
The journey bumped along– a ménage of tobacco and whisky and sugary soda and perfume scents. purple, green and pink neon streaks informed Billy’s visual scan, blurry as it was. everything lurched to a woozy halt in Queenstown.
There, Billy’ vacant aisle seat became temporary perch to Harris.
Now Harris, in his wraparound shades and fly mohair hat, was not your garden-variety hustler. Jed Harris was a diamond inna back, sunroof top, Gangsta Lean, HUST’LAAH!
Even Billy knew the “Wash DC Express” had a midnite pitstop- the HowardStreet Terminal, “Bawdy-more, Maryland.”
Harris dragged Billy along, basically for dumb company, thru the tinsel-trimmed Senator Bar, the Mayfair and Howard Theatres, where rival Kung Fu chopsockeys dueled on the ragged screens, then raced madly for the whooshing bus door, almost missing their ride.
“Damn, Billy,” the snarky Harris muttered as the diesel fumes flavored their departure from Charm City. “Dat all-night diner was closed, an’ my stomach’s callin’ me a whole slew of names.”
Billy, rubbing the knot over the bridge of his nose, managed a friendly grunt. “Yuh, Harris, you say we c’n score us a room once we hit DC, huh?”
Harris threw him a sly glance. “Oh yes, my boy, an’ heres hoping there’s no extry charge for roaches or bedbugs, heh-heh..”
As the ‘Dog’ rumbled up New York Avenue to the less scenic approach to the nation’s capital, Billy thought he’d seen a misty vision of the backlit Capitol Dome, but then drifted briefly back to sleep, nodding up against the shoulder of Harris’ naugahyde trench coat.
