No one would care if he took a black girl. Least not on this side of Texarkana, that is. You take a white girl and next thing you know you’re ass deep in cops and Baptists. He wasn’t sure which one he’d rather tangle with. Damn hypocrites though, the both of them. No, no, no he knew, white girls were liable to get you caught. Anyway, he’d had enough of them already. Those Germans, right after the war. Just got what they deserved, that’s all. He watched the girl, her skirt exposing the dark flesh of her calves with each step; the pale blue blouse wrapped tightly around her thin waist. Eighteen, he thought. Twenty at most. Practically begging to be taken.
He gripped the steering wheel, his fingers tumbling slowly into the hard, rubber grooves. He tapped the gas on the old Ford, rolling up on the girl from behind.
“Excuse me,” he called out, slowing to match her pace. “Excuse me.”
She hesitated, he saw, could tell that she really wanted to ignore him, to keep walking. A slight smile crept onto his face. He didn’t like it when it was too easy, but he knew that he would take them in the end. Her or the next, it didn’t matter, but he liked the struggle, the intricate dance that always ended in his favor. If he just wanted a girl to jump into his car, he knew well enough which corners of town the whores infested.
“Excuse me,” he called again. “Miss?”
She stopped, turning slightly. She folded her arms and stood just out of reach, her brown eyes skeptical, questioning.
“Sorry, I’m trying to find Olive and 13th,” he said, using a free hand to point down the road. “Am I headed in the right direction?”
He, of course, knew damn well where Olive and 13th was. And he certainly wasn’t headed in the right direction. Not far, she said, a left and a few rights. He feigned a great difficulty in its comprehension. Confusion. A few lefts and a right, was it? A show of weakness. It disarms them, he knew. Bring them up by taking yourself down. Rule one. Or thereabouts anyway.
“Sorry, I’m new around here. I’ll try to find it,” he said. “Appreciate the help.”
He waved. She didn’t wave back.
He crept forward, slipping through the intersections, careful to hit the first left she’d pointed out. It wouldn’t do any good to miss the first one. The rest wouldn’t matter, he wouldn’t be taking them anyway. At least not yet.
He turned left again, heading back along a parallel road. He pulled over, the Ford idling quietly. He leaned back, running his fingers through his thinning black hair. He twisted the rearview mirror, watching himself in the glass. He was a looker, he knew. Everyone said so. And white. He was proud of that. White stretching back as far as he knew. Not a drop of the African or Mexican in him. No damn red Indian either, thank God.
A few minutes passed. Enough, he knew, to circle back. He drifted forward, more lefts bringing him just behind the girl again. He slowed, watching her intently, his eyes following the hypnotic sway of her narrow hips. Taunting him. Teasing him.
Did she know it was him, he wondered? She must, he knew. She must.
“Hey, sorry. Looks like I made a wrong turn,” he said jovially. She stepped closer, resting her hand onto the door. “So left onto 12th, then a left onto Main and a right onto 13th? Is that right?”
“No, sir, that isn’t it,” she said, leaning forward. “It’s a right onto Main, not a left.”
“Damn,” he cursed under his breath, smiling self-deprecatingly. “This town is hard to figure out.”
“You’re not from around here?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Just come down, trying to get work at the ammunition plant. Staying with a friend of mine here. If I can find it, that is. My family will join me once I’m settled.” He smiled. My family, he almost laughed. Nothing like a wife and child to set them at ease. Fictional ones of course, but a little lie never hurt now and then. Well, at least not him. “You from around here?”
“Yeah.” She turned, motioning down the road she was walking along. “A few blocks over that way.”
“That way?” He pointed. “Well, jump in then, I’ll give you a ride.”
You have to tell them, he knew. Confidence. Ask it as a question and they walk. He’d learned that the hard way.
“No thanks,” she replied warily. “It’s not too far. I can just walk.”
“You sure? I don’t mind. And it would really help me find my friend’s house.” He leaned across, pushing the door open, the rough scratch of grinding metal.
The girl caught the door in her hands, her fingers curling instinctively over the thin line of remaining glass. She glanced along the empty street. This was the moment, he knew. They are suspicious, these girls. Naturally so. One wrong move, one ill-timed comment and she’d bolt. He remained quiet, letting the seed germinate.
“Ok, but you’ll have to drop me off a block from my house,” she said, climbing in. She pulled the heavy door closed behind her. “My parents will ask too many questions.”
His eyes drifted along the hem of her skirt, tugged upwards by the seat. Having snared his quarry, a cauldron of feral emotions began stirring within him. His fingers twitched, wanting to run along her thighs.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, turning to look out his window, trying to hide a smirk that was intent on betraying him. “I’ll make sure they don’t see you.”
If you're interested to keep reading or have any comments / feedback, please reach out to me at matt.a.lucas@gmail.com
wanderingfig 