ONE CUP (Part 29)

Affiliate Disclosure
Some of the links on this blog are affiliate links. This means that if you click on a link and make a purchase, I may earn a commission at no additional cost to you. I only recommend products and services I genuinely believe in. Thank you for your support!

121

Ian McGregor

I had been dumped. Ray was going after the girl. Repeated calls to his cell phone went unanswered. I left a couple voicemails, urging him to call me back, but wasn’t holding my breath.

My options were few. There was no rental car agency at the truck stop. No bus service. God only knew what it would cost or how long it would take for me to have a cab come collect me. And I wasn’t about to call anyone from the team. The Bobcats were already in for a lot of embarrassment if and when this business became known. For the same reasons, and because I didn’t want law enforcement to become involved in this mess, I didn’t report my rental car as stolen.

I called one last time, left a voice message for Ray. “Ray, Kayla wants you dead. Mike and Lou are in on it, as well. God help me, so was I. Keep your wits about you, mate.”

For good measure, I followed up with a text:

Danger

u r in danger.

Kayla coming to kill u and girl.

Mike & Lou in it too

I pressed SEND and the message was on its way to Ray.

122

I went inside, to the buffet. There were a dozen or so booths occupied by blokes who I guessed to be truckers. A few, mostly male/female couples were seated together. Most likely married and working as a team. Several more were sitting alone. Some were reading newspapers or books, others surfing the web on their laptops or cell phones. A handful were more Zen-like, adhering to the philosophy of “When you are eating, eat,” and doing nothing more.

I began going table to table asking truckers if they were going eastbound, and if so, could I catch a ride? One by one, I was turned down. A few because they were headed west. A couple more because their company policy strictly prohibited carrying passengers. And there’s always one in every crowd who is just rude. Little pipsqueak of a guy, early fifties, gray hair. Just looked at me, wouldn’t even speak. I turned to leave, ready to give up and try to figure something else out, when a female voice said, “I’m going east.”

I turned to see who was speaking to me. A petite woman, with shoulder-length blonde hair—can’t say if it was her natural color—and a friendly smile featuring crooked teeth extended her hand. “I’m Margaret,” she said.

“Ian,” I replied. “Ian McGregor.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Margaret laughed. “England?”

“Australia,” I said.

“Oh, well then, G’day mate!” she laughed.

I smiled. “I never get tired of hearing that.”

She pointed out the window. “I’m driving the red Peterbilt out there, third one down,” she said. “I’m only going as far as Dayton, but I might be able to get on the CB and find you a ride on down the road with someone else.”

“CB? What’s that?”

“The radio in my truck. Citizen’s Band radio. We use it to talk to one another. Mostly bullshit, but it helps keep you awake.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “Tell you the truth, I’m not going very far.” Now came the moment of truth for me, I suppose. It was on me before I saw it coming. Go with her as far as Richmond, Indiana, and hope she could help me get a lift from there to Page. Or—“If you could just drop me off in Indy, that’d be bonzer.”

The words no sooner left my mouth than I was consumed by a wave of guilt. I had officially abandoned Ray Garrett.

Margaret downed the last of her coffee in one swig, and wrapped what was left of her sandwich in a napkin to take along. “I’m ready if you are, darlin’” she said, and put a couple bucks on the table for the waitress. I followed her, noticing the looks we received from a few of the truckers in the restaurant. I knew what they were thinking.

I climbed in the right side of the Peterbilt. Never been in a big truck before, and I was surprised at how comfortable it was. Margaret even had a bed, a microwave, and a television. A minute later, we were on the interstate.

Margaret reached for the CB microphone. In a throaty voice she cooed, “You got your Desert Fox here, boys. Who’s got their ears on?” She looked over at me and grinned. “I’m from Arizona.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding, as if that explained everything.

“Stud Duck here, foxy lady,” a male voice came back. “I’ve been on the road since the quack of dawn.”

“This here’s The Millionaire, Desert Fox,” another said. “I’m six foot six and two hundred pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. What’s your twenty, sweet thing?”

“Oooh, a millionaire. Mmmmmmm, baby I’m eastbound on I-70, just comin’ up on Terre Haute. You got the money, honey, I got the time.”

I watched with fascination as this ordinary looking woman transformed before my eyes into a seductress on wheels. Closing my eyes and listening to her radio voice was like a wet dream. I had to open my eyes to keep my mind out of the gutter. She went back and forth, carrying on suggestive conversations with half a dozen or so other truckers at a time, all the way to Indianapolis.

Margaret went out of her way for me, dropping me off in front of the stadium two and a half hours before game time. “Thanks for the lift, Margaret,” I said. “I’d be glad to get you a ticket for tonight’s game. I’m one of the Bobcats.”

She gave me a patronizing smile that said she didn’t believe me. “Sorry, sugar, I got to get my load to Columbus. Maybe another time.” I shook her hand and got out. I waved goodbye as she drove away.ssss