I’m Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 31)

I’m Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 31)

After I fired Leon’s old truck up I suddenly remember his advice on switching the license plate. I hated to waste the time but I cut the engine off and found a screwdriver in the glove compartment and a new F150 pickup two parking spaces down.

Constantly glancing over my shoulder, I made the switch undetected and in less than two minutes, then I roared out of the parking lot of the Beau Rivage. That’s when I got a strange weak feeling all over. It only took me a moment to figure out that it was hunger. I hadn’t eaten since—I thought back, since I ate cold pizza Saturday night, almost two days ago.

As if by a sign of fate, at that moment, McElroy’s Harbour House Restaurant loomed up on the left. I parked at the front door, went in and before the hostess could open her mouth to speak I placed two twenties in her hand and said, “I need an oyster poboy sandwich and a sweet tea to go. Keep the change, but I need it quick!”

Thankfully, the large tip encouraged her to dash off to the kitchen to personally fill my order. In the meantime I glanced around and saw the front page of USA Today through the glass of a display box. The headline screamed: Flight 310-Interviews With Victim’s Families. I deposited four quarters into the coin slot, swung the door down, pulled a copy out and was about to read it when that little hostess arrived with my food, so I dashed out the door with the paper in one hand and my food in the other.

At the first stop light I pulled the sandwich out of the bag and bit through the crunchy bread into the hot oysters, tartar sauce and the fresh lettuce. It was one of the most wonderful things I had ever put into my mouth. I devoured it like a hungry dog and washed it down with the ice tea. By the time I finished it I was speeding east on I-10, roaring toward Mobile.

It was a chilling thought to know that I had spent so much time with a cold-blooded killer like Red, especially one who used a knife. I knew he had a good head start and I had a lot of time to make up. I also knew I couldn’t make a mistake and get caught speeding, but I simply had to speed or I knew I would never catch up with Red, rescue Louise, and reclaim what was left of my 600,000 dollars. When I hit a flat stretch of interstate where I could see for a mile or so I pushed the old truck up to 80 or 90, but when sight was limited I drove the speed limit.

Approaching Mobile at about two o’clock in the afternoon, I looked down to check the gas gauge. The needle was resting on three-fourths of a tank. That was a point in my favor because I remembered that Red’s taxi was on empty when we had arrived at the hotel. That meant he had had to stop for gas, which allowed me about a 10 minute gain on him; still I figured he was still a good 20 minutes ahead of me.

But I knew he wouldn’t drive over the speed limit, and that if I could average 80 miles an hour I could catch up with him in an hour or two. In fact, I had to, because if he beat me to Montgomery I wouldn’t know if he had continued on north toward Birmingham, or turned east toward Atlanta.

The needle on the speedometer was rocking between 65 and 70 when I merged onto I-65 north while the flashing overhead lights indicated I as going too fast for the turn. A few minutes later a convoy of six cars blew by me doing at least 90. I fell in at the tail end of it and followed them until they left me just after we crossed the Mobile River.

But a short time later I fell in behind another bunch that was rolling along at a steady 85. I managed to stay at the rear of them by moving over into the right lane anytime another vehicle got behind me. But once it passed me I would move back over into the left lane. If there was any state troopers ahead surely they would stop one of the vehicle in front of me. I just wonder how long the old truck would take the punishment.

All of a sudden I realized that I didn’t have any kind of plan in mind if and when I overtook Red. Was I going to run him off the expressway, shoot his tires out, or what? “Play it by ear,” I said aloud to myself. “Just concentrate on catching up with him.”

I stayed with my convoy and knew I was making good time when I saw the sign indicating exit 69, about an hour and a half north of Mobile. It was just a few miles past that exit when I realized that I was about to pass my quarry!

A wave of exhilaration swept over me when I spotted the taxi four car lengths ahead of me in the right lane. I was so pumped that I shouted out, “Oh yes, your murdering, thieving dog, I fixing to get you now!”