Truck Stop

By Evan Richardson

When Lulu Mae married Hank, she expected him to help her become her dream of being a country western singer. But when it became clear that all Hank wanted was a wife and for Lulu Mae to waitress in his truck stop saloon, as she had at the diner where he met her, her eyes quickly strayed to Brad, the handsome new bartender, a potentially dangerous man with a dark past, exactly Lulu Mae’s cup of tea.

Their sex was wild, and at times even brutal, and Lulu Mae became addicted. And when Brad told her he was moving on, she offered him money, Hank’s money, nearly a million dollars, more than enough for an ex-con like Brad that no one had bothered to check.

Then a car containing two prominent citizens went over a ravine, caught fire, and exploded, destroying most of the evidence. The sheriff’s department was quick to attribute the tragedy to an accident with a faulty accelerator. But crafty old Sheriff Bob, after fifty years on the police force, secretly suspected it was murder.

As a desperate fight to escape justice ensued, with Sheriff Bob hot on the trail with his theory of murder, the plot thunders to a dynamic conclusion where everyone has their final rendezvous with destiny to settle the score in this lurid tale of obsessive sexual desire, murder, greed, and betrayal in a small Southern town one steamy-hot summer, set in a honky-tonk truck stop saloon situated along the Southern interstate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evan Richardson
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311620002

Evan Richardson

Evan Richardson’s writing includes screenplays, plays, a musical GUYS for which he wrote the libretto, music and lyrics, with 5 staged readings presented in NYC by the National Music Theater Network and the Genesis Guild, and a memoir entitled: THE STAR SHINER: Memoir of a Celebrity Makeup Artist, published by McFarland & Co., May, 2013 (Print ISBN: 978-0-7864-7096-9, Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4766-0137-3)Evan received a BFA degree at University of Kentucky with further studies at Brooklyn’s Pratt Institute. His writing training in NYC has been at Marymount Manhattan College, New School University, and the New Dramatists.

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TRUCK STOP

Evan Richardson

Copyright by Evan Richardson 2015

Published by Smashwords

ISBN: 9781311620002

CHAPTER 1

It was one of those hot July days when your armpits stick together as though they were glued. With reports that the temperature would reach over a hundred, Sammy’s old police cruiser had perversely chosen the hottest day so far of the summer to go out. Even with all the windows down and Sammy’s short sleeve khaki shirt unbuttoned halfway down, there was still no relief. The hot air poured in as if from a furnace, and beads of perspiration rolled down Sammy’s forehead like salty raindrops.

He had been out since early that morning: First there was a fight at the local high school that had escalated into a confrontation between several students. And then another break-in, the third in a month; and this time it was a home, making the entire town jittery.

The old cruiser chugged along the interstate--a main truck route, and one of the heaviest-traveled highways in the South—and it sounded as though the cruiser was on its last gasp. The sheriff’s department had requested new cruisers, but they had not yet received a response from the town board. Sammy had decided that as long as his old cruiser made it this far out onto the interstate, that was good enough for him.

Sammy became a sheriff’s deputy because dating back to the time when his Scottish ancestors first settled in this small, rural Kentucky community, family members had always served in some civic capacity. He grew up there, he was educated there, had traveled very little, and he had a strong belief in giving back.

Elvis Presley’s Hound Dog played on the radio and Sammy sang along with it, following his performance with a yelping sound like a dog. His yelping had jarred his aviator sunglasses and he readjusted them in defense of the glaring sunlight, snapping off the radio. He liked Elvis, but with the oppressive heat and sweat blurring his vision, the music was becoming annoying.

Bugs and dust from construction along the interstate had accumulated on the windshield, making it hard to see. He needed to clean the windshield, he needed air conditioning, and he desperately needed a cup of coffee. In honoring his civic duties that morning, he had neglected the most important part of his day: his morning cup of joe.

Ahead was the truck stop where he was headed. The sign in front read: Mallard’s Truck Stop. Below it was Mallard’s familiar slogan: Where Weary Travelers Wet Their Whistle.

The town had tried to get Hank Mallard, manager and co-owner of the truck stop, with his sister Nell, to remove the slogan citing that it promoted drinking. But the slogan had been part of the truck stop since Hank and Nell’s father built it over fifty years ago, and they were not about to remove it. It seemed hypocritical that the town would want the slogan removed when half the town were regulars there, and most had been drunk there one time or another.

The truck stop was a well-known relief stop along the interstate for weary travelers that Hank allowed free use of the bathrooms. Afterwards, the majority of them would invariably purchase food and drinks. Hank’s motto was: if you’re kind to others, they’ll be kind to you, and it paid off. But he would have done it anyhow, being a Christian, and a kind man, donating large sums of money to charities during various community drives, especially around Christmas.

The traffic eased up, providing space, and Sammy angled the cruiser left off the noisy highway, and it bumped down a small, badly paved road, shaded by tall oak trees, and rolled onto the gravel parking area in front of Mallard’s.

Though the truck stop could plainly be seen from the highway, the small road set it back a bit, making it kind of secluded and special. Besides, anyone willing to brave that rickety old road deserved a cool drink. Hank had been intending to repair the road, but like a lot of things around the truck stop, he just hadn’t gotten around to it.

Recognizing a truck in the parking area belonging to a trucker named Mike, Sammy got out of his cruiser, kicked the side of the tires to remove the dust from his boots, and checked the hopeless condition of the windshield that he decided to deal with later. Official state emblems decorated the sleeves of his khaki shirt, and a sheriff’s deputy badge glinted on his chest, with an assortment of other emblems. A 45 caliber semi-automatic pistol hung in the holster of his wide leather gun belt, strapped around the waist of his khaki pants.

As he buttoned his shirt, sticking his sunglasses in the breast pocket, a black truck scratched into the parking area and steamed to a stop. Sammy glanced over at the truck, unable to see the driver from the sun’s refection on the windshield, and Sammy yanked open Mallard’s big wooden front door and went inside.

Protecting the air conditioning that he’d been craving, Sammy dutifully closed the big door behind him--a tradition at Mallard’s that regular customers obeyed, and newer ones would be cautioned to remember. Nodding to the trucker Mike, now seated at one of the tables, Sammy saddled up to a high bar chair at the end of the bar where, behind the counter, Nell washed some coffee mugs.

Hi, Sammy, darlin’, Nell greeted him as he settled into the bar chair. Got your coffee all ready, hon. Be there in a minute.

Take your time, Nelly, Sammy replied, picking up a newspaper from the bar. Take your time.

As Sammy was a fixture there, Nell knew exactly what he wanted without asking. Although she was co-owner of the truck stop, everyone thought of it as Hank’s because he basically ran it, while Nell attended to the food, kitchen, and customer service. She didn’t mind that people thought of it as Hank’s, since that let her off the hook when there were complaints that she gladly directed his way.

The inside décor was funky, honky-tonk, with a wooden floor and wooden staircase that led to bedrooms and an office upstairs. The bar on the left of the entrance ran from the front of the main room to the back, where a kitchen supplied food and drinks for the tables scattered around the room, and there were booths in the back. A door at the far end of the bar led into the kitchen, and a back door led into the backyard. In the middle of the main room was a small dance floor, with a jukebox and a piano for the country western bands that played frequently on Saturday nights.

People from the community came to the truck stop to dance, let off steam and get drunk. Fights broke out there periodically and Hank and Nell had their hands full keeping the peace. A deputy on the premises didn’t hurt, and Nell encouraged Sammy to keep him around. Still legally married, Sammy was in the process of getting a divorce from his unfaithful wife. But he had declared many times when he was drunk and off-duty, that when his divorce became final, it would be a hot time in the old town that night for him with Nell in the love-making department. This she found more amusing than serious, and the fact that he was still married conveniently excused her from further expressions of affection that she probably didn’t mean anyhow.

Nell dried her hands, went to the coffee urn and funneled coffee into one of the mugs that she’d just washed, taking it to Sammy.

There’s been another break-in, Sammy said, putting down the newspaper and picking up the mug that Nell had just placed on the bar in front of him. I was investigatin’ the latest one this mornin’ ‘fore I came here.

Nell pushed a straggly hair out of her face, tucking it into the rest of her graying hair twisted up into a bun. She wasn’t a pretty woman in the classical sense; her features were strong, even masculine, but she had pretty blue eyes that had first attracted Sammy, along with over-sized breasts--her trademark around the truck stop, and the brunt of jokes that she accepted good-naturedly. Softening her large, upper proportions, she wore an extra-large white tee-shirt from a past Christmas--given to her by Hank as a joke--on which was inscribed: Yo! Jingle This.

Why the hell can’t y’all get those thieves? Nell complained, completing her work on the straggly hair.

We gotta catch ‘em at it first, Sammy replied, sipping the coffee with a relieved, satisfied expression as a man returning from the dead.

If you deputies wasn’t sittin’ ‘round in here all the damn time --

Sammy put down the mug and took a hold of Nell’s hand that rested on the bar. I’m sittin’ in here, and you know why, he said.

Blushing, Nell gracefully withdrew her hand. Oh, shut up, she said, returning to the coffee urn where she funneled another mug of coffee.

Nell had worked hard all of her life. Her first job was for her father, a well-known bartender around town who had built the truck stop, and then she worked with Hank when they inherited the truck stop from their father after his death. It had been allowed to deteriorate badly and they’d had to put a great deal of money and work into it to re-do it. Consumed with work all of her life, Nell had had little time for romance and was quite naive about it. But if she were to consider someone to partner with, it probably wouldn’t be with a short, stocky, balding man, with a busted nose from a misguided baseball, like Sammy.

With her top-heavy proportions and towering a foot or so above Sammy, Nell felt they made a ridiculous looking pair. Hank reprimanded her frequently saying that she should consider what was available to her rather than what wasn’t, and the more Sammy came there the more appealing his offer of love-making was becoming to her. Or perhaps she was ready to accept Hank’s advice.

The trucker from the truck that had rolled in behind Sammy’s cruiser entered and everyone turned to size each other up, especially Nell who paid particular attention that greatly bothered Sammy. Tall and muscular with a strikingly handsome face, dirty-blond hair, electric-blue eyes, and a formidable set of biceps given full expression by his sleeveless white undershirt, the trucker tipped his cowboy hat and ambled to a booth in the back, his slim hips moving seductively in a confident swagger that was deliberate and intended to discourage anyone that might threaten him.

The hot coffee that Nell had been funneling overran the capacity of the mug, burning her hand. She quickly pulled the mug away from the funnel and doused her hand in cold water to kill the sting. Sammy had never seen her behave so clumsily and suspected that her behavior was due to her preoccupation with the trucker. She had certainly never let a mug of coffee overflow for him.

Perturbed, and a bit jealous, Sammy picked up the newspaper and shuttled over to a table by a window facing the entrance, purposely seating himself with his back to the trucker. He felt a rejection from Nell, his wife, and perhaps all women in general. With his marriage ending, Sammy knew he was extra sensitive right now and he determined not to allow this to upset him. He would put his attention to the newspaper and let it pass, and soon the trucker would be gone and things would return to normal.

Her hand better, Nell picked up the mug of coffee and took it to Mike’s table in front of the handsome trucker. Her attention still on the trucker, in spite of herself, Nell placed the mug on Mike’s table and waited for his order. As had Sammy, she had known Mike a long time, having trucked for a brewery many years along the interstate, until they recognized that Mike drank almost as much booze as he delivered, and they let him go. Now Mike trucked for a furniture store, but his route was still along the interstate.

Mike ordered scrambled eggs, and Nell changed it to egg whites. She knew from his wife that Mike had high cholesterol. He ordered sausage and toast and Nell changed that to: Just toast, with no butter. She also knew his doctor.

Well why don’t you jus’ order for me? Mike complained, fed up with Nell, and his wife too, trying to mother him.

I just did, Nell laughed, turning to the trucker in the booth behind Mike. She was attracted to the man’s handsome face and impressive biceps, and she struggled to conceal it. What about you, mister? she asked the trucker who was involved with his cell phone and didn’t answer her, which made Nell angry. Hey, mister! she upped the volume of her voice.

This time the trucker heard and he put down the cell phone, looking up, his amazing blue eyes, icy and expressionless. What? he asked.

A chill ran up and down Nell’s spin. She sensed a danger in this man, regardless she was irresistibly drawn to him, like a pain too exquisite to resist. His handsome face with a hint of cruelty in his full, sensuous lips, sculpted with a permanent snarl, and framed by perfect white teeth when he smiled, appearing more a sneer to Nell, indicating he’d been here many times with many women, and enjoyed seeing them squirm.

Feeling suddenly insecure in her baggy, gray sweat pants, a white apron tied around her middle that she thought made her look fat--which she was--and her tee-shirt with the silly inscription, heralding her big boobs, Nell felt she resembled a clown next to this handsome young man. He’d brought out emotions in her that she hadn’t intended to deal with, and they were spilling out all over the place like bouncing rubber balls.

What’ll you have to eat, mister? Nell asked gruffly, successfully switching to her tough persona, a reliable resource that she’d perfected to cover up her emotions. I don’t have all day to stand here askin’ you.

Sorry, ma’am, the trucker drawled amiably, and he gave Nell his order, his strong jaw admirably displaying his amazing, flawless teeth.

Nell couldn’t really fault the man. He was pleasant and polite, in spite of her suspicion of his cruelty, but he unnerved her, and seemed to enjoy it. His smile so carefully rehearsed, calculated to do exactly what it’d done: melt her to a blob. He was, for her, forbidden fruit, probably something that she couldn’t have, with his carefully orchestrated façade; the man of her dreams who would whisk her away from this place where the walls were closing in on her like a vise. If she could have this man, she would have him for eternity.

Before she made more of a fool of herself and opened the entire Pandora’s Box, Nell snatched up a small chrome pitcher that contained milk for coffee from Mike’s table and returned to the bar where she yelled the two orders to the cook through the small window connecting the kitchen with the bar. Funneling another mug of coffee, she took the mug to Sammy pretending to read the newspaper at the table by the window.

When Nell placed the mug on Sammy’s table, regardless that he’d sworn to keep his mouth shut, or perhaps in retaliation for Nell’s indifference, Sammy opened the can of worms anyhow. You attracted to that guy? he asked pointblank, a shot that hit its mark.

Uncomfortable with the question, and provoked that Sammy had rooted out her emotions which she couldn’t face herself, much less discuss with him, Nell’s face grew red from embarrassment and anger. What guy? she asked innocently, as if she didn’t know what Sammy was talking about.

Saving them from possibly driving into an emotional ditch, a horn honked outside. Peering out the window, they saw Hank in his truck in the parking area. Thankful for the intrusion, Nell went to the front door, stepping outside onto the stoop.

What is it? she yelled to Hank with his arm resting on the window ledge of his beat-up, red pickup truck; his tanned, rugged face lined and worn from age and hard work beyond his fifty some-odd years.

Is she up yet? Hank yelled over the old truck’s rattle.

The truck had belonged to Hank’s father, but it worked for what Hank used it: picking up small items in town, like food, medicine, and odds and ends for the truck stop.

When is she ever up? Nell answered with an unpleasant scowl.

Leaning further out the truck’s window as the dimensions would allow, Hank directed his voice toward an open window at the side of the house where white organdy curtains fluttered outside like laundry on a line. Lulu Mae! he yelled, honking his horn again. Yo! Lulu Mae!

Asleep in a big brass bed in an upstairs bedroom furnished in antiques, leftovers from Hank and Nell’s mother, a girl in her early twenties with tousled blond hair was tangled in a white sheet that corkscrewed around her nude body. Hank’s horn sounded once more and she moaned, turning over and opening her sultry blue eyes. She yawned lazily, stretching her arms and legs down to her toes, pulling on the sheet and provoking her full, round breasts with cherry-tipped nipples to pop out over the top of the sheet.

Yo! Lulu Mae! Hank’s voice persisted outside.

Oh, good God! the girl grumbled, untwisting the sheet around her and yanking it off the bed. Re-wrapping the sheet around her body and across her bosom, she staggered to the window. The organdy curtains that billowed outside from the gush of air created by passing cars and trucks on the interstate caught on her body and momentarily froze as she leaned out the window to address Hank’s annoying racket.

What the hell you yellin’ ‘bout? she screamed irritably, clutching the sheet to her bosom.

Nell’s lips curled in a disgusted snarl, fed up with the recurring dramas from these two.

I told you the new bartender’s comin’ today, Hank yelled, and I want you up to show him the ropes!

The only rope you got, Lulu Mae yelled, tossing her straggly, blond hair out of her face with a shake of her head, is the one tied ‘round your damn neck with this damn place!

She instantly withdrew from the window, and Hank sighed loudly, resigned that Lulu Mae’s attitude was typical of her contrary nature.

Sorry-ass bitch, Nell assessed the matter her way.

Now Nelly, don’t start, Hank responded, weary of Nell’s complaints about Lulu Mae that he’d heard many times before. Get her ass down here. I’ll be back soon as I deposit the money.

You got it all, don’t you, Hank? Nell asked. Don’t make us no trouble.

I’ll mind the business, Nelly. You mind your own, Hank replied, pushing back a metal lockbox on the seat beside him to prevent the box from sliding onto the floor. He goosed the accelerator and the old truck sputtered, picked up speed, and rumbled out of the parking area, heading to the small road, and then onto the interstate.

Nell remained on the stoop observing the truck disappear around the edge of their property. The organdy curtains waved invitingly outside Lulu Mae’s window as if to attract a passerby, catching Nell’s attention. Sorry-ass bitch, she grumbled again, returning inside the truck stop.

Closing the big wooden door to discourage the sweltering heat from flooding in as an unwanted guest, Nell went immediately to Sammy’s table where he’d witnessed the entire outside episode from his front-row seat by the window. What the hell Hank ever saw in that little slut Lulu Mae, Nell declared, I’ll never know!

Ah, she’s alright, Sammy responded, knowing perfectly well what any man would see in Lulu Mae.

Mark my word, Nell continued her condemnation, one of these days you’re gonna have to haul her sorry-ass off to jail!

For what? Sammy laughed, enjoying goading Nell for neglecting him with the trucker.

For bein’ a damn whore! Nell declared emphatically, going to the bar to pick up the orders that the cook had just passed through the kitchen window.