He was working on the jerry-built heap I’d noticed earlier, which now resembled a cross between Buck Rogers’s spaceship and a collection of spare parts some trashcan dog dragged in. It was a Model T chassis with two motorcycle tires on the front, two tractor tires on the back, what looked like a half-dozen hooked-together lawnmower engines, and an undercarriage made up of chicken wire and friction tape. The man himself was on the ground toiling on the drive shaft, and when I reached into the driver’s seat and beeped the horn, he came up gun first, laughing when he saw who it was.
“Woooo, boy! You almost died!”
I walked over and whispered in Davis’s ear. “Miller killed Leroy and took off with the girl in the Auburn yesterday. The Ventura bulls are holding back on the ransom money, and I think it was them shooting at us. Let’s roll now. On foot if this thing won’t go.”
Davis smiled. “She’s got a name, boy. ‘Li’l Assdragger.’ And she’ll _fly_.”
I heard engines in the distance and stood on the contraption’s running board to grab a look. A three-vehicle caravan was thumping across the hardscrabble that bordered the town, sending up clouds of dust. Squinting hard, I saw black-and-white paint on one car, cherry lights on another.
Davis said, “Them?” I nodded. Suddenly he was a nut-tightening, screw-fastening, wire-connecting dervish, and Harwell Treadwell was shouting, “Come to big brother! Home cookin’ tonight! Come and get me!”
I ran over and fumbled at Treadwell’s bracelets with my handcuff key. I’d just gotten the left one off when he shot me a short right uppercut. Stunned, I started to duck into a crouch; then the free cuff lashed my face, the open ratchet ripping loose a chunk of my brows, blood in my eyes blinding me.
The black-and-white noise drew closer; I heard Davis frantically trying to start Li’l Assdragger. I wiped the blood from my eyes and got my balance just in time to see Harwell Treadwell hotfoot it around the edge of the building. I started to run after him, then the Okie jalopy lurched forward, cutting me off. Davis yelled, “I can’t brake too good. Jump in!”
I did. Davis popped the two foot pedals simultaneously, and the thing crept forward. I shouted “Treadwell!” above the engine noise. Davis shouted “He’ll pay!” twice as loud. On the street, I turned around and looked back, and there was our extraditee running headlong into the three-car dust storm, whooping and waving his arms. A second later I heard shotgun blasts and machine-gun fire, and parts of Treadwell flew in all directions before the storm clouds ate him up. Then I just held on.
We lurched, we bumped, we hit potholes and jumped three feet off the ground. We brodied through dirt and skidded over the connecting roads that led out of town. We fishtailed when we hit gravel, and we turned doughnuts when we hit wet spots. Davis leadfooted, double and triple clutched, honked stray dogs out of our way, and did everything else but hit the brakes. Dusk started coming on, and then we were on the big, broad Ridge Road southbound, blacktop under our mismatched wheels, a skinny yellow line separating us from collisions with real, live, normal cars. Davis hooted, “Ain’t got no lights!” and a moment later I saw the Wayside Honor Rancho turnoff sign. Davis saw it too, decelerated, pumped the floorboard and hooted “Ain’t got no brakes!” I shut my eyes and felt Li’l Assdragger shimmy. Then it was a triple fishtail-doughnut combo, and we were stone-cold still in the northbound lane, staring down the headlights of death.
We got out and ran. Tire screeches and thud-crunch-cracks behind us told me that Li’l Assdragger was fond recent history. Hugging the shoulder, we trudged over to the turnoff and up a road to the barbed-wire-enclosed guard hut that separated square-john citizens from county inmates. A light flashed on as we approached; I had my badge out and the word Peace on my lips. Then my legs turned to Jell-o, and I passed out thinking I should have more wind than a fat Okie fifteen years my senior.