King Suckerman

“To our trip, Greek.”

Stefanos had a swig of beer as Goodrich turned the ignition.

“We got everything?” said Stefanos.

An ounce of Mexican sat in the glove box, along with a vial filled to the top with Black Beauties and a half dozen hits of Purple Haze; a plastic grenade hung from the rearview, and a Bad Company logo was taped, facing out, to the windshield of the car. Several Marlboro hardpacks were scattered on the dash. Plastered to the rear of the Camaro was a bumper sticker that read, “Mott the Hoople: Tell Chuck Berry the news.”

“Everything that matters,” said Goodrich.

Billy Goodrich laughed and caught rubber pulling out of the lot. Stefanos slapped Sally Can’t Dance into the Pioneer eight-track deck. The druggy guitar of “Kill Your Sons” crashed from the Superthruster speakers.

They took a ramp leading to 95 South. Goodrich pinned the gas pedal, pushing the Camaro up to eighty-five. He began to talk to Stefanos about the movie they had seen together on Saturday night. But Stefanos wasn’t really listening to his friend. He couldn’t get the image of that Karras guy out of his head.

Nick Stefanos couldn’t figure out why Karras bothered him. He would never get off the track like Karras. It wasn’t like he was looking into his own future when he looked into that Karras dude’s wasted, hollowed-out eyes. What had happened to Dimitri Karras, whatever had happened, could never happen to him. He was way too smart for that. And he had so much time.

“Hey, Greek!”

“What?”

“I’m talkin’ to you, man! I was just sayin’, the movie was badder than a motherfucker, wasn’t it?”

There was little traffic on the interstate. They were on a long straightaway, the white lines bleeding into the horizon. Stefanos smiled, looking at the road ahead.

“Yeah,” said Nick Stefanos. “King Suckerman was bad.”