He had been driving 32 hours non-stop. Unless you counted the 45 minute nap at a deserted filling station somewhere between Colby and Hays Kansas. The sun was setting now, and he was listening to Jay Farrar's forlorn voice intoning
"she's a cemetery savior
blown down from Northern Skies
did time on the asphalt plains
she's a cemetery savior..."
then the electric buzz of the steel guitar fed through a Marshall Silver Jubilee that zipped through his ears, carrying away all negative thoughts. Well, most negative thoughts.
He was still not sure if keeping tabs on an aging California folkie who was on the lamb from an ICBM launch facility in San Diego was his bailliwick. And he wasn't sure at all that the 5000 plus expenses he was being paid was worth this marathon journey through the nightmare of the American heartland. He was still haunted by the kid who'd waitedon him at breakfast at Mamas Cafe in Denver. The kid had seated him at 1:15 am in the empty restaurant, he had ordered a hearty breakfast of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, and the kid had told him he had been busted one year previously for possession with intent to sell cocaine, amphetamines, LSD and mushrooms. Now the kid was clean, he didn't miss the parties, the bankroll, the BMW, the casual sex...he had a clean system and Jesus. The kid was 27. Madison sat listening and realized what a dilletante he had been when it came to life on the wild side. No BMWs, no bankroll. Maybe the occasional hit of acid before going to see 2001:A Space Odyssey. Yeah, there was the whiskey, but Madison was upholding a family tradition in that respect. No, all the doors that Blake and his cohorts had pried open in the 60's in the name of freedom, had instead admitted a host of monsters.
Out of some sense of responsibility for the kid's tough breaks, Madison left him a 5 dollar tip on a 9 dollar tab, left the kid wiping a clean table in an empty restaurant in the depths of the American night, and swung the Mercury back out and onto the Great Eastern Highway.
Blake glanced at the duffle on the passenger seat, the one that held a change of socks and underwear, 400 dollars in cash, three fifths of Four Roses, and 5 cds which included Love's Forever Changes, Miles Davis' Kinda Blue, Sweetheartof the Rodeo, the Son Volt Straightaways cd he had in the box, and The Very Best of the Limelighters, which was Madison's attempt at absorbing some folkie ambiance before hitting this "Mudcat Getaway". Madison glanced down at his mustard-stained blazer, crumpled tie, threadbare slacks,and beat-up wingtips and mumbled "I look more like Dean Martin at the end of a 9 day binge than Pete Seeger". He stared for a moment at the glove box, then popped the hatch and took the 38 caliber revolver out, checked the safety, and stashed it under the passenger seat.
He steered the Merc onto a gravel side road and squinted at a sign that said "Paradise Valley ahead 5 miles." He ate two more No-Doz which he chased with a slug of bourbon, and prepared to enter the folkie atmosphere.