‘How’s the wife?’
Not a tactical plus. His father’s face clouded and he said:
‘Women! She thinks a credit card means free money. Your mother wasn’t much better.’
‘It’s going well then?’
His father raised his arm and Porter smiled. How would it look if his father beat him in the bed? Then his father changed tactics, smiled his evil smile, said:
‘Why am I talking to you about women? What would you know about them?’
Before Porter could answer, the doctor came and said he needed time with his patient. Falls was walking along the ward and Porter said:
‘Dad, there’s one of my colleagues, will you get her some coffee?’
He stared at her then said:
‘She’s a nigger. I’ll come tomorrow and have you transferred to a private clinic.’
Porter sighed, said:
‘Don’t bother.’
‘What? You don’t want the best care money can buy?’
‘No, I don’t want you to visit tomorrow or any other day.’
“At daylight I thumbed a ride with a gaunt gypsy trucker with shoulder-length hair and a death’s head earring. It was 6.30 and his eyes were wide open, and he was listening to a metal band sing about the highway to hell.
‘I know that highway pretty good,’ I told him.
He grinned and handed me some crystal.’
17
Roberts came to with the highway to hell pounding in his head. He’d had hangovers, he’d had bad hangovers but this was the motherfucker. This was the reference point, the level by which all future pain could be measured. He was in a bed, sorta. Hanging over the side, bile dribbling from his mouth, vomit congealed on the floor. And he was naked. He dragged himself to a sitting position and saw a woman… also naked, in the bed. He thought: