SE Hinton owns Two-Bit and the Outsiders
Female Lead
Five-
It's two miles home from the bar. There's no straight shot. The smartest thing to do would be to call Darry. The path of least resistance would be to head for Peoria, which is busy no matter what time of day, and hope that she can catch a ride at least within a few blocks of the house. Knowing that the bulk of the Shepard gang is back behind her in the Encore- and occupied with the promise of a fight- makes her feel a little bit more at ease.
Honey sighs. It's still cold, but the wind has died down. She can hear every street noise around her- traffic on 66, a door slamming, a bottle smashing against a brick wall. Dry leaves tumble of their own volition on the sidewalk. She feels for her purse on the inside pocket of her coat and starts walking.
A few cars pass by her, but no one slows down. She feels the ones on her side of the street come up behind her before she sees her own shadow in their headlights. She hates that feeling- that her heart has grown and become hard in her chest, the feeling that it would rather stop beating than deal with whatever might be coming next.
She is almost to the railway overpass that crosses 2nd Street- and she smiles a little to herself to think that "the wrong side of the tracks" brings on a feeling of relief- when she becomes aware of another car coming up behind her. It's slowing down. She can tell because this time she can see her full form silhouetted in the headlights. She walks a little faster, and then decides that only advertises fear and slows her pace once again.
The car veers in towards the curb and pulls up beside her, following her at a crawl. The passenger side window is rolled down. From inside a male voice, one that she doesn't recognize, calls out to her:
"Honey, slow down."
That's the trouble with a nickname like Honey, she thinks. You never know if a guy really knows you or if he's just being patronizing. The driver of the car quickly makes it clear which it is:
"Honey. Shelby Curtis, I knew your father."
"So did a lot of people," she says, but then she stops. Even most of her father's friends called her Honey. She tries to imagine a conversation where her father would be telling this man her real name. She backs away from the car a couple of steps, but cocks her head in an attempt to see inside.
"This is true," The man says. "There were a lot of people sorry to hear what happened to him. There were a few, however, who weren't sorry at all."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You know what- I don't give a damn. Get away from me."
Honey starts walking again, although she knows escaping on the street is futile. It's going to be several blocks before there's a park or open space that she can cut across, and for all she knows, this creep would get out of his car and follow her on foot.
She slows her pace again and allows him to catch up. If something is about to go down, she figures she can at least get a better look at this guy and his car. He pulls up next to her again and they both stop. She peers inside at him. Illuminated only by the dash light, she can't see mor than he's clean-shaven with dark hair, and closer to her father's age than her older brother's. He's wearing a jacket. It's unbuttoned and she can see a belt buckle that looks like a rodeo trophy, but she isn't sure.
"Seven Thirty-One North Saint Louis Avenue," he rattles off her address, Honey figures, just to prove that he knows it. "On the corner of Independence. That's almost two miles, Shelby. Your daddy wouldn't want you walking all by yourself at night. I know that for sure."
"My daddy didn't give a damn what happened to me," she snaps. She surprises herself- saying the words. She isn't entirely sure she believes them, but she keeps going anyway. "If you knew him, you'd know that."
"That's not true, Shelby. He was so proud of you. And he was afraid for you. When you took off, you were the only thing he talked about. He wanted to go looking for you, but he didn't know where to start."
"Really? He should've just talked to my mom then because she knew exactly where I was."
The driver nods. Honey can see him thinking about that and then frowning as he gathers his thoughts again. She looks up and down the length of his car. It's a Dodge, made in the last five years and the engine is quiet. It doesn't miss while in idle. It's a four-door. It might be gray or silver or powder blue, but the light is too dim to be sure. The interior might be cream-colored, or it might be the dash light giving off a yellowish cast.
"Shelby," the driver says. "What do you know about the night your parents were killed?"
"Same thing everyone knows. The car stalled on the railroad tracks. They got hit by the Katy coming in from Muskogee at two in the morning."
"And that story never struck you as odd?"
Honey hops on her toes and looks up and down the block. She replies, "What's odd about it, other than it's a shit way to die?"
The driver nods. "Did you ever know any car your father owned to be given to stalling out? Your father could keep anything running. How old was that car?"
"It was a '45. Almost twenty years old."
"And it hummed like a hornet's nest, didn't it?"
Honey nods in spite of herself. The car was a 1945 Special Deluxe, and her mother hated it. She said driving it on the side streets was like piloting a barge through the locks at Catoosa. She said there was no chance of ever getting a new car, though, because Darrel, Sr. was going to keep that '45 running until the end of time.
"And why were they still in the car?" The driver breaks into her thoughts. "When the train came?"
"There wasn't enough time." Honey shrugs.
"But they didn't even try? That part of the line is a straight shot for almost a mile coming into town, and it blows the whistle the whole way. They would've seen it coming and heard it."
Honey's weariness of the driver gives way to disgust: "Are you suggesting that my parents killed themselves? Because that's just bullshit."
"That is not what I'm suggesting. What I'm suggesting is that they were pushed onto the tracks."
"Jesus Christ," Honey snaps back. She is about to start walking again when a pair of headlights comes up behind the Dodge. There is a familiar squeal of barely functioning brakes.
Honey tells the man, "Now I got a ride."
That man looks behind him and then back through the open window.
He says, "Find the car in the salvage yard, Honey, and then ask yourself why there was so much rear end damage. Ask a railman- not the cops- someone working for the railroad if they had to replace the gate after the accident. It should've been up if they were stalled on the tracks. It wasn't. They went right through it."
This is a detail she didn't need to hear, and now she has to picture it. Honey feels her stomach turn.
The driver's side door of Two-Bit's car slams shut and he comes around to Honey's side. He positions himself between her and the Dodge and puts a protective arm around her shoulder. He speaks to her in a quiet voice, but he's still scolding: "What the hell were you thinking? You and I's going to have words." Then he says to the man in the car, "Take off, jackass. She don't need a ride from you, or whatever else you were thinking."
"He thinks he can do 'that' for me, too," Honey says and rolls her eyes.
Two-Bit grumbles, "Can't stop yourself, can you?"
The driver of the car shakes his head and grins.
"Your father said you had a mouth on you. He always claimed he didn't know where you got it. He always smiled when he said it. He loved you, Shelby. He'd have come for you if he'd known where to look."
Then he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. Honey squints to see the car's plates, but the glare off of Two-Bit's headlights washes them out. They are dark- blue or black, which means most likely Texas or Kansas. Oklahoma plates are white with black lettering.
"Who the hell was that?" Two-Bit asks her.
"I don't know."
It occurs to Honey that she didn't ask the man who he was or how he knew her father. She didn't ask any of the right questions.
"Looked like you were having a helluva conversation there. Jesus, Honey, are you out of your mind? This part of town, this time of night- he was out looking for a trick."
"No, I don't think he was." Honey's voice is faraway. She is still looking in the direction where the Dodge has disappeared.
"No? Then he was some kind of good Samaritan who picks up little girls walking alone downtown after dark?"
"I ain't a little girl, Two-Bit," she argues, but there is no fight in her voice.
"I guess not," Two-Bit says. He spins her by the shoulders and pushes her towards the passenger side of his car. "I don't know what the hell you are anymore. After that little stunt, I'm torn between thinking crazy or stupid."
