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Show 68 "Look at that mud, Darcy. Just look at it." The driver had turned on the headlights. "Listen to me." "It's going to be a bitch. A real bitch." David felt another jab to his shoulder. This time it was the German next to him, thrusting a bottle at his face. "Trink," he was saying, rolling back his head and jerking his thumb at his own open mouth. David pushed the bottle away. "Trink." "Asshole." "Ja, das schnapps, guttes schnapps," and again the bottle was extended. The other Germans watched, smiled, nodded. David could feel little saline beads rising on his forehead, his chest, the back of his neck. For a moment he could see it clearly. They were all in on this, out to bust his head apart like a vase thrown at a wall. "Trink," demanded the German. David seized the bottle and put it to his lips. On the third swallow he choked. The Germans applauded. "What's wrong?" asked Darcy. "They tried to poison me." "Not with you, with the car." David looked out the window. They weren't moving. "We're stuck," he said. "We're stuck in the goddamn mud." The big tires began churning the road; forward, reverse, forward, reverse. The taxi slid sideways, toward the stone fence. |