Red Highway Read Online Free

in front of the chair, picked up Virgil’s right leg, and set it on the cushioned top.
    The prisoner fought like a madman, struggling to free himself from the brute’s grip. He twisted in the chair, kicked at the ferret, but it was no use. The arms that held him refused to let go. The small thug was sitting on his ankle, pinning it painfully to the stool. The olive-complexioned youth lifted his foot above Virgil’s outstretched leg and took aim. Virgil grunted, cursed, and bit his lip, but his captors held him stationary. The foot came down with an ear-splitting crack.
    Blue-hot lights popped and flashed before his eyes. Somebody was screaming and it sounded like his voice. His leg, a thing aflame, was lying on the floor, yet he could feel his foot still resting on the hassock. He decided he was going mad. He felt his other leg being set upon the stool. This time he didn’t hear the crack. He had lost consciousness.
    He came to strangely. The layers of unconsciousness shattered one by one as he broke to the surface, snapping and popping into thousands of tiny pieces, to be swept away as the next layer presented itself. He broke through, began slipping, and broke through again, this time for good. The first thing he thought about was the state of his legs. They felt oldly stiff and straight, stretched out before him. Without opening his eyes, he felt for the tight linen knot of the bandage. He let out his breath in relief. Although the first aid did nothing to suppress the pounding pain he felt in both limbs, it comforted him to know that they had been taken care of.
    The floor was in motion beneath him. He ran his fingers over the rippled surface, put it together with the monotonous rumbling in his ears, and deduced that he was in a moving automobile. He opened his eyes a slit. Above him, trees, sky, and reddening clouds were sliding past the tall windows of the Saxon Six. The ribbed cloth top quivered and buckled with each bump. The back window squeaked. He was lying on the floor between the front and back seats. Somebody was sitting in the back seat, his face and upper torso obscured in the gathering darkness. His shoes, the well-buffed toes of which rested an inch in front of Virgil’s face were two-toned, and it was by noting this, together with the badly creased blue trouser cuffs that hung over the shoes, that the prisoner knew he was being attended by the wiry, ferret-faced gangster.
    One of the shoes nudged him in the chest, roughly. “Snap to, hayseed,” came a voice from above him. “I seen your eyes open.”
    Virgil grunted, raising himself slightly on his elbows. “Where are we?”
    â€œWell, now, I just knew you were going to ask me that question.” The unpleasant edge was still present in his voice.
    â€œSo?” Virgil squinted into the rays of the setting sun.
    â€œYou’ll see when we get there,” retorted the gangster, sneeringly. “We’re gonna find you a place to stay. Ain’t that nice?”
    Virgil gathered up enough saliva and shot it in the direction of the gangster’s voice. It hit his knee and rolled down the leg of his wrinkled trousers. Ferret Face made an exclamation of rage and kicked Virgil in the face. The sole of his two-toned shoe struck his chin, but Virgil turned his head away just at the right time so that it did little more than scuff his cheek. He lowered himself back to the floor and resolved to remain silent for the rest of his journey.
    â€œYessir,” continued the weasley thug, who evidently believed he had caused Virgil some harm, “you’re gonna be real happy with your new accommodations. I guarantee it.” He wiped off his trouser leg with a silk handkerchief.
    A voice, which Virgil identified as that of the brute, although he had never heard it, drifted over the back seat. “Missouri comin’ up.”
    The crippled prisoner was puzzled. Had he said “Missouri” or