After a night of tossing and turning, and dreams featuring vagrants being run over by large, rusty cars, I managed to oversleep. Running late, I'd taken a quick no-hair-wash shower and hoped that putting it up in a bun would hide how dirty it was. Then I dressed, slapped on my minimal makeup with an even less expert hand than usual, and flew out of the house to head to work without even saying goodbye to my mom, who I could hear singing in the downstairs shower when I left.
Since I was late there weren't any parking places in the employee lot. I trolled around the lot, going down every aisle. Nothing. I moved around to the visitor lot and selected a spot as far from the front door as possible and ran inside. Kirk was at his podium.
"Thelma," he said. "I'm so glad you're here. We need to talk."
"Okay, I'll see you at lunch," I said, rushing past him. "I'm late for a one on one with Tonya."
He ran to catch up with me and grabbed me by the arm. "This is important," he said. He dropped my arm when another employee walked by and looked at us. "It can't wait until lunch time."
"Can it wait until I've talked to Tonya? I don't want to be late." I hopped from foot to foot, ready to keep making my way up the stairs. If I didn't get up there now I was going to be late. And what if it was another surprise meeting with Dana? All I needed was for her to be right about me being unreliable.
"Come right down to see me, as soon as it's done." His eyes darted around. "It's important."
"Okay, I'll be here," I was already resuming my sprint up the steps. "I'll see you then."
I had a tiny twinge of guilt that I hadn't mentioned the money. But I could tell him about that when I was done with Tonya, right?
I ran to my cubicle and dumped my things, grabbed my laptop and ran to Tonya's door. I stopped and smoothed my hair and took a deep breath, then went in.
"Good morning, Thelma," Tonya said. "How are you doing with that inventory list?"
"Good morning." I sat in one of the empty seats and snapped open the laptop. "We're getting there. I've found and cataloged about two thirds of the list. All I have left to do is to catalog the basement."
She wrinkled her nose. "You won't find much down there. Most things down there are broken or unusable."
I cleared my throat. "I heard a rumor that a past employee was selling items out of the basement," I said.
"Yes, like I said, it's considered to be mostly junk. I knew about that but it seemed almost like a cost savings." She leaned back in her chair and twiddled a pen between two fingers. "Otherwise we have to pay to haul that stuff away."
"Oh," I said. "So he wasn't stealing?"
"Not really."
"Is there any chance he was moving things to the basement to sell that weren't supposed to be there?"
"Yes, unfortunately, there is." Her lips pursed into a flat line. "I'd appreciate it if you could finish up your inventory by checking down there."
"Sure," I said. "Is there anything else?"
"You're doing a great job. I'm glad to see that you're making friends with team members and that you're taking initiative to get things done. That's the kind of thing we look for when we're interviewing for a co-op."
A little bird in my chest fell off it's perch and maybe died a little bit. A co-op? I wanted a job. A real one. With insurance and stuff.
"Thank you," I said, even though my tongue felt like I might've glued it to the roof of my mouth.
"That's all I had. Have a great weekend."
"You too." I exited and went back to my desk. Ning was waiting for me.
"So? How did it go?" she asked.
"She wants me to check the basement."
"Great, let's get moving."
My brain was whirling around the drain of the co-op and I allowed her to snag me by the arm and drag me to Mick's cube. He must've been waiting for us because he didn't speak. He just got up and followed Ning and I to the elevator. We went down to the basement and Ning led the way.
Most of the basement was unfinished. The floor was dusty poured cement and the walls were grey cinderblock. Windows were small and high, too far up to look out. The ceiling had uncovered ductwork and pipes, and the steel structure of the building was visible. There was a sudden of water from somewhere. I glanced at Mick.
"Toilet," he said.
"The furniture is mostly in that corner over there," Ning said. She fiddled with some switches next to the elevator until the entire basement was dimly illuminated. Boy, Tonya wasn't kidding about how it was mostly junk. There were chairs without legs and desks with missing drawers and a couch with something that looked like a vomit stain over an entire cushion. There were boxes and boxes labeled "data storage" and Christmas trees that seemed to be pre-decorated.
We went through the furniture and found only a handful of matches out of the spreadsheet. It took two hours, and by the end of it we were all coughing up dust balls and pulling cobwebs out of our hair.
"All right, I guess I have to tell Tonya that there's still stuff missing," I said. We went back towards the elevator. Mick pressed the button and we stood back to wait. When the doors slid open, we went to step in but it was occupied.
By Kirk and Horace.
Horace had Kirk in a headlock, which was not an easy thing because Kirk was easily a foot taller than Horace. Kirk was bent over and his eyes were bulging slightly. Horace had a gun pointed at Kirk with his other hand.
"Hairy cats in a bag," Mick said.
"Is that her?" Horace demanded.
Kirk struggled a little, and Horace tapped him in the head with the butt of the gun.
"I can't see," Kirk said.
Horace released his grip just enough for Kirk to tip his head up and look at us.
"Well?" Horace demanded, poking the gun into Kirk's hair.
"Uh," Kirk said.
Aww. He was trying not to rat me out.
"Her who?" Mick asked.
"His friend," Horace said. "The one who took my money."
"We don't know what you're talking about," Ning said.
Horace tightened back up on Kirk's neck. "Look, skinny. You said she was in the basement. So where is she?" He bopped Kirk again with the gun. It made a sound sort of like thumping a melon.
"It's me," I said, flinching at the blow to Kirk. "I have your bag."
He pointed the gun at me. "Then get in here," he said.
Mick put out an arm to stop me. "Now just wait a minute –"
But he didn't get to finish. Horace aimed the gun over our heads and squeezed off a shot. In the confined space of the elevator it must have been really loud. I clapped my hands over my ears and ducked.
"I said, get in here," Horace shouted.
I glanced at Mick and then at Ning as I took a step forward to the elevator. Ning was practically vibrating with . . . anger? Like I'd flipped a switch she was a ball of fury. She seemed to rise up into the air and shoot towards Horace.
Shocked, he released his grip on Kirk to raise an arm in defense. He didn't have half a chance. Kirk stumbled out of elevator, blocking my view, but I heard a whole lot of unintelligible screaming, peppered with profanity and grunts. When Kirk moved out of the way, Horace was crouched in the corner of the elevator, his arms raised around his head as blows rained down from Ning. Around the screams of anger coming from Ning I could hear a sort of blubbering sound.
"Come on, Ning" Mick said. He reached into the elevator and grabbed Horace's gun from the floor. He's about as subdued as he's gonna get."
Ning delivered one last kick to his head. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," she said, then she ran out of the elevator and sprinted towards the stairwell door. We all followed her, Mick in the rear looking over his shoulder.
We went into the stairwell, and Kirk pointed at the steel door leading to the dock across the street. "There. He won't be able to follow us. He'll expect us to come up the steps."
He fumbled through his keys for only a moment before a sense of calm seemed to come over him and he unlocked the door, ushering us inside. He closed it and bolted it from the inside. The motion lights flicked on.
"He'll know we're in here when he sees the lights," Ning complained.
"But he won't be able to follow us. Let's go." Kirk ran down the hallway, and again we followed. I was starting to calm down a little bit and things were out of place. What the heck was going on?
We burst out the opposite door and ran up the steps onto the dock. The activity was minimal, but nobody seemed to notice our arrival.
"What now?" I asked. I was trying to catch my breath.
"Follow my lead," Mick said. He stuck the gun into the waistband of his pants and untucked his shirt to cover it. He strolled towards one of the workers unloading a truck.
"Hey, is Renny around?" Mick asked.
The worker grunted and pointed towards the other end of the dock. A forklift was buzzing back and forth from one side of the dock to the other, blocking our view of the area. But Mick thanked the worker and we headed off in that direction. I positioned myself next to Kirk.
"Where were you?" he hissed. "You said you'd come down as soon as your meeting with Tonya was done."
"I know, I'm sorry," I said. "She sent me to do something and I just forgot. Plus Mick and Ning were with me."
He blew out a sigh. "I wanted to show you a news article from the paper," he said.
Huh. He still reads the paper?
He produced a folded piece of newsprint from his breast pocket and handed it to me. "This was in this morning's edition."
I unfolded it and glanced at the headline as we walked: 'Shots fired, local plumber missing.'
"Jerry is missing?"
"Yeah. The police went in to look around. He wasn't there. The doors were all unlocked, his car was still there, and there were bullet holes all over the place," he said.
"Any blood?"
"The article didn't mention any. But that doesn't mean there wasn't. Sometimes the police won't release all of the details of a crime scene."
Renny emerged from the back end of a trailer.
"Hey, Renny," Mick said. "How's it going?"
Renny shrugged. "Fair to middling, I'd say."
"I need to do a safety check of that rig out there," Mick pointed through an open dock door towards a truck that was idling in the yard. It didn't have a trailer attached and looked a little bit naked.
Renny frowned. "You've got a lot of people with you for a safety check."
Mick rolled his eyes. "Interns," he said. He leaned in close and whispered something that sounded an awful lot like, "always butting in."
Renny glanced over at the group again. "Whatever," he said. "Keys are in it."
"Great, thanks, Renny. You're a pal," Mick said. He and Ning walked off towards another set of steps in the corner. Kirk and I followed. The steps went down to ground level, and we were out in the yard.
"You've gotta be real careful out here in the yard," Kirk said. "They've got these little trucks moving trailers around all the time. They move fast, so watch out." As he spoke, one rounded the corner and we pressed against the building to keep out of its way. It was pulling a small trailer, and somehow had only half a cab. A donkey was painted on the side of it, and in crude lettering underneath it said, "Kickin' Ass."
It passed and we resumed our trek towards the idling truck. I'd driven by a million such trucks over the course of my life, but I'd never thought they were as large as it seemed when I had to climb up into it. The passenger seat was folded up, allowing for us to climb up and in pretty easily through the passenger door. Behind the seats there was a set of bunk beds and a little space with a fridge and even a television, accessible by a small gap between the two front seats.
"This is like a little apartment," I said. I'd always wondered what one looked like inside. I sat on the lower bunk. The mattress felt like the sort you'd imagine in a prison: foam covered in a cheap layer of vinyl. It smelled faintly of bleach and the surface was sticky. Kirk followed me to sit in back, Mick climbed into the driver's seat and Ning folded down the passenger jump seat and belted herself in there.
Mick put the truck in gear and we rolled through the yard at a snail's pace.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"I don't know," Mick said. "Somewhere that an ex-coworker won't shoot at me, I guess."
I winced.
"Yeah, you'd better start talking," Ning said. "What was that all about?"
I slid a glance at Kirk. He shrugged, his expression defeated.
"Horace was trying to blackmail a customer," I said. "We caught him in a meeting where he was supposed to get the cash he was demanding. But I accidentally hit him with my car."
Mick looked at me over his shoulder. "Accidentally?"
"It was dark, and in an alley . . . I didn't know he was there, he came out of nowhere, really. I thought we'd injured him so we took him to a hospital." I looked at Kirk. "I don't understand. His leg was clearly broken. How was he walking around today?"
"Was it his left leg?" Mick asked.
"I think so," I said, though I really couldn't remember which leg it had been.
"He's an amputee. You probably knocked his prosthesis loose."
A wave of nausea washed over me. I'd run over a handicapped person. It shouldn't have made a difference; a person of low moral character is low whether they've got all their limbs or not. But it made me feel as if I'd taken advantage somehow.
"You have something he's looking for?" Mick demanded.
"A bag. We picked it up after the, er, accident. But we forgot to take it in to the hospital, and I took it home with me."
"It's at your house?"
"Yeah."
"Anybody home?"
"Not this time of day."
"What's in it?" Ning asked.
"I suppose he thought money was in it," I said. "The zipper on it was stuck. But it was just scrap paper." A bell was clanging in my head about the money. I should tell them about the money! But then how did I explain that some of it was missing? They weren't going to believe that Jerry had put four hundred twenty-five dollars in the bag, all wrapped in fifty-dollar segments except for one. I couldn't bring myself to say it.
Anyway, I really needed gas.
"Where do you live?" Mick asked.
"Turn right out of the lot then follow it to Front street," I said.
Criminy. What if my mom happened to be at home? I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed her number. It went to voice mail. Crud.
I gave him the rest of the directions to my house, then I tried my mom's desk phone at work. She worked at a real estate office as a secretary. Nobody answered there, either. I glanced at the time on my phone. Almost ten. She was probably in a sales meeting.
I sent her a quick text, telling her to call me back right away.
Kirk finally seemed to be perking up a bit. He leaned forward and sized up Ning.
"Boy, your, uh, attack on Horace was impressive," he said.
"Thanks," she said.
"What was that?" Mick asked. "Kung Fu?"
"Don't be ignorant," she said. "You just assume it's some kind of martial arts because of where I'm from?"
"Uh, I just, it looked like karate to me," Mick said. "Sorry."
She laughed. "I'm just pulling your chain. It wasn't anything in particular. I have four brothers."
"Excuse me," Kirk said. "But what does having brothers got to do with it?"
"They tormented me until I learned how to fend them off," she said. I could see her face in the side mirror outside the truck, and she looked out the window, her expression wistful. "Sonsabitches taught me all that I know about self-defense."
"They taught you well," Kirk said.
"It wasn't a lesson I wanted to learn," she snapped, looking back at Kirk.
"Okay," he said, scrunching further into the bunk.
"Um, so what's the plan?" I asked.
"We're going to get the bag," Mick said.
"Wait a second," I said. "How would Horace even know where to look for the bag? Does he know my name?"
Ning and I stared at Kirk.
"I don't recall if I said that or not," he said.
We arrived at my house, and Mick pulled into the driveway.
"Let's just stop and think for a minute," he said. "You're not sure if he knows her name. But he knows she has the bag. Is that right?"
Kirk nodded. "Yeah."
"All right. It stands to reason that he could ask any of a number of friends at work what the new person's name is, so let's assume he knows your name. Maybe we should get the bag, then."
"But if he comes here looking for it and it's not here, won't he be angry? I asked. This was getting way more complicated than it needed to be. "Maybe we should call the police," I said.
"And you're going to explain how you ran someone over and took their property before dumping them at the hospital?" Mick asked. "And let's not forget, you apparently knew about a blackmail scheme that you failed to report."
"How did you know about this blackmail scheme?" Ning asked. Her eyes seemed to dig to the bottom of my soul. Words just started pouring out.
"I found a letter that he wrote in the copier. He was demanding money from this plumber because the plumber was shipping something illegal. I tried to find out more at their first meeting, but the sink fell off the wall and there was a . . . misunderstanding."
Mick threw open the door and climbed down from the cab. He stomped around our tiny backyard, talking to himself and gesturing wildly.
"You're in some really deep trouble," Ning said. "And now we're involved, too. You ever think about anyone besides yourself?"
"I – how could I have known that he would come down to the basement during inventory?"
"How could you not report this? This is the kind of stuff people get shot over," she said.
"You didn't report it when Horace was stealing furniture," I pointed out.
"That was different! Nobody was going to take hostages over old desks with coffee rings on them."
"Ladies," Kirk said. "I think we have to stop and focus –"
But he didn't get to finish his sentence, because something had rammed into the side of the truck, knocking me and Kirk to the floor.
"I know you have my bag!" someone was screaming from outside the truck.
"Horace," Ning said. I untangled myself from Kirk and stood up, cracking my head on the ceiling of the cab. I didn't have time to worry about the bump. Now that I was standing I could see Mick stalking across the yard, gun drawn and held out in front of him.
"Horace! I know you're in that car. Come on out and show me your hands."
"Come on," Ning said. "Mick's got him under control."
The three of us practically fell out of the truck. We went around to the other side, where Horace's car was wrapped around the rear tire of the semi. The truck didn't look like it had sustained damage, but the car looked like he'd driven it full speed into a telephone pole.
Horace was standing next to the car, his hands up in the air. Unfortunately, this gave us a spectacular view of his very hairy and incredibly smelly arm pits. There was a trickle of blood running out of his nose and over his lip to his shirt. At this point his shirt could've stood up for him, it was so grungy.
"Thelma," Mick said. "Get me some rope or something to secure him."
I ran over to the garage and pulled up the door. I waited for the tiny structure to stop swaying before I went in and rummaged through the junk. There were some zip ties in the Christmas lights box, and I brought it out for him.
"Put your hands behind your back, nice and slow," Mick said. He gestured for me to tie him up. I went over to Horace and got the zip tie in place. I gagged a little at his stink and switched to mouth breathing.
"Now. We're going to call the police, and everything is going to get ironed out." He pulled his cell phone out and dialed. He still had the gun trained on Horace. "Thelma, go get that bag while we wait, okay?"
I went to the back door, but I didn't have my purse with me. It was locked. I glanced over my shoulder. None of them seemed to be paying attention, so I went over to the broken water fountain in the side yard and lifted off the lid over the motor to get the spare key. I went back to the door.
"I need a police car to come to this location," Mick was saying into his cell phone. A little tingle of embarrassment went up my spine. The neighbors were mostly elderly, and they all believed that I was a child bent on paving the way to hell because I didn't have a father figure. It apparently didn't matter that I was a straight A student, had no tattoos or unusual piercings, and had never even seen the inside of the principal's office at school. But here I was, with a dirty, bleeding amputee hog-tied on my lawn while my coworkers acted like hired vigilantes.
This would be the talk of the neighborhood for years to come.
I shoved the key in the door and unlocked it, ran up to my room and grabbed the bag. I thought about taking the bands off the money and stuffing it all back inside, but just as I went into the bathroom to get the tampon box, there was a squeal of tires outside. Wow, the police were fast when Mick called.
I sprinted out to the yard, dragging the bag with me. But it wasn't the police.
It was Jerry.
"Where's my money, you lunatic!" Jerry was screaming out his car window. The squealing had apparently been him speeding up to my house and slamming on the brakes. A twin line of rubber extended behind it up the street, and the front end of his car had Mick pinned up against Horace's car.
"Mick!" I yelled, running across the yard, oblivious to Jerry. Kirk and Ning were standing to one side looking shell-shocked.
"I'm okay," he said, his voice a croak. "Stay back, Thelma!"
I'd reached the front end of the car and I could see that he wasn't being crushed. He was only penned in by the two cars and the truck. "Let me help you out," I said.
He tried to push me away, but it was too late. I'd ignored Jerry in my haste to help Mick and he grabbed me by my hair and yanked me backwards.
"So you have it. Well that's just fine with me," Jerry said. "Get in the car."
I held the bag out to him. "You can just take it."
"No. Get in the car. You're my hostage."
"I –"
"Get in the goddamn car right now or you're gonna be breathing out your neck!" It was then that I noticed he had a gun in his free hand, hanging at his side.
"Okay," I said. I started to get into the backseat of the car.
"No. The front," he said. Then he swung around. "Where's that worm at? That blackmailing SOB is gonna meet his maker if it's the last thing I do."
Just as I got into the front seat, Horace popped up from the other side of his car and took off running, his hands still bound behind him. Jerry shot after him. A bullet zinged off a tree twenty feet wide and another went through Mrs. Theron's plate glass picture window across the street. He was really a horrible shot.
Across the way I saw the curtains on old Mr. Feldman's kitchen window twitch. The wail of a siren pierced the air and Jerry let out a stream of obscenities before he climbed into the car. He put the car into reverse, freeing Mick. Then he threw the car into drive and slammed his foot on the gas. The back of the car fish-tailed, looking for purchase, and then we were tearing off down Jefferson Avenue.
I sat in the passenger seat, clutching the bag. We hit North Haven and he turned left, then left again on State Road.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked. I kept my eyes on him as I reached to my pocket to withdraw my phone on my right side. But just then it started ringing.
"What the . . .? Is that your phone? Give me that!" He reached over and tore it from my hand, giving me only enough time to see that it was my mom calling me back. He opened his window and threw it out.
A sob clutched at me, and I clapped my hand over my mouth. I curled myself around the bag, now sorely wishing that I'd put the money back. What was Jerry going to do, when he realized I'd taken his five hundred dollars?
I glanced around the car. This was a Cadillac. And it smelled new. The seats were leather. The dash looked like exotic wood. The chrome gleamed silver. Why would someone with a car like this go to such lengths for five hundred dollars?
"Where are we going?" I asked, this time somewhat bolder.
"To the airport," he said, his mouth turned up into a sneer. "I'm blowing this pop-stand."
I clamped my mouth closed. I wanted to ask the obvious question: what was he going to do with me? Was I leaving this pop-stand, too? But Jerry was muttering under his breath, and I sensed it probably wasn't a good time to probe him further.
He jerked the wheel for a sudden left-hand turn onto Falls Avenue. The force of the turn pushed me against the door, and it raised a question in me: if we stopped at a light or a stop sign, could I get out and run? There was a stop sign ahead and I edged my hand towards the handle.
"Put your seat belt on," he growled. "And don't even think about getting out of the car."
I guess I hadn't been as subtle as I'd thought. I put on the seat belt, emotion again threatening to overwhelm me. But then I gave myself a good shake. I'm smart and capable, and I could get through this if I kept my head on straight.
And if Jerry didn't shoot me.
Jerry turned onto second street, and in less than a minute we were dumped onto Front street heading towards route eight.
"Why are you leaving?" I asked. "Where will you go?"
He slid a sideways glance at me. "I'm leaving to stay alive. My stupid wife compromised my . . . operation."
"I thought your wife left."
"She did. Because she made a mess of everything." He sniffled and I looked over at him. He was crying. Criminy. He swiped a hand across his face and the car jerked slightly off course. He corrected his grip on the wheel.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as that," I said.
"It couldn't be worse," he said. He looked over at me. "You seem like a nice kid. I'm sorry you got wrapped up in this."
"Me too," I said.
He let out a bark of laughter. "I loved her. We were married for nearly forty years," he said.
I considered that for a moment. "You want to tell me about it?"
He directed the car onto the Southbound entry ramp for route eight. "Confession is good for the soul, right?"
"That's what I hear."
"I'm not a bad guy. Not really. Can you believe that?"
I bit my tongue. "Sure," I said.
"I have this friend from plumbing school. He has an operation in Texas. And you know, Texas, it's where all that drug-running activity is at, right? Well he convinced me that I could make some extra money helping him out with disposal of some used commodes. He shipped them up to me, and he had a guy who'd, uh, come 'round and clean them up. After that, I'd install them. They weren't those crappy low-flow toilets, so I had a lot of people who wanted them. You know?"
I nodded, though I didn't know anything about toilets.
"My wife knew about the toilet-cleaning. She even encouraged it, because she really wanted to buy a vacation home in Arizona that we could retire to. She's got allergies, and the air is great for that there. So she was okay. I mean, I never touched any of the toilets until they were clean, right? And I don't know what was in them. I don't know what they did with what they took out of 'em. But I knew whatever it was, it was valuable. My friend was paying me well."
He flipped on his turn signal and looked over his shoulder before changing lanes. We passed an old lady hunched up over her steering wheel like she was trying to smother it. He guided the car back into the center lane and continued.
"Anyway, this guy at Shipsinaminute found out about what was in the toilets somehow. And he wanted his cut of the action. But my wife, she didn't want to give him any of the money. She thought we should just get him in trouble at work and he'd shut up. But it didn't work. This guy is like a boil on my butt, you know? He demanded that I meet him and give him the money. It was at a coffee shop, so I figured going in there without the money was going to be okay. But that moron brought a gun and got scared or something and was shooting up the place.
"After that I tried to convince my wife again that we needed to pay him. She thought if we did he'd keep sniffing around, that he'd never be satisfied. But I wasn't playing around no more." He took a hand from the steering wheel and sliced the air with a decisive chop. "She wasn't there when that psycho started shooting. I insisted that she prep that bag there for him."
His lower lip started trembling. Oh boy. How was my kidnapper more upset than I was?
"That's when she told me she was leaving. Gave me back her wedding band and just walked out of our place of business. Right in the middle of lunch when all the foremen were there for a meeting, too. It was humiliating."
He started to cry in earnest, now. I patted his shoulder.
"There, there," I said. I didn't know how to tell him that he was trying to make a getaway with a bag of scrap paper. At least he still had the Cadillac.
"Then Horace came and I gave him the bag but he's just so paranoid. He took the bag and shot up my shop. I tried to shoot back but I'm a terrible marksman."
"I'm sure that's not true," I said. Please, God: let my eyes not roll back.
"Anyway. This morning I found out that my wife managed to refinance my house and empty our bank account, and she ran off to be with my friend in Texas. So I wanted my blackmail money back. I mean, I want that lone star bastard to get caught now, right? I went over to Horace's apartment to confront him and I overheard him through an open window saying that he'd lost the bag. I switched to just following him around, then. He led me right to you and the bag. He's not very smart, you know." He tapped a finger to his temple as he said it.
We passed a sign for the airport exit. It wouldn't be long before we got there. What were his plans for me?
"But if your friend gets caught, won't you have to go to jail, too?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I'm hoping maybe I can wrangle some immunity for my testimony."
And there it was, a beautiful exit point. If I could kiss my brain, I would.
"You know, if you want them to give you immunity, maybe kidnapping isn't the way to go."
"Who's kidnapping? You're over eighteen, aren't you?"
"Yes, but kidnapping isn't about your age," I said.
He exited the expressway and stopped at the bottom of the ramp. He shifted in his seat so that he could look at me without turning his head, his arm draped up over the seat. "You aren't a kid."
"Look," I said. "I have something to tell you."
"I'm not a kidnapper," he said.
"Okay. Well. I can see where you'd think that. But this isn't about that. It's about the bag."
"What about the bag?"
"There isn't any money in it."
He blinked. "Yeah there is. I watched her count out two hundred fifty thousand dollars and stuff it in that bag," he said.
"I'm gonna unzip the bag," I said. "And you can look."
"All right." He folded his arms over his chest. I unzipped the bag and tipped it towards him.
"See? It's just paper. No money."
A car behind us honked. He jerked back into a driving position and turned towards the airport.
"No, there's some mistake. Take some of that out of there. It's just in the bottom."
I pulled a few packets out and dropped them on the seat. He was trying to watch me and drive at the same time. He turned into a long-term parking lot, paused to take a ticket and went through the gate when it went up. "Keep going. I know there has to be money in there."
I upended the bag and spilled the whole thing out. There was nothing but scrap paper. The bundles dumped over the seat, some of them sliding to the floor.
"I don't believe it," he said. He rammed the car into a compact parking space, which was too small for the car but he was too concerned about the money to notice. "That jerk. Horace must've made a decoy bag! He's got my money."
I shrugged. I wasn't about to provide him any details that would make it more likely for him to want to kill me.
"Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!" He banged his palms against the steering wheel.
"If you turn yourself in now, I'm sure you can still get that immunity," I said. "I won't even mention how you took me against my will." I figured it wasn't a good time to use the word 'kidnap' again.
"But I need the money," he said. "She took it all. Everything. How did I not see this coming?"
I shook my head. "You've had a rough go of it," I agreed.
"That's it. We've got to find that weasel and get my money back." He jerked the car into reverse and backed out of the space. A car coming up the aisle nearly hit us and screeched to a halt, beeping like there wasn't going to be another minute of time.
Jerry flipped the other driver the bird and continued out of the parking space. He returned to the toll both and handed the guy his ticket.
"That'll be five dollars, please," the attendant said.
"Give me five dollars, kid," he said to me, holding out a hand.
"I don't have five dollars," I said. "I don't have any money. I don't have my purse, my keys, or even my phone. You threw it out a window."
Jerry rolled his eyes and rolled up on his hip so that he could extract his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it up and fingered through what was in it. He snapped it shut and held out a credit card.
"I assume you'll take plastic?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," the attendant said. He took the card and ran it through the reader. The reader made a loud and not very positive sounding beep. The attendant's face flushed, and he leaned over towards Jerry.
"Um, sir? Do you have another method of payment?"
"No," Jerry said. "Wait. Actually, here." He pulled out another card and handed that to the attendant.
The attendant ran that card through. The machine didn't beep, but the attendant picked up the telephone and turned away from us.
"What's the problem? I've got places to be," Jerry said. He eased the car forward slightly.
"Can I see some identification?" the attendant asked. His entire face was flushed cherry red now.
Jerry produced his driver's license and handed it over. "Honestly, I don't even know why you're charging me. I couldn't have even been in the lot for five minutes. You seriously charge a dollar a minute?"
The attendant hung up the phone and gave Jerry a forced smile. "Just doing my job, sir. I don't make the rules."
"How long is this going to take?" Jerry demanded.
A car behind us honked. I turned to look. It was the same car that Jerry pulled out in front of.
As I turned back towards the front of the car, I saw a blue and red flashing light coming towards us. Oh, geez. The attendant had called the police.
Jerry spotted the lights a split second later.
"What the –" he drew out his gun and pointed it at the attendant. The attendant's mouth dropped open and his hands shot up. "Did you call the cops?" Jerry asked.
"Your c-c-c-credit cards came up stolen, sir."
"They aren't stolen! Who would report them stolen?" He brandished the gun around for a second while his mind wandered. "Open the gate," he said, jabbing it back at the attendant.
"Yes, sir," the attendant lowered an arm and pressed a button. The gate went up and Jerry slammed his foot on the gas. The car careened out of the lot, swung to the left and narrowly missed a busload of what looked like very surprised nuns. I clutched the empty bag to my chest. Cadillacs probably have really great safety systems, right? Air bags, steel reinforcement, that sort of thing?
"I don't believe this," he said. "Who would have reported those cards stolen?"
I bit my lip. His wife was the obvious answer. I guess he wasn't yet ready to believe that she'd left him as high and dry as she possibly could.
"Dammit," he said. "Now I've got not choice but to find Horace. What do you know about that weasel?"
"Besides that he's got an artificial leg and he tried to blackmail you, nothing," I said.
"I thought you worked with him?" Jerry was weaving in an out of traffic, trying to get as far from the airport as possible. I looked in the side mirror to see if the police lights were following us. The nuns must have shielded us from the view of the police car when we exited the lot. There wasn't anybody back there to help me. I sighed.
"He was fired for incompetence before I started," I said. "Anyway, I'm just an intern."
"All right. We'll just have to think like a jobless weasel, then. Where would you go, if you didn't have a job?"
"I'm a student, so I'd probably go to school," I said.
Jerry shot me a sharp look. "Think like a weasel, please. Where would you go if you were Horace?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. He looks pretty skeevy. A bar? A strip club?"
"Yeah, I like it. That's exactly where a guy like him would go." He turned the wheel, heading into a run-down part of town. I lowered myself in the seat a little. The Caddy was getting some looks from people walking on the street. It didn't belong here. I didn't belong here. And I probably wasn't going to get a good Samaritan intervention from anyone around here.
"You know," I said. "Maybe if you want to find him, you need a different car. To sneak up on him."
"I only have this one," he said. "Well, the vans from the plumbing business. But they all have Jerry's plumbing on the side. That wouldn't be very sneaky."
"I have a car," I said. "Back at Shipsinaminute." I didn't mention that the car was held together with spider webs and Bondo.
"Yeah? Has Horace ever seen it?"
"Just that time I ran him over," I said. "I doubt he got a good look at it."
A genuine smile crept across Jerry's face. "You really ran him over?"
"Knocked him out," I said.
"Hm. I don't want to waste time going to get your car. But thanks for the offer. I'll keep it in mind, in case he slips past us again."
Us? Maybe it was time to start crafting my getaway. I pointed to a bar that we were passing on a corner. It was sided in plywood painted black. A homemade stencil spray-painted in silver over the black featured a stripper hanging from a pole, her legs pointed up and her hair hanging down. A cheap plastic sign over the door said, "The Gentleman's Escape."
Jerry grunted. "Looks like the speed of a weasel."
He guided the car into a spot on the street. I wondered if the car was still going to be here when we got back. "Come on," he said.
I got out of the car and followed him inside. The door creaked loudly, and I was sure everyone in the place turned and looked at us. But I kept my gaze pointed at the ground. The floor was cement and covered in peanut shells. It smelled stale and rotten. Jerry went up to the bar.
"Hey, I'm looking for someone," he said to the bartender. "A guy named Horace. Dark, greasy hair. Looks a little like a troll."
The bartender nodded. "Yeah, what'll you have?"
"I don't need a drink," Jerry said. "I just wondered if you knew this guy."
The bartender lifted a smoldering cigar from an ashtray on the bar and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. "Information ain't free," he said. He knocked on the bar with his first knuckle. Just once. The sharp sound caused me to flinch and he took notice of me.
"Hey, there. You looking for a job?" he asked. He jerked his chin at me.
I shook my head and tried to stand behind Jerry.
"Look, this is a fine establishment. And I don't want to take you from your work. I'm just looking for this guy, and I wonder if he's been here recently."
The bartender shifted his gaze back to Jerry.
"Like I said." He held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together.
"Oh. I don't actually have any money," Jerry said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm a plumber, you know. I could help you out with some repairs or something."
"You got tools? The men's room urinal won't flush."
I shuddered. No wonder the bar smelled bad.
"No, not with me," Jerry said.
"She'll do. Get her up on the stage."
I glanced over to the stage in the corner. Nobody was around it but at mention of the stage the other men in the bar perked up.
"I'm not a stripper," I said.
The bartender scoffed. "This here's a classy joint, missy. Nobody takes their clothes off. You just put on a suit and get up there and dance."
The only shiny thing in the entire bar seemed to be the pole extending from the stage surface to the ceiling. Somehow, I still didn't want to touch it.
"No," I said.
The bartender puffed on the cigar and smoke circled his head. He shrugged and looked at Jerry with a flat expression. "Then I don't know nothin'."
Jerry turned towards me and glared. "No, no. She's going to dance for you. She's just shy is all. You need to coax her up there."
"What, like, with a drink?" He already had a shot glass out, a bottle of something clear hanging over it.
"I'm not twenty-one," I said.
The bottle slammed to the bar. "Is this some kinda jail bait scam? Is she even eighteen?"
Jerry turned and grabbed me by the arm, his fingers biting into me. "She's an adult," he said. "And she's going to get up there and . . . put on a suit, and dance if she knows what's good for her." Jerry poked the gun in his pocket into my ribs with his other hand.
"Okay," I said. "Yeah, I just need some encouragement. Maybe I'll take that drink after all." My voice sounded squawky and juvenile even to my own ears. The guy nearest us at the bar openly leered at me, looking me up and down. His eyes paused a long time at my breasts. I grabbed the shot glass and reflexively crossed my arms.
"Right. Hey, Shar," he called out. He poured the shot and pushed it towards me. "Come on out here and help this young miss find a suit."
A woman with platinum blonde hair teased out to Texas, plastic-bottomed slippers, and a dressing gown emerged through a beaded curtain to the side of the stage, scuffling her slippers on the peanut shells as she walked. She was carrying a bottle of Jack Daniel's by the neck. She took a long pull off the bottle – it was nearly empty – and then she threw it at the bartender. He ducked and it hit the wall behind the bar, shattering.
"Shar," he said, brushing a bit of broken glass off his shoulder. "We discussed that habit."
"You said I was the exclusive act," she stabbed a fire-engine red manicured nail through the air.
The bartender held up his hands in surrender. "It's just a one-time deal. For Ted's birthday," he pointed at the guy who'd been transfixed by my boobs just a few minutes ago.
Shar turned and directed her finger at Ted. "Is that true? It's your birthday and you requested someone that was not me on the pole?"
Jerry stepped in. "Listen, she just wants to get up there and do a little dancing. Get the feel for it, you know? She's been thinking maybe a desk job isn't for her."
Shar came over to me. "Turn around," she said.
I tossed back the shot and turned in a circle. Whatever it was melted my windpipe.
"A career like this isn't going to be easy on her," Shar said. "She needs bigger boobs. And her butt's flat as a pancake. You need to start doing some squats, girl."
"Okay," I said. I slid an angry look at Jerry. He shrugged.
"Come on, then. I ain't got all day." She grabbed my hand and led me over to the beaded curtain. I allowed her to pull me along only because I wanted her to help me.
The area behind the curtain turned out to be the ladies' room. I guess in a girlie bar of this stature, there isn't really a need to make it available to patrons. Shar pointed to a rack of swimsuits hanging over the toilet.
"Pick one of them. The ones on the right side'll be more likely to fit a little thing like you."
So that's what he meant by a suit.
I went over and looked. The suits were clearly used. Gross. I flicked through the rack until I found the one bikini that still had tags on it.
"Do I really have to wear this?" I asked.
"You can wear that or there's always the costumes. The men here ain't got no imagination, though. You won't get any tips. Not even with the sexy French maid costume."
"I don't care about the tips," I said. I glanced through the beaded curtain. Jerry wasn't looking this way. I rushed over to Shar.
"Look," I whispered. "That guy's holding me against my will. He's got a gun. Is there a way out of here? Can you help me get out?"
Shar lit a cigarette and slowly blew it out the side of her mouth. "That guy there, the one that said you were here to try this on as a career?" She stuck the cigarette in her mouth and picked up a comb. She grabbed a hunk of my hair and started to ferociously tease it.
"Yeah, him." She moved on to another section of hair.
"And he's holding you."
"He kidnapped me. It's a long story. He tried to pay someone off, the deal went south, now he's got no money and his wife left him. He's desperate and dangerous. I know he doesn't look it. But for crying out loud, his wife remortgaged his house and ran off with his drug-running buddy."
Shar's face softened. "Oh, that's terrible," she said. She picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue then grabbed an aerosol can of hairspray. "You think he'd be open to some, you know, comfort?"
"He doesn't have any money," I reiterated.
"Oh. Right. Well, I can help you out. You're going to have to go up on the stage, though. The back door is behind the curtain." She began fluffing and spraying my hair.
"Great," I said, when she was finished with my hair. "Can you help me into the French maid costume? There's no way I'm going to look good in this bikini."
"Yeah, but first: makeup." She produced a tackle box filled to the top with cosmetics in various stages of use. I closed my eyes and tried not to wonder if I was going to get hepatitis or pink eye. Eventually she stopped fussing over my face, and she produced the maid outfit and zipped me into it. Then she jammed a couple of silicone blobs in the bustier so that I appeared to fill out the top. I looked in the mirror.
"Not bad," I said. The costume was black, shorter than short, and had white ruffles over the butt, creating a tutu-effect. My nipples were barely covered by a tiny amount of white lace, and I now appeared to be about four inches taller, thanks to the teased-up hair. I looked like I should be hanging out on the corner with my pimp. I guess that's what strippers look like, though, right? "Hey, do you have a cell phone? I need to call someone for a ride."
She shrugged and handed me her phone. "I've seen worse. You got a preference for music?"
"I have no idea what a stripper dances to," I said. I dialed Gillian. She picked up. "Gilly? I need a ride. Can you come get me?"
"You ain't stripping. This place has standards." Shar muttered under her breath, blowing a stream of smoke out her nose.
"Right," I said, putting a hand over the phone. "Maybe just pick something easy for me. Something you know they'll like."
"Okay. I got you. The daytime crowd, I don't know why. But they love Nancy Sinatra." There was an old-fashioned juke box in the corner, and she went over to it. "Before I start, why don't you show me some moves?"
I picked up the feather duster that went with the costume. I twirled on one foot, tippy-toed over to her, and tickled under her chin with the duster.
"How was that?"
Shar's face screwed up to one side. "You've got a job, right? Keep with that."
"Got it," I said. I turned my attention back to the phone. "Gilly? Are you still there?"
"I don't even want to know what's going on," she said. "Your mom called me. She said one of your neighbors had their window shot out, and the cops are at your house. She says you aren't answering your phone."
"Yeah, it's a long story. I need you to come get me."
"I don't have a car."
I blew out a calming breath. "Can you take a cab? Get a ride? If you can get over to Shipsinaminute, I think Kirk could get you the keys to my car."
Shar patted me on the shoulder and made a wrap it up motion. I nodded.
"Just get here, however you can. I don't have my purse, my money, or a phone. And I'm wearing a maid's costume." I gave her the address and told her I'd be out back, then hung up before she could ask anything else.
Shar turned and started the music. She produced a cape to put over me just as the first bass strains of "These boots are made for walkin'" started up in the bar. There were a few hoots and whistles, and chair legs scraped the floor. She draped the cape over my shoulders.
"Hold it closed in front. Go out and up the stairs at the side of the stage. When she starts singing, that's your cue to drop the cape. Get 'em going, but no touching. You aren't allowed to touch."
"Got it," I said. I didn't mention that I'd rather chew thumb tacks than touch any of the men in the bar. I took a deep breath and ran out the glass beads and to the stage, clutching the cape around me. Everyone, including Jerry and the bartender, were sitting in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the stage. I dashed up the steps just in time for Nancy to announce that someone keeps saying they have something for her. I dropped the cape and started strutting around the stage, imagining I was Nancy Sinatra wearing go-go boots.
"Shake it!" one of the men yelled.
I was still dragging the cape around, and I flung it behind me so that I was holding a handful of it in each hand, then I scrubbed it over my butt. The men cheered.
Heh. This was kind of fun.
I turned around and tried to do a sexy squat. But that shot of whatever it was must have been pretty strong. I tipped over onto my left butt cheek, and when I reached back to catch myself, I found my hand flying out into space . . . I'd fallen too close to the edge of the stage. I tumbled backwards and fell off the stage in a heap of feather duster and cape, right into the lap of the leering guy.
"Like pennies from heaven," he said, sighing. He was surprisingly gentle, and he helped me to my feet. I stumbled a little bit, and he helped me right myself. Then he stuffed a dollar bill in my cleavage.
Shar stomped over to me and grabbed me by the wrist.
"I told you, no touching," she said. She dragged me up the steps to the stage. Nancy's boots had just about finished walking, signaling the end of the song. Pretty woman started in its place, and Shar pushed me towards the curtain. "I'm gonna show you how it's done," she said. She turned towards the crowd and flung off her dressing gown, followed by her slippers. She was wearing a red white and blue string bikini underneath it. She grabbed a hold of the pole and started spinning.
The men launched to their feet, their chairs forgotten. Whistles and catcalls almost overshadowed the music. I retreated behind the curtain and waited a beat. Nobody seemed to notice that I was missing.
Holy cow, Shar was setting me up to escape!
It was dark behind the curtain and I had to feel around, but I saw the faint red "exit" sign above the door and it drew me like a moth. I pushed the door open and found myself in the blinding sun. I shut the door and looked around for something to push in front of it. There were a few garbage cans behind the building but nothing substantial. I dragged the cans in front of the door, just in case, and looked around for a place to hide until Gillian showed up.
The street was to my left, and ahead of me beyond the edge of the pavement for the bar was a vacant lot. A burned-out car was sitting in the middle of patchy weeds. The ground was littered with broken bottles and garbage. I picked my way through the weeds and behind the car, keeping an eye out for movement from the bar.
Unfortunately, feral cats also found the car to be a good hiding place. One jumped out at me, and, scared out of my mind – don't get me wrong, I love animals – I reflexively kicked it. The cat let out a howl as it flew four or five feet high, fell to the ground and scrabbled off. The others thankfully followed it, their tails marking their progress through the weeds like little submarine periscopes.
I crouched down behind the car and took a deep breath. I don't know anybody in this area and I figured by the level of apathy that seemed to apply to the surrounding properties, nobody was going to help me even if I asked. There was no other choice but to wait for Gillian.
Ten or fifteen minutes passed. But then there was a clanging as the garbage cans got knocked over from the bar door. Jerry emerged. Shar was riding on his back, beating at him with her slipper.
"You leave that girl alone, you sick old man!" she yelled. "Kidnapper! This man is a kidnapper!"
Jerry stumbled around, trying to get Shar off him, but she was persistent. "She isn't a kid. She's an adult!"
Then the cats returned.
Drawn by the strewn garbage from the cans, a huge flock of them descended from around the corner of the building. One of them climbed up Jerry's pant leg, and he started screaming. He yanked the gun out of his pocket and started shooting at the cats. They scattered, and Shar – apparently knowing the feral cat drill – jumped off him and ran back inside the bar, slamming the door behind her. Jerry was shooting randomly at the cats and he ran around to the front of the building. In a moment I heard the Cadillac start, then the car screeched past the vacant lot and out of sight.
I let out a heavy breath. He was gone. I stood up and went around to the front of the bar. The leering guy came out and lurched over to me.
"I just want you to know, that's the best show I ever saw in there," he said. Before I could respond he stuffed another bill in my cleavage and limped away.
A car pulled up to the curb and the window went down. Mick stuck his head out.
"I heard you needed a ride, but I'm afraid I'llget busted for solicitation," he said, smirking.