by Tom Wood
For good measure, I place his family photo on top of the wallet. If he doesn’t read the message, he’ll get the message. Time to go.
Back at my car, it’s time for a quick wig change. The party’s not over. Now I’m a sandy-blonde named Sheila, and I add a black cardigan shawl over my bare shoulders. I open John’s phone and scan his various rideshare apps—yes, there’s the neon-green Thum, my favorite. I tap it and log on as John, looking for nearby rides. The two nearest my location are carpools. No, thanks. The next I look at is a regular ride, the driver is John and there’s a picture. Bodybuilder type. I’ll pass. Plus, I’ve had enough Johns for one night.
Here’s one . . . Nick . . . he looks harmless, judging from the Thum ID photo. Nice SUV, Nick. The car says money. A 4.99 rating . . . and he’s not too far away.
Arnold
As I drive into downtown, I open the Thum app and make Nick available for rides. Within a minute I get a ping. John, at the Knowles Hotel. What’s this? A text message: You are picking up my friend Sheila at the corner of Ninth and Mills, and blab, blab... Great, a woman. My first one should be easy.
Deke
My “John” texts Nick, who responds and accepts the ride-hail after seeing that “John” is a 4.8-rated passenger. I text Nick that he’ll be picking up Sheila at the corner of Ninth and Mills and driving her home to the west side of town, about a twenty-minute drive.
After walking to the dimly lit corner of Ninth and Mills, I take a compact out of the purse, check my lipstick and hair. I adjust my boobs and look back toward the bar district.
These high heels are killing my feet. And my impatient foot-tapping only makes them ache more. A half-dozen cars pass before I spot one with the distinctive lime-green LED lamp mounted on the dashboard. Finally, the dark SUV slowly emerges from the black of night. Illuminated by the streetlight at the corner of Ninth and Mills, the company name glows like a beacon as my Thum-driving pigeon has arrived. He should’ve been here five minutes ago. As the vehicle stops, the door locks pop. I get in the backseat and slide across to the driver’s side so that I’m sitting directly behind Nick.
Arnold
I spot the woman standing under the cone of a streetlight, waving her hand to make sure I see her. From a distance, she looks like a hot chick. Up close, more like a hooker. If she is, the john probably paid cash. Sweet. I pull over to the curb and turn my head away, so she doesn’t get a good look at me. The bitch starts talking before she even gets in the car. I glance back over my shoulder—and, shit, she’s not there!
Deke
Right away, something feels wrong. He starts acting twitchy when he realizes I’m not on the passenger side. Our eyes lock when he spots me in the rearview mirror. I flip my hair off my shoulder and flash a smile that isn’t returned. “Hi … you’re Nick, right? Like Nick at Nite.”
I think I’ve confused the dullard. After a long hesitation, he mumbles something that sounds sort of like, “Yeah, Nick. Thass me. Who’re you again?”
“Sheila. Thanks for the lift.”
Nick pauses again, seemingly confused, then a mirthless chuckle and points at the lime-green dashboard lamp. “Lyft? Naw, lady. You Thummin’ a ride tonight.”
Arnold
I’ll give her a thumb, all right. She’s a real jokester, talking me up with calling me by what she thinks is my name and trying to be cute with the competitor comment. I’d been feeling guilty about this whole deal. Leaving Nick in a dumpster and robbing innocent passengers. Not anymore. She’s a hooker, which makes her a criminal, so it will just be an exchange from one criminal to another. And I’ll make sure Nick gets out of that dumpster and gets his car back.
Deke
I return the laugh—but unzip the purse and grip my gun. I guess it’s what they call a woman’s intuition, but there’s something dangerous about Nick.
And he doesn’t know there’s something dangerous about me. Time to get this over and done.
“Um, Nick, before you take me home, I need to make a stop at an ATM. I think there’s one not far from here. Take a left.” Again, this simpleton acts like he’s hard of hearing. But at the last second, he gives the wheel a hard yank.
Arnold
Yes! Yes! I can’t believe my ears. She wants me to take her to an ATM. This is too good to be true. What a fool she is. Not only will I get all the cash that she got from her johns, but I’ll also make the bitch empty her bank account.
Oops! Almost missed the turn. Left, she said. I jerk the wheel a little too hard. The tires scream—and so does the bitch in the backseat.
Detective Mondelli
Well, that was disappointing. I know what I’m looking for in a man, and maybe it’s not an accountant. Nice enough but too dull. Waiting for the valet to deliver my car, I stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day, starting with that accident call this morning and tracking down the weird little insurance executive. After a couple of drinks at the Knowles with friends, I’m calling it a night.
Is that Arnold? It can’t be, but I swear it looks like him driving that SUV with the Thum logo, and a female passenger in the backseat. I’ve been encouraging Arnold for months to put his life in order, but there’s no way he’s gotten a job—and a car—since this morning.
Maybe I can use this story to encourage Arnold to get himself straight. Tell him I saw his twin driving a Thum, and he can, too, someday . . . come to think of it, the passenger looks familiar, too. The woman in the bar with that old man? Something about her is recognizable, but I can’t place where I’ve seen her.
What the hell—one look in my direction and that guy’s flying down the street. I hear tires squeal as the car rounds a corner. A horrible thought enters my mind—could that really be Arnold? If so, he’s stolen that vehicle. And I’m sending his ass back to jail. Not the way I wanted to end the night, but detectives don’t punch a timecard.
Deke
I immediately regret that command, because turning onto Mulberry Street takes us past the Knowles Hotel. Not that I expect to see John standing out in the street—he should be out till morning—but I did see Detective Mondelli as I got John into the elevator. My intuition is screaming now. And—dammit, that’s her! Mondelli is coming down the steps toward the valet area, and—
Dammit, why’s this idiot Thum driver slowing down?
Nick stares out the window, and I look in the same direction.
And, bloody hell, staring back is that Detective Mondelli.
In that split-second of eye contact with Mondelli, certain that she’s recognized me, Nick floors it—thirty to sixty, like he’d just seen the devil.
Arnold
Oh, no, no, no. Shit! Shit! Mondelli saw me. She was staring right at me. Gotta get outta here fast. Take this bitch’s money and disappear. I make a hard right, check the rearview. She’s not following me yet. Gotta get moving faster. Think it through. Just take one step at a time. Get the hooker’s money at her ATM. I still have the zip ties. Leave her, dump the car, get over to the bus station, jump the first Greyhound outta here.
Deke
Nick barely slows as he takes the next right, tires screaming as he just misses a parked car. The car fishtails, and I bounce hard off the door. “SONOFABITCH!” I glance at the rearview mirror and catch Nick’s frightened look as he roars into the next turn. I scream for the asshole to stop and let me out.
I’ve had enough. Forget robbing the Thum-up-his-ass driver at the ATM.
My hand goes into the purse and wraps around the butt of the Ruger. I shove the barrel against Nick’s head, ordering him to pull over and turn off the engine. “Now! You stop, or I’ll stop you.” He does, turning into a poorly lit alley.
Arnold
She’s got a gun pressed against my head! Damn, this isn’t my night. I pull into a dark alley and turn off the engine. As I open my door, the dome light comes on. I stare into the rearview mirror, waiting to see what happens next—and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The hard turns I made jerked her around, and I r
ealize she’s wearing a wig, and it’s almost falling off her head.
She is not a she. There’s evil in this guy’s eyes. He’s getting of the car and telling me to do the same. He’s going to kill me.
Unless I kill him first.
Deke
There’s a smoldering craziness in Nick’s eyes as I exit the SUV. I motion with the gun for him to do the same. “C’mon, Nick, get your ass out of the car.”
He complies, closing the driver’s door and just standing still. What happens now? I always carry my gun on these jobs but never had to use it. Damn. Do I shoot him or knock him out and get the hell away from here? He might be able to identify Sheila, but not Deke. Keeping my gun aimed at him, I’m distracted by strands of hair that fall in my face. Horrified, I realize that my wig has come loose. Nick’s arm raises. There’s something in his hand.
There’s only one way to be sure that Nick will never ID me. I squeeze the trigger and—
Arnold
Playing with his hair? This is my chance. I pull my Beretta, point, and squeeze—
Detective Mondelli
Finally, my car arrives. I hand the valet a five and turn on the scanner. I’m barely out of the parking lot when dispatch blares over the scanner, “Shots fired. Officers responding.” The address is close, less than a mile away. Like the SUV driver, I push the pedal to the floorboard.
There’s already a squad car on the scene, two uniforms with guns drawn. I pull out my badge, identify myself and the weapons are holstered. Two dead on the ground beside the black SUV, and I’m told transport is on the way for the bodies. Before checking the corpses, I compare notes with Officer Renko while LaRue cordons off the area. More flashing lights and sirens approach.
“They were DOA when we got here. We were two blocks away,” Renko says. “Officer LaRue was just coming out of the market when we heard the shots. We arrived in two minutes, no more than three. It might have taken longer to find them in this alley if J.D. hadn’t spotted the glow of the Thum light on the dash.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, writing his statement before adding, “I was at the Knowles Hotel when I saw this car tear off in this direction. I might know the driver, a homeless guy named Arnold. If it checks out, that’s a stolen SUV and . . . damn it . . . he didn’t take my advice.”
“Yes ma’am,” Renko said, jotting his own notes.
“And there was a woman in the car with him.”
“Um, about that, Detective,” Officer Renko says with an odd laugh. “You’ll want to see this yourself.” He walks toward the bodies and I follow, puzzled.
Renko nears the woman’s body, but I stop by the man and turn on my flashlight, shining it up and down the body. Even through the matting blood that seeps out of the hole in his forehead, I can tell that it’s Arnold. Poor, dumb bastard. There’s no crying in detective work, but that’s what I feel like doing right now. Just like Uncle Lou, I couldn’t save Arnold, either.
Shaking my head, I step over to the female. Renko has his flashlight on the bloody chest wound. “Damn shame,” he says sarcastically, “ruining a sexy dress like that.”
My eyes follow the light up the choker neckline—and an Adam’s apple? I shine the flashlight over the frozen ruby lips, the aquiline nose, the eyelashes to the sandy-blonde hair. It has come loose from the head, a wig. I squat and take a closer look. Wait a minute. Is this . . . Mr. Insurance Executive? Well, well. He did have a secret. Could he be connected to those other Thum robberies? Something to check.
LaRue comes over, shaking his head. I’ve had enough surprises. “Detective, you won’t believe this, but we just got a BOLO on this SUV. Turns out it was stolen from a Thum driver. The perp zip-tied the owner and tossed him into a dumpster. A store owner throwing out his trash found the poor guy when he opened the door.”
Renko opens the wallet he found on the ground near Arnold and looks at the ID. “Name’s Nicolas Latorno,” he says.
“Well, LaRue, Renko, looks like we had a good night. We just solved an auto theft and probable kidnapping, and a double homicide.” I open my purse, fish out my keys. I’ll sleep well tonight—yeah, right. It’s not the way I wanted this case to end. Talk about a night on the town.”
The End
Acknowledgements
The authors hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as we did writing it. We would like to thank Nashville author Jaden Terrell, who edited this project, for insights and suggestions; illustrator Laura LaRoche of LLPix.com for an outstanding cover; and current members of our Harpeth River Writers critique group—Sandy Ward Bell, John Neely Davis, Micki Fuhrman, Catherine Moore, Kathy Rhodes, and Bill Woods—for their invaluable feedback and support.
About the Authors
Tom Wood is a journalist, author, and screenwriter and who informs, inspires, and entertains. His debut novel Vendetta Stone, a Nashville-based fictional true-crime thriller, will soon be followed by a sequel, Turn to Stone: A Vendetta Stone Thriller. His Vendetta Stone screenplay adaptation was a Nashville Film Festival screenwriting competition semifinalist, as was the Western Death Takes a Holliday. His work has appeared in the Harpeth River Writer’s anthology Words on Water, the Civil War Anthology Filtered Through Time, and two Western Anthologies, Western Tales! And Weird Western Yarns. A longtime sportswriter and copy editor at The Tennessean, Tom now freelances for the Ledger newspapers in Nashville, Chattanooga and Knoxville, and has in the past written for the Knoxville News Sentinel, Country Family News, and other publications. Tom has appeared as an extra on Nashville, Still the King and various TV and movie projects.
Michael J. Tucker grew up in the cold northern climate of Pittsburgh, PA, and an only child, he was often trapped indoors and left to his own devices, where he would create spaceships out of cardboard boxes, convert his mother’s ironing board into a horse and put on his Sunday suit and tie and his father’s fedora and become a newspaper reporter or police detective. This experience left him with an unlimited imagination and the ability to write electrifying short stories and novels.
Mike is the author of two critically acclaimed novels, Aquarius Falling and Capricorn’s Collapse. His published short stories available on Amazon are: Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon, The New Neighbor, The Hemingway Notes, The King’s Man, My Daughter’s Letter, The Price of Copper, What I Did Last Summer, Beyond Beauty’s Boundary, I Should Have Bought That Thing, the memoir A Disrupted Life, and the Amazon best-selling short story series, Katie Savage, and The Gardner Painting: A Katie Savage Story. In addition to his poetry collection, Your Voice Spoke To My Ear, his work also appears in the Civil War Anthology, Filtered Through Time, and two Harpeth River Writers Anthologies: By Blood or By Marriage, and Words on Water.
Reviewers of Mike’s novels have compared his writing to Thomas Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons, and J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.
Albert Beckus, Professor Emeritus of Literature at Austin Peay State University recently wrote of his novels: “They move naturalistically in the American literary tradition of Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, but with a twist…as found in The Great Gatsby.”
