by Deany Ray
He rubbed his forehead nervously as he glanced around at the other cars. “I have no idea.”
“Must be someone who really hates you,” I said. “I mean, they knew you were going to fire that gun.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “It was someone who hates me, and the list is long.”
The way he said that, I almost felt sorry for him. The news sites always said he was well-liked by his costars and the crews who worked with him. He had a reputation for giving time to charities and not being too much of a prima donna. Now I had the feeling I was faced with the cold reality, one that was nowhere near the semi-perfect world I pictured in my head.
I looked at the clock on the dash. We'd been in the car for twenty minutes, although it felt more like ten hours.
“Okay, pull over on this side street coming up right now,” Fitzgerald said, pressing his nose up against the window.
I was filled with a strange mixture of relief and dread. I was about to be saved, or I was about to die. The latter was more unlikely to happen, considering how he came across, but still, desperate people do desperate things.
I pulled off the main drag onto a quiet street with not a lot of action and no pedestrians in sight.
“Okay, stop the truck,” he said, and I pulled warily into an empty space. Music and laughter from nearby bars and restaurants seemed so out of place when a chill was inching up my spine. Silently, I willed the man beside me to just get out and go. Have a great escape. Goodbye!
Instead, he grabbed my wrist, yanking me across the seat and out into the street. What? I thought this was the part where he would say, “Thank you for the ride. Don't tell anybody, and slowly drive away.” In his other hand he gripped the ever-present crowbar. His eyes darted around to see if anyone was watching. This would surely look suspicious. The sounds of cars and people carried over from the main street, but no one was in sight.
Before I had time to get my bearings, he jerked me down the street. I glanced at the back entrances of shops, wondering where we could possibly be going. My heart was in my throat as we passed a small parking lot, then he shoved me toward an ATM. “I need some cash,” he said.
Crap.
“Do it. Now.” His grip grew tighter on my arm, and he glanced down at the crowbar, probably in case I'd forgotten he had the thing.
My small crossbody bag was still pressed against my hip. And sure, better my money than my life; the only problem was, I was short on money. I fumbled for my card, and, with trembling hands, I managed to insert it into the machine.
“Okay, I need everything you've got. First, you’re going to hit that button that brings up your balance.”
I felt faint. All the months of me putting my life together and surviving on ramen noodles came back at me and I simply lost it. “But I was just getting past the point where I wasn’t completely broke!” I started sobbing. “You don't understand! I have just been through the worst breakup in the world, and I don't even have a bed!” I felt tears streaming down my face.
“Well, lady, guess who else doesn’t have a bed or even a place to sleep. I need your money. Now.”
“But my rent is coming due. I have a new apartment, and I just bought new stuff and . . .”
“Man, you are a talker. I. Do. Not. Have. The. Time!”
I blew my nose and followed his instructions, bringing up my balance. Then I punched in $5,222 as the amount to be withdrawn, bringing my net worth to a big round zero. I so wished I had a crowbar in my hand.
A notice popped up then, reminding me of my daily limit for ATM withdrawals.
Amery cursed, and I let out a sigh. At least I could pay my bills. I punched in $2,000, which still stung worse than a bikini wax. I shoved the thick stack of gorgeous bills into his hand.
“I'm really sorry for you,” Fitzgerald mumbled, keeping his head down. Then he dashed back to the truck.
Um. I was under the impression I would keep the truck. And then it hit me. I'd left the keys in the ignition.
I was standing there in that deserted side street, like a tornado just went past me. I had watery eyes; my nose was running; I was broke again, and I watched Amery Fitzgerald jump into the driver’s seat of Mike’s truck and almost back into another car as he sped away.
Chapter Four
For ten minutes, I stood there by the ATM, dumbfounded, and wanting to just sob. What just happened? The day had started out so nicely, and then boom—bizarro world.
Still in a haze, I reached for my cell. Thank God he didn’t take the cell. Kat had always been my go-to rescue person, but she was still in training. There was Mike; it was, after all, his truck. The thought of telling him made me sob even more. Who knew how far that lunatic Fitzgerald would get in the truck—and how long it would take the cops to get it back.
The cops. They’re the ones to call. Time was of the essence for them to catch the creep.
I hit 911.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” The lady on the other end sounded way too calm for this situation, but the sound of a friendly voice was about to set off the hysterics that had been building up inside me.
“The truck!” I yelled. “He took the truck, and it was Mike’s truck, which makes it even worse.”
“Ma’am, please tell me your location.” There it was again, that calm.
“At the ATM on Baxter Street. At the corner by the light. You have to hurry, please,” I wailed. “They have to find the truck.”
“Ma’am, could you tell me who took the truck?” I got the impression the lady was rolling her eyes.
“Him! It was him!”
“Who precisely was this him?”
“I thought I’d have a heart attack when he jumped at me!” I sniffled as the sobs came harder.
“I need you to calm down, and tell me this man’s name,” the operator said.
“It was . . . I had no idea he . . .” Great, here came the spasmodic sobbing.
“Ma’am, take a moment and breathe.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “Okay, breathing now,” I reported.
“Now, who exactly was it?”
The memory of Fitzgerald with that crowbar set me off again. “This year sucked enough as it is. And today, today of all days, was supposed to be my day. Don’t I get one freaking day to just be and enjoy?” I had to break up my next sentences to blow my nose and catch my breath. “I . . . just wanted . . . to go . . . shopping. And to make my . . . place . . . look ni-ni-ni-nice!” The last word was somewhat lost in a piercing wail.
I had my wits about me just enough to notice I’d attracted a small crowd. They would show up now. Thanks a lot.
“Can you identify the perpetrator? Was it someone that you know?”
“Me! You! Everybody knows him. It was Amery Fitzgerald!”
That was followed by a pause.
“Oh my,” the operator simply said before she got back her composure quickly. “I need the license number of the truck so we can start a lookout.”
I thought about that. “I don’t know what it is!” I sobbed into the phone. “Because it’s not my truck.”
I could hear her sigh on the other end.
“Well then, I need the name, phone number, and address of the owner of the truck.”
I provided her Mike’s details.
“Make and model of the vehicle?”
“Well, it’s gray, and . . . long?”
“Is that all you can tell me, ma’am?” She was probably wishing Fitzgerald had picked someone with a basic knowledge of vehicles.
“There is a lot of stuff in the back of the truck,” I said, eager to be helpful. “All for my apartment.” I felt that sting again. “A nightstand, framed art, a rug . . .” I tried so hard to suppress the sense of loss over my carefully chosen treasures.
The woman from 911 said a car was on the way and offered to stay on the line with me until the officer arrived.
I declined but immediately regretted that decision after we hung up. I stared down at my
phone, needing it to connect me with someone—anyone at all. Kat was still tied up, and my mom would be even more hysterical than me. Somehow, in her version of the story, the victim would be her, but this time it was me who needed comforting.
Mike was it, then.
My fingers shook as I punched in his number, but there was no answer. He was most likely still at the airfield, hoping for some news. If he only knew the party had moved on.
Call me, I texted. Urgent.
I sat down on the sidewalk with my back against the wall, not trusting my legs to hold me up any longer. As I watched a young family make their way down the street, I wondered what would happen next. I supposed Fitzgerald would be an easy target once the cops could put a lookout on the tag.
Where would someone as recognizable as him even try to hide? He could try to hop a plane—the kind operated by an actual, licensed pilot—and get out of the country. Although surely, they always alerted airports to keep fugitives like him from getting on the planes.
This guy was in a load of trouble and would run out of money soon. My money. I assumed he had more than I did, but there’d be no way for him to get his hands on his dough while he was on the run. So once he went through my cash, Fitzgerald would be broke and extravagantly rich at the same time. Ha, gotta love the irony.
The blue lights of a cruiser cut into my thoughts as the car pulled slowly past. A young officer rolled down the window. “Hailey Webb?” he asked.
I nodded and stood up.
“Please get in, Ms. Webb, and I’ll drive you to the station.”
Not sure where to sit, I got into the back seat. Staring straight ahead at the partition separating me from the front, I felt like a felon rather than a victim. I tried to think calming thoughts during the brief drive, reminding myself that I was safe, which was what counted most. I kept stealing glances at my phone, but there was no text from Mike.
Once we got to the station, my driver showed me into the office of an older officer, who took careful notes, shaking his head in disbelief as I told my story. Two other officers were in the room as well, watching me intensely. No big surprise, I guessed. I was sure when dispatch dropped that name—Amery Fitzgerald—this routine truck theft had quickly gotten bumped up to top priority.
“I take it he’s still out there?” I asked them anxiously. “You haven’t found the truck?”
The older officer shook his head. “Not yet, ma’am, but we’re on it.”
It seemed so crazy that Fitzgerald was still on the loose with probably every cop in the whole city out searching. He’d lucked out, in my opinion, when he climbed out of that plane unharmed, and now Lady Luck, it seemed, was still smiling on him.
Me, she didn’t seem to care for. “What are the chances I’ll get my money back?” I asked the interviewer.
“Well, that’s between you and your bank. Some of them have protections for that sort of thing.” In his voice was a kindness I appreciated. “Can we give you a ride home?” he asked. “Or is there a friend who can come and get you?”
“No, I’m good, but thanks.” Luckily, I still had cash for a cab.
I was on my way to Mike’s to pick up my Jeep when my phone began to vibrate. My heart rate shot up once again when I saw Mike’s name. I hated like hell to tell him my news.
“Okay, so . . . I have to tell you something,” I said to him. “Your truck is gone. Fitzgerald took it. He hid right there in the back beneath that tarp. Then he forced me with a crowbar to—”
“He what?” Mike said. “He stole my truck?” His voice rose an octave. I had to admit I was a bit insulted he cared more about his truck than the part with the crowbar.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I began to wail again.
In the rearview mirror, the cab driver’s eyes were huge.
Mike started laughing.
“Okay . . . and you’re laughing because?” I asked.
“I’m just messing with you,” Mike said. “I just talked to the cops. I know what happened.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Funny man are we again?”
“Only way to get by,” Mike said. “Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Not physically,” I said. “But he took my money and all of my new stuff. Doesn’t it bother you that he took your truck?” How could the man be so calm?
“Let me put it this way,” Mike said. “If I ever get my hands on him, he’s going to wish to be in police custody again. Especially for what he did to you.”
The way he said that, full of confidence, made me blush a bit.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I do feel sorry about your truck.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t your fault. You really can’t make this stuff up. There I was, hanging at the airfield, speculating about where this clown could have gotten off to and that son of a gun was in my own freaking truck this whole time.”
“It is kind of funny when you put it that way,” I said.
“Let’s hope they’ll find the truck by tomorrow,” Mike said. “And you’re probably going to get your stuff back; he doesn’t need it.”
“I hope so too.”
“Where are you now?” Mike asked.
“I’m on my way to your place to pick up my Jeep. Will I see you there?”
“I’m still out chasing leads, but I’ll come by your apartment in a bit,” Mike said.
“Perfect. See you there.”
By the time we hung up, the cab was on Mike’s street, and I checked the time. Since I figured Kat would be finished with her training in about two hours, I shot her a text.
Come by my place when you’re done?
I couldn’t wait to tell her about my day. And I knew Mike wouldn’t stay long. For him, this ordeal with the truck was a story he would have to file too.
After I paid the cab driver and climbed into my Jeep, I gazed up at Mike’s house. Despite looking fairly spacious from the outside, it had a cozy look with a red door and red shutters. I wondered how he could afford this pricey neighborhood of leafy, well-kept lawns on the kind of salary they paid at the paper. Maybe there was more to Mike than met the eye.
The day’s events ran through my head as I drove to my apartment. The shopping trip and that airfield show felt like they had happened days ago, not hours. Traffic was light for that time of day, and when I pulled into the apartment, my space, for once, was empty. After a majorly crappy day, there was that, at least.
I made my way into my apartment, which looked especially empty now that I had allowed myself to picture it with my new things in place. I sank down on the couch, exhausted, and did some quick math in my head, trying to decide when I would once again have a little extra. Just a few small luxuries was all I was asking for. The numbers made my head hurt, plus my brain was a little fuzzy, so I made myself some tea to try to get my nerves to settle.
I took my tea out on the balcony to enjoy the sun, but my mind returned to my calculations. Forget the luxuries; could I even pay my bills? It seemed a bit uncertain, and those ugly numbers offset any soothing benefits I could have gotten from the tea.
I was trying to let my mind go blank when the doorbell rescued me from my anxious thoughts. Mike. I made my way to the door.
He grinned ruefully when I let him in. “This is the part where I would ask how your day is going, but I don’t think I will.” He walked a little farther in and took a look around. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said teasingly.
“Yeah, well, this movie star with a crowbar jumped me and stole all my stuff.”
“Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“Always.” I laughed.
“You really okay?” His eyes went dark.
“I am. Guess I should be lucky I got out of it alive.”
Mike nodded and studied me.
“You want the story, right?” I smiled.
“You know me well.” He moved his eyebrows up and down.
“Let’s do this and get it over with,”
I said. “You want some tea?”
“Sure.”
I poured him a cup and answered all his questions as we sat on the couch. His look went from horror to disbelief and then to concern as I told the story.
“What a jackass,” he said when I got to the end. “I told you he’s not like the Prince Charming you see in the movies.”
“I know that now,” I said. “Do you think I should talk to Jerry too? To be honest, I don’t know how many times I can relive the story.”
“That’s okay. I’ve kept him in the loop, and I’ll get with him and Ron to get this story up ASAP.” Ron Daly handled the updating of the website.
Mike was finishing up with a few last questions when we heard a rapping on the door.
“That would be Kat,” I said, standing up to let her in.
“Hey!” she said. “Did you get my text that I was heading over?”
We made our way into the living room, and she raised her eyebrows when she saw Mike. “Or were you way too busy to be looking at your phone?” she asked, smiling at me, pleased.
Mike stood up to greet her.
“It’s work stuff. For a story,” I explained.
“If you insist.” She winked.
I shot her a look.
“And speaking of that story, I need to go write the thing,” Mike said. “It’s good to see you, Kat.”
“Wait.” I said, remembering the truck. “What about transportation?”
Kat looked at me, confused.
“I’ll take a cab. It’s fine.” He waved away the offer. “You girls do something fun. I’m sure it won’t be long before the cops get back my truck. Fitzgerald isn’t dumb. He’ll know they’re on the hunt for a truck with that description, and I bet by now he’s switched to another ride. Hell, maybe for his next trick, he’ll steal a train.” He held his hand up in goodbye, and he was off.
Kat’s eyes were like saucers. “What was that all about? The cops are looking for his truck? And what Fitzgerald did he mean?”
“Sit down, and I’ll explain.”
***
Three hours later, Kat and I were drinking margaritas in one of our favorite bars. After she heard my story, she’d insisted we go out.
