by Tom Pitts
“No kidding. Tristan can’t drive for shit, that’s why I’m worried.”
“Don’t worry, they’re fine. They’re on the road, that’s why they’re not answering, they probably have the tunes turned up or Jerrod’s passed out, or something. They’ll be here. Tristan promised, I talked to him.”
Becky’s tone turned snide. “I don’t know what you see in him anyway, he’s such a dweeb. Anything Jerrod tells him to do; he does, just like a little puppy. You two are so gross in love, you wouldn’t know if he was a half-a-fag or not.”
Shelly let out a careful chuckle, she didn’t like the way this was going. “I think I’d know, he’s my boyfriend.”
“You know what I mean. Guys are so full of shit. It’s like nothing for them to keep secrets. Bros before hoes, all that bullshit. Who knows what the hell they’re doing.”
“They’ll be here … soon.”
Becky picked up her phone and checked the charge and signal. All five bars and a full battery. She tossed it back on the bed.
“Let’s smoke another one.”
“That was all I took out.”
“What happened to ‘there’s more where that came from’?”
Shelly sighed, it was that tone again. There was no use in fighting it.
“It’s in the garage. We can’t wake up my mother; I don’t want to hear her bullshit.”
“Nobody does,” said Becky.
The two crept downstairs as quietly as they could. In an older house like that one, it was impossible to take a single step with out some kind of creaking. When they reached the main floor, they could see from the glow that the TV was still on. They had to pass through the TV room to reach the door to the garage.
Shelly’s mother lay on the sofa passed out with her head thrown back, mouth wide open, soft snoring reverberating through her nostrils. They could see the gold chains avalanched between her tanned and freckled fake breasts move up and down with every deep breath. With her arms flung across the couch and her legs on the table, she looked older than her forty-six years in the unnatural crucifixion posture. Like the boobs, the tan was fake; the freckles were age spots. Any youthful glow she tried to emulate was lost in such an unflattering repose.
“She’s so out,” said Becky.
“Ssh.” Shelly wasn’t so sure. She’d seen her mother snap out of a near coma before just to give her shit about not doing the dishes.
The two reached the garage and opened the door slowly. The cement was cold on their bare feet and they tried to hurry their errand before they experienced anymore discomfort. Shelly kept holding her index finger up to her lips as she carefully moved pieces of empty luggage from their storage spot in the corner.
Becky watched her friend’s espionage. Every few moments, Shelly would look back to communicate her progress. Her facial expressions suddenly went from sneaky to confused to full-on panic.
“What the …” She pulled another suitcase, light and empty, from the stack. Her family owned at least three full sets of luggage for each of its members. Suitcase after suitcase, Shelly was getting less concerned about the noise as she pulled them like weeds.
“What is it?”
“It’s not here.”
“What do you mean it’s not here? Of course it is. Where’d you put it?
“Right here, it was right under here.” Shelly lifted another suitcase.
Both their minds jumped to the same conclusion, the only possible conclusion they could come to. The boys.
Paul tried to sit still on the hood of the Camry. He stood up and tried to light another cigarette, one of the boy’s American Spirits. The wind was picking up. He noticed how badly his hands shook; it took him several tries to get it lit. He cursed the brand and wished he hadn’t left the remainder of his bottle in the front seat. He sat back down again on the hood; the hood was warm from hours of engine heat. Then he stood back up. Each time he changed position the car’s shocks creaked with disapproval.
“Fucking things taste like shit,’ he said to the glowing ember on the end of the American Spirit. He took one more drag and threw the cigarette down, turning to see if Jimmy had finished his phone call. He saw Tristan’s silhouette in the car, as still as a mannequin. The kid had to know something was up, had to feel the vibe. Paul wasn’t sure he could get back into the car with the kid and act like nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
Jimmy paced around in a short circle at the other end of the car. He’d dialed the number he had memorized and was getting no response. After seven rings, the robotic voice of the automated response answered. He redialed. This time someone picked up on the third ring, a female voice with a thick Spanish accent.
“Hola?” Then something else that Jimmy didn’t understand.
“Jose, please.”
“He is not here.”
“This is his phone, he’s there. Put him on, please, it’s important.”
“Who is this?”
“This is his friend, can you put him on, please.” It was noisy in the background. There was salsa music playing and the joyous sounds of drunken voices.
“All his friends have names.”
“Tell him it’s Jimmy.” The sounds were muffled as she covered the phone with her hand. There were a few more moments during which Jimmy couldn’t make out anything other than that strange suction cup sound, then Jose’s voice came on.
“Hello, my friend.” Jose called everyone his friend. Everyone knew that Jose had no friends. “Que paso?”
“Not a lot. I’m out in the valley trying hard to straighten out some troubles of yours?”
“Of mine? What kind of troubles?” Jose’s accent was thick, but his English was good.
“Paul, you know Paul. He thinks he lost track of what he’s supposed to keep track of.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Of course, he hasn’t called in days. I was starting to wonder if that son-of-a-bitch crawled into a rat-hole.” There was a sing-song quality to Jose’s voice that made it sound as though nothing fazed him.
“No, no, he’s a good guy; he wouldn’t do anything like that.” Jimmy looked up and watched Paul heating and re-heating his ass on the front of the car. He hoped he was a good guy.
“Are you with him, right now?” The music in the background had died down, replaced by the sounds of traffic. Jose had walked out to the street for privacy.
Jimmy was still looking at Paul. He hesitated before answering, “Yes.”
“Why don’t you two come back and we’ll solve this problem together?”
“I think I can bring it back to you.” It meant the load, not Paul.
“Listen, Jimmy. You’re a good guy, and we’ve been able to count on you in the past, why don’t you just come on back and we’ll figure a way to get this … straightened out.”
Going back without the load would mean a certain death sentence for Paul—and Jimmy too, if he weren’t careful.
“I got a … I got a lead,” said Jimmy.
“Look, my friend, I don’t know what Paul’s told you, but I’m not sure if you even know what you are looking for.” The piggyback.
“I think he’s told me everything. That’s why I’m working so hard.”
For a few moments all Jimmy heard was the sound of street traffic. That was the sound of Jose’s frustration.
“Okay, Jimmy, you are a smart guy. You know how this thing works. You call me back with some good news.”
“Thank you.” Jimmy tried to sound as respectful as he could, but Jose had already hung-up. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. He felt it vibrating again. No one had the number. He took the vibrating phone back out, it wasn’t his burner, it was Jerrod’s phone. Jimmy looked at the name lighting up the front. Becky. He flipped the phone open and hit the green button. An angry female voice came through so loud it distorted and crackled in the tiny receiver.
“Listen, fucker, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing or whe
re the hell you guys are, but you two better get your asses over here to Shelly’s. If you guys touched that shit, you are both in deep trouble. And if this is some kinda game you two are playing, it’s not funny. Shelly and me are pissed off at both you two, so you better hurry the fuck up or you two can spend your nights fucking each other.”
The call ended as abruptly as it started. Jimmy hadn’t said a word.
Damon Lafleur wasn’t speeding because he was in a rush to get home. He wasn’t worried about his wife. Not in the traditional sense. She’d left hours before, drunk as usual, behind the wheel of their Lincoln Navigator. The odds that she’d have gotten pulled over were nil, she had that kind of luck. The odds of her getting into a crash and dying were also nil; that was the kind of luck he was stuck with. He was speeding home in his Mercedes Benz C300 because he liked the feel of it. He liked the solitude. When he was in his car he could think, clear his head. The faster he went, the clearer his head became.
He was worried, not about his wife’s well-being, but about her spite. Spite is what drove the woman. The mood she was in, he didn’t know what to expect when he got home, presuming she even went there. Mild spite drove her to massive overspending, each punitive purchase a lashing out at her husband. Medium spite would get her throwing things, smashing up the valued items that she’d bought with his hard-earned money (perhaps even destroying the previous week’s spiteful retail binge). But full-on spite, that hateful, hot spite, brought infidelity. There’d been many occasions when he had to call in a favor from an associate to help extract from his home some young pup with dollar signs in his eyes and his wife’s stink on his dick. He hated what she did to him, hated that his instincts still sent him into jealous fits when his rational brain told him to keep it compartmentalized, that he’d been there before, it wouldn’t last—neither would his wife.
The stereo throbbed away with some anonymous beat that reminded him of the discos and clubs where he escaped to avoid his marriage and try his hand at playing single. The open road was unpopulated and was perfect for his mood. It was a little like being in a car commercial, he thought, except he had to watch his speeds, topping out at 85mph to avoid getting another ticket.
Pushing fifty years-of-age, things were looking up for Damon Lafleur. There was almost certainly a divorce in his future, an occasion he was looking forward to more than retirement. As soon as his daughter, Shelly, was out of the house he could begin that task in earnest. He’d already begun hiding assets to prepare for whenever her lawyers would come sniffing around. His business was not in the best shape, but the money, at least his end, kept rolling in. He was branching out on his own and preparing for the next stage of his life. He was looking forward to making his golden years truly golden.
The music suddenly broke, replaced by an old fashioned telephone ring-tone. He looked at the car stereo display, it read: Caller Unknown. He hit the answer-call button on the steering wheel and said, “Yes.”
“It’s me.”
“I’m a little busy right now, can I call you back?”
“Make sure you do. It’s important.”
“I know it’s important or you wouldn’t be calling me now. I’m on the way home; I’ll call you in an hour.”
“Make sure you do, it’s important.”
Without saying another word, Damon hit the button on his steering wheel again and the throbbing beat flooded the car once again.
Sacramento
Paul sat across from Jimmy. He was sweating more than usual, even as the cool night air filled the car to help flush out his cigarette smoke. His bottle was empty now and he leaned forward keeping watch for any open liquor stores. In his left hand, he turned over and over the key that he’d been using to spoon up his blow; in his right, the last slow burning American Spirit, a brand he’d begun to like after sucking in almost a whole pack. He was too nervous now even to play with the radio; letting songs he hated play quietly in the background. With a prisoner in the back seat, a dead body in the trunk, and no sign of his lost load anywhere, he was feeling both hopeless and helpless.
Tristan sat terrified behind his captors. The mood in the car had changed. He knew something was wrong. The man in passenger seat, who’d been talkative to the point of annoyance, was now silent, and the driver—the cold violent one—kept gripping the steering wheel like he was having a bad dream. Tristan knew that something had gone badly back at Jerrod’s parent’s house. He knew that Jerrod’s folks knew nothing about what he and Jerrod were up to, that they were, as always, useless and clueless, but something caused Jerrod’s old man to take a potshot at them when they left. He only wished he could talk with Jerrod about what to do next. Being separated like this reminded him of when they were both caught shoplifting at Macy’s, when security kept the boys in different rooms while they interrogated them. Only at Macy’s, he didn’t fear for his life. The security guards were not sadistic psychopaths like the lunatic driving the car.
Jimmy found his way back to the freeway and got on the I-80 West, then veered right, taking the downtown loop. He looked in the rearview and eyed Tristan for any reactions. The kid kept a good poker-face, considering the jam he was in. It was getting late and the conversation with Jose hadn’t bought them any time. He could read between the lines, though. He’d better show some results soon or he’d be in as deep as his troubled friend, Paul.
They exited on J Street and Jimmy found his way to the liquor store. He slipped Paul thirty bucks and watched him go in and make his purchase. While Paul waited behind two young black kids at the register, Jimmy turned and faced Tristan. He looked him straight in the eye, trying to give him his most serious dead-eye stare.
“Look kid, enough is enough. We’ve been in this car for hours. It’s time we put an end to this evening and go our separate ways. I know you’re supposed to meet the girls at Shelly’s house. It’s time you told me where it is. I’ve got your parents address. If you don’t tell me where your girlfriend lives, I’m going to go to your parents’ house, get on the computer, find out where she lives, then burn the house down. If you lied about mom and dad being home, then they’ll both die tonight. I’ll shoot ‘em both or I’ll just torch the house. I know just how to do it so that no one will get out.”
Tristan tried to keep his poker-face, but Jimmy could tell he was fighting back vomit.
“Do we understand each other?”
Tristan nodded and Jimmy continued, his voice was slow, calm, and methodical.
“I want you to remember that I haven’t lied or exaggerated to you all night. I’m a man of my word, especially when it comes to this kind of shit. You and your friends have put me and my partner in a very difficult spot. This may not seem to you like something that people die over, but trust me, it is. You are interfering with our ability to make a living, with our reputations. You have stolen from us, and when I say us, I mean more than me and my partner. You have fucked over a fucking army of nasty individuals. Now, before I have to get out the stun gun and cook your balls some more, where does she live?”
It didn’t take Tristan long to think about it. He believed Jimmy. His captor was colder and meaner than anyone he’d ever met, anyone he’d even seen in movies. He had no doubt that Jimmy meant every word of what he said.
“1266 43 Street.”
When Paul got back into the car, Jimmy was smiling and Tristan was crying.
Linda Lafleur was woken by crashing sounds coming from her garage. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She wiped drool from her mouth and lifted her head, immediately feeling a sharp painful kink she gotten from sleeping upright on the sofa. Her eyes adjusted to the room. The TV was still on, giving an unsteady light to her surroundings. Slowly, she recognized the furnishings and realized she was at home. The next thing she realized was that she was hung-over. She needed a drink.
There was another crash followed by the voices of her daughter arguing with someone. The voices were coming from the garage. Blearily, she got up and stomped towar
d the door to the garage at the end of the hallway. She threw open the door and found Shelly and Becky standing in their bare feet arguing with each other. There were empty suitcases strewn all over the garage floor. Boxes of Christmas decorations stored neatly on shelves had been hastily pulled off and opened. It looked like a burglar had been through her husband’s rarely used work bench.
“Michelle! What the hell is going on here? Are you two fighting?” A brawl was the only explanation that came to her mind. What else could have caused such destruction?
“Go back to bed, Mom.”
“I wasn’t in bed. I was watching TV.”
Shelly gave a quick roll of her eyes. “Go back to the couch then.”
“I want to know why you two girls are destroying my house. Look at this mess.”
“I’m trying to find my roller-skates.”
“Roller-skates, you don’t even own a pair of roller-skates.”
“Mom, go back inside.” Shelly’s voice was angry, low, and masculine. Linda hadn’t heard her daughter speak this way before. She didn’t know how to respond.
Becky interrupted, “It’s okay, we’ll settle this. We’ll clean up this mess.” The vodka was calling her anyway; Linda was about to turn back into the house and make herself a fresh drink when the small windows at the top of the garage door were lit up with headlights. A car was pulling into the driveway.
Linda assumed it was her husband and quietly said, “Shit.”
Becky and Shelly said simultaneously, “Finally,” thinking it was the boys. Becky was closest to the switch for the automatic door-opener; she reached over and smacked it with the palm of her hand.
The vehicle’s headlights remained on as the garage door rolled up. It surprised all three of them to see an ugly brown Camry in the driveway; or was it green? With the headlights in their eyes, it was hard to see the color—or who was inside.
Kevin the rose guy had a pretty sweet deal. He lived on the outskirts of Salt Lake City in a duplex that had all the modern amenities. The owner of the duplex was also his neighbor and his best customer. The symbiotic relationship kept his rent down and he never had to worry about noise complaints or suspicious looks when his endless stream of guests came knocking day and night.
