Young Americans

by Josh Stallings

  The Tubes started to play “Boy Crazy.” A song about a teenage girl who can’t get enough, it hailed her as “boy crazy from town to town.” Like all good do-wop morality tales, it ended with her paying a heavy price for her indiscretions. The crowd sang along “Forgot all the names, they’re all the same. Forgot all the names.”

  • • •

  In the DJ booth, Mr. Magic was getting baked on Jacob’s high-end stash. He almost missed a segue bridging Ohio Players’ “Fire” with “Love Rollercoaster.” He was showing Jacob how to match beats on two turntables. Get them spinning just right and it created a seamless flow of music.

  “Twelve-inch singles are for amateurs. I do it live, baby, Billy Two Times.” Putting another copy of “Love Rollercoaster” on the second turntable, he was able to extend a song as long as he wanted. And just when the crowd had reached the peak of their sweat drenched, ass bumping, whistle blowing, popper sniffing, frenzy, just as they were about to explode, he would drop Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Baby.” Cool them down, give them time to grope and fumble through slow dances or hit the bar for more drinky-poos.

  “And then we start to climb the mountain again, this time we climax at midnight.”

  “You have them in the palm of your hand.”

  “It’s where I like ’em, so to speak.” Mr. Magic let out an evil stoned laugh.

  Eleven p.m.

  Sylvester had just taken the stage. He started with “I’m a Steamroller.” He was as hot as his Hot Band. Cord stood backstage, hands sweaty. In the dressing room, Terry was starting to pack out.

  “Where’s your partner?” Chi Chi asked.

  “Break.”

  “Bend paid for two roadies. He better get his ass back here if he wants to get paid.”

  “You got it, chief.” Terry was rolling speaker cabs to the back loading dock. He left them there under the watchful eyes of the two security guards. The wind flipped open one of the guard’s jacket, giving Terry a clear view of his shoulder rig and revolver. Fuck. He felt the weight of the .38 in his pocket and wondered if push came to shooting, would he have the balls to fire back.

  On the next run he found the small linen closet Sam told him about. Terry dropped off the gun-laden guitar cases and the duffle, then went back to move the drum set. His job was to make sure at twelve-ten there was a clear run to the Firebird. Terry eyed the security guards. If he hit low and hard he would be able to knock them into the alley. Maybe. Or they would go for those guns of theirs and then what? He wished he had lost to Jake. He could be eye candy. Let Jake deal with the variables and equations. He wished he had a joint. Maybe it would go as planned. Or maybe he’d be shot before he had to decide. He flashed on Valentina in a plunging black dress with a veil obscuring her tear-streaked face. Why the hell had he let Jake hold the weed? Why?

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  “Punch it, baby.” —The Getaway

  “Look at that dumb bastard.” Cracker was pointing to a stalled Pinto in front of Taxi Dancer’s front door.

  “Piece of shit car,” Sardine said. “Now let’s get moving, I want to be at the alley when this deal goes off.”

  It was as if his words had magic power. First, a huge boom. Then a fireball ignited inside the Pinto. The windows blew out and a ball of orange flame rose into the sky. People on the sidewalk started to scream. Jinks folded the antenna on his remote detonator and walked away down the street.

  “Gawd damn, Cracker, did you see that som-bitch go up?”

  “I heard Pintos did that, but damn. I could feel the heat.”

  “That weren’t an accident. Let’s get a move on.”

  • • •

  It was midnight. DJ Magic hit the confetti cannons. Jacob spun the dial on the fog machine, turning it far enough to break it open. Fog flooded the dance floor.

  “Too much fog, back it off.”

  Jacob shrugged his shoulders, fighting against the impossible, to stop the building fog bank. The windows along the front of the room filled with a fireball, turning the dance floor into hell for a moment.

  • • •

  In the cabaret, Cord heard Sylvester say “Happy New Year!” and he pulled the pins. The smoke grenades skidded across the stage, landing in the audience, spewing white smoke that quickly filled the air. When they heard the Pinto explode they started screaming. Pandemonium. A true and real disco inferno.

  • • •

  At eleven-fifty, Sam, Valentina and Candy entered a small linen closet. At the booming sound of the Pinto exploding they exited wearing jeans, boots, beards, trucker caps, with trench coats hiding the collapsed M16s and cut-down shotgun. No one noticed them as they took the freight elevator to the second floor.

  “Motherfuckers, hit the floor!” Valentina yelled as they burst into the office. Maurizio was hurriedly attempting to shove cash into the safe.

  Jo Jo went for his shoulder holster.

  Candy racked the shotgun.

  Jo Jo froze.

  Maurizio started to stand and Valentina slammed the M16’s barrel into his forehead. It broke the skin and a small trickle of blood ran down onto his cheek.

  “Lock it up,” Valentina said.

  Candy pulled the door closed, throwing the bolt. Valentina rotated on her left leg and kicked the back of Jo Jo’s knees with her right boot. He buckled, hit the floor.

  “You dumb hicks. I’m Maurizio Binasco.”

  “On the motherfucking floor,” Valentina repeated. Grabbing his chair, she whirled him around and dumped him onto the carpet.

  “You guys are some dead fucking punks.”

  Candy had Jo Jo on his belly, wrists cuffed behind his back. She moved to do the same to Maurizio. He started to resist so Valentina put her work boots to his gut. He hurled a stream of what looked like clams in a cream sauce.

  Candy snapped the cuffs on him. “The combination? What is it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Candy raised the shotgun butt over the gangster’s face, ready to plunge it down.

  “Do it. Fuck I care.”

  Valentina started a stopwatch. “We don’t have time for this, gentlemen, we book in ten minutes.”

  Sam kneeled down, stroking the safe. The Wells Fargo M7721. It was like meeting a new old friend. She knew so much about it she could see the schematics laid over the outer skin. To her it was like looking at one of those transparent men from science class. Stroking the dial, she felt time slipping away. Part of her was in the woods walking with Jinks, another part of her was dancing with the cogs and gears, pins and notches all moving to her touch. Somewhere in the distance Maurizio was saying something. He sounded upset. Sam drifted deeper into the Wells Fargo M7721. It was a fugue state. It was peaceful. And then the loud snapping sound of the final tumbler brought her back to the room. Opening the door, Sam let out a little gasp. The safe was stuffed full of hundred-dollar bill bundles. Big fucking bucks. Fuck. Not the plan. Fuck.

  Sam looked to Valentina.

  “All of it,” Valentina said. No one questioned her. They stuffed the duffle full.

  “Do you have any idea whose money you are stealing?” Maurizio said.

  They hadn’t a clue. The stopwatch buzzed.

  “You are so dead.”

  Maybe they were. But the immediate problem was getting free of the city. Slipping the guns up under their trench coats they walked out. Not running. Walking. The fog had moved into the back rooms. It swirled around them.

  The fucking security guards still stood by the rear door. Terry ran out of the fog yelling at them. “They’re looting and stabbing and shooting. Ahhhh.”

  The two security guards charged past him and into the split pea mess. Terry didn’t loosen his grip on the .38. He was keeping his options open. His heart hammered and his hand trembled. He fought the urge to bolt.

  Jacob met the ladies at the elevator. They rode down in silence, not sure of what was waiting to greet them. They stepped into the linen closet, and in
less than two minutes they came out dressed as clubbing girls. Terry pushed the door open. Fog spilled into the alley.

  Terry stood sentry at the door until Candy, Sam, and Jacob had jumped off the loading dock. Valentina gave him a kiss on the cheek and went back into the club. Plan was, she would mix with the panicking patrons and become invisible by hiding in plain sight.

  Police sirens wailed, coming closer.

  Sam tossed the duffle full of cash and guns into the Firebird’s false trunk. Her crew piled into the Firebird, Terry riding shotgun, Jacob and Candy in the small backseat. Sam cranked the massive big block over, freeing all four hundred of its horses to run wild in the street.

  She floored it, lurching forward, then slammed on the brakes. The windshield was filled with rusted-out metal.

  Sardine sideswiped the Firebird. Wrenching the steering wheel, he pinned them against the side of a brick building.

  “Fuuuuk. We’re fucked!” Terry was screaming, spraying spit onto the window.

  “Nope, not this time, you walleyed motherfuckers.” Sam flipped on the nitrous and stomped on the gas. Flame shot out the back. The rear tires smoked as the massive load of torque hit them. The Firebird leapt forward, dragging the van with it.

  Sardine locked his brakes.

  The Firebird dragged the screeching and groaning van down the alley, building speed. They were doing thirty when Sam swerved, sending the van into the band’s U-Haul truck. She threaded the Firebird past the wreck and was free. Bouncing onto Kenny, she hung a hard Louie then a Rosco at California. Sam’s eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. When she was sure they were clear she turned off the nitrous and settled down to cruise mode, drifting in and out of the packed streets. Behind them, fire trucks and police cars converged on Taxi Dancer.

  Sam did several loops around the back streets.

  “Um, Sam, you missed the 101.”

  “Chill, Terry, I got this.” Sam gave him a wink. She was drifting down toward Market.

  Jacob fired his last joint and passed it to Terry. “You want?”

  “Oh hell yes I do, thought you’d never ask.” The rich smoke swirled around Terry’s head. He sank back into the bucket seat, slowly relaxing his face from grimace into a slack jawed smile.

  “Better, pal?”

  “Much.”

  “Then why don’t you pass the joint back here?”

  “Fuck you, Jake. Me and this heady bud are in a committed relationship.”

  “Thai stick can be a cruel mistress.”

  “She sure can.” Terry took a deep drag and let his eyes droop into slits.

  A SFPD squad car ripped past them. Red light from the cherry top floated across Candy’s face; she smiled at Jacob. He tried to match her easy expression. This scene was getting fucking surreal fast. Maybe this was that contact high the anti-drug films warned him about. He looked around the car wide-eyed. Just a group of glitter kids out on a lark. Forget the trunk full of cash and illegal firearms. Forget the felonies left in their wake. They were four friends happily rolling down thunder road with no horizon in sight.

  Sam pulled up the on-ramp to the Bayshore freeway south. She kept the Firebird to an inconspicuous 70 mph. The San Francisco skyline sparkled in the rearview mirror. No one spoke of the heist, afraid to jinx it. Fireworks were exploding and spiderwebbing the sky over the bay. The radio was tuned to an all news station. A car fire had been reported, but no word of a robbery.

  “It always makes me think of Oz,” Candy said, watching the city disappear behind them.

  “I get that. Magical.” Jacob liked this moment. Sitting close to Candy, talking about nothing. He liked feeling the heat of her skin next to his. Smelling her perfume. It was the most normal he’d felt in days. He just had to keep his mind off guns, mayhem and thuggery. Focus on Candy.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. With Cord. I . . .” Candy spoke low so Sam wouldn’t hear.

  “It wasn’t nothing but a thing. I get it. I’m OK with whatever.” His face told another story. He wanted her to himself. In a primal bullshit caveman way he wanted to brand her as his.

  “I do like you, Jake. That’s the problem. If I don’t care then there’s no chance in hell I’ll get hurt.” She let her hand rest casually on his lap. He was instantly hard. She looked up at him, a wicked smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

  • • •

  Jake was about to speak when the window beside him exploded. He couldn’t reconcile this fact with any reality. The shower of safety glass was almost beautiful. Then he noticed a small bloody stain on Candy’s breast. It was spreading, turning her silver tube top red. She was screaming. Wind howled through the window, drowned out her voice. Beside them a flash filled the cab of a rusted-out panel van. For a millisecond, a grinning man with a rifle was lit by the muzzle flare. He had hay-colored hair sticking up in a rat’s nest tangle, several broken front teeth. It stuck frozen in time. Jacob wondered what it all meant. Flames from a second shot leapt toward Jacob.

  • • •

  “You ready?” Sardine asked Cracker. Stepping on the gas, the van rumbled unevenly but kept picking up speed. They finally caught up with the Firebird. As they pulled alongside, Cracker thumbed the safety off the Remington 30.06 carbine. He’d done a hack job to shorten the barrel. The stock was wrapped in electrical tape to cover the crack in the wood. He saw Sam’s face. She had always been good to him, except for busting up his face, but hadn’t he asked for that, really? She treated him like he wasn’t stupid. Talked to him about music. She gave him an album by Bowie. Sardine trashed it, called it glitter fag music. Cracker snuck it out of the bin. When Sardine was gone to town Cracker would put it on. The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees.

  He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  • • •

  Sam caught the van on the periphery of her vision before the first blast hit. What was Sardine’s piece of shit van doing on the 101? They hadn’t followed her, so how in the fuck had those reprobates even found the Firebird? Instinctively she hit the gas. The lurch forward kept the shot from nailing her. The second shot hit the trunk. Who the fuck was Sardine to think he could keep up with the ’Bird? Fuck him.

  • • •

  Candy had imagined being with Jake all summer. Was she worried about rejection, or screwing up a friendship? No, mostly she was afraid of Sam and what she might say. Sam was her best friend. But she was also a mercurial wench. Once, at Jordan Jr. High, that cheerleader, old big-tits-what’s-her-name, teased Candy about being flat and skinny. Called her twig, said no boy was ever going to like her. Sam laughed it off, but the rumor was she beat the shit out of the cheerleader in the locker room. Used a towel with some tennis balls in it, like in The Longest Yard or some other prison film Sam loved so much. Sam denied it. Cheer-bitch wore long sleeves and jeans for weeks. She wouldn’t look Sam in the eye and never spoke to Candy again after that.

  When Sam went to Humboldt it was almost freeing. Candy loved Sam, but . . . dang. Candy found it easy to hang with Jake. When she finally told him she liked him, it had felt natural. She slipped her hand onto his lap, needing to make clear what she meant by “like.” His erection felt good. Told her instantly that she wasn’t alone in her ardor. As she leaned up, planning to kiss him, there was a flash of lightning and her chest stung. Her wind was knocked out. It was like she’d been hit by a really hard dodge ball. She hated P.E. Blood was spilling down her chest. She struggled to breath. She screamed best she could. She wanted to go home. She wanted to wake up in bed next to Jake. She wanted to laugh at the bad dream.

  • • •

  Terry’s eyes snapped open. Pure terror murdered his buzz. This was really happening. Every cell in his body screamed “duck” when he saw the rifle barrel, but fascination overrode it. He watched it all go down. The second and third shots hit metal in the rear with high-pitched pops. The Firebird launched forward, pinning him to the seat. He felt detached, a passive observer to the death race roarin
g around him. The van seemed to stand still as the Firebird barreled away.

  • • •

  The van let loose a roar of its own. It was coming on fast. Speed and wind buffeted the top-heavy rusted brick, causing it to buck and weave. Sardine didn’t let up on the power. Better fiery death then having to tell Breeze he let the cash get away.

  • • •

  The Firebird rocketed down highway 101. The van was keeping up, actually gaining on them. Sam didn’t need to look at the speedo to know they were well south of 100 MPH and still climbing. The van rammed them from behind, bouncing the Firebird across several lanes. Sam fought for control. She could feel how easy it would be to flip at these speeds. She hit the brakes. Sardine instinctively hit his brakes. The van slid, its backend whipping around until it was going sideways.

  It was nitrous time. Sam flipped the switch, and with a chirp of tires and a deep throaty rumble the Firebird took off.

  • • •

  The car was long gone before Sardine could straighten the van out.

  “Sums a bitch!” Sardine pounded the dash.

  “She got away.”

  “No shit, nitwit.”

  • • •

  Candy fought for breath, choked, then coughed up a red mist. She was gasping, taking small shallow breaths. Jacob held her, pressing his balled up tee shirt against the wound. “Sam, we need a hospital.”

  Sam kept her eyes pinned on the highway. “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Fuck.”

  “She’s . . .” He couldn’t find words to tell Sam what he saw. He couldn’t talk about Candy as if she wasn’t looking at him with desperate eyes. He stroked her face, whispered that it would be OK, told her he loved her, told her he always had. He asked her if she wanted to go with him to a new Polynesian tiki bar in Redwood City—they had blue drinks with little umbrellas. It took all her strength to nod. He told her he would complete high school. He would go to Stanford and study theater. He wanted to be an actor, or maybe a filmmaker. He would move to Hollywood. Asked her if she would come with him. He asked if she wanted to go see Iggy Pop in the spring. He just kept mumbling questions—sounded more like prayers. He was afraid if he stopped she would die.