by Lena Pierce
After a watery oatmeal breakfast, the weasel-looking cop walks in with two skinheads in tow, both of them in cuffs, both of them with racist tattoos in between their eyes. They’re smaller than me by half a foot, and I know that pisses them off. It always pisses tough men off when they see me. It’s like my height and my size are a personal challenge to them. I grit my teeth, and then spit. There’s going to be fighting as soon as the weasel has retreated.
The weasel walks away, throwing me a worried look. Maybe he isn’t the asshole he seems like he is. I reckon he knows exactly what’s going to happen, but he’s leaving me anyway. Maybe somebody is twisting his arm. One of the skinheads is wearing a white tank top and dirty jeans, his arms and chest covered in tattoos. The other is wearing a black hoodie, his neck plastered in similar tattoos. Apart from that they look almost identical.
They sit down on the opposite end of the cell, whispering together. And then Hoodie grumbles, “Tough guy over there.”
His friend laughs. “Yeah, real tough man.”
I sigh inwardly. I’ve gotta respond. If I don’t, word might get around that I’m a pussy. That’s how prison works.
“The fuck, you say?”
I stand up to my full height, staring the men down. The one in the tank top looks a tiny bit worried, but Hoodie speaks for the both of them. “Sit down, faggot, before you make me stand up.”
“Stand up,” I say. “Go ahead.”
It all happens predictably. What these men don’t know is that I’ve fought bastards like them countless times. Hoodie charges at me, aiming at my face with a clumsy right hook. I step back, catch his wrist, and snap it as hard as I can. His wrist and his hand go limp and he screams like a little girl. By the time the other one is on me, I’m free to throw some punches of my own. I knock him twice in the belly, not too hard, just enough to send him sprawling to the floor.
The cell door buzzes as it opens. I get ready for the mace, and the sticks, and the cattle feeling. I wish I was back in bed with Willa. I can hardly believe I’m not in bed with Willa. I’m going to have a child, and now this.
But they don’t go in on me. Instead, Weasel grabs me by the arms and hisses in my ear, “Orders from the top. We’re moving you.”
“Moving me?” I say, as he slaps cuffs on me. “Moving me where?”
I’ve been in the system before, and this isn’t standard procedure. Chino, I think. Could it be fucking Chino? Or Grimace? Whoever it is, I have no choice. Weasel has a gun and a man with a gun can be as short as he likes.
Soon I’m sitting in a prison van, nearly empty apart from me, the driver, Weasel and another cop. The sun glares through the glass.
“Where are we going?” I call down the bus. “You been paid off by someone, is that it?”
Weasel’s face winces. Paid off by someone, then. But who? Grimace means I’m saved. Chino means I’m dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Willa
I’m not sure what else to do so I go into work. My plan is to ask somebody for advice. It would have been Brittany or Peter, but both of them are out of the window. Maybe I’ll ask the head of the station, Sofia Silva. Rumor has it she’s a conscientious, empathetic person, but that’s only the impression of her I’ve heard on the grapevine. And anyway, it might seem crazy for an intern to charge up to the head of the station for that kind of advice. I even search for the address of the Skull Rider clubhouse on the internet. One of their members has left it on a forum post to a pledge, so I manage to get it that way. Maybe the leader, Grimace, can help. Somebody has to.
But I don’t get a chance to ask anybody. As soon as I get into the office, Peter’s head emerges from his door and he waves me over. “Willa!” he calls, his voice loud, causing several people to stare at him. “Will you join me in my office, please?”
I feel the eyes of everybody on our floor on me as I walk toward his office. When I get in, he leaps at the door and closes it with a slam. It’s clear from the way he stumbles back to his desk that he’s drunk, or maybe he’s on something stronger. His suit is crumpled, his tie loose and twisted to one side. Beads of sweat slide down his forehead despite the AC blasting ice-cold. He dances up and down the office, hands at his sides as if he’s afraid he’s going to fall over. Above his desk, the wall-mounted TV plays on silent.
“What have you done to me, little Willa?” he asks. “What spell have you cast on me? Did you ever consider that, when you were prancing around with your slutty legs out? Did you ever think about what effect you were having on me? Did it ever enter your slutty little mind that you might be driving a man insane? No, no, I suppose it didn’t, because that would mean you’d need to have a brain in your nut, wouldn’t it? I’m a human being, Willa. I have feelings. You can’t treat me this way.”
“Treat you what way?” I snap. “Okay, maybe moving in with you was a mistake. But here’s the truth, Peter. I don’t have to fuck you because you let me stay in your spare room.”
His mouth makes an O shape. “What?” he says, anger rising in his voice. “You were sending me a clear signal by taking that room. We both know it.”
“No,” I say. “In fact, I don’t know it. I know no such thing. And to be honest, I haven’t really got the time for this. My world is falling apart and the last thing I need is you making it worse.”
He dance-stumbles over to me. I step back out of his reach. He giggles, a high-pitched, squeaky noise which sounds strange coming from a man. “You’re going to give me what you have on this Skull Rider business, right now. I want his name, his crimes, his birthplace, his social security, if you have it. I want everything, Willa. You won’t mess me around anymore.”
“You’re drunk or worse,” I tell him. “I’m leaving.”
He leaps to the door, blocking my way, and then paws clumsily for my legs. I slap his hand away. “Ow!” he yelps. “Don’t be like that. I don’t give a shit if you’re knocked up. I know you’re a freaky slut if you’re hooking up with a biker. I can show you a good time.” His eyes are rolling back in his head. He doesn’t even seem aware of what he’s saying.
“Move out of the way,” I say, struggling to contain my anger.
“Move out of your way? And why should I do that? So you can lead me on again? Do you know what, Willa? I’ve really had enough of—”
I turn away from him, throwing my hands up, afraid that if I keep looking at him I’ll slap him across the face. “Shut the fuck up!” I growl. “Just shut …”
I trail off when I look at the TV screen. The words Breaking News cover the bottom half of the screen, with the subtitle: Prison Van Crash, Gun Fight in Progress. Shaky cellphone footage shows a prison van smashing into the wall of a house, and then five men advancing on the bus. Just before the footage cuts out, I catch Diesel’s face, pressed against the glass. The footage fades to a live helicopter feed. Peter is still droning on in the background but I barely hear him. I find the TV remote on the desk and turn up the volume.
“… appears a standoff between the gunman is taking place in several residences, with police en-route.”
I turn around. Peter is still blocking the door. I march over to him, staring at him with dagger eyes. “Get out of my way this instant. Right now.”
“You can’t speak to me like that!” he proclaims.
I lean forward, staring right into his face. “Listen to me, you drunk asshole. If you don’t get out of my way, you’re going to eat your balls off a plate.”
He laughs, but slides aside. I barge from the office and go straight to Brittany’s desk. Whispering fiercely, I ask her: “Can I borrow your car?”
“The Princess?” That’s right, I remind myself. I shouldn’t forget her name. She tips her head. “Why on earth would I let you borrow my baby?”
“Listen to me.” I know my voice is frantic but I can’t stop it. They might have killed him, and I am in no doubt of who they are. Chino’s men, ambushing the prison transport, intent on killing the man who’s been burning down the
ir boss’s buildings. “The man I love more than anything is about to die, and your car can save him.”
She doesn’t look persuaded by that in the least. I reach into my pocket and take out the fifties, counting them onto her desk. “Here’s five hundred dollars,” I say. “Just to borrow it for a couple of hours. If anything happens to it, you can claim I stole it.”
Brittany’s eyes linger on the money. “You are stealing it,” she says, rolling up the bills and hiding them in her bra. She drops her keys onto the desk.
I snatch the keys and run to the elevator, my world feeling like it’s breaking into little pieces. If Diesel dies, my child loses a parent. That’s the thought which hounds me as I run across the parking lot to Brittany’s bright pink Mini Cooper, the pink tinsel wrapped around the steering wheel looking especially tacky. If Diesel dies, I’m an instant single mother. It doesn’t seem fair. The day after he decides to leave the life, this happens. Maybe Mom and Dad dying so young should’ve taught me that life is cruel. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. But as I start the engine and drive toward the clubhouse, I feel shocked. Life can’t be this brutal. It just can’t.
I drive through the city as fast as I can. Luckily the clubhouse isn’t too far away. I manage to get there in just under ten minutes, all the while aware that even one of those minutes could mean attending Diesel’s funeral. I bring Princess to a screeching halt outside the clubhouse and run toward it, barging through the door with my shoulder and barging through into a large bar area.
A few men sit around, drinking whisky and dealing cards. They all turn to me, two of them jumping to their feet and drawing their weapons. I recognize the man who hit on me at the bar, with the greasy hair. Maybe it’s because he’s the only one I’ve ever seen before that I address him, trying my best to ignore the guns pointed at me.
“Diesel is going to die!” I scream. “Diesel, your friend, your brother, a member of this club! He’s going to be killed by Chino’s men!”
The greasy-haired man waves at the bikers to lower their weapons. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
I explain quickly about the news.
“And these are Chino’s men?”
“Are they yours?” I ask. “Are they the club’s?”
The man laughs harshly. “The club ain’t in the habit of ambushing police vans. We own quite a few police in this city, sweetheart. What’d be the benefit in killing them?”
“Well, I guess Chino doesn’t have the same philosophy as you. Listen, we can’t stand around talking. Diesel might be dying. He might be dead. He needs your help.”
A door I didn’t notice at first swings open, a man almost as big as Diesel stepping out. It’s the man from the photograph in Diesel’s apartment, bald with a monstrous bushy beard. He wears Skull Rider leathers, his thumbs hooked in the pockets. “It took some real balls to come in here, missy,” he says. “You don’t know us. For all you know, we’ll kill you and dump your body someplace. Maybe that’s the sorta men we are.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Diesel is one of you, and that’s not the sort of man Diesel is.”
“Maybe he is already dead,” Grimace says. “How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“And where is it?”
I tell them.
“A five minute ride, if we push it.” He sighs, and then nods at his men. “Gather the troops. We ain’t letting Diesel die. I’m impressed with his lady here, I’ve gotta say, and Diesel has paid his dues to the club. We ain’t letting that bastard Chino take him out. Fuckin’ Chino.”
A minute later, I’m struggling to keep up with ten or so bikers in Princess, trailing behind them, hoping that we’re not too late. I keep seeing Diesel’s face, but instead of a grin or a smile or a look of intense pleasure, a bullet has carved it in half, making his skin red with blood, flapping away to reveal his bone. I think about sitting my son or daughter on my knee and having to explain to them how Daddy died in the same way Mom had to explain to me. I think about standing by Diesel’s gravesite, weeping.
And then I start to weep. Not uncontrollable tears, not hysterical tears. Silent tears, streaming down my face, and now I’m whispering to myself: “Please don’t let him die; please don’t kill my baby’s father; please don’t be that cruel.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Diesel
“Where are the keys?” I ask the weasel-looking cop, whose name is Gregory. I only learned that because when I was carrying him from the bus to the nearest house, he kept whispering to me as blood seeped into his uniform: “Don’t forget my name. It’s Gregory. Please don’t forget my name.” The blood has soaked through his uniform now, the bullet hitting him just below the neck. Luckily it was a graze, hitting him side-on, and the bullet isn’t buried in him doing more damage.
“Left … pocket …”
We’re crouched down in an expensive-looking bathroom, the door locked, Chino’s men swarming the area. There must be a least ten of them, all heavily armed. The only way I was able to get me and Gregory from the van into this house was because the driver and the other cop were putting up one hell of a fight, even if they died in the end. For now, the house is silent. Outside, the house is a mass of noise: helicopter blades and distant sirens. But in here we’re safe, for now.
I unlock my cuffs and then take Gregory’s gun, tucking it into the back of my waistband. “We need to stop that bleeding.” I take a towel from the hook on the back of the door, tear away Gregory’s shirt, and press the towel down. I lead his hand to the towel, which is quickly become a dark red color. “Hold that there,” I tell him. “Hopefully the blood’ll stop soon.”
“I don’t want to die,” Gregory whispers. “I really don’t … want to … die.”
“Don’t speak,” I say. “You’re wasting your energy. You ain’t gonna die, all right? Just keep the pressure on. It grazed you, is all. Don’t be a fuckin’ coward.”
That gets some steel in him. His face hardens. “All right, all right,” he says.
I turn the safety off on the pistol and check the clip. It’s got full ammo, at least. I go to the bathroom window and open it, but it’s one of those that only slides open a couple of inches. Down the street, two patrolmen are starting to set up a cordon. There are already news vans, too. Maybe Willa is there, I reflect. Maybe the mother of my child is there. I grit my teeth. I have to get out of here alive. I can’t leave Willa alone. I can’t let that happen. I return to Gregory and kneel down.
“We’re gonna stay right here until your backup comes, okay?” For the first time in my life, I want the sound of sirens to get louder. But then the sirens cut out altogether.
Gregory’s radio buzzes and a frantic voice comes over the line: “Something’s wrong with our cars. Someone’s sabotaged our fuckin’ cars!” “Speak clearly, son! What’s your position? What’s your location? Where are you?” “Half a mile out, and all our cars are dead. Dammit.”
“Chino,” I mutter. I offer Gregory a crazy smile. “I’m guessing all this was planned by him, right, even arresting me last night?”
Gregory nods weakly, wincing at the effort.
“Of course it fuckin’ was. All right, then, plan B. I kill Chino and all his fuckin’ goons and get back to my woman and my kid, and when the blood has dried I never break the law again in my life.”
I press close to the edge of the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps. I wait for around two minutes and then hear the unmistakable sound of motorcycles growling loudly at the end of the street, and for a second I know what it must’ve been like for warriors in the olden days hearing the sound of the cavalry.
Grimace’s voice reaches me even here. “Spread out! Find Diesel! Find Chino!”
I can’t get too hopeful, though. On the other side of the door, two men are speaking. “Where is he?” one of the men roars. “Where the fuck is he? What is he—a ghost? How did he get off that van? What is the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry, bo
ss,” another man mumbles. “We’ll find him. That trick with the car has bought us some time. That was a really good idea—”
“Do you think I hired you for compliments? Search the place!”
Footsteps creak toward the bathroom. I hold my finger to my lips, looking down at Gregory. He nods and bites down, quieting his whimpering. When the footsteps are on the other side of the door, I aim the pistol right at where the man’s head is going to appear. The door whines open, and then the man’s head is right there, ready for me to blow into red mist. But something stops me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s Willa, or maybe it’s the image of a pink- swaddled baby looking up at me. Instead, I smash the man across the skull with the gun, hitting him so hard he collapses to the floor like all the bones have been sucked out of his body.
