Over Their Heads

by Eric Beetner

  I heard the Tahoe before I saw it. When I did see it, the front grill was finishing the job of cracking the glass on the front door. This Skeeter guy had revved the engine and that big V-8 boosted all two thousand pounds of Detroit steel through the glass front of the rental lobby and smeared tire marks across our linoleum. I swear I heard the bell over the end-of-the-world smashing of glass and metal.

  The engine growled like a lion freshly loose from the zoo. I’d never been in an enclosed space with a huge engine like that before and it reminded me of the jets taking off a few hundred yards away. I rolled my chair back into the wall and absurdly put up my hands as the SUV barreled forward in an explosion of glass and regional maps from the map rack he flattened on the way in.

  The engine noise died down as he let off the gas and the front end of the Tahoe punched the tall counter separating me from the lobby, normally a welcome barrier between the stale sweat of businessmen just off a cross country flight, and now a lifesaving barricade between me and a crazy man in a rented car.

  The sound came to an abrupt end as the last of the glass hit the floor and Skeeter twisted the key to shut off the engine. The counter leaned forward like it was ready to pounce on me. The pen-on-a-chain normally used for people to sign their contracts dangled in front of me and tapped against my kneecap as it swung in violent circles.

  The lobby smelled of gasoline and transmission fluid, burnt rubber and freshly splintered wood. Skeeter opened the door, slid out and walked over the tilted counter like it was nothing more than some fallen timber in the woods; and I guess it was.

  He dropped the keys in my lap, licked a line of blood trickling from his nose and spit on the floor again.

  “This one’s busted. I’ll need a new one. Be back in two hours.”

  He snorted more blood back up his nose and turned away from me. I sat in stunned silence as he left me alone in my crumbling office. Yeah, I really started to doubt if I would get paid today.

  My shoes crunched over the hail storm of broken glass in the lobby. The right taillight of the Tahoe still blinked as if Skeeter had only missed a tight right turn instead of intentionally plowing through the front window of the rental shop.

  I got out my cell phone, doubting if the company phone still worked. Time to quit this job. Sorry for whatever you’re mixed up in, Clyde, but this shit is above my pay grade. Maybe I could go work at Norfolk. Richmond airport is a ghetto, and from the looks of it the neighborhood was getting worse. No more impatient businessmen for me. No more liars trying to tell me the car only had a half tank of gas when they rented it. No more fat families treating me like a servant boy. And no more steel and glass death bombs crashing through the front aiming for my lap. I’m out.

  I dialed Clyde. When he picked up he sounded like he was the one in labor.

  “Brent, good, here’s what I need you to do—”

  I cut him off. “I quit.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I quit. Screw this. That guy, Skeeter? He just drove a car through the lobby.”

  “He did what?”

  I spoke slowly to emphasize my displeasure. “He drove. A car. Through the front. He almost crushed me, man. I still have glass in my hair. Seriously, I was almost a bug on the front grill, man.”

  “Calm down, Brent.”

  “Calm down?” I was about to tell him where he could shove his calm down, but Clyde seemed even more pissed off and stressed out than me. I wondered what almost crushed him.

  “I need you to find that other Tahoe. The Detroit people. You need to find them and get the car back. Right away. Like, now.”

  “How the hell am I gonna do that?”

  “Just do it.”

  Easy for him to say. “I’m not the cops, man. I can’t put out an APB.”

  “No cops,” Clyde blurted. “No cops at all. You didn’t call the cops already, did you?”

  “No.” I’d had it with pussy footing around. Friend or no friend, Clyde’s right to privacy had been revoked. “What the hell is going on, man?”

  I heard distant hospital sounds between his heavy breathing.

  “Seriously,” I said. “You’ve been a mess for a few months now. I thought it was the baby, but now I want to know what it really is. Apparently I’m involved. And since I was the one who almost got killed by a meth head in a V-8 killing machine, I think I have a right to know before I go off and try to fix whatever problem I didn’t know I started. A problem that, at the end of the day, is still your problem, dude.”

  He took a deep breath. His voice dropped to a low whisper, barely rising above the cell phone static on the line. I watched my reflection in the rear window of the Tahoe tinted in red blinking light as Clyde explained.

  He was a drug runner. Apparently, so was I. I’d been handing over cars stuffed with bricks of cocaine and crystal meth and bundles of Oxycontin pills for weeks now. Clyde had them stitched into the lining of the ceiling panels and then driven out all across Virginia and down south. He had partners in baggage who unloaded the stuff from planes before it went through security, they got it to him, he put it in the cars, then Skeeter or sometimes another guy would come drive the car away and Clyde got paid. It all ran out of some big guy in the suburbs of D.C.

  And now I gave away a Chevy Tahoe filled to the brim with the biggest load Clyde had ever worked with. He skirted around telling me how much it was worth, but if you have to ask . . .

  I watched my face fall a little more each time the red light of the turn signal filled the room. A warning light.

  “Holy shit, dude.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed like he was finally unburdened. “Holy shit.”

  “So this Skeeter guy, he’s just a driver?”

  “Yeah. I already talked to the big man.”

  “And told him what?”

  “That I would get the car back.”

  “You mean I would get the car back.”

  His anger had faded in the telling of the story. He sounded exhausted now. “Brent, I’m having a baby over here.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “But it is kinda your fault that you gave away the wrong car.”

  My blood heated up. I tried not to pop off. “He said it smelled. And the customer is always right.”

  “They’ll kill me.”

  His bluntness threw me off for a second. I also had a stark realization. “And now they know who I am.”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  I kicked a small pile of glass with the toe of my shoe, saw the fallen bell amid the debris. “I guess I’ll try to get the car back.”

  “I’ll help out any way I can. As soon as I can get away,” he offered.

  “If this thing goes south, I really don’t want to take the fall for you.”

  “We get that car back and everything is fine again. I’ll even cut you in this time.”

  I crunched back behind the tiled counter. “What about the other times? Free labor?”

  “College fund for the kid.”

  “So if I ask for some of that, I’m stealing from a baby.”

  “Trust me, with this score, you won’t be feeling shorted.”

  When did he start talking like a drug dealer? Goddamn, but I was between a rock and a bigger, meaner rock. And a guy named Skeeter.

  “I still quit,” I said.

  “You can take a year off in style once we get it all back.”

  I dug through the trash behind the counter and found the Griffin family’s paperwork under a pile of Busch Gardens brochures. “I’ll make some calls.”

  15

  SEAN

  I pulled off the interstate in Williamsburg and stopped at a Waffle House. Everyone likes the food and it’s pretty cheap. Linda still got that furrow in her brow though. She said, “It’s our vacation. Couldn’t you spring for IHOP?”

  I climbed from the car without saying anything. Linda sat there for a minute and I could tell she was surprised. I felt a little bad. I mean, she didn’t have any idea what
was going through my head, what I had done. I couldn’t tell her, not without a scene. And we were on our way to see her parents. I could only imagine how bad it would be if I told her and she told them.

  We filed inside and Linda and the kids took a booth. I went to the men’s room and stared at myself in the mirror. My cell phone, which had been surprisingly quiet, buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. Unknown number. I waited five minutes and then checked the voice mail.

  “Uh hi. Mr. Griffin? This is Brent from Clyde McDowd Rentals? There seems to have been a misunderstanding. We gave you the wrong car. We have an identical one here for you. Would you please bring the vehicle back as soon as possible, like immediately? To compensate you, we would like to give you your rental entirely free of charge.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit on the last sentence. I’m no idiot. He was nervous about something. Like maybe the cops were in the rental office trying to track me down. Well no thanks, mister. I’ll just keep right on trucking if it’s all the same to you.

  I splashed some water on my face and pocketed my phone.

  Linda had ordered me a coffee and a Coke, both of which sat at my place waiting for me. The kids were plugged into their iPods again. I slid in beside Chad. Linda raised an eyebrow at me. “Well?” she said.

  “Well what?”

  “Well. What’s up your butt?”

  “I just don’t want to stay with your parents tonight. We still want to see Colonial Williamsburg . . .”

  “Nobody else wants to see Colonial Williamsburg but you,” Becky said.

  Chad echoed her sentiment.

  “My mom and dad are expecting us. They’ll be upset if we don’t go.”

  “Who cares?”

  She got that look on her face that said I was a shithead. “I care. And so does my dad.”

  “Let’s stay at a Holiday Inn tonight!” Becky said. “We could swim in the pool. Grandpa and Grandma don’t have a pool.”

  Chad snorted. “And their house smells like a litter box.”

  Linda smacked the back of his head but I could tell she was softening a little bit.

  The waitress showed up and took our orders. Linda excused herself to call her folks and Chad and Becky continued to listen to their music. My phone buzzed a couple more times. Each time I let it go to voice mail and each time it was the same kid from the rental place trying to get me to bring the car back.

  Linda showed up after we had placed our orders and I could tell by the sour look on her face and the way she didn’t talk to me that she told her parents we were going to spend the night in a hotel.

  The waitress brought our food and we all dug in, careful not to talk to each other. Seemed like that was the way our family had been going for a while now . . . silence and annoyance. At least I had an excuse. All I could think of was the money I had taken. I couldn’t eat and when everyone was done I asked the waitress to just give me a big to-go cup of coffee.

  I spotted the security guard standing by the door while I waited for my coffee. Linda and the kids headed out and got settled in the Tahoe. I accepted my coffee and pushed through the door. The waitress was trying to say something to me, but I ignored her. My vision had narrowed to a tunnel with the guard at the end of it. I gave him a nod as I passed, forcing myself to keep a nice, easy pace as I made my way to the car. “Excuse me, sir.” He had followed me out.

  I turned and tried to keep down what little I did eat. I had my keys in one hand and the coffee in the other. I figured I could throw the coffee on the guy and then make a run for it. But then Linda and the kids would be dragged into this mess and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want that at all.

  I gave him a smile and raised my coffee cup in a bit of a salute. “Officer,” I said.

  He smiled back and said, “The waitress was calling after you. You forgot to pay.”

  Linda had the window rolled down and looked out at me and the cop. “Sean. I can’t believe you forgot to pay. I can’t believe it. I’m sorry, Officer. We are honest people. We truly are.”

  Yeah. Honest. “Sorry about that. I guess I was distracted.”

  He looked over my shoulder at Linda and the kids and gave a sympathetic nod. “How old are your kids?” he asked me.

  Linda, as usual, answered. “Becky is twelve and Chad is thirteen. Irish twins. That’s why I’m so round. Been over a decade and I still haven’t lost the weight.” She laughed and the cop’s smile turned uncomfortable.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Okay, then. Get that bill paid, sir. I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

  The words hung there in the air and I wondered if he could see how fast my heart was beating. I felt its pounding everywhere, my eyeballs, my neck, my throat, my chest, my fingers. The whole world seemed to be pulsing, growing and shrinking intermittently. I gave him a tight smile and headed back in to pay.

  16

  SKEETER

  Couldn’t help thinking maybe I left too soon. Mighta been a good idea to take a finger or something to let the boy know I was serious. Nah, the ol’ truck through the window gag oughta keep him in check.

  I sat back in my piece of shit Honda eating McDonald’s with a Big Gulp Mountain Dew. My sister’s baby got Dew Mouth. One of the last things I heard from her. She sat around in that trailer park feedin’ her kid—a damn baby not even two years old—them nipple bottles full of the Dew. When the kid’s teeth came in, they were already rotted out. And she started getting little mouth sores from all the sugar, I guess, or the carbonation. Hell, even I know better than to give a baby that green piss. I sure do like it, though. But for me, compared to most of what I put in my body, Mountain Dew is more like its namesake. A crisp, clear mountain stream of purity.

  When I finished musing on my dumb ass sister, I really thought twice about the guy back at the rental place. Dumb as a stick, sure, but I ain’t no smarter than a bundle of three or four sticks myself, so I wouldn’t put it past him to be bullshitting me.

  Either way, waiting over near him where I could keep eyes on him seemed like the thing to do. I drove the six blocks back to the long row of rental companies all lined up like whores on a Friday night. I had to pass all the classy ones, the ones that could afford good implants like Hertz and Avis, past the barely legals like Enterprise, down to the end of the blocks where the trannys and needle addicts hung. Wasted skeletons willing to suck and fuck for a five spot. That’s where Clyde McDowd Rentals lived. That’s the whore I’d been set up with, and wouldn’t you know, she pulled a switch on me. Or more like she gave me the clap with crabs on top. Some inglorious dick rot meant to shrivel my pecker right off my body. Might as well have, anyway, if Corgan don’t get his shit back in a timely fashion.

  When I pulled up to the dark end of the street, I saw the bright combination of colors I hate most in the world—red and blue. Cop lights. First one I saw was an airport cop. Didn’t count. Then I saw some real cops and I slowed to a halt a half block away. Shit. Guess my little stunt there drew some unwanted attention.

  17

  BRENT

  Goddammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  I kept my vice grip tight around the set of keys I’d snagged from the ruin of the key locker behind the counter. As soon as I saw the first of those cherry lights in the parking lot, I crouched low and got the hell out of there.

  With my phone calls to Griffin a bust—the fat fucker was ignoring me—I didn’t want to get held up answering a bunch of questions for the cops. Plus Clyde said no police at all. And with what he told me had gone missing, I didn’t feel entirely confident I could tell a convincing story to a bunch of uniformed officers. Police have always made me nervous. Any kind of uniform does. The crossing guards at school used to make me sweat. I have no idea why. I mean, my dad was an Air Force officer, wore a uniform every day. He kept it on at dinner and didn’t even bother to take it off when he whipped my ass for whatever nonsense thing I did wrong for the day.

  Oh, wait. I think I just figured out why I hate uniforms . . .

&
nbsp; I opened my palm to see what car I’d drawn in the lottery. My skin was indented with a ragged line where the rough edge of the key dug into my palm. The logo on the key was for the Infiniti, our one luxury car. Clyde thought it would be a good idea to have at least one on the list for the more upscale business travelers. We’d rented it out a grand total of three times and two of those were given away as free upgrades for people Clyde was trying to woo as repeat customers.

  The good news for me is that we kept that car on the far edge of our row of spaces, almost into the Alamo lot. I could get there and start it up without being noticed, then drive out through the Alamo exit.

  I reached the car with little trouble. I kept throwing glances over my shoulder at the growing party of cops in front of the wreck. They were all so fascinated by the scene, nobody ever looked my way.

  I unhooked the single chain dividing our lot from theirs so I could drive over into the freshly painted lines of the Alamo rows of cars. Their asphalt was newer too, a deep black whereas ours was a dull gray with cracks and fine lines like an old lady’s face pre-surgery. I rolled the car quietly into their lot and kept it at idle so the already quiet engine wouldn’t make any more noise. When I got to the exit I waved at Jed, the booth guy. His job is to double check the paperwork before he lets you pass. He sits in a bright blue hut the size of a closet you’d complain about if it was in your house and he plays reggae music from a tiny boom box with damaged speakers. We’d talked on several occasions. Mostly when I wanted to buy some weed. I mean, you hear reggae music all day long and you kind of assume . . . well, I was right.

  “Hey, Jed,” I said, waving.

  His bearded face turned to the light show of cops, then back to me. “Trouble over there?”

  “Nothing our boys in blue can’t handle.”

  He turned and looked again. I could tell he was curious, who wouldn’t be? Not curious enough to leave the hut, though. A spaceship would have to land for that to happen. And it would have to be a pretty bad-ass spaceship.