“You wanted to know who Brewster is.” Watty smiled. “Now you do.”
The girls were wide-eyed, staring at the menacing weapon.
“Is that loaded?” Pauline asked timorously.
Wally nodded. “Ain’t much good if it ain’t. Makes a large hole in one’s anatomy.”
Deedee pushed the gun aside, so that the business end was pointing at the ceiling. “Put that stupid thing away, Wally,” she commanded. “You’re scaring the bejesus out of these girls.”
“And me,” I added. This was a serious piece of armament. Years ago, when I was the D.A., we’d confiscated similar weapons, before the advent of assault rifles. I’ve seen wounds caused by shotguns set up like this—they’re nasty.
Bill put his hands up in a peace-offering gesture. “Look, man, we don’t want any trouble. We’re grateful to be here, and we’ll be grateful when we can leave.”
“Amen to that, brother,” Wally agreed. “We could all use some space around us. My suggestion is, we put ’er to bed for the night, and ever’body take care of his own self.” He opened the cash register, scooped the paper money into a bank-deposit bag, and carried the bag and the shotgun back into the kitchen area.
“Good night, folks,” Ray said in his high, scratchy voice, waving to us. He followed Wally into the back.
The jukebox was silent now, but the television was still on for the night owls, the sound turned low. Deedee doused most of the houselights, leaving a few on over the bar, so people wouldn’t hurt themselves if they had to go to the bathroom or move around later on.
“Time for me to turn in,” she announced. She stretched languidly, her body language clearly saying, I’m available—anyone care to join me? She had her eye on the executives, who were oblivious to her. Realizing there would be no takers to her offer, she spread a blanket under one of the booths and lay down.
I wouldn’t sleep; a catnap at best. The weather reports had predicted that the storm would be over sometime after midnight. I wanted to be awake if it stopped, so that I could go outside and feel the essence of it, the spiritual force. Something this powerful in nature is a statement. I wanted to find out if, by placing myself in it, I could discover what that was.
The various groups informally separated themselves into their own spaces, gravitating away from the center of the room, so as to have a modicum of privacy. The local men had taken over two booths. They were already dozing in their seats in a slumped-over sitting position, like passengers on a long-haul Greyhound bus. The motor-homers were where they’d been when I arrived. Some were trying to sleep, while the others were still at their board game. The executives, too, were in the same booth they’d been occupying for hours, talking quietly amongst themselves, passively watching television. And the family was in a corner booth near the door, the kids and mother sleeping, all entwined together; the father had moved near the bar, where he was reading a paperback and occasionally glancing up at the television set.
I walked over to a window and looked out. The wind was dying down. I could see the shapes of the cars and trucks, now covered with sand, parked in a haphazard line in front. The sound wasn’t deafening anymore, more a hollow whistle than a deep roar. It was still blowing too hard to go outside, but it wasn’t nearly as fierce as it had been as recently as an hour ago, the last time I’d checked.
When I turned back to the room, I saw that the inevitable was happening. Jo Ellen and Pauline had paired off with Bill and Joe; Pauline with Bill, Jo Ellen with Joe. Each couple had retreated to a remote corner of the restaurant, as far away as they could get from prying eyes. Marilyn, who was sitting alone at the bar drinking coffee, waved me over. I sat down next to her.
“Romance is in the air,” she said, looking at Jo Ellen and Joe, who were making out like bandits, oblivious to everyone else. His hand was under her top, massaging her breast. Across the room, Pauline and Bill were going at it, too, but less conspicuously.
I looked away.
“You don’t approve.”
“It’s none of my business,” I told her, feeling prudish.
“You still don’t approve.”
“In public like that? No.” I changed the subject. “Where’d you get the coffee?”
She pointed into the kitchen. “There’s some hot in the urn.” She handed me her cup. “Would you get me a refill? With a little milk?”
I went into the kitchen, drew myself a fresh cup, refilled Marilyn’s. I added some milk to hers, carried the cups back to the bar. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking in the direction of Joe and Jo Ellen.
They weren’t where they had been.
“In the bathroom,” Marilyn said, cocking her thumb toward the back. “They must have felt your disapproving look.”
“I’ll be glad when we can get out of here,” I said. “I’ll be glad when the sun comes up.”
“Can I say something?” She sipped her coffee; it was hot, she put the cup down on the bar.
“Sure.”
“Your wife’s a lucky woman.”
I could feel a blush coming on. She had moved on her stool, so our hips were touching. “Thanks,” I said. “You don’t know me, but thanks.”
“I know you well enough to know you’re a nice guy. What you did for us.” She put her hand on my thigh. It felt good, I can’t deny it. “I owe you,” she continued. “You saved my life, that’s going to be there forever.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Marilyn. I mean that.” This was taking too personal a turn; but I didn’t move her hand from my thigh.
“What I mean is, if you wanted to… you know…” She fixed her look on me.
I looked back at her. God, she was appealing. In another life. “It’s a tempting offer. You’re very attractive. But I couldn’t handle the guilt, and anyway, I wouldn’t be that nice guy you like. The one whose wife is a lucky woman.”
She smiled at that. “You’re right.” She moved her hand off my thigh. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No. I’m flattered.”
A woman’s voice cut through from somewhere in the bowels of the restaurant. “Don’t!”
My antennae rose. As I stood from my barstool, turning in the direction of the bathrooms, Jo Ellen stormed into the restaurant. Her tank top was off, her makeup was smeared, and her skimpy bra didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Marilyn rushed over to her. “What happened?” she asked in alarm.
Joe came out from where they’d been doing whatever they’d been doing. He was holding her top. “You forgot something.”
This had gone too far. “Give her her clothes,” I said.
He turned to me. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s none of your business.”
Everyone, except the mother and children, who were sound asleep, came to life. I looked at Joe. They’d all had too much to drink. This was alcohol talking.
“I’m making it my business,” I told him forcefully. “You’re out of line, Joe. Now give her back her top.”
The father got up and stood next to me, a gesture of solidarity. It was a comforting feeling.
Joe ignored me. “Fucking cocktease,” he said to Jo Ellen.
She got right in his face. “I don’t even know you, Joe. You’re just a diversion,” she added spitefully.
His face reddened. “You’re full of shit, Jo Ellen.”
The father of the children moved close to him. “Watch your language,” he admonished Joe. “There are children here.” He looked back at his sleeping kids.
“Like I give a rat’s ass,” Joe sneered. He took a step back, giving himself space.
I’d had it. “Walk away from her,” I ordered Joe. “Now. And stop cursing.” I started for the kitchen, to roust Wally and get him out here with his shotgun.
Bill’s voice came out of nowhere. “Don’t be going back there.”
I had lost track of him. He was standing in the doorway leading to the bathrooms. One hand was on Pauline’s bi
ceps, holding her tight against his body. She was shaking like a leaf, for good reason: in his other hand he held a monstrous automatic.
“You’re crazy.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“You’d better hope I’m not.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound as under control as possible. What the hell was all this about? A heavy-duty automatic? Who were these two?
“You’re not crazy, you’re just frustrated. We all are. We’re in a bad situation and we’ve got to make the best of it.” I was churning inside. “Put your gun away, we all take a deep breath, and pretty soon we’re out of here.”
Bill shook his head. “Pretty soon we’re out of here, that’s right. Some of us, anyway,” he added ominously. He turned to his mate. “Go get the cook and bartender. Make sure you bring the bartender’s shotgun.”
Joe tossed Jo Ellen’s tank top on one of the tables. She snatched it up and put it on. On his way to the back he picked his pack up off the floor, reached inside, and brought out another automatic, a companion piece to his friend’s.
Wally had been right to have doubts about these two. But his misgivings had been benign. This was a potential cancer.
“Nobody messes up,” Bill addressed us, “nobody gets hurt.” He looked around the room. “Everyone move over here,” he said, pointing in front of him, “where I can see you.”
The others moved into his line of sight. Most of them, especially the older people, were trembling. For once, Deedee was speechless.
“Don’t shoot us, mister, please,” one of the old lady motor-homers begged.
“Christ Almighty, I don’t want to shoot anybody,” Bill said irritably. His gun was pointed at Pauline. “Just shut up and do like we tell you and you’ll be all right, all right?”
Pauline was hysterical. “Don’t point that at me like that,” she whimpered.
“I am not going to shoot you. Do you understand?” He looked at her. “Do you?”
She was shaking so hard she could barely stand up, let alone answer him.
I stepped forward. “I’ll be your hostage, if you feel you need one. Let her go.”
Bill laughed. “You’ve got power, man. I let my guard down a moment, who knows? I want someone who’s powerless.”
The talking had awakened the children and their mother. They got up from their sleep, staring wide-eyed at Bill and his weapon. The little boy walked over to his father. “Is that a real gun, Dad?”
“I’m sure it is, Roger.” His father was remarkably calm, considering that his wife and three children, all under ten years old, were sharing the same space with a couple of armed, seemingly irrational men. He stood like a mighty oak, drawing his family to him. They all huddled in the comfort of his arms.
Joe came out of the kitchen, pushing Wally and Ray in front of him. He had the shotgun in his hand. Wally and Ray stood in the crowd, next to me.
“You were right,” I said to Wally, keeping my voice low.
“Small consolation,” he answered.
“Is that shotgun of yours really loaded?” I whispered.
“Fuckin’ aye,” he whispered back. “Pump, pump; adios, amigos.”
Joe hooked a rung of a chair with his foot, pulled it toward him. “Sit down here,” he ordered Jo Ellen.
She slunk over to him and sat down. Joe leveled his automatic at her neck. “See what happens when you piss me off?”
She didn’t answer.
Bill gave the rest of us the once-over “Keep an eye on them,” he told Joe. He walked over to the front windows and looked out. “It’s letting up. We’re going to be able to get out of here soon,” he said, turning back to his partner.
To go where? I thought to myself. There was something ugly about these two, dangerous beyond the immediacy of this situation. Who were they? Escaped convicts? Professional hit men? And what was the point of this? Nobody was threatening them.
Bill came back to the group. “Anybody here got a cell phone on him, I want them now.” He looked specifically at me. “Don’t make me search you—if I find one on anyone, it won’t go easy.”
That killed one possibility of getting out of this mess. I placed my phone on the table. One of the executives did the same. Bill looked at everyone else. “Any others?”
“Mine’s in my motor home,” volunteered a man.
“We have one, too, in ours,” said another.
“We’ll leave them there,” Bill said, scooping up the phones and stuffing them in his pack. “That’s a good place for them.” He turned to Joe. “You want the honors?”
“Whatever.” Joe’s hand, the one holding the shotgun, was resting on Jo Ellen’s head. She was taking deep, slow breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. Her knee was vibrating like crazy, tap-dancing on the floor.
Bill looked at the motor-homers. “Who owns the big Winnebago parked by the door?”
“I do,” quickly answered one of the men.
“Give Joe the keys.”
The man reached into his pocket and drew out a key ring. Joe snatched it. He handed the shotgun to Bill, who cradled it in his lap.
“Don’t take forever,” Bill said. He laughed. “Knowing you, ninety seconds is a stretch.”
“Very funny,” Joe said sourly. He yanked Jo Ellen out of the chair, started pulling her toward the door.
We all got the picture. He was going to rape her.
I felt sick, physically nauseated. “Don’t do this. You don’t need to do this.”
“We don’t need to?” Bill cocked his head, like a hawk investigating a dead mouse at its feet. “We don’t need to? What does that mean?”
Jo Ellen was screaming. “Don’t! Please!” She beat on his chest with her fists. “I didn’t do anything to you!” Then she collapsed to the floor, sobbing hysterically.
Joe jerked her limp body upright. “Don’t freak out on me, goddamnit. It’s not the end of the world.”
Everyone was frozen, unable to move. Even when I was shot at, during the kidnapping/murder trial, I didn’t feel this helpless. Then, at least, I could duck and dodge. Here, I was a fish in a barrel, with a dozen other fish.
I didn’t know if I could do anything to stop this, but I had to try. “So far, you haven’t done anything, not really.” I was playing for time, hoping that I, or any of us, could figure something out that would forestall the imminent horror. “You’ve harassed us, that’s all. Under these circumstances, nobody’s going to press charges. But if you …” I couldn’t say the rest.
My plea wasn’t going to work.
“Don’t take forever,” Bill repeated to his partner. “This storm lets up a little more, we’re history.”
There was no way to stop them. They had enough ammunition in their two guns to shoot all of us.
Joe pushed Jo Ellen out the door. It slammed shut behind them. Next to me, Marilyn and Pauline were crying, not only for their friend, but for each other.
Everyone else was stunned. Glancing around, I could see that they were all withdrawing into themselves. No one wanted this to happen; but if it had to, they didn’t want it to happen to them.
Marilyn looked at me, her eyes red. “You shouldn’t have saved us,” she whispered.
“Don’t say that.”
I looked at Bill. He was sitting in a hardback chair, alert, watchful. Pivoting slowly, I saw the parents and their children, huddled up against each other. The parents had formed a human barricade between their children and Bill. If things escalated, they would give themselves up for their kids.
For a moment I was light-headed, seeing this. That could be my son standing there. My wife.
Images from CNN on the television screen caught my eye. The worst of the sandstorm was over. The California Highway Patrol expected to have roads opened by mid-morning. Several people were missing, not accounted for.
Looking away from the tube, I caught Bill’s eye. He smiled and pointed one of the guns at me. Don’t even think about it, he
was signaling me.
I turned to the television again. Reruns of stories from earlier in the evening. Storm-related accidents on the freeway: grisly pictures of cars piled up. A bank robbery in Palm Springs. Two million dollars in cash, a guard killed. Robbers were two men, Caucasians. The race for governor was tightening up. It was almost a dead heat now, too close to call.
A bank robbery in Palm Springs. Two Caucasian men.
I turned from the set and looked at Bill. He hadn’t seen the television, his back was to it.
My peripheral vision caught the father’s eye. He, too, had seen it. After I’d quickly glanced around at the others, it was evident we were the only ones who had.
Bill and Joe were the bank robbers. It fit—on the run, trying to get out of the country, not making it, having to find temporary shelter. It explained why they weren’t dressed for the kind of hiking they’d said they’d been doing, why they had been out in the storm so long, risking their lives.
My mind went into overdrive. They had robbed a bank, a federal felony; compounding that, they had murdered a guard. Once this storm was over, the FBI would be swarming all over the desert, looking for them. They knew that. If they were caught, they’d be facing the death penalty. Which was why they were taking their pleasure now. If you’re going to be hunted down for murder, you might as well knock off a piece of ass on your way out of town.
I didn’t think they would kill us, but it was possible. They weren’t afraid to kill people, that was the bottom line. They’d already proved that. I didn’t know what was going to happen. The only thing I positively knew was that I didn’t want to die. And I didn’t want anyone else to.
They hadn’t seen the news. That was vital. If they did, it could push them over the edge. They were hovering there already.
The front door opened. Jo Ellen staggered in, Joe on her heels, pushing her. She’d been crying—her face was streaked with makeup—but it was blank now, a death mask. Slowly, like she was walking on two broken legs, she came over to where her friends were sitting and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Marilyn cradled her head in her arms. She turned to Joe. “You’re a bastard.”
He favored her with a smirk. “Really? That makes me feel terrible.” He turned to Bill. “You’re up.”
Above the Law Page 4
