Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  I sighed and let my hand drop to the mattress. “I left there for a reason, Shae.”

  “We don’t have to make it a social visit. We’ll get some work done. Maybe something other than banks.”

  “Banks are where the money is. At least, that’s what some fine Irish lass once told me.”

  “’Tis you who told me that,” she said. She dropped her chin and looking up at me with doe eyes. “But ‘fine,’ is it?”

  I didn’t have any witty comeback. A dopey grin was the best I could do.

  So we went to River City.

  The pain settled into a dull throb, but the shivering got worse. The old Datsun’s tiny heater finally managed to spew out something moderately warm, but it did nothing to stop the shakes. The blood soaked through my clothes and coated the back seat.

  “Is it stoppin’?” Shae asked. “The bleedin’?”

  “It’s slowing down,” I stuttered back through chattering teeth. I wasn’t sure, though, if I’d stemmed the flow or if I was just running out of blood.

  “Can ye make it to yer cousin’s?”

  I swallowed hard and thought a moment. Colville was sixty miles north of River City. We’d barely cleared the north side of town, so it’d be an hour before we got to Murph’s house. “I don’t think so,” I breathed.

  “What?”

  I shook my head at her and took a deep breath. “Just drop me at an ER and go.”

  I didn’t like the idea of going back to jail, especially for what would be long stretch, but it was better than dying.

  “Feck that, Laddie,” Shae said. “I’m not losing ye.”

  I started to tell her that somewhere between here and Colville, that was exactly what was going to happen. I passed out instead.

  Once we’d arrived in River City, I started to plan the next job. All my old memories of the town came cascading back to me. Planning seemed like the best way to keep them at bay, or at least under control.

  We stayed in a cheap motel called The Celtic Spirit. Shae insisted, as soon as she saw the name on the sign advertising cheap rooms. I sat at the rickety table with a yellow notepad and an open phone book, whittling down the options.

  Shae seemed relaxed now that we’d left Canada. She took frequent trips to the Jacuzzi, read her history books on the bed and made love to me. I tried to pretend her interruptions were a distraction, but the truth was just the opposite. She was the reason I planned.

  After two days, she announced, “We’re outta money.”

  I looked up from the notepad. “You’re kidding.”

  She held up three wrinkled ones and a crisp five. “That’s it. And the car is on E.”

  I cursed. “I need another day to plan. And then a couple to scout the site and at least two escape routes.”

  “We can’t afford that kind of time.”

  I sighed and cursed again.

  “We could hit a convenience store,” she said. “Get some quick cash.”

  “If we do that, we can only risk one bank job before we head out of town for good.”

  Shae shrugged. “One’s enough. We’ll drive east. I want to see Montana.”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. We won’t get shit from a stop-and-rob, but the prison time’s the same. It’s a sucker job.”

  “It’s not jes the money,” she said. “I’m bored.”

  I put down my pencil. “I have a way to occupy your time.”

  She smiled her special smile, a blend of shyness and lust, and stepped forward. I drew her to me and lost myself in her.

  Afterward, out of breath and coated with sweat, she gave me a wet kiss on my neck just below the jaw. In my ear, she whispered hotly, “Let’s jes go with the flow, Laddie. We’ll hit the store.”

  I couldn’t refuse her.

  I woke up with a mouth full of cotton. After a few moments, I realized it wasn’t cotton. It was my tongue.

  “Shae?” I rasped, my voice weak.

  No answer.

  I wanted to open my eyes, but it was too much of a struggle and I gave up. The room was quiet and a light antiseptic smell hung in the air. It reminded me of gauze pads at first and hospitals second, and then I was too tired to think about it anymore and crashed back into darkness.

  “Birch and Maxwell,” I finally told her.

  She shrugged, loading the magazine for her nine millimeter. “A store’s a store.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not. This one is on Birch, a main arterial one-way for northbound traffic only. Maxwell is a minor east/west arterial leading either deeper into the city or out Pettit Drive and to the T.J. Meenach Bridge. From the bridge, you can go north or south, but either way, you disappear.”

  “Ye sound like a razzer.” Shae curled her lip.

  “A what?”

  “A feckin’ cop, Laddie. Why does it matter what store, anyhow?”

  I suppressed a sigh. “It gives us options. And for every option we have, any cops responding have a decision to make. Unless they make the right decision every time, and quickly enough, they don’t stand a chance in catching us.”

  She slipped the final round into the magazine and tapped it into the palm of her hand. “Ye got it all worked out, don’t ye now?”

  “As best I can. It’s still a sucker job, though.”

  She slid the magazine home and racked the slide. “Ye say the most romantic things.”

  Once everything was decided, there was no slowing her down. We piled into the car and headed south toward the store. During the drive, I went over the plan twice more. Shae nodded her head absently and I wondered how much of it she really took in. Everything in her world was take ‘em as they come.

  As we neared the store, I directed her to the empty parking lot behind the store once I was sure there were no security cameras.

  “Last chance,” I said. “We can scrap this and—”

  “Jes go with the flow, Laddie.” She leaned across the seat and kissed me, a hard wet kiss that made my head spin. “This’ll put us back in business and you can plan fer weeks on the fecking bank job.”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t tell her no.

  We exited the car and walked around the corner. A large woman waddled out the front door, herding a pair of kids every bit as fat as she was. Each kid cradled a cup of soda as big as his head.

  I glanced through the windows. Two customers. One in line, one browsing the beer cooler.

  “You get the beer cooler,” I told her. “I’ll get both at the counter.”

  “I’ll get all the customers,” Shae said. “Ye jes worry about the clerk.”

  “No. They’re too far apart. Just take the guy at the beer cooler.”

  “Fine. Let’s go, though, before the whole fecking neighborhood decides to come fer a Slurpee.”

  I slid the knit ski mask over my face and she did the same. I saw a flash of silver as she drew her nine. I jerked my .45 from my belt and we strode in like we were Bonnie and Clyde.

  “Don’t fucking move!” I bellowed at the clerk and the customer at the counter. They stared at me in shock, but obeyed.

  Shae bounded past me toward the cooler. “That’s means ye, too!” she shouted. The customer at the cooler wore a faded Seattle Seahawks jacket and matching ball cap. He’d slung a twelve pack of Keystone Light beer under his arm but froze at her voice and the sight of the Beretta. Then his jaw dropped in surprise and he raised his arms in the air. The twelve pack fell to the tiled floor with a thunk. One of the cans burst and thick foam oozed from the cardboard container.

  “The register,” I told the clerk. “Clean it out.”

  He nodded dumbly, but didn’t move.

  “Now!” I barked at him, and he jumped.

  “Easy,” the customer at the counter said. He held his palms out toward me, placating. His tie-dyed tee shirt and Rastafarian hair pissed me off. “Just take it easy.”

  “Easy?” I stepped toward him and swung the pistol in an arc, cracking him in the temple. He yelped and collapsed to a knee. I de
livered a second blow, catching him behind the ear, and he fell to the ground. Blood gushed from his head. “Is that fucking easy enough for you?”

  “Lad—” Shae screamed, and then the shot rang out.

  The bullet punched into my gut and tossed me backward a step. A great weakness washed over me and suddenly I couldn’t stand. I sank to my knees.

  Another shot cracked. An angry sound whizzed past my ear. I turned my head toward the register. The clerk stood behind the counter, a small revolver in his wavering hand.

  Son of a bitch shot me.

  I should shoot him back.

  I willed my right hand to come up. My grip on the .45 remained tight, but my arm hung uselessly at my side.

  More shots, these from Shae. Cigarettes and candy leapt and danced around the clerk and he dropped behind the counter.

  Then the pain hit and I howled.

  She was there, lifting me, whispering to me, cajoling me, cursing me.

  “Come on, Laddie, feckin’ walk. Don’t ye die on me. Ye can’t die. I won’t let ye.”

  The ding of the entry door sounded and things went black for a second. When they cleared up, she was pushing me into the back seat. I looked down at the bright warm blood at my middle and clutched at it.

  Shae drove. “Hold on, Laddie. Jes’ feckin’ hold on.”

  The next time I woke up, I managed to force my eyes open.

  Shae was there. She ran her fingers across my forehead. “Ye gave me quite a scare, Laddie.”

  I rasped something unintelligible. She brought a paper cup of water to my lips and I swallowed.

  “Better?”

  I nodded and looked around. The room wasn’t a motel. It looked more like someone’s spare bedroom. “Where…?”

  “Don’t ye worry about that none,” she chided softly. “I said I’d take care of ye, didn’t I? That I’d do anything to keep from losing ye?”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “But where are we?”

  “We’re safe,” she said. “We’ll stay here a while longer and then we’ll head up to yer cousin’s house.”

  “Shae—”

  She shushed me. “Sleep, baby.”

  And I couldn’t refuse her.

  I woke to a gunshot.

  I sat upright and blinked. The sudden motion sent a searing pain through my gut and I grunted back a yell. Tenderly, I touched my stomach. Tape and bandages. I tried to swallow, but my throat remained dry.

  I listened. Nothing. The light in the room was dim and I reached for a lamp, but winced as soon as I raised my arm. My skin was slick with sweat, but I felt cold.

  “Shae?” I called, hesitant.

  Did I hear a gunshot? Or did I dream it?

  Footsteps approached and the door swung open. I recognized her silhouette in the doorway and suddenly a snatch of a forgotten song flitted through my brain—

  —standing in that doorway like a dream—

  “Laddie? Baby? Ye all right?”

  “Was that a shot?” I croaked.

  She came to the bedside and handed me a glass of water. I wrapped my hands around hers and tipped the glass. I sipped at first, then drank greedily. In between small gulps, I smelled the cordite on her hands.

  “Are ye well enough to travel?”

  “I don’t know. Where are we?”

  “A vet clinic.”

  “A vet…you’re kidding me.”

  “No. It was all I could find.”

  I took another sip of water. “A vet clinic where?”

  “Some small town. Deer something.”

  “Deer Park?”

  “That’s it.”

  So we made it about fifteen miles north of River City. I must have passed out and she probably got scared. “What made you think of a vet?”

  “I saw it in a movie once.”

  In a movie. Unbelievable.

  “What did the doc…I mean, what did the vet say?”

  “That yer lucky. Ye bled a lot but no major organs were hit. He doped ye up and sewed things up as best he could. Ye’ve been sleepin’ nigh on three days.”

  I tried to wrap my mind around that. It seemed more like one long night. “He didn’t mind helping?”

  Even in the dim light, I saw the mischievous smile playing on her face. “He took a bit of convincing, that one. But he came ‘round. Shut down his practice and took himself a little vacation.”

  I drank some more water, amazed. I wondered how she managed it all and how we were going to keep him quiet after…

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “No what?”

  “You shot him, didn’t you? That was the gunshot I heard. You shot the doc.”

  “The vet, ye mean?”

  “Whatever. Did you?”

  She leaned in close to me and in the dim room, her eyes appeared flat and black. “He saw our faces, Laddie. He knew ye were shot. A feckin’ idjit could connect the dots.”

  “You shoulda dropped me at the ER,” I said, unable to turn away from her gaze. I shuddered involuntarily and a spike of pain fired from my wound.

  “I’m not gonna lose ye,” she said in a harsh whisper. “Not ever.”

  Her words made me feel wonderful and terrible all at once.

  Shae helped me dress. The jeans were mine but the T-shirt must have been the vet’s. It hung off me loosely. I draped my arm over her shoulders as we made our way out to the Datsun. The vet had a nice place out in the country, one I thought Shae and I could be happy at, if we could ever stop rolling. But maybe that flow was what made us…us.

  Her small, strong hands braced me as I lowered myself into the passenger seat. Once my legs were inside, she closed the door and came around to the driver’s side. I slumped in the seat and pressed my forehead to the cool window glass. She pulled the car out onto Highway 395 and headed north at fifty-five miles per hour. I stared out the window at the passing scenery, mostly farmland and trees. Inside of an hour, we’d be at Murph’s and I could lie low and recover.

  We didn’t speak during the drive, but when her hand came to rest on my knee, I covered it with my own, and squeezed.

  I couldn’t refuse her, and never wanted to.

  A New Life

  I don’t believe in love at first sight. Not a bit. I believe a girl can have a crush at first sight, true. But I haven’t been a girl in many years. And I don’t have time for crushes.

  Still, what is it that draws us together in this messed up world? Makes bad decisions seem like great ones, simply because of who we’re with? What is it about another person that can take all the mundane, crude, cheap and bitter moments in this life and somehow make them seem magical?

  I wish I knew. If I’d have known, maybe I would have found a way to avoid it.

  Then again, maybe not.

  The flight across the Atlantic was restless. I kept waking up at every small noise, just sure that some kind of cop was going to put the grab on me. None appeared, though, and all I had to contend with was a snuffling old fart next to me and a whiny kid two rows over.

  Somewhere over Greenland, the old guy “accidentally” brushed the side of my breast with his hand.

  I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Ye do that again, Da’, and you’ll be eating and wiping yerself left handed the rest o’ yer days.”

  He tensed and his eyes flared open slightly.

  I smiled sweetly.

  Lucky old duffer. If I hadn’t been lying low, he’d have been nursing a broken finger instead of a bruised ego.

  The hairiest part of the trip was changing planes in Montreal. If there’d been more time, I would have booked a flight into any other province but Quebec. All the French, I stood out like an empty pint. Time wasn’t always a luxury, though. Sometimes you have to make do. Go with the flow.

  I handed my Irish passport to the customs official at the airport and flashed him my best Emerald Isle smile. I’d already taken the time to undo an extra button on my blouse.

  “S'il vous plaît,” I said, letting my bro
gue butcher the French language. I never had much use for the French. Too much wine. Not enough fight. It’s no wonder they got their arses kicked twice last century.

  He smiled at me, shot a predictable but appreciative glance down at my cleavage, then gave my passport the once over. “An-jay-lah Queen?”

  I squinted. After a moment, I realized he was reading the name on the passport. Not my name, to be sure, but as good a name as any. “Aye, that’s me. Angela Quinn.”

  He said something in French. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was easy to decipher. He’d slipped into pick-up mode.

  “Sorry, lad,” I told him. “The only French word left in my arsenal is merci. And I don’t have anything to thank you for yet.”

  He smiled, baring his cigarette-stained teeth at me. “I say, what brings you to our fair country?”

  “Visiting family.”

  “Ah,” he replied, his smile growing. “Here in Montreal?”

  I shook my head. “Vancouver.”

  His smile faded. “That is too bad. Perhaps you have a layover, no?”

  “No. I have a connecting flight.”

  He pressed his lips together in disappointment. “What a pity.”

  I smiled. “’Tis. I could have used a good knee trembler after such a long flight.”

  He scrunched his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

  “A knee trembler,” I repeated. I motioned toward the wall. “You know, there up against the wall. Up on your tip toes so hard, it makes your knees tremble?”

  He flushed red with understanding. He hurriedly stamped my passport and handed it to me.

  “Merci,” I said sweetly.

  “Next!” he barked.

  Serves him right. Goddamn French, anyway.

  The walk through the Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport kept me on my toes, though not in the way I’d teased the gaping customs agent with. Every time I saw a uniform moving toward me, my knees trembled. I kept expecting a grab at my elbow and a French accent asking me to “come this way, madam.”

  What would I do? Fight here? Run? Bluff?

  I was tired of all three. The Troubles just beats it out of you.

  I arrived at my gate without a problem. I sat and pretended to read a paperback romance while I watched people traffic.