by Dan O'Shea
“Yeah.”
Much as it pained me, I crouched down and opened the safe, feeling its insides. Seemed pretty solid, but then again, what did I really know about safes?
The pain got stronger, and as if on cue my head started to throb to the rhythms of an unseen steel drum band. I hated steel drums bands.
“I’m no fucking detective, what the hell does he expect me to find?”
“You talking to me?” Jose said.
“Yes. No.” I stood too fast and had to lean my head against the wall. “It’s all because of that Guadalupez kid. No, scratch that. It’s all because of my damn name. Which I didn’t pick, so scratch that again. It’s all because of my parents. That’s it, I blame my parents for this. Naming me Thursday, what other job did they think life would give me with a name like that?”
“Your name is Jueves? That’s a stupid name.”
“Shut up.” I was about to move when I noticed something. With my head still pressed against the wall, I found myself looking straight down at the safe. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but from this view, there seemed to be a sliver of light coming through the wall, framing the entire top of the safe.
Blinking, I pushed myself from the wall and quickly walked over to the window and closed the blinds. Jose watched me. “Seriously, who names their kid after a day of the week?”
“I said shut up, I’m busy saving your life here.” I then walked over to the light switch and flicked it off, before turning to look at the closet.
In the darkness of the room the light I noticed now shone like the beacon of a lighthouse. Apt, because just like a lighthouse steered ships into safety, I had a feeling that if I followed the light, it would steer me out of this.
“You owe me Jose. You really owe me.” It’s a wonder what knowing that I was going to come out of this alive, and with some bills in my pocket to boot did for my body. I felt so good that someone could have jammed their finger into the knife wound and I probably wouldn’t have felt it.
I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living room, finding Carlos sitting on the cream colored sofa and taking a call. He motioned for me to wait.
“Si, I’m admitting defeat. We’ll go look at cars this weekend. Tell Mom that I’ll be home in,” he stopped and looked at me.
“Half an hour if traffic is good.”
He raised an eyebrow but went back to his phone call. “Half an hour. Oh, and mijo? Don’t say anything about the car to mom. Let me talk to her first.”
Finishing his conversation, he put the cellphone back in his pocket. “His mother worries about him too much. I do not look forward to having to tell her that he’s going to be driving soon. Do you have any children Mr. Malone?”
“Not that I know of.”
He stood and stretched. “I think everyone should have children. It gives people a whole new sense of responsibilities.” He smiled at me and said, “I’m hoping you’re about to deliver some news that will allow me the chance to let you go and procreate. Tell me, do you know who took my money?”
“No.”
He frowned. “I made a promise to be home in half an hour, and one way or another, this will be resolved within that time period.”
“I know where it is though. And I think you’ll be able to figure out who took it from there.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.”
With hesitation I got him to follow me to the edge of the darkened bedroom. “I think this is far as I’ll go Mr. Malone. Anything you want to show me, you should be able to do so with me here” he said, resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun.
I nodded and pointed to the closet. “See the light?”
“I do.”
“That’s how they got the money. Jose was telling the truth. No one else came into this room, they didn’t have to. All they had to do was wait in the adjacent room. I think if you go there, you’ll find your safe.”
“My safe?” Carlos said.
“My guess is that they cut into the wall between the two rooms and at some point just switched out the safes. You rented this whole floor right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Habits are a bitch. This can’t be the first time you made a deal in a hotel. Maybe even in this hotel. If it was me doing it, I would make sure to rent out as many of the rooms in this floor as possible, just to be on the safe side.” I stopped and grinned, waiting for him to get my pun. He didn’t, so I moved on, “plus that way there’s plenty of space for you, the buyers, and all the men with dark sunglasses and scary guns both of you bring into this type of transaction.”
Carlos looked pensive. I continued, “you should know who occupied each room. Whoever was or is in the room next to us, that’s who has your money.”
“My first lieutenant has been in that room all day. You are blaming him?”
“If he’s the one in the room, yeah, I guess I am.”
“Wait here.”
I did. When I heard the door to the room being closed, I allowed myself to walk over to the bed and finally sit down.
“Hey, Jueves. Can you untie me?”
“Later.” The bed felt so good under me. Somewhere, not too far away I could hear a surprise yell. Then angry voices.
A gun shot now. And then another one. And a third one.
“You were right Mr. Malone.” Funny, I hadn’t even heard Carlos come back in. I blinked. He had blood on his suit. I didn’t have the strength to point to it.
“Call me Thursday. Everyone else does” I said, letting myself fall on the bed and close my eyes.
THE WRENCH IN HER WORKS
Mike Oliveri
I found her when I walked out of the club, one long, smooth leg kicked up over the opposite knee as she lounged against my bike. She dangled a glossy pink pump from her dainty little toes, purely for my benefit, I’m sure. It worked for me.
“I’m looking for a bad boy,” she said. “Are you a bad boy?”
“I ain’t no saint.”
She smiled and popped her pump back onto her heel, then stood and extended a hand. “I’m Delia.”
Of course she is. I took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Ted,” I said. Not really.
“Ted?” Her smile widened, her blue eyes brightened.
“Why’s that funny?”
“I don’t know, I guess I expected ‘Chopper’ or ‘Crunch’ or something.”
Spanner, actually. But she didn’t need to know that yet.
“’Crunch?’”
She shrugged. “I used to run with a simple bunch.”
“Mm. Why do you need a bad boy, Delia?”
“A good boy would want to save me. I don’t need to be saved, Ted. I just need a ride.”
Cars and bikes of all kinds filled the back lot of the Mojo Dojo, as did its clientele. Even now a trio of rockabilly rodders eyeballed us from up the lane, wondering why the hot young dame in the black dress picked the faded-out biker over them. Behind me, a group of suburban dads wearing Temple Riders colors stood around their shiny new bikes, smoking cigars and telling shitty jokes.
No, she picked out my dusty shovelhead on purpose. The raked front fork and narrow apes hinted at an old school taste, and the duffel strapped to the back of the high sissy bar screamed long haul riding. Finding it parked solo sealed the deal.
“Where we headed?” I asked.
“Away from here.”
“North okay?”
She shrugged.
Fair enough. I unhooked my half helmet and handed it to her, but kept my riding goggles for myself. I mounted up, fired the engine. Its roar ripped through the lot, turning several heads our way. One of the Temple Riders clapped and hooted. He could get the same sound out of his pretty Dyna if he had the balls to swap the pipes. Dumbshit.
Delia strapped on the helmet and arranged the strap of her shoulder bag across her chest, then waited until I righted the bike before clim
bing on behind me. Her thighs hugged my hips, and she didn’t seem to mind her dress riding up her leg. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged my back.
I took my time riding through town. Gawkers at stoplights checked out my bike, or my girl, or both. They always looked away when I made eye contact. Delia kept her chin propped over my left shoulder. She leaned into the turns with me, hugged her knees in a little tighter. Of course she’d ridden before.
Soon the late-night traffic thinned, and soon after that, so did the urban sprawl. I picked a random, numbered state route and rode it to a 24-hour gas station at the edge of town.
A sign on the pump demanded pre-pay.
“I’ll get this,” Delia said.
Fair’s fair. She dismounted, and I put down the kickstand and opened the tank.
“Need anything?” she asked. “Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Back in a jiff.” She moved her bag to one shoulder, then adjusted the lapels of her dress to show some cleavage. She winked, then went inside and straight to the fat dude behind the counter.
He turned on the pump, and I watched her work him as I filled up. My helmet gave her the mushroom head look, but it looked cute on her. Fat Dude tried not to look directly at her tits as she picked through one of the counter displays, chatting the whole time. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bill. Fat Dude nodded, grinned like a little kid as he put her cash in the bottom of the register.
He handed back a small stack of bills. She kept talking, waved goodbye, then stopped short at the door. She returned to the counter, showed the bills to Fat Dude. He looked confused as he opened the register again.
I’d pulled the change-making scam before, back in a more desperate time. I didn’t need to hear her words to tell she worked it like a pro. Bills changed hands again, and again, until finally she patted him on the hand and walked out. Fat Dude watched her hips swish all the way back to the bike.
“Need one of these?” She showed me a couple of those overpriced energy shots they sell to truckers and coffee haters.
“I’m good.”
She dropped one in her purse, unwrapped and downed the other. I guess she expected a long night.
We got back on the road. Clouds covered the moon, drowning everything in darkness. I flipped on the high beam and kept the speed to sixty. This was deer country, after all. I could almost get used to this. The cool breeze on my face, the warm body on my back. Almost made me rethink the whole nomad thing.
Almost.
The road took us through one small town, then another. Just tiny dots on the map. Between the dots, nothing but alternating fields of corn, soybeans, and corn again. Drainage ditches separated the road from the fields. The route turned east and I followed, counting off the miles one by one on the odometer. We passed a few trucks in the oncoming lane, and a car or three, but we had the road to ourselves for a while.
When the headlights appeared in my mirrors, I didn’t pay them any mind at first. They got bright fast, though, and hovered on our tail. An SUV, or maybe a van.
“Anything I should know?” I hollered over the roar of the engine and the wind.
Delia looked back over her shoulder. The high beams kicked on and the vehicle closed on us.
“Shit!” Delia said. She looked ahead again. “Shit shit shit! Don’t stop!”
I didn’t plan to. I played it cool and waved the vehicle on to pass. They swerved into the oncoming lane and pulled up beside us.
The black Escalade sported shiny chrome spinners in the rims and electric blue ground effects. The driver matched our speed and the passenger window rolled down.
“Pull it over!”
I played deaf. Delia’s fingernails dug into my ribs.
The driver honked the horn and the Escalade’s dome light came on. Two bulky brothers up front, a tall white punk in hip hop gear in back. The dude in the passenger seat showed me his Glock, then pointed to the side of the road.
“Pull over, mother fucker!” he shouted into the wind. “We just want the girl!”
Just as I thought. Sorry, fellas, but she’s with me now.
I let off the throttle. The Escalade faded back.
Delia made a strange, scared noise. She begged me not to stop, promised me anything.
As if she could ever deliver on a promise like that.
I eased the bike toward the fog line. The Escalade dropped back and moved over behind us. He drifted onto the shoulder.
I rolled the throttle wide open. The bike’s engine roared and hurtled us forward. Delia let out a long “Wooohooo!” and kissed me behind the ear. It took the Escalade driver a second to react, but that’s all the time I needed to put a little distance between them and us. I reached past Delia with my left hand and opened the hidden pocket on the side of my bag to get my gun.
I picked the SIG P220 for its ambidextrous safety. Shooting lefty kept my right hand free for the throttle and front brake. Its night sights and heavy punch were a nice bonus, though with only eight rounds in the mag and one in the pipe, I had to make every shot count.
Good thing I got a lot of practice back at The Boneyard.
The Escalade raced to catch us. The muzzle flashes from the passenger’s Glock winked in my mirror, its shots a faint pop behind us. Being fired upon is a lot less terrifying once you realize the other guy’s not going to hit shit if he’s not taking careful aim, and chances were Brother Passenger just blasted away. Even if he were good—or just plain lucky—he’d hit Delia first.
I let them get just a little closer, then squeezed the front brake and let them rocket by. The driver swerved over to try to block from the front, and I squirted around to the opposite shoulder and goosed the throttle. I reached across with my left hand, took that careful aim on the driver, and fired three shots as we zipped past. Delia screamed as the blasts went off just inches from our ears.
The Escalade rocked left, missing my rear tire by inches. It crossed the shoulder and went down into the ditch at better than seventy miles an hour. The nose caught earth and the whole vehicle flipped, twisted, and rolled. I let go of the throttle and coasted until the Escalade came to a stop on its roof in the bean field beyond the ditch. I hooked the clutch with the butt of the SIG and pulled around to a stop.
“Get off a second,” I told Delia.
She dismounted and I rode back to the Escalade. I put the kickstand down but didn’t turn off the engine, dismounted, and approached the vehicle from behind. The roof squashed down a bit, but that didn’t stop whiteboy from wriggling out through the shattered rear window on the driver’s side. Blood poured down his face from a scalp wound. He didn’t see me coming. I put two bullets in his back, double-tap.
I got down on my belly and looked across the middle row to the front passenger seat. Glock dude dangled upside-down from his seatbelt, unmoving. I put two bullets through the back of the seat just to be safe, then checked the driver. One of my shots went in behind his ear and out between his eyes. Lucky son of a bitch never felt a thing.
I looked up and down the road. The nearest farmhouse was a mile up, easy. Unless they were night owls, chances are nobody heard a thing. I lowered the SIG’s hammer and engaged the safety, tucked it into my jeans, then went back for Delia. She climbed on and we got the hell out of there.
I took the next country road south, rode it until I hit the next major state route and doubled back to the west. I zigged and zagged like that for another half hour. I liked that about the Midwest: plenty of fields and country roads to get lost on. Delia didn’t complain, but pretty soon we’d need more gas.
Finally I ran into a major highway. I rode the frontage road on its flank to the nearest exit. There were no lights on at the gas station on our side of the highway, but Delia pointed to a motel across the street.
“How about we rest and regroup?”
Why not? I killed my noisy engine and coasted into the parking lot in neutral. The place was old, a roach motel to be sure, but it would do the job. Two
floors, and all the rooms had exterior doors. Three cars and two semis in the lot, no lights in any of the rooms. I waited with the bike while Delia went into the office. It took her a while. Probably had to get the manager out of bed.
They put us on the second floor, a few doors down from the stairwell. I went in first and found the usual: king bed, bathroom, a table and a chair, shitty old TV. I dropped the room card and my bike keys on the table.
Delia wasted no time. She pulled me into a kiss the moment the door shut. Her shoulder bag hit the floor. She pulled down my denim vest, I unzipped the back of her dress. A moment later we hit the bed in a tangle.
She rode me hard, and damn did it feel good. We finished fast, and she collapsed on top of me. Sweat pasted her tits to my chest.
“Thank you,” she said.
I guessed she meant the rescue. “No sweat.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what those guys wanted?”
“Nope.”
She chuckled. “I knew you were a bad boy.”
And then some.
Our sweat dried, our flesh cooled. At last she propped her chin up on my chest.
“Ready to go again?”
She meant to wear me out. Why the hell not?
We took it slow this time. I’m not as spry as I used to be, but I had the experience to keep her interested ‘til I was ready. By the time we finished, the clock read 4:32am. We lay there in a tangle, each waiting for the other to fall asleep. I counted the soft whoosh of the cars on the highway.
At 4:51, Delia slid out of bed and into her clothes.
I waited until she went for the door before turning on the light behind my head.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
She squinted into the light. She had her bag in one hand and my gun in the other.
Whoops.
“Sorry, Ted, but I’ve got to run. I’ll need to borrow your bike.”
“Where you headed?”
“As far south as I can get. Alone.”
“How long before more of those bangers find you? Or the Swords?”
She cocked her head to one side.
“You really think those counterfeit bills will fly across the border? Wise up, girl. You crossed the club, and in the process fucked things up with the South Side Kings. If John Law gets a hold of you and the funny money you’re carrying, there’s going to be a lot of heat on both sides. We can’t let that happen.”
