by Dave Stanton
“Man, that’s a sweet bike, dude,” I said. “I was thinking of getting one—”
I reached for his arm, but he juiced the throttle and the cycle leapt forward, the back tire digging into the gravel and spraying me with a shower of rocks and grit.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, spitting dust.
A second later Cody skidded to a stop next to me, and I jumped into the passenger seat. He mashed the gas pedal, and we roared after Loohan.
The dirt bike launched over a berm and caught big air, the rear tire pitched sideways in classic motocross form. Cody steered into the jump, and we careened over it, my head bouncing off the ceiling. I jammed on my seatbelt and watched Loohan wheelie down the straightaway leading from the cathouses.
“He’s playing with us,” I said. “We’ll never catch him.”
Cody ignored me and buried the throttle. We gained on the bike but had to slam the brakes to navigate a tight corner, which Loohan power slid around and exited as if shot from a sling. The motorcycle’s taillight began to grow dim. The road was now a straight shot to the highway, maybe half a mile, but much of it was uneven, paved smooth one second, then pot holed and rutted, then we’d slam up onto the concrete again, hitting so hard the entire chassis shuddered.
“You’re gonna blow a tire,” I said. Cody lost control of the truck for a second and took out a couple fence posts, the old wood snapping and flying behind us.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
Before I could reply, Loohan hit a dicey section at speed and almost went down. We made up some ground and were perhaps fifty yards behind him when he reached Highway 50. He turned right, heading away from town. We bounced up onto the pavement in pursuit, the motor revving against the red line, the tires howling until we caught traction and launched ahead.
“Not gonna catch him, my ass,” Cody said. The motorcycle was built for off-road and probably topped out around eighty. Within twenty seconds we were right on his rear fender, Loohan tucked over the handlebars, his right elbow cranked low, holding the throttle wide open.
“Your call. You want to take him now?” Cody said.
We were on a straight, two-lane ribbon of black asphalt. To each side of the road the terrain dipped low, the soft shoulders bordered by barbed-wire fencing. Beyond the fence line lay open desert plains.
“Pull up alongside of him. Put the bumper right on his leg and push him into the dirt.”
Cody swerved close to Loohan, near enough for me to reach out and touch him. Loohan stole a quick glance at us, and I saw his fingers reach for the brake lever.
“He’s gonna brake,” I said, and Cody edged closer, forcing Loohan to the last inch of pavement. In a second he would either brake and risk getting run over, or drop off into the dirt at eighty. Now we’ll see how good a rider you are.
A long moment went by, then Loohan rose from his seat and steered off the road, his tires dropping into the void. He hit the loose dirt with his weight back, spraying us with a blast of dirt clods, then flew up the opposite side of the embankment and jumped the fence cleanly. Cody skidded to a stop and we got out and watched Loohan dart away through the scrub. His headlight flashed in the dark expanse for a minute, until it grew dim and disappeared. We stood on the side of the road underneath the stars as the last rumble of his motor faded.
“Got to hand it to him, he’s quite the acrobat,” Cody said.
“He’s got balls, I’ll give him that.” I got a flashlight and a map from my glove box and opened the map on the warm hood.
“There’s nothing for thirty miles in the direction he’s headed, and that’s pretty rough terrain, especially at night,” I said. “I think he’s got two choices—head back west, past the whorehouses to 50, or cut across further east, maybe surface in Silver Springs. Either way he’s got to get back on the highway tonight.”
“Or spend the night out there.”
“I doubt it. It’s too cold, and now that he knows he’s being hunted, I don’t think he’s gonna sit still.”
“Back west then?”
“I think that’s the best bet. We find somewhere to park off 50 and wait him out.”
“Let’s get coffee. There was a gas station back about five miles.”
We drove off, and while Cody was inside the filling station minimart, I unlocked the steel box in my truck bed and pulled out the suitcase containing my gear. My Beretta .40 cal. automatic lay on my bulletproof vest, along with a Panther stun baton, a spray can of mace, plastic ties that served as handcuffs, binoculars, and a 35mm camera. When Cody came back and handed me a steaming sixteen-ounce cup, the suitcase was between us on the seats, and I had just inserted an eleven-round clip into the Beretta.
“You still keep your backup piece under the seat?”
“Yeah,” I said. Cody reached between his legs and removed my Glock 9mm from its hiding place. He checked the chamber and put the weapon in the glove compartment.
I found the perfect spot without much searching, a brief rise in the highway where a small street intersected, maybe leading to a private residence, or a quarry, or some infrequent destination. I backed my truck down the street, giving us a wide view of the highway and the desert beyond.
“The goal here is to disable his bike,” I said. “If we see him, aim for his tires.”
“And if he runs?”
“I don’t lose foot races.”
Cody laughed. “Still got your speed, huh?”
“Enough of it, anyway.”
An hour went by. Clouds moved in, and the air felt damp. I kept my window down and listened for the low tones of Loohan’s four-stroke motor while scanning the desert for a solitary headlight. Cody flicked a cigarette butt out the window. “I gotta take a leak,” he said. He wandered a few steps from the truck, and I heard him urinating. Then I jumped as a shot broke the stillness of the night.
“I’m hit!” Cody barreled back into the front seat, his hand holding his shoulder, blood coming from between his fingers. Another shot, and the plastic cab window behind us split and my windshield spider webbed.
Crouched low, I started the motor and jammed the accelerator. A third shot sounded, winging off my window frame. I screeched onto 50 and floored it. Cody popped the glove box and wrapped his bloody paw around the Glock. A half mile down the road I slowed and turned to him.
“How bad is it?” I said.
“Just winged me. Stings like a bitch, though.”
I looked at the amount of blood soaking through his shirt. “You need stitches.”
“It’s a scratch. Turn around and let’s go find that fucker.”
“Wrong. I’m taking you to Carson City General.”
I slouched in my seat and peered out of the portion of the windshield still clear. I didn’t like the look of all that blood flowing from my partner’s shoulder.
“How the hell did he get behind us?” Cody said.
I paused. “He must have stopped in the desert and waited for us to drive away, then came back and followed us. Probably rode with his headlight off, or we would have spotted him.”
“I can’t believe we’re running from him,” Cody said, his face pale.
“You need a doctor.” I turned my eyes to the road and hit the gas.
• • •
I sat in the waiting area at the Carson City emergency room, dozing and waking every few minutes. The bullet Cody claimed scratched him had torn a trench along the meat of his left shoulder, and the doctor wanted to keep him overnight. I was dubious. As soon as Cody was stitched up, I expected him to come barging through the doors, ready to hit the road.
I dozed off again, and this time I was out for a couple hours, because the nurse who rousted me said it was five in the morning.
“Your friend’s asleep,” she said. “He’ll be fine, but he’s lost some blood, and we have him on an IV. He’ll be here at least another few hours.”
I rubbed my eyes and walked out into the predawn. It had drizzled, and the lights over the parking l
ot glowed through a foggy mist. I found my truck and stared at the ruined windshield. Down the street was a cheap hotel. I checked in and fell into bed in my clothes, but sleep would not come. After a while I got up and sat in the room’s single wooden chair, staring into the darkness.
Cody’s perspective on criminal behavior was rooted in his upbringing on the streets and the seven years he’d spent as a cop. His insight could be uncanny, probably because he so often operated on the fringes of legality himself. But I thought his idea that most crooks behaved illogically was misguided, much like assigning racial stereotypes to any individual. The reality was some criminals were predictable, and others were not. In the case of Jason Loohan, it was the latter.
I had considered it a given Loohan would hightail once he’d lost us. Instead, he’d doubled back and attacked while our guard was down. As a result, Cody was hospitalized and my truck disabled. It was only by virtue of luck the outcome hadn’t been worse. Fortunately his aim was less than dead-on, but Loohan had outrun and outsmarted us. What did that teach me about him? He was armed, for one. And resourceful and stealthy, and capable of rapidly shifting from a defensive position to the offensive. And he was willing to kill to maintain his freedom.
The morning was gray and wet when I went outside, the low hills to the west dusted with snow. The quiet was broken by a solitary big rig rumbling slowly through town, like a funeral procession. I grabbed the gear case from my truck, stepped back into my room, and pulled on my bulletproof vest. If Loohan was now hunting me, I wouldn’t be a hard man to find. Especially when I considered that, based on his friendship with Billy Morrison, Loohan probably knew Joe Norton, and Norton’s boys had already paid me a social call.
Eventually I slept and dreamt I was back in San Jose, employed as a pencil pusher by some nameless company. My father was involved somehow, in a suit and tie, as I always remember him. There was a vague notion of evil men up to no good, but I was distanced from it by many layers and felt no concern. Then Cody showed up, talking to my old man about how to resolve the situation, and the threat began to seem more real. I was just starting to feel a sense of danger when my cell phone jolted me awake.
“Hey,” I croaked. “What’s up?”
“My blood pressure, my insurance rates, the usual. Where are you?”
“A few minutes away.”
“Come get me, man.”
Cody was waiting five minutes later outside the emergency room entrance, his shoulder wrapped in gauze and his arm in a sling.
“Let’s go get some grind,” he said. “They tried to feed me a tray of dog food in there.”
“How’s the arm feel?”
“Just a flesh wound. Bled a lot because the bullet broke a bunch of little veins. Are you gonna drive back home with your windshield like that?”
“Not if I can get it fixed here without waiting too long.”
“Don’t forget we have dinner tonight at Teresa’s.”
“You still want to?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I didn’t answer and drove us to a Denny’s. We sat in a booth drinking coffee, while I looked through the phone book for an auto glass shop.
“What are you thinking?” Cody said.
“Those HCU boys seemed to think it was real clever getting our license plate numbers. But there’s no way for an ordinary citizen to trace a license plate.”
“Who cares about those jackoffs?”
“I do, because Loohan’s linked to them, through Billy Morrison. HCU found where I lived the same night I brought down Morrison. And I ain’t in the phone book.”
“They’d have to have a connection to trace your plates.”
“To the police, right? Doesn’t sound logical, does it?”
Cody smiled, his eyes crinkling with irony. Then his smile faded. “You still got that sawed-off in your closet?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because if I see Loohan in your neighborhood, I’m gonna paste him to the sidewalk.” He winked. “That’s a promise.”
“It’s a nice thought,” I said, as our breakfast arrived. “But I think a better plan is to find him before he finds us.”
10
The Dodge SUV pulled into the alley behind the Pine Mountain Apartments. Two HCU members yanked Rodrigo and Pedro from the back of the vehicle, dumped them near the garbage bins, then drove off in a spray of gravel. Pedro crawled to his knees, his face contorted in pain. He thought maybe his ribs were broken, but he was more concerned about Rodrigo. The leader of the Diablos Sierra faded in and out of consciousness, blood bubbling from his mouth with each labored breath.
Struggling to his feet, Pedro left Rodrigo curled on the cracked pavement, and limped to the apartment he shared with two other gang members. They were watching television, oblivious to what had happened.
“Get up and bring the car around back. We need to get Rodrigo to a doctor.” The men jumped up and a minute later eight of them hovered over Rodrigo, lifting him as gently as they could into the back seat of a Chevy Impala.
“I will kill whoever did this,” said one of the teenage cholos.
“Shut up, Luis,” Pedro said. “Go make me some icepacks.”
Just then Juan Perez came around the corner on his bike, returning from the supermarket with a backpack loaded with groceries. The narrow easement was blocked by the Impala. Juan hit his brakes and caught a glimpse of Rodrigo’s bloody face as he disappeared into the Chevy. He stared wide-eyed, straddling his bike until the young gangbanger named Luis looked up and said, “What are you looking at, maricon?”
The Impala drove past Juan, nearly hitting him. Juan tried to turn his bike around and follow the car out of the alley, but the backpack was heavy and his efforts were awkward. Luis picked up a pinecone the size of a softball and winged it from twenty feet. It was a perfect shot, the cone smacking off Juan’s cheek, the spines leaving flecks of blood on his skin.
“Get lost, you puta!” Luis yelled, then ran up, stripped the pack from Juan’s back, and flung the contents to the ground. “Your sister has nice tits!” he added, kicking a head of lettuce over the fence behind the Dumpsters. “Tell her I want to shoot my load on them!” The remaining cholos laughed nervously until Pedro hissed at them to quit messing around and led them through the common to his apartment.
Juan set his bike against a stucco wall and salvaged the groceries. A quart of milk had burst, but otherwise the food was intact. He walked his bike to his apartment, his face burning with shame. Once inside he gagged, choking back the bile rising in his throat. He was sickened by his fear and cowardice. He had allowed his sister’s name to be defiled without the slightest objection. A real man would never allow himself and his family to be so humiliated. Why did he not have the cojones to stand up to those losers? They thought they were so tough, never alone, never without each other’s protection.
Squeezing his eyes shut against tears of frustration, Juan sat huddled on his couch. Who was he trying to fool? Any of the gang could kick his ass one on one. Aside from a few harmless wrestling matches as a small boy, Juan had never even been in a fight. Confronting the Diablos Sierra would be like asking to have chili juice poured in his eyes.
Born malnourished and weak, Juan was used to being the slightest among his peers, and a target of bullies. He hoped the time would come when he’d outgrow his physical limitations, and he’d already begun to see results from his weight lifting regimen. Maybe it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to make a stand and unleash years of repressed anger on those who provoked him. He’d start with the gangbanger Luis, if he was still around. Especially if he ever said anything about Teresa again.
Heading to his room, Juan wondered what happened to Rodrigo. Possibly he was in a car accident. The only other thing Juan could think was he’d been in a fight, but he couldn’t imagine the gang letting him take a beating. Rodrigo looked near death.
He added plates to his curl bar and pounded out ten reps, trying not to arch his back. It seemed
things might be getting shaky for the gangbangers, he thought, the idea providing a bit of solace. The cops had arrested one of them, and Teresa had told him, after she got home last night and woke him from the couch, something about Dan Reno and his big friend paying the gang a visit. Juan had been too drowsy to pay much attention, but now it seemed important. He’d get the details from Teresa as soon as she returned from her errands.
Juan was finishing his workout, pleased he reached a new max on the bench, when Teresa came through the door in high heels. He stared at her in surprise.
“You look so tall—why are you wearing those shoes?”
“They were on sale. Do you like them? I feel like a real lady.”
A lady? You’re my sister, not a lady. But when he looked at her again he could no longer deny the obvious; Teresa was grown up. The realization brought a twinge of fear and sadness. They’d always cared for each other, but since she’d told him about her upcoming performance at Pistol Pete’s, he’d noticed a change in her personality. In the past they’d shared stories, finding something to laugh about, but now she’d become less responsive, seemingly absorbed in her thoughts. When she did talk, it was always about her, her hopes, ambitions, and concerns. As if his own were secondary. He’d begun to feel invisible, and sensed she’d already taken the first steps on a journey to a world where he would have no place. How long would it be before her career bloomed and she became immersed in her new life? How long before she found a man? And what of their family—what about the plan to bring them to the United States?
He swallowed his apprehension and steeled himself. He was sixteen, older than many boys in his native land who had full adult responsibilities. The time had come for him to stand up and put his boyhood behind him. Teresa’s life was her own, and he needed to start acting like a man.
“What were you telling me last night about Dan Reno?” he said, deciding to not mention his humiliation at the hands of the gang.
“Two things. First, while you were at work, Dan and his friend Cody came here. They went to talk with the gang and a fight started. Then two policemen arrived and arrested Rodrigo and the fat one, Pedro.”
