by Alan Janney
I drove to her apartment but didn’t go in. I sat astride my bike outside, wanting her, aching to be with her. Correction: I sat astride Hannah Walker’s father’s bike. Ugh. So confusing.
Katie’s mom, a pretty middle school teacher, opened the front door and waved me in. She kissed my cheek and hugged me a long time. Her hair smelled like delicious, like seasoned peppers and chicken.
“Buenas noches, guapísimo,” she smiled. “Thank you for visiting. We do not see you much.”
“I know,” I nodded, feigning shame. “I apologize. I’ve missed being here.”
“Katie, she still talks about you. Always she talks about you. She still loves you,” she poked me in the chest. “But…”
“But it’s complicated now.”
“But it’s complicated,” she agreed. “You want dinner?”
“Yes!”
Katie came in and we all ate. I had four helpings of fajitas because I was still hungry from last night’s Outlaw episode. For thirty minutes the world was simple and happy and we were kids again. I kept hoping Katie would eventually break her promise to the Outlaw and tell me about his visit, but she hadn’t yet. I was both pleased and disappointed.
We went back to her bedroom and I asked, “What do you think of Samantha Gear?”
“I like her. She’s good for Lee and Cory. Keeps them on their toes.”
“She’s pretty intense. Coach Garrett could tell immediately that she’d be trouble.”
“Will she make the team?” Katie asked, sitting down on the bed in the midst of her homework. I assumed my usual position in her desk chair. My neck ached. In the past, Katie would have massaged it. But no longer.
“Of course. She has a bionic leg, basically. What’s all this? Are you preparing for your model U.N. event?”
“Yes,” she sighed, surveying the extensive pile of papers. “I had to miss Young Life tonight. Too much to do.”
“Good. That leaves no time for Tank,” I grinned.
“Chase,” she warned. “There will be no Tank bashing tonight.”
“Do you have another date scheduled?”
“No,” she admitted. “He’s not the best communicator. We just live in totally different worlds, you know? That’s what makes it exciting, but that’s also what makes it frustrating.”
“Frustrating,” I said. “That’s exactly it.”
“What do you mean?”
“My love life,” I said, tossing her stuffed bear into the air. “Frustrating. Complicated.”
“Oh? Things not going well with Hannah?”
“You don’t have to look so smug about it,” I smiled.
“Smug? This is not my smug face,” she smiled back. “This is my ‘I told you so’ face.”
“When did things get so…weird? Remember when we spent every night in here, just being friends? Talking and laughing and being normal.”
“We’re getting older,” she agreed.
“Let’s make a deal.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I’ll break up with Hannah. You call it off with Tank,” I said with a sudden surge of courage. Let’s live dangerously.
“Why would we?” she smiled, leaning forward towards me. Her sudden sensual interest in my deal seemed to actually draw the light towards her, like she had a gravitational pull.
“Because,” I said, my brief burst of courage faltering as she grew more beautiful. I didn’t deserve her. I never have. She deserved…everything.
“Tell me why,” she repeated.
“Things could go back to the way they were.”
“The way they were?” she asked. Neither of us could look directly at the other very long. The eye contact was brilliant and unbearable. This was scary uncharted territory. “Exactly the way they were?”
There was a loud, rapid knock at her back door. We both jumped as the room’s enchantment shattered.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Yo no sé,” she said in Spanish. “Answer it.”
“It better not be Tank,” I said. “I’m going to knock his teeth out, if it is.”
“What??” Katie cried, scrambling to her feet and cascading papers to the floor. “You can’t just punch him! He’s twice your size!”
I yanked open the back door, almost hoping the visitor was Tank. Empty. Nothing. Nobody in sight. Katie peered around my shoulder.
“This happen often?” I asked, scanning the lawn.
“Never. Oh, look! A note! I hope it’s from him,” she said and retrieved an envelope from the welcome mat. “That would be so romantic.”
“I’m going to vomit,” I said under my breath as she read it. “Well? Is it from Tank? I bet he wrote it in crayon.”
“It’s not from him. It’s…I don’t understand. This makes no sense,” she said, puzzled. She held the note out to me.
Dear hot latina girl. sorry to bother u. no trouble. U know the Outlaw right? tell him to call me. I gotta talk to him bout T. T gone crazy. this is important. beans.
“Oh man,” I sighed, reading it again. This wasn’t good. Tank had gone crazy enough for Beans to be worried? That’s a new level of insanity. At the bottom was a telephone number.
“Does it make sense to you, Chase? What could ‘beans’ mean?”
“That’s his name,” I told her. “I mean, I guess it is. Right? That’s how he closes the letter.”
“What kind of a stupid name is Beans?”
“Stupid name for a stupid guy,” I shrugged. “His handwriting is awful.”
“And who is T? That sounds familiar,” Katie said, looking off into the distance while she searched her memory. When she wasn’t looked I saved the number into my phone.
“It should sound familiar to you. Unfortunately.”
“Why? Why should…oh,” she gasped. “Oh no. I remember now.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “This is trouble.”
“Oh no. T? The guy harassing me last year kept signing his name T.”
“Right,” I nodded. “And T is probably the guy that kidnapped you and escaped.”
“T is back? Who’s Beans? And why would he think I knew the Outlaw?” Katie asked, hugging a teddy bear to her chest. I won her that teddy bear at a fair. “This makes no sense.”
“I have a theory,” I said carefully. I had to reveal enough of the truth for her to be careful, but I had to postulate the facts like guesses. I could tell her the whole truth but she wouldn’t believe me.
“Tell me.”
“You and Beans are the middle-men between T and the Outlaw. Last year the Outlaw reclaimed your stolen phone from T. We already know that. It infuriated T so he kidnapped you in order to get the Outlaw. My theory is that this guy Beans knows T. They’re buddies or business associates or something. Right? And Beans is worried about T going crazy so he wants to…tattle on T to the Outlaw, and he thinks that you could deliver the message.”
“Oh,” she said, processing. “That’s complicated.”
“Yes. Welcome to my life. Or I could be wrong and it’s a trap.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she cried. “Last time the police were absolutely helpless with this.”
“And it’s not like you actually know the Outlaw,” I said, scrutinizing her carefully for a reaction. “Right?”
No response. She kept staring at the back door.
“Maybe I should just call this number now and tell Beans he should rat T out to the police,” I suggested. Not a bad idea, actually. “Or give this telephone number to the police.”
“Lee knows how to contact the Outlaw,” Katie said.
“Maybe. Lee claims he made the Outlaw a vest or something, right? But, does that matter? I mean what can the Outlaw really do? Go beat him up?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a big breath of air as she laid down on the bed. “I thought this was all behind me. There’s no way I can tell Mami. She’d freak out. But Chase, how does Beans know where I live?”
“Because of T. Be
cause of the Outlaw. The stupid stupid Outlaw,” I said, rubbing my temples with both hands. “He should never have returned your phone. He’s caused nothing but problems.”
She disagreed with me, strongly. But I didn’t hear it. Natalie North had just texted me.
>>The FBI wants to help with your disease.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, January 23. 2018
I went to bed early four nights in a row. Two of the nights I didn’t sleep a wink, tossing and fighting the covers until daybreak. But for those ninety-six hours I had no significant headaches or stomach cramps. The word ‘aneurism’ sent shockwaves through me and I swore to do anything to stay alive, to see my grandkids grow old. The grandkids I’d share with Katie, my wife. That was a fun thought until I remembered my girlfriend. I really gotta figure all this out.
Thoughts of Katie and Hannah and the aneurism forced me to a mall kiosk on Monday night, where I purchased a disposable cellphone with a temporary number. I thumbed off the new phone’s location services, synced it with my bike helmet, drove to Beverly Hills and called Beans.
“What,” Beans answered.
“Tank’s gone crazy,” I rumbled inside my helmet. “Explain.”
“The hell is this?” he yelped.
“You wrote that Tank’s going insane,” I snarled. “Talk fast.”
“Oh!” he cried. “Oh. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait a second,” he panted, and I could hear him running. “Hang on hangonhangon…gotta get somewhere I can talk.” I rolled my eyes and kept motoring up and down extravagant streets teeming with extravagant shoppers and extravagant cars. Anyone trying to track this phone would have a hard time pinpointing me because I was in perpetual motion. “Okay,” he gasped, sucking in air. “This the Outlaw?”
“The Easter Bunny,” I corrected him. “Tell me about Tank.”
“He gone loco, yo,” Beans said. “He started using drugs, mano, and that ain’t Tank. He’s clean. Never touched the junk before, yo. Now he’s snorting up blow by the shovel.”
“Tank on coke,” I sighed. “Just great. Because the world isn’t broken enough.”
“What?”
“He’s trying to manage his pain,” I reasoned, partly to myself. “I think he’s sick. And in a lot of discomfort.”
“Yeah, mano, always talking about a headache,” Beans agreed.
“Has he ever passed out?”
“Hell yeah he has. Anytime he starts talking about you. Just falls on his ass, yo.”
Aaaaaaaah crap. That confirmed it. Tank was Infected. I didn’t know whether to offer him help or pray the virus killed him. I need to tell Carter.
“And, yo, he’s straight obsessed with you, pana, you know? His parents gonna cut off his cash if he goes out anymore, you know, at night.”
“You know about his parents?” I asked, shocked. “I thought you guys didn’t know who he was.”
“Nah. Told you. Gone crazy. Talking in his sleep, homie. Stumbling around like a zombie, saying weird crap.”
“You need to turn him in,” I said. “Let the police handle it.”
“Not a snitch, yo. Be trippin.”
“Honor among thieves?” I asked, taking another lap down Rodeo Drive.
“What?”
“Nothing. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Beans said. “The Chemist’s been after him.”
“The Chemist? What’s that?”
“Yo. You don’t know about the Chemist?” Beans asked. I grew weary of people pointing out how little I know. “The homie in south LA? Started the rumble, yo.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Don’t nobody know,” he said. “Just this guy south. Chemist. Controls all the drugs, got some kinda new recipe. He sent us a batch, but T threw it out.”
“Smart move,” I observed.
“But he’s after T, mano. Wants to be allies or some crap.”
“So there’s a guy living in South LA that has a new type of drug, and he starts big city-wide fights, and he wants to be allies with Tank. That right?”
“Yeah man.”
“Okay. Thanks for the info. Now do me a favor. Forget where the Latina girl lives,” I said, and I parked my bike in an open spot in front of a designer boutique. It must have been a famous shop because girls were taking selfies in front of it.
“Yeah, Outlaw. Yeah mang. You got it.”
“I’m serious.”
“Alright alright,” he shouted. “A la gran!”
“You need to stay away from T. It’s going to get worse. If you need to talk to me, don’t drop notes off at her door. Post a note on Craigslist. Use codeword Beans. I’ll scan it every few days.”
“Aight.”
I hung up, searched through my contacts, located Isaac Anderson’s number, called him on the new phone, and continued my itinerant motorcycle trek through downtown Beverly Hills. Just me and the luxury cars.
“Isaac Anderson,” a brisk voice said on the other end.
“Captain FBI,” I grinned, picturing the handsome agent’s surprise. “This your cell phone?”
“It is,” he said. “Who is this?”
“Don’t try to track me,” I said. “I’m mobile and I’m using a disposable phone. It’d be a waste of your time. So let’s just talk.”
“Outlaw,” he identified me. “I can’t track you from my cell anyway. You have my word. I’m in my kitchen chopping vegetables, that’s all.”
“Are you keeping tabs on the Chemist?”
“You know about him, huh,” he chuckled.
“Of course,” I lied. I didn’t know anything. Ever.
“That was a pretty slick stunt you pulled,” he said. “We still can’t determine how you did all that magic.”
“You are referring to your pathetic attempt at arresting me? And my easy escape?”
“I wouldn’t call it pathetic,” he said. I could hear him frown. “We weren’t prepared for…all the tricks you have up your sleeve. I got chewed out by both the Deputy Director and his Assistant.”
“That’s a shame. Now tell me about the Chemist.”
“Yeah, he’s a problem. Fortunately for you he’s turned into priority number one.”
“What are you doing about him?” I asked, remembering to mask my voice just in case he was recording our conversation.
“Our section, and the U.S. Marshals, and the Sherrif’s office, and LAPD have formed a temporary joint task force. It’s been a real picnic, all us buttheads in one boat. But the Chemist is bad news and we want to grab him before it gets worse. To be honest I was hoping you might have some intel.”
“What’s in this new drug of his?”
“I wish I knew,” he sighed, sounding exasperated. “Neither our forensics team nor Los Angeles Vice can figure it out. First of all we can’t get our hands on much of the stuff, and secondly it’s a designer cocktail we don’t have experience with. Probably originating out of Europe. Seems to be effective. His thugs are unbelievably loyal to him.”
“He’s sending the drug to different gang leaders around the city as a present,” I told him. “At least that’s the way it appears.”
“We suspected as much,” he confirmed. “The Chemist is particularly effective because he’s a good marketer. His gang is spreading fast and absorbing other groups.”
“Ever seen a picture of him?”
“We think we have a few grainy photos. But what we have doesn’t fit the profile. He’s making inroads with gangs like Bloods, Crips, and MS13. Black and latino gangs. But our photographs are of a caucasian. A big white male, identity unknown. A handful of guys in lockup confirmed he’s the mastermind. We thought for a while the Chemist might be the LA Sniper too.”
“No. Different guys,” I said.
“Yeah?” he asked. He sounded like he was drinking something. “You know the Sniper?”
“The Sniper is not the Chemist,” I said. “Trust me. From what I know, the Sniper arrived recently to Los Angeles.”
“A portion of
our team believes you’re the Sniper.”
“Hah,” I cracked. “The Sniper about took my head off the other night.”
“He shot at you? The Sniper missed?”
“Not exactly.”
“What were you up to?” he asked, and I heard a smile in his voice.
“Saving the world. The usual.”
“You told Natalie North that you’re sick,” he changed the subject.
“Yep. How do you propose helping me?”
“Come to my office.”
“No chance,” I said.
“I played the recording for a physician in our Laboratory. He said it sounds like you have an unknown form of progeria.”
“Progeria. The aging disease?”
“Right. Patients with progeria age rapidly. Simplistically, they have the body of a thirty year old when they’re eight. You spoke as though your body is doing similar things. Am I right?”
“Not…really,” I considered it. “Not aging. More like improving at a fatal rate. But I don’t know much about it.”
“How do you know you have this disease?”
“You saw me jump off the roof,” I reminded him. “Right?”
“Oh, I’m aware you’re a weirdo,” he said, and to my shame I laughed. Dang it. The Outlaw doesn’t laugh. “Thankfully Natalie and I are the only two who saw the full extent of that jump. But how do you know your diagnosis?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It’d be easier to help if I knew.”
“Sorry.”
“I have an idea, then,” he sighed.
“I’m listening.”
“Leave a blood sample with Ms. North. Let my guys examine it,” he said.
I didn’t respond for several blocks. I wove in and out of traffic, examining his offer from all angles, until I finally came to rest at a red light. His idea had merit. Carter certainly wasn’t much help with my disease. Carter was basically a vulture, waiting around until I finally kicked the bucket. Could the FBI actually help me survive? I’d have to do it in secret, because the Shooter would waste me the instant my betrayal was discovered.
