Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “What the fuck,” I growl, leaning my head back against the headrest as traffic comes to a complete stop three hundred feet from the freeway entrance.

  “Low…”

  The grim tenor in Poesy’s tone kicks me into high alert, and I hear the sirens before I see them. Boxed in by a diesel truck, a school bus, and two sedans, there’s nowhere to go as the deafening sound of capture gets closer and closer. Trapped in a stolen car with a bag of loot in the back, we’re sitting ducks, and I won’t make it out of this alive if she doesn’t get away.

  “Get out and run, Poe,” I insist, looking into her large hazel eyes. “Go as far as you can and jump on a bus out of town.”

  The bumper-to-bumper congestion behind us slowly starts to pull over to the side of the road, allowing the authorities through. I’m unable to count how many units they’ve sent after us, but their strobing blue and red lights are in sync with the raw beating behind my eyes.

  I messed up.

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.” Shrieking panic rips from between Poesy’s lips, and she starts to cry, yanking on the neck of my tee until it rips. “I’m not leaving you, Low. We can’t be apart.”

  “We won’t be together if we’re in prison,” I reply, spitting the words out of my mouth like dirt. Three black and white cruisers are now visible five cars back, and I don’t know if she can get away without being caught.

  I reach over Poesy’s lap and try to open the door to force her out, but she digs her short fingernails into my wrist and breaks the skin. Two ruby-colored beads of blood stream down my forearm as I clench my girl’s face in my hands and say, “I won’t let this happen to you.”

  “It’s not your choice,” she replies. Warm tears pool from her eyes, wetting her eyelashes and breaking my heart.

  “Fuck.” I slam my fist into the steering wheel before gripping the motherfucker and nearly pulling it from the dashboard. Revving the spineless engine, I bump in closer to the black four door in front of us. Cutting anger coats my throat, and my voice comes out harsh when I say, “For God’s sake, Poesy, I can’t get you out of this.”

  Poe turns around to see what’s going on behind us, white-knuckle gripping the seat. She blinks slowly in the face of defeat, accepting loss with flushed cheeks and smeared mascara. With only a paper-thin space between our stolen Camry and the four door, I’m determined to drive through the car’s back window when it finally moves over. So do the ones before it.

  Suddenly, the path toward the freeway on-ramp is ours for the taking. As the first police cruiser appears right behind us, filling the cab with the brilliance of its sirens, I force the accelerator to the floor. Four small tires skid on the bumpy pavement and send us forward as the motor sluggishly speeds up, groaning in defiance as I push the RPMs into the red.

  “Hold on,” I say, maneuvering around and between other vehicles that haven’t carted off to the side of the road yet.

  The boys in blue stay on our tail, but I keep my focus ahead with my aim on the interstate. Our chances are better on the open highway, where we can possibly blend in with other cars or lose the police on any off-ramps before they fly a helicopter in the sky.

  As I take a sharp right turn and hustle onto the 405 Freeway, hope vanishes when the traffic on the city roads continues onto our only way out. Five lanes of congestion capped with a heavy layer of grayish smog and car exhaust meet us head-on with the cruel truth: I failed her.

  Red brake lights for as far as I can see mock my attempt, and all I can say is, “I’m sorry, Poe.”

  Coming to a full stop behind a rig vomiting thick black smoke into the atmosphere from a chrome pipe, I drop my hands from the steering wheel and reach back for my weapon. Inhaling deeply, I set the gun on my lap with my finger on the trigger, preparing myself for the fight I’ll put up when they try to lock her in handcuffs.

  I’m no cop killer, but for her I’ll become anything.

  “I was the only one in the bank, Poesy. Tell them I forced you to do it. Lie and say I threatened to hurt you if you didn’t.”

  Her bright hazel irises fall over at me, and the right side of her mouth curves up. “They didn’t follow us.”

  “What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I glance into the rearview mirror.

  She starts to bounce, laughing uncontrollably. We both turn in our seats, even as traffic begins to coast forward, and the cars—which are not police cruisers—honk.

  WE DUMP THE car somewhere along the LA River and walk toward the nearest Greyhound station, kicking trash from the grimy sidewalks into the gutter and avoiding desperate stares from homeless folks who shake their change cups at us as we stroll by.

  “Excuse me, but I have five kids at home and no food—”

  “We can’t help you,” I mumble, keeping my head down and my arm over Poesy’s shoulders as we pass the beggar.

  The woman smells like sewer water and dirt, and the deep embedded track marks on her arms I see when she holds her palm open for a handout look infected. The tennis shoes on her feet have no laces, and her dirt-like, oil-like jeans are frayed and thin.

  “Come on, man. I’m only asking for a few dollars to feed my kids,” she insists, following behind us.

  We tossed our gloves, masks, and sweaters into the water headed for the ocean after we parked the Camry, but the gun is tucked in the waist of my jeans, and the backpack full of money sits high on my shoulders. If this lady finds out what I’m carrying, Poe and I won’t make it to the end of the block without a fight.

  “Do you have any quarters, at least?” fiending for her next fix asks. “I need to go to the laundry mat.”

  My girl slips her fingers between mine, chewing on a piece of spearmint gum she found in the center console of the vehicle we stole. Casual and cool, Poesy pops her gum and walks with a sway in her hips like she, the little white girl from Culver City, owns these mean streets. Stepping over a discarded paper take-out container, she sighs as the addict behind us continues to beg for money.

  “Keep walking,” I say, tucking her closer into my side.

  “Why is she following us?” Poesy asks quietly, glancing over her shoulder.

  I haven’t had access to a television, the radio in the Camry didn’t work, and we left our phones at the apartment so they can’t be tracked back to cell towers around the bank. Therefore, I don’t know if the media is covering the robbery or not. The cops probably have a brief “two assailants dressed in black” description by now.

  Afraid it’s too good to be true, the close encounter we had with the police on the freeway isn’t something I want to talk about until we’re far away from here, but I’m not stupid enough to assume it’ll happen more than once. My main goal is to get us out of Los Angeles County with the money and our lives. This lady is about to get in the way of that.

  “Spare me a few quarters. My kids won’t eat today unless you do,” the homeless woman continues. She grabs my backpack to stop us.

  With my hand on my pistol, I quickly turn around and wedge myself between our follower and Poe. The lady takes two steps back and holds her hands up in surrender. She’s bones covered in needle-marked skin, and a set of shadowy brown eyes that look at me with amusement are sunken dark holes on a sun-cracked, unwashed face.

  “I said we can’t help you,” I repeat forcefully. My weapon’s concealed, but my finger is on the trigger and ready to shoot if she reaches for my backpack again.

  Sickening dope withdrawal slithers under her syringe-bruised skin, and her skeletal frame trembles. I watch her bloodshot eyes inspect me, pausing at the cross tattoo on my face, and then again when she realizes my hand is behind my back. She knows I have a gun, but addiction pushes fiend past the point of desperation, and she’ll gamble with a bullet if it gets her closer to a fix.

  “I know. I know,” she says, dropping her hands and pushing her wire-like hair off her shoulder. “But what about my kids?”

  “You don’t have any fucking kids,” Poesy says from behind me.
“You’re nothing but a junkie.”

  Now the homeless woman focuses her twitchy attention on Poe, studying my girl’s thick eyebrows above her green-gold eyes and the light freckles across her straight nose.

  “No, no, no,” the woman says, shaking her head. She continues to lie, “I kicked that shit months ago.”

  “If I give you some change, will you forget you ever saw us?” Poesy asks, stepping beside me.

  My teeth clench, and I shift uncomfortably, not wanting my girl any closer to danger. I inhale deeply through my nose and hold my breath as wound-up anxiety pangs inside my chest, beating around my nervous heart. Apprehension is stiff in my elbows, but my finger’s easy on the trigger.

  Addiction personified nods her head erratically, and her once-begging hands turn into claws as she watches my partner in crime dig into her front pocket. The sound of loose change in Poesy’s palm awakens the devil in this lady, and she salivates and licks her chapped lips as her brown eyes turn completely black.

  “Hurry, I need to get home,” she says, breathing hard.

  “To your children?” Poe asks, even though she knows that story is bullshit.

  “Sure … yeah … them,” the homeless woman says absentmindedly, focused on her handout.

  “Fuck you, lady,” Poesy says angrily. She tosses the handful of dimes, nickels, pennies, and quarters into the air where they reflect sunlight off their plated surfaces before they rain down, one by one, clinking on the concrete around the greedy woman. She spins in circles to capture them all.

  I only watch long enough to see a homeless man with a dirty veterans hat low on his head secretly capture a rolling quarter before I grab Poesy’s hand and run all the way to the bus station.

  BARSTOW.

  WHAT BETTER place to hide than the desert?

  “We’ll take two tickets, please,” Poe tells the curly-haired woman behind the counter.

  After handing over the backpack to my girl, I walk away as she spends stolen money on tickets to get us out of town and step below an old TV hanging in the corner of the off-white room. Accompanied by a few other people waiting in torn blue seats for their ride, we watch the local afternoon news with the volume on low. Segments about rising gas prices and water regulations are reported. Southern California’s experiencing warmer than usual weather thanks to pressure moving in from the ocean, and another politician was caught with his cock out.

  “This state is led by a bunch of idiots,” an older man reading today’s paper mumbles as he flips the thin page.

  My heart stops when a Breaking News segment interrupts a traffic report, and I expect my face to appear on the screen with “Wanted for Armed Robbery” keyed in bold letters beneath it. Guilt blisters my insides, but paranoia cements my feet to the floor. Poesy appears at my side with our bus passes in hand, and her eyes follow mine toward the television.

  “Stay calm,” she whispers.

  “How long until our bus leaves?” I ask only loud enough for her to hear.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  I search the vicinity and count eleven other customers, two employees behind the ticket counter, and four exits. A woman playfully chasing after a toddler looks right at me as she trots by, quietly apologizing for the unruly child.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the employee who sold Poe the tickets calls out for her. She has a black corded phone at her ear. “Can you come back to the counter, please?”

  Subtly shaking my head, I rake my fingers through my hair and shift my gaze toward the side exit. Poesy anxiously bites on the inside of her cheek, but slips under the safety of my arm, ready to follow me anywhere. As we head out, the old man with the newspaper smacks it against his knee and starts to gruff, huff, and puff.

  “In my day, we solved our problems with dignity,” he exclaims, holding up his round right fist. His aged knuckles are covered in scar tissue and knowhow, and his cloudy blue eyes framed by long white lashes stare at the TV nostalgically as he remembers how they got that way. “Anyone can shoot a gun, but a real man isn’t afraid of a good ol’ fashioned brawl.”

  The Breaking News report isn’t about a bank robbery at California Credit Union, but a gang-related shooting, with one confirmed dead, less than a block away from our heist. A sheriff from the violent gang taskforce tucked tight inside his bulletproof vest describes the incident as “an open investigation” with “no leads” and “every available unit is searching for suspicious suspects.”

  “Miss, excuse me, but you left your bag over here,” ticket lady calls out irritably. I glimpse over to the counter, and she holds our backpack by one of the arm straps, dangling our foolishness by one finger.

  Letup doesn’t offer comfort as it washes down my limbs, and only worsens the callous ache in my chest. An on-site reporter broadcasts live from the scene of the crime, interviewing a distraught witness to the shooting who speaks in broken English through terrified tears, while others stand behind her smiling at their chance to get their faces on television. Meanwhile, Poesy’s cheeks burn red as she reclaims the stolen goods from an overworked and underpaid ticket clerk.

  “Sorry,” forgetfulness mouths as she walks back to me with our money slung over her shoulder. She nervously scratches the black nail polish off her thumbnail with her middle finger, flicking tiny flakes of paint to the dirty tiled floor.

  There’s no getting outside fast enough.

  Emptying the nothingness that’s in my stomach into a trashcan filled with snack-sized potato chip bags and crushed soda cans, I blink away warm tears that blind me and suck in poisonous exhaust fumes from our getaway bus parked along the curb as I gasp between heaves.

  “Now boarding for Barstow, California,” a voice announces from a speaker hanging above my head.

  I puke again.

  “Hey there, boy, hey,” Poesy’s low, soothing voice whispers into my ear. She slides her small hand along the back of my neck, where she slowly circles her thumb. “I got you, Lowen. I got you.”

  All at once and with the help of her calming touch, the sickening edginess disappears. I spit once, twice, three times into the rotten food-filled bin and stand straight. The light at the end of the tunnel offers me a bottle of water, a stack of brown paper napkins, and a smile.

  “Our chariot awaits,” she says, nodding toward the big silver bus.

  We take our seats in the back, across the aisle from a middle-aged couple who already have their heads back and their eyes closed. As other passengers find places to sit, Poesy opens the backpack, and sitting on the top stacks of cash are a couple bottles of soda and snacks from the vending machine.

  “I’m starving,” she says, popping open a crinkly bag of mini chocolate chip cookies and biting one in half.

  My girl offers me the other part, and I let her slip it between my lips. Artificial chocolate flavor coats my tongue, and processed sugar sharpens the edge of my paranoia.

  While watching people get on and off buses, panging panic surrounds my quick beating heart. I don’t tell Poesy that just because the police cruisers behind our car earlier weren’t after us at that exact moment, doesn’t mean that they won’t search for the man who robbed the bank and we should be worried. She’s blissfully lost in a bag of Skittles, but I scope every face that passes on the other side of the tinted glass, waiting and ready for the cops to appear.

  Even as the bus sputters away from the curb and drives out of Los Angeles County, I stay alert of our surroundings and keep my finger on the trigger. With the radio set on a fuzzy AM oldies station and without any other means of communication, there’s no way of knowing what’s going on outside of this Greyhound.

  “We were in town on vacation,” Poesy lies to the lady in front of us, who has turned around to make conversation with my girl. “We went to Disneyland. Where are you from?”

  The blonde woman twists her neck to stare in my direction and greets me with a forced smile after she gets a good look at the white trash sitting beside the sweet girl she’s made small tal
k with.

  “Vegas,” she says with a heavy twang in her Southern accent. “I’m from Pinella Pass, Alabama, but after I got divorced, I just had to get out of there. No kids, and the only thing I wanted was my half of the money once the house was sold. So here I am, just travelin’ alone.”

  Poesy offers her new friend some candy while asking, “Where have you been?”

  “Umm,” the woman ponders, chewing with her mouth open. “Texas, Florida, New Mexico … it’s easy to get lost if you want to. I’m going to the Grand Canyon in a few days.”

  “Do you take the bus everywhere?” Poe asks, scooting in her seat.

  The traveling lady with three-inch brown roots and bleach-blonde curls shakes her head as she holds her hand out for more candy.

  “Not always,” she says. “I rent cars and ride trains, and I hitchhiked with a trucker once. That was real scary, but the road can get lonely, and we enjoyed the conversation.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” my girl says, hanging on to this woman’s every word.

  “It’s expensive, so I’ll start makin’ my way home soon, but if y’all ever find yourselves in Alabama, give me a call. Home ain’t nothin’ like Disneyland, but since you’re from Barstow, y’all probably don’t expect much.” She digs around in a large duffel bag and retrieves a spiral notebook and pen. The chatty drifter scribbles down her number for Poesy and hands it over. “Name’s Emma.”

  My girl shoves the piece of paper into the backpack and says, “I’m Cassandra, and this is my husband Ian.”

  Emma tilts her head to the right and squints her eyes. “Did that tattoo on your face hurt?”

  This time I’m the one forcing a smile.