She Rides Shotgun

by Jordan Harper

  The old cop climbed out of the car. He walked through the desert heat like it was made for him. Lizards sunning themselves on the path fled from around his feet.

  “Dogs ain’t people, no shit,” Jimmy said as he pulled Luis from the backseat.

  The dog eyed Luis hungrily. Grinding rocks burbled deep in its chest. Houser unlocked the fence. He made a signal with his hand. The pit dog sat. He chained the pit dog to the shaded side of the building.

  “No,” Houser said. “Don’t you see? Dogs aren’t people. People are dogs. They come when you snap. They run wild when no one’s looking. Feel shame when they’re done. They lick the hands of the strong and snap at the weak. They destroy because they are bored. They chew up the things they love. They need the pack. They hump what they can, eat and drink what they can even when they’ll sick it up later. They give love to those who show them love, even if the giver is no good and rotten and mean. Dogs aren’t people. People are dogs.”

  “That include me?” Jimmy asked.

  “Indeed it does.”

  Houser unlocked the door of the building.

  “It include you, boss?”

  “No. I’m not people.” And Houser gave Luis a smile that proved the point. Oh shit oh shit, Luis screamed inside his skull.

  Inside the shed was dark, sweatbox hot. The heat punched him heavyweight hard. He dropped to his knees on a cracked concrete floor. The piggy one laughed. Luis pictured a dozen deaths for the bastard. He wished on them. But they did not come true.

  “Cut his hands loose,” Houser said to Jimmy. Jimmy yanked up Luis’s hands behind his back until his shoulder blades ached, sawed him loose from the plastic cuffs with a utility knife. Houser took Luis’s hands in his own, dwarfing them.

  “You know who you’re fucking with?” Luis asked them. “Come on, you got to know. I’m with Frogtown Rifa. We kick straight up to La Eme. You don’t steal from the Mexican Mafia ’less you stupid.”

  Houser took off his mirror shades, his eyes underneath somehow colder.

  “They know where I’m at,” Houser said. “They’re welcome to come see me any time.”

  There it was. Luis knew what Houser knew. No one, not even La Eme, hell, not even the Sinaloa cartel, would order a hit on a cop this side of the border. Mexican cop lives were cheap, cheap as junkies like Luis. But a U.S. cop was untouchable. Only way to take out a dirty cop was another cop arresting them, and when did that ever happen? This ice-cold son of a bitch was bulletproof.

  Only good part of that: maybe it meant Luis could walk away. Maybe Houser was so balls-out sure of himself that he could let Luis live. Why not? Who could Luis tell? What trouble could he bring? Then Luis remembered that smile and the hope left him.

  “You’re on the take, man.” Luis wished his voice wouldn’t tremble like that. “We rolled past a dozen labs on the way up here, and you don’t give a shit. So there’s got to be a deal we can work out.”

  “You tryin’ to bribe a cop, son?”

  “You a cop, then take me to fuckin’ jail, man.”

  “Yeah,” Houser said. “I’m a cop, all right. I protect those who pay me against those who don’t. There’s never been a cop in history where that wasn’t the gig. And it turns out that the folks who pay me the best ain’t too big on the competition. Especially brown folk like yourself.”

  He took Luis’s head in his massive hands.

  “All they care about is that you Mexi boys learn this part of the desert ain’t for you.”

  Jimmy had something in his hand. A plastic sandwich bag with something like twisted twigs at the bottom.

  “Can we feed him?” Jimmy asked. His eyes all excited pleading. “MK-Ultra his ass.”

  “We got business,” Houser said. “We don’t got all day.”

  “These magic mushrooms I took off one of them Joshua Tree hippies,” Jimmy said. “Gonna learn how to mind-control people. Like the CIA MK-Ultra.”

  “It’s what’s in his belly now that we’re after.”

  “But boss—”

  Houser cut Jimmy off with a look.

  “Now we know what you got stowed away in you, boy, and we’re going to have it. So you’re going to do what you need to do to produce it for us right now, or we’re going to have to deal with it the other way.”

  Luis got the picture. He pulled away from Houser. One hand on the floor to steady himself, two fingers of the other hand down his throat. His throat jerked around his fingers. His stomach rebelled, emptied on the floor. Bile and slop. No capsules. He tried again. He coughed thick ropes and sour acid. His nose ran. Tears welled. He heaved. Dry. He tried again. Dry.

  “Reckon they’re too far down the road to turn back,” Houser said. “Like the rest of us. Jimmy, get the lights, huh?”

  Green-glow fluorescents stuttered to life overhead. Luis saw a table set in the center of the room, manacles at both ends. He saw a second table with knives, scalpels, a bone saw curved like a bladed smile. He saw rubber gloves and plastic bags. He saw a hose ran from a sink to the table.

  A homemade surgery theater.

  “Jesus,” he said. He rose swinging. Houser caught his wrists, forced him down to the ground. Jimmy got an arm around Luis’s throat. He fought back on autopilot, pointless. He burned out fast. He flopped back in Jimmy’s arms.

  “Sorry, we just don’t got the time for your load to come out the other end,” Houser said. “Going to have to head it off at the pass.”

  Jimmy giggled at this as he moved his arm off Luis’s throat to make room for his knife. The last thing Luis knew was the pain and the hunger leaving his body, just one second of peace before the nothing kicked in . . .

  27

  NATE

  CHINATOWN

  Matchstick weather. That’s what Nick had called it back in the day. When the wind shifted and hot dry air came in from the desert, sucking the water up out of everything, making it seem that the world begged to burn. It put Nate on edge.

  They parked a half-block down the street from the bank. This was just observation. Nate wanted to do this one right. He’d gotten sloppy, let Polly’s wild enthusiasm spur on dumb choices. He had to do this one cold as hell. This would be enough cash to buy their freedom. Maybe even enough to get them to Perdido. By then Polly would have defrosted. She’d have to.

  A street corner fruit vendor chopped mangoes and pineapples nearby. Nate had bought Polly a soda, a peace offering. She hadn’t accepted it. She ran the sweating can against her sweating forehead, but she didn’t open it. The cup holder held the .38, covered with a newspaper.

  “You can turn on music if you want,” he said, then wished he hadn’t. He had to stop giving her everything.

  “No,” she said. She breathed out against her window, her mouth an O. She fog-painted a circle on the window. She made eye dots with her thumb. She drew a straight line for the mouth.

  Jesus, this kid.

  This part of Chinatown wasn’t Chinese. It was artists and low-budget filmmakers taking advantage of the low rent. And in among them, looking like just another warehouse, was the bank, just the way Charlotte had described it.

  Charlotte. Just the thought of her peeled a layer of civilization off him, coughed up memories that were all sensation and sound and smell.

  “What’s going on?” Polly’s words brought Nate back to the now.

  A beat-up pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of the house. The man behind the wheel had sunglasses and a splint over his busted nose. Three blue bolts on his arm. Under all the stuff the face looked familiar. Polly placed it before he did.

  “It’s A-Rod,” Polly said. She slumped in her seat.

  “Put on that ball cap,” Nate said. “Now.”

  She reached for the Dodgers cap from the backseat and pulled it on. She checked herself in the sideview mirror. She stuffed stray red locks up under the hat.

  “What’s he doing there?” she asked.

  The men took down the door of the truck. From where they were parked, Nate
could see into the truck bed. He saw a tarp. Plastic sheeting. Shovels. Big bags of something—Nate bet it was quicklime. A portable body-disposal kit.

  “He’s taking somebody on a last ride,” he said.

  The alley door of the bank opened. Two skinheads walked a kid out onto the street. The kid had oh shit eyes. He had dreadlocks. Nate knew him right away.

  “It’s the other one,” Polly said. “Scubby. The one who helped us. What are they going to do to him?”

  Nate let Polly work it out on her own. She was a smart girl. She figured it out.

  “He’s going to kill him.”

  “He should have run,” Nate said. “We gave him his chance.”

  “We have to save him,” Polly said, stress fractures in her voice.

  “No we don’t,” Nate said.

  “No no no,” she said. “You can stop them. He’s going to die because of us. We made him help us and now he’s going to die for it. It’s not okay. You know it’s not okay.”

  His hands ached. He was strangling the steering wheel.

  “Daddy, you can’t let him die.”

  “To keep you safe I can. I will.”

  “I don’t want to be safe,” she said. “Not like this.”

  “Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Close your goddamn eyes, girl.”

  She covered them with her hands. Nate watched it all.

  Nate couldn’t read lips. You didn’t have to to get what Scubby was saying. He begged with his eyes. Nate promised he’d add Scubby to the list with Avis and Tom. Add his face to the ones he saw in the dark. The ones who had died because Nate kept on living. He promised the kid some kind of justice. The ghost of his brother laughed in his head. Nick always could sniff out bullshit.

  He heard the shotgun door click open. He turned to see Polly already on the street. She ran toward the alley.

  Goddamn that girl.

  Nate knocked aside the newspaper, reached for the pistol hidden under it. His hand touched sweating aluminum. The pistol was in Polly’s hand. She’d left her unopened soda in its place.

  28

  POLLY

  CHINATOWN

  You have to save him.

  It wasn’t her brain telling her. It wasn’t her mom’s voice. It wasn’t anybody but Polly talking now. She wouldn’t let anybody else die.

  Her body exploded in a full-on sweat. The day was locked-car hot. A car shrieked to a halt as she pounded across the street. She didn’t even look at it. Somebody swore in some language she didn’t know.

  You have to save him.

  The gun felt impossibly heavy in her hand as she moved into the alley. But she carried it anyway. She came into the alley on a deep breath. A-Rod had his hands on the kid’s shoulders. The two men who had led the kid out of the bank stood close to the truck.

  “Leave him alone,” Polly said. But her voice came out a rasp of no words. She said it again, still raspy but louder. The men looked at her. Their faces were all different flavors of what the hell? She pointed the pistol at A-Rod. It only shook a little.

  “Please let him go,” she said, and knew she’d done it all wrong. You don’t say please with a gun. She blinked. The world jittered. The evening lights all of a sudden too bright.

  “The fuck are you doing here?” A-Rod said, like the gun was invisible. He smiled that weird wolfish smile. She hated him. She heard her dad say never touch the trigger ’less you’re going to shoot. She felt her finger curl on the trigger. Her brain cataloged everything. Every sound. Car horns honked. Someplace a helicopter whirred. Motors growled. Music flowed from a dozen cars. Every smell. Rotting vegetables. Car oil. Old pee. All of their faces. A-Rod’s hand lingering behind his back. The kid with his soft brown eyes so full of red-web little veins, so full of pleading. One of the men from the bank was smeared all over with tattoos. The other one was cleaner, with a couple of wet tattoos and scared eyes.

  Muscles flittered and jerked all over Polly.

  “Grab her,” A-Rod said. “She’s worth a franchise.”

  The one with all the tattoos moved on her. Like she didn’t even have the gun. Like she was nothing but a little loser girl with slumped shoulders.

  “Come on now,” A-Rod said. “She ain’t going to shoot.”

  Polly pulled the trigger. The pistol jumped in her hands. She fired it dry in seconds.

  29

  NATE

  CHINATOWN/SILVERLAKE/NORTH HOLLYWOOD

  Nate sprinted across the street. He had the soda can in his fist. Gunshots bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-banged out of the alley. Crazy screams on the street. He reached the mouth of the alley sure he’d see his little girl dead on the ground. Knowing if it was so he’d die here too, one way or another.

  But Polly stood three steps into the mouth of the alley, her back to them. The .38 in her hand smoked. A-Rod stood facing Nate. Scubby and the fresh skin pressed themselves against one of the brick walls behind them.

  The inked one had a hand slapped against his neck. Blood leaked out around his palm where one of Polly’s bullets had clipped him. He moved toward Polly. He kicked her to the ground. He raised his own big-ass pistol to Polly’s head.

  “Hey!” Nate yelled. He threw the soda can fastball hard. It cracked into the inked man’s face. The can sprang a leak and whooshed down the alley. The inked one’s hands covered his mangled nose. He sank onto his butt. The wound on his neck where Polly had grazed him yawned. The big-ass pistol skittered on the pavement. Nate moved in front of Polly, picked up the big-ass pistol. Hoped the damn thing wasn’t for show.

  A-Rod and the young one fell back in the alley. A-Rod got behind a dumpster. The young one pointed his gun at Nate. His hand moved like he tried to pull the trigger but the gun didn’t shoot. He didn’t know enough to see the safety was on. The kid ran. The kid reached the other end of the alley and kept on going.

  Scubby broke past A-Rod. He hustled past Nate and Polly out into the street. A-Rod rose up from behind the dumpster, some kind of hunting rifle from the truck bed in his hands. Fingersnaps around Nate’s head told him death had missed him by a hand’s length. Nate raised the big-ass pistol. The pistol had an extendo clip. It banged as fast as Nate’s finger could move. Gunshot echoes everywhere. Tires squealing in the street. Oh my god screams from passersby.

  Nate stood in front of Polly like he could protect her, like he could stop bullets. He walked backward, pressing into her. He kept shooting. He pinned A-Rod behind the dumpster.

  They cleared the mouth of the alley. He and Polly ran. Skinheads stood in the doorway of the warehouse. They stared dumb at him. He waved the pistol at them.

  Weird quiet in the city now. Their feet slap-slap-slapping pavement seemed so loud. Sirens rose in the distance. Nate looked toward the car. Scubby stood waiting for them at the door of the green monster.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Nate said. He raised the pistol. The slide locked back showed that he’d emptied it.

  “They’ll kill me,” Scubby said. “Just get me out of here, please, man.”

  It wasn’t worth the fight. Nate pushed Polly across the driver’s seat. Scubby threw himself into the back. He smelled like fresh piss laid over dried piss. Nate jabbed the key into the ignition. It roared to life hurricane loud. His foot was already stomping the gas. The ghost of his brother cut through the sounds and insanity.

  Breathe, little brother.

  Nate did. He didn’t peel out. He pulled slow into the street. He craned his neck looking for cops. Listened for a chopper. He took a right. A left. Polly kept begging. Apologizing. Crying. He looked over, saw tears streaking through blood on her face.

  Blood on her face.

  “Where’s that blood from?” Inside he pled to whatever wasn’t cold and dead in the universe.

  Please take me instead. Me for her.

  “What—”

  “Where’s the blood from, Polly?”

  He touched her face.
Showed her the blood on his fingers. Her eyes went wide.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “Feel,” he said. “Feel around. You don’t always know you’ve been shot.”

  She felt all over her body as Nate hit the on-ramp to the 101. The gods smiled just this much: traffic rolled on the freeway. They entered its flow smoothly.

  “I’m okay,” she said again. This time it sounded like she meant it. Nate felt muscles unclench. Felt the sweat popping all over him start to do its job as the day drank it. He took Polly’s hand in his. She had the bear locked in a headlock hug. She wiped tear-snot on her sleeve.

  He knew right then it was over. Me for her, he thought. A warm thought that made him cold. Me for her.

  “That shit was bananas,” Scubby said from the back. Nate had forgotten he was there.

  “Pick a place,” Nate told him. “And make it close.”

  At Scubby’s direction, Nate pulled off the 101 at Silver Lake Boulevard. The underpass was a tent city. The people living there dirty faced and unfed. Refugees of a war only they knew about.

  “You’re good here?” Nate asked.

  “Good as I’ll ever be,” Scubby said. “Goddamn. They caught me slipping, no shit.”

  “I see you again, I kill you,” Nate said.

  “There’s a club for that,” Scubby said. “I think they meet on Tuesdays.” He nodded to Polly. “Later, wild child. Thanks for missing.”

  He ducked through a tear in the chain-link and walked into the tent city. The bear waved goodbye.

  They parked in front of the apartment building. Nate let the engine tick over.

  “I’m sorry for what I did,” she said.

  “You wanting to save that dumbass, it was a good thing,” Nate said. “But you could have died. When I heard that gun go off . . .”

  “You thought I was dead. You didn’t think it was me shooting?”